by Shey Stahl
Okay, so it wasn’t Xander. But maybe he was pissed off she denied him. The questions eat at me. I can’t stop my mind from trying to piece together everything and nothing at all because I wasn’t there. I have nothing to go on and the one person who can potentially connect the dots can’t remember anything about the night either.
THEY RELEASE BARRETTE on Sunday, two days later. I drive her home because she refuses to let Cadence, who meets us at Barrette’s house with food.
Barrette stares at the food, her favorite, Chinese, and won’t eat. She hasn’t eaten anything in two days. I can’t say I blame her. I have barely eaten myself.
My dad calls me, wants me to come home, but I tell him I’m staying the night with Barrette. Her parents? They haven’t even made flight arrangements to come yet. All of these things, they make me angry, hell, livid, but I control my emotions around her.
“We have to get her to eat something,” Cadence says, picking out the egg roll she set on a plate. Taking a flake from it, she rolls it up into a ball. “She doesn’t look good, A.” Her eyes follow Barrette down the hall to her bedroom.
“I know.” Sighing, I look around the house. Pictures of her parents’ adventures line the walls, some with a younger Barrette, years I missed, and most of them without her. Her parents are hippies. That’s the term my dad gave them at least. They’re free-spirited, eat everything from the earth, and make their own soap. I never really knew them all that well.
I stare at a photograph taped to the fridge of them holding Barrette on her first birthday. My jaw clenches at Barrette’s bright blue eyes and the big smile she’s wearing. I don’t know where that smile is and if it’s ever going to surface again.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” Cadence says, drawing my attention toward her.
I nod. “Thanks.” Something else catches my attention. A letter beside it from the University of Washington. An acceptance letter to the same college I have a full ride to.
You didn’t think it was coincidence that I accepted the least likely college to attend after getting offers from Ohio, Michigan, Texas, and Yale? I chose Seattle for a reason. It was closer to Barrette.
I look over my shoulder at Cadence, her attention still on the uneaten eggroll as she mumbles something about staying the night with her. “Is she going to UW?”
“Who, Barrette?”
“Yeah?”
She smiles and straightens her posture. “Yeah, we both are. I heard you’re the star on campus though, Mr. Full Ride.”
“I don’t know about that.” I motion toward the hall. “I’m gonna go check on her.”
Cadence straightens up. “I can.”
“No, I will,” I insist.
As I walk down the hall, I hesitate, my steps heavier, as if I’m trying to walk through mud. The kind that sticks and holds you in place. Maybe she doesn’t want me to bother her, but I have to know she’s okay. She hasn’t said anything to me today, other than holding my hand as we left the hospital.
I stand in the hall, my head pressed to the wall, waiting. “What the fuck do I do?” I mumble to myself. I hear a noise coming from the bathroom, a sob, and I know the sound. I press my ear to the door, wait, and it gets louder. She’s crying.
“Do you need anything?” I ask, my voice a shaking whisper. I have no idea how to comfort her, but I know how to be there for someone. I know how to let them vent and cry and hate everything in life. I know what it’s like to wish for death to ease the pain and through all that, I think, no, I know I can be there for her. Maybe it’s me trying to make up for lost time, but I do it without question.
The door creaks open and takes my breath with it. She’s standing there, the shower running behind her, completely naked, her clothes a pile at her feet and she’s sobbing. “I hate them,” she cries, staring at me like I’m the answer, the one she needs. “Why did they do this?”
For a moment, a split second, I’m not at all sure what to do. I think I shouldn’t be in here, seeing her like this, but then again, I don’t want anyone else with her. The bruises are darker, the bite marks more pronounced and evident. The marks on her neck, red and swollen. And her face, her fucking face, it’s bad. That’s the only way I can describe it. Surrounding her beautiful blue eyes are deep purple bruises. I have no words for what was done to her other than horrific.
Steam rolls through the bathroom and I reach for her, unsure what else to do and catch her when she falls into my arms. Closing the door, I hold onto her as tightly as I can and I kiss the side of her face, because I think it’s what she wants. The moment my lips touch her skin, her sobs come harder, faster, and it’s as if she’s going to hyperventilate if I don’t do something to stop it.
Maybe I shouldn’t have done that? My mind races for something to say or do to make this better for her. But what do I do?
“It’s okay,” I soothe, running my hands gently around her back, unable to stop my body from trembling. I’m shaking so bad, I’m not sure who’s more of a mess in those moments, her or me. Taking her hand, I place it on my chest so she can hear my breathing and heartbeat. “Breathe with me. Slow deep breaths.”
It takes her a minute, but she does, her hand gripping my shirt in a fist. “Don’t let go of me,” she pleads, her words broken and desperate.
“I promise I won’t.” I let her cry, because I don’t know what else to do. The need to protect her and make sure she knows my intentions are only pure takeover, and I don’t look at her body. I keep my stare on the shower.
“The warm water might help.”
She doesn’t move and clings to my body, every inch of her pressed against me as her arms wrap tightly around my neck. She cries, harder, every ounce of her frustration pouring from her.
With slow steps, I open the shower door. “Let’s get you in here.”
She won’t let go of me. So I step inside there with her, fully clothed and hold her under the spray. Pulling back, I cup her cheeks carefully and make her look at me, my clothes clinging to my body. Her blue eyes lock on mine. “I… I don’t want to be alone.”
“I got you, okay.” My jaw clenches, my breathing increasing. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’ll stay with you as long as you need me. Whatever you need.”
Her crying slows and I think she understands that I’m here for her. Even if that means getting in a shower fully clothed because she doesn’t want to be alone.
Cadence knocks on the door. “Is everything okay?”
“Make her leave,” Barrette whispers, laying her head on my chest.
I stroke her wet hair and kiss the top of her head. I know I haven’t been in her life in years, but everything seems so natural around her, the actions, the love, the need to protect her, all of it.
Clearing my throat, I yell, “We’re fine. Why don’t you take off?”
“B, are you sure?”
Barrette lifts her head from my chest. “Yes,” she tells her, raising her voice over the sounds of the shower.
“Okay, I’ll call later to check in on you.”
“Thank you,” she says, but she’s looking at me when she says it.
I help her wash her body, my eyes never straying anywhere but her face and shoulders. I’m not a creep and though, yeah, the guy in me wants to look, she’s been through something so horrible it makes me sick to my stomach to think about it.
When she’s done, I stare at my clothes and think about how awkward this is now because I have nothing dry here. There’s no way I’m leaving her to change. I did that yesterday and when I returned to the hospital, they’d had to sedate her again.
Wrapping a robe around her body, she stares at me. The white in the robe makes the marks on her more pronounced. “My dad has some clothes you can wear.”
Smiling, I strip off my shirt and jeans and leave them on the floor of the shower. She hands me a towel. “I can get them if you want.”
“Okay, or I’m sure I can find them if you want to get changed.” Panic rises in her face, a flush to
her cheeks and widening to her eyes. “I won’t leave. I’m just going to change.”
Nodding, she tightens the strings on her robe and places her hand on the door. I watch her leave the bathroom, and then I make my way to her parents’ room. I’m able to find shorts and a T-shirt to wear and then place my clothes in the dryer. When I’m finished, Barrette is curled up on the couch staring out the window. Their house is right on the Budd Inlet, much like my dad’s house, only their home faces Tacoma.
I sit next to her and like it’s habit, she moves closer, curling into my chest. And then she begins to cry again. I don’t know what to say, or if I’m even supposed to, so I hold her. That’s all.
Four days ago I was packing up my life in Ohio, unaware of what the next twenty-four hours would bring. Ten days ago, I was holding my mother as she took her last breath, and now here I am, holding the girl who’s forever owned my heart, and praying she makes it through this.
I don’t know if I’m enough, but I’m here and I’m not letting go. Not ever.
November - 17 Months Later
University of Washington
Seattle, Washington
Washington in the fall is my favorite time of year. It’s still sunny, pumpkin spice lattes return, and the leaves on campus burst to life in vibrant orange.
I’m never vibrant anymore. I’m a dull shade with dark thoughts.
Sitting to the far left of the classroom near the windows, I stare out at the leaves beginning to fall over the bright green grass with specks of brown, yellow, and red. I envy the colors in the leaves.
I look around the classroom. There’s only me and two other people. I don’t know them, and I definitely don’t make conversation.
It’s rare I’m at this 9:00 a.m. class. I personally don’t think classes should start until noon. I’m not even sure why I took one this early, but I needed this class and it was only offered at the ass crack of dawn. Okay, it’s not dawn, but it’s early for me. These days I prefer to sleep during the day, for many reasons.
This class, it’s Neuro 501: Intro to Neurology. The official course description from their website is “the survey of molecular, cellular, and developmental neuroscience, including gene regulation, the cytoskeleton, protein sorting in the secretory pathway, growth factors, and neurotransmitter receptors.”
You’re probably wondering what the hell all that means, and even I don’t know. All I know is I need it as one of the requirements for a bachelor’s degree in physiology.
A door opens, closes. I jump at the sound and settle back into my seat, the rush of heat from the ventilation hitting me. Sipping my latte in my hand, my eyes follow a girl who walks in with her hood up over her head. I recognize her. She’s a freshman cheerleader this year, and while I don’t know her, I’ve seen her at the games and with the players. She sits on the opposite side of the room, her dark hair attempting to shield the bruises on her face and the cut on her lip. I know those markings. I’ve had them myself.
I imagine the worst. I put myself in her place. Was she beaten like me? Was she raped like me? Does she remember the incident?
My hands shake while my heart thumps wildly in my chest, and that ever-present lump in my throat thickens, takes over, and I fight to push it down. If you were inside my head to see the nerves firing, the reactions I’m withholding, you’d think I have so much control over myself. Maybe you’d even be proud of me for how good I am at it, but it’d be a lie because reactions, words, promises, they can be deceiving.
I look away from her. I don’t know her story, and honestly, I don’t want to. I want to pretend I didn’t see it. I want to believe maybe she tripped and slammed her head into a door or took a dodge ball to the face. But this isn’t elementary school and the likelihood that her face just magically ended up like that isn’t a coincidence. Someone did that to her. Someone took something that wasn’t theirs.
Sound familiar?
I’ve told myself to forget the night. You don’t remember it so why dwell on it? It’s times like this when the reminders surface and I realize that just because I don’t remember the night, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.
The professor walks in, his monotone announcement ringing through the room.
I divert my eyes to the window again.
This last year, I became interested in psychology and how the brain works. What interests me about the human brain is why we remember certain parts of our lives and why we purposely forget others. I can’t tell you much about that night, probably because I was drugged, but still, I wonder how much I would have remembered without the drugs? Would I have blocked it out as a traumatic event? All I remember is right before on the beach, the fire, Asa, and then nothing else. I woke up in the hospital with Asa beside me.
I know there’s more to the night. I see it in my dreams, but to actually remember every minute detail or faces, I don’t.
For that reason, I chose psychology.
After that night, it was weeks, even months when the heavy reality of what happened hit me. I’d wake up in the morning and think to myself, just smile. You don’t need to be sad about this. Forget it happened. Move on with your life. And when I couldn’t—when I couldn’t find a reason to smile and move on—I couldn’t understand why people tried to force me to. I wanted them to just let me be.
At times, I ask myself why can’t I appreciate what I have now and ignore that pain? I’ll tell you why. It feels wrong. If I accept it, it makes what happened okay, and it’s not okay. It’s fucked up and I can’t ignore it. No one asks or deserves to be raped. Yet here I am, a year and a half later, still blaming myself.
I’ve never said to myself, you’re a survivor. I can’t use that term because I didn’t survive. I simply lived through it, and now I’m in the after part.
I’m not sure I’ll ever survive again.
I NEVER WALK alone at night on campus. Instead, I ride a bike. Like somehow being on the bike will allow me to get away quickly if needed. I’m five foot two and barely a hundred pounds. The wind could knock me over if it wanted.
But on Tuesdays at seven thirty, I attend a support group for rape victims that’s across campus and I don’t walk. I hate going to the support group because it’s another reminder of something that was taken from me. I hate even being in the same room as others who have been through it because it’s a reminder that this happens to so many people.
I didn’t want to go to support groups. I didn’t understand the purpose to them, but I have met two friends while attending them. Joey, a girl who might just be my soul mate, and Waylon. Waylon, he’s… gay. Not that it matters, but when I think about being raped, the naïve part of me thinks it only happens to women. That’s not the truth. It doesn’t matter who you are. There’s no demographic that’s targeted despite what people make you believe. Yeah, the majority are women, believe it or not, there is no specific gender or race that’s targeted. It can happen to anyone.
Joey, she proves that size doesn’t matter. The man who raped her… he didn’t care that she was a size eighteen or that her hips and stomach were covered in stretch marks. She was an easy target. As he held her down with a knife to her throat, he told her, “You should be begging me for it.”
Rape doesn’t happen to the prettiest, skinniest, or most likely. It happens in the wake of weakness.
The therapist who leads the group sessions is Maggie. I kind of like her. She’s blind in her left eye. Her rapist took her sight with a rock. But still, she’s here, giving us support. She said to us once that her boyfriend at the time told her, “You’re sick and you need help,” when she couldn’t have sex with him. They’re no longer together, but she went on to say, “Being raped isn’t a sickness. It’s a circumstance. A torn page from a chapter I’d like to forget. But I can’t because it’s my book and part of my journey. It’s not his, it’s mine.”
I lean into Joey, who’s beside me. “Do you ever think to yourself I’ll never be whole again?”
She smiles. “No,
not really.” She cups her double-D breasts with both hands. “I feel pretty whole.”
“You know what I mean.”
Joey rolls her eyes. “I guess I do, and no, I probably won’t be. But I’m too stubborn not to try.”
Laughing, I think about what Maggie said. It’s not his journey, it’s mine. Immediately my thoughts drift back to Asa. You’re probably wondering about him, aren’t you? You’ll see him soon, I’m sure, but it’s her words that resonate with me. This, my life now, his, it might be my journey, but he’s just as much a part of it as me. He was there. He held me through the panic attacks and the nightmares. Never once did he leave my side the months following the incident. Until he had to leave for football camp, but until then, he stayed.
Outside, Joey smiles at the poster of Asa on the walls of the building. It’s the one of him throwing a touchdown in the championship game freshman year. “What’s with you and Lawson?”
I smile. “He’s my friend.” And I’m in love with him. I leave that part out because she already knows it.
Teasingly, she bites her lip. “I’d be his law-abiding citizen any day.”
You’d think someone who went through a sexual assault wouldn’t say things like that, right? Not Joey. She uses humor to deal with the pain. She’ll laugh, joke, even tease about her attacker as a way to overcome it. In her eyes, they didn’t win. She did because she lived through it.
I stare at the poster, thinking about her words and wishing I had Joey’s confidence. And then I let my thoughts drift to Asa and how good he looks. He looks like a king up there and I’m never going to compare. I’ll never be his queen. I’m the sad girl in the shadows of his greatness, forever tied to him by one night.
Waylon offers to walk me back to my dorm after the group session. He claims he doesn’t want me walking alone.
“I brought my bike,” I tell him, smiling.
He shrugs. “I don’t care. I’m walking with you.”