Tell Me When

by Stina Lindenblatt

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like I didn’t deserve it. I kept waking you up with my nightmares. I’d probably be bitchy too if our places were reversed.”

  Her gaze drops to the drawings. I pick up the one of the two kids who look like me and Marcus. “These are great. How come we’ve been roommates for so long and I never knew you could draw like this?” I figured she liked drawing. I’ve seen her supplies. But until now, I’d never seen her artwork. I never knew if she was any good, and I hadn’t bothered to ask.

  She fingers the picture of the girl with the bloodied knife. “My father thought my drawings were a waste of time. He used to get angry when he saw me draw, so I got good at hiding them.” She runs her finger over the knife. “You promise me you’ll stay with me...at the hospital?”

  “Yes. Unless you want me to leave. I know what it’s like to be checked for signs of rape. And I know what it’s like to have no one there for you. So yes, if you want me there, I’ll stay.”

  Because Brittany doesn’t want anyone to notice her, I lend her Trent’s hoodie, which swallows her up. She cleans the mascara and blood off her face with a tissue and slips on a pair of sunglasses. She presses a tissue against the cut, though it doesn’t seem to be enough to stop the bleeding.

  I drive her to the hospital, but I don’t press her to tell me what happened. I let her know I’m here if she wants to talk. We mostly just listen to the rock station on the radio. Every so often, I look at her to check she’s all right.

  At the hospital, I reach for her trembling hand as she leans in to talk to the triage nurse. She almost squeezes the life out of my fingers when she tells the nurse that she was raped.

  Much to Brittany’s obvious relief, the nurse doesn’t make us sit in the waiting room. We’re sent to an exam room where we wait, still not saying much. Brittany retreats into her own world, and I pretend to be fascinated with the various pieces of medical equipment in the room, while I sit next to her on the exam table. Every now and then, the distant wail of sirens approaches the hospital.

  “Did they catch the guy?” she says at one point, while I’m trying not to think about Marcus, while I’m trying not to think about when the doctor examined me after my kidnapping, while I’m trying not to think about the upcoming court case. While I’m trying not to think. Period.

  “He’s in a psych ward.”

  A doctor and nurse enter the room, keeping me from elaborating, which is fine by me. Even though they’re both women, Brittany still clutches my hand, the pressure on my fingers even tighter than in triage.

  The doctor cleans the cut, then places steri-strips below Brittany’s eye. Once she’s finished she asks Brittany to lie down, then examines her while I focus on my roommate’s face and stroke her silky hair. Brittany stares at the ceiling. A tear runs down her temple and she sniffs.

  Once the doctor’s finished, she and the nurse leave, and a female cop enters and asks questions. Brittany answers the best she can. She’s still scared, but the cop tries to make the process easier for her.

  “If he’s caught, he’ll end up in a psych ward?” she asks, confused over my earlier comment.

  The cop shakes her head. “No, he’ll go to jail.”

  Her confusion deepening, Brittany looks at me.

  “My—The man who hurt me has mental issues,” I explain. “He’s in the prison’s psych ward.” I leave it at that.

  After the cop leaves, a rape counselor comes in. She and Brittany talk for a few minutes and the woman tells her about the resources available to rape survivors.

  “It wasn’t your fault, no matter what anyone tells you,” she says. “You didn’t ask for this to happen. The only person responsible for what happened is the man who hurt you.”

  As the woman answers Brittany’s questions, I dwell on how Paul may have been responsible for his actions, but the system failed me and it failed Trent and Michael. It didn’t do enough to protect us.

  Can it protect me from Paul, even though he’s supposed to be locked away? Or will it fail me once again?

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Marcus

  Chase and I are sitting in the Marketplace when my phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, but I’m expecting an important call. I lift my finger to let Chase know I have to answer this.

  “I need to talk to Marcus Reid, please,” a man says on the other end of the line.

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Detective Goodwin. I have some information concerning Paul Carson. Is this a good time?”

  “Did you find out who his partner is?”

  “I contacted the facility where he’s staying. Mr. Carson is under a high-security watch based on the nature of his alleged crimes. It’d be impossible for him to contact Miss Scott or anyone else on the outside via mail or email. According to his records, only his lawyer has visited him.”

  “Could the lawyer have sent the messages on the creep’s behalf?”

  “We’re investigating him, but I checked the videos of their interactions, and there was no exchange of materials between the two individuals. In all honesty, I don’t believe the person who is sending the messages to Miss Scott has anything to do directly with Mr. Carson.”

  “Could it be a copycat?” I ask. “Someone who read about her case in the newspaper?”

  “It’s possible, but during an investigation certain details are kept from the media, to help us make a case against the suspect later on. In the case of Miss Scott’s stalking, none of the details about the messages were ever released. The only way anyone would know about the contents of the original messages would be to have heard about them from another source, or they’ve seen them. Sorry I can’t be much help beyond that.”

  “Have you told Amber yet?”

  “Yes.” We talk for a minute or two longer before hanging up.

  “Good or bad news?” Chase asks. I haven’t told him about the messages. The only person I told was the detective, whom I contacted after I screwed up with Amber. I wanted to learn if they had made any progress in the case. Since it was believed I might somehow be involved, the detective was more than happy to talk to me.

  “I’m not sure.” I spot Jordan on the far side of the food court. Amber isn’t with her. “Give me a second.”

  I dodge around people as I make my way toward her. She turns from the Mexican food counter and walks in the opposite direction to me. I pick up my pace and bump shoulders with someone.

  “Hey, watch it,” the guy yells. I’m too focused on Jordan to respond.

  If it were anytime but lunch, the place wouldn’t be so packed, and I’d catch her in no time. But as it is, it takes me several minutes before I’m close enough so she can hear me call her name.

  She pivots and the smile on her face vanishes the second she realizes I was the one who called her. Her eyes narrow. Clearly Amber told her everything.

  “How’s she doing?” I ask.

  Jordan crosses her arms over her chest. “What’s it to you?”

  I’ve always liked Jordan, but right now she’s pissing me off. “Because I care about her.” Because she means the world to me.

  “From where I am, it doesn’t sound like it.” Jordan makes a move to leave.

  I step in front of her. “I made a mistake, but I don’t want to discuss that with you. What I want to know is if she’s still receiving any letters that are upsetting her.” I don’t know how much Amber has told her, but I take a gamble that Jordan might know something. But I leave things vague enough so that I don’t betray Amber’s secret.

  Jordan releases a long slow breath that I sense has nothing to do with me, and drops her arms to her side, revealing the rainbow design on her T-shirt. “They’re coming almost daily. She barely sleeps at night because of the nightmares. She failed two tests last week. I don’t think she’s gonna last
much longer before she has a breakdown.”

  “Have you read the letters?”

  She nods. “It’s pretty much the same as before, but now some are quotes from classics. Whoever’s sending them thinks you two are still together. But they’re no longer threatening your life. They’re threatening Amber’s.”

  Fuck. No wonder she’s having so many nightmares. Things aren’t going to get better as long as the cops have no idea who’s sending them.

  “Look, I have to go,” Jordan says. I don’t stop her this time. Detective Goodwin’s words are on repeat mode in my head. The only way anyone would know about the contents of the original messages would be to have heard about them from another source, or they’ve seen them.

  I know one person on campus who fits the description, and I scan the food court in case she’s here. When I don’t see her, I tell Chase I’ll see him later and head to Emma’s dorm.

  Fortunately I don’t have to figure out how the hell to get inside this time. Emma is talking by the steps to a guy who could be on the men’s basketball team. He’s at least my height.

  I march up to her. “We need to talk.”

  Without so much as a glance at me, she says coolly, “No, we don’t.”

  “This is important.”

  “Doubt it,” she fires back.

  “Look, man,” the guy says, “she’s not interested. Get the hint.”

  I level him a dark look. “I’m not interested in her either. But unless she wants to be dragged to the police station, she’s gonna find time in her busy schedule to talk to me.” I turn back to her. “So what’s it going to be?”

  Her eyes widen. “Police station? I haven’t done anything wrong.” She briefly looks at the guy, who’s staring at me, unsure what to make of any of this. “Okay. But is this going to take long?”

  “Depends on how much you have to tell me.” I tell the guy she’ll call him later, and wave her forward, toward the engineering building.

  As expected, the building isn’t busy. I indicate for her to take a seat at a table away from everyone else.

  She does; her eyes scan the area as if searching for the nearest exits. “So what do you want?”

  “Some information.”

  She taps her foot against the floor. The sound of it reminds me of a basketball bouncing against the hardwood of a basketball court. And that makes me think of Amber.

  “Could you be maybe a little more specific?” she huffs.

  “It’s about the messages the psychopath used to send Amber.”

  “Why are you asking me about them? Ask her.”

  “I’m asking you. You two were best friends. I’m betting you saw them, didn’t you?”

  “What’s it to you?” she grumbles.

  I fist my hands, fighting the urge to shake the answers out of her. “Like I said, you have a choice. Talk to me or I’ll call the cops.”

  “Yes, I saw them. I saw every one of them. Including the ones we later realized were his twisted way of saying he was going to kill my brother.” Her voice splinters, and the pain I know she’s been struggling with flickers on her face before she looks down at the table.

  My tone softens. “Have you told anyone else about them? Someone on campus, maybe?”

  “My brother was killed. I lost two of the most important people in my life because of what that murderer did.” She looks at me. “Do you know what that feels like?”

  “I do. My brother was killed too.” And it’s my fault he’s dead.

  Emma’s eyes tear up. “But your best friend didn’t turn his back on you because of it, did he? Mine pushed me away when I needed her the most.”

  “Amber’s not trying to hurt you. She’s punishing herself because she blames herself for what Paul did. And she’s punishing herself for hurting you because of what happened to Trent. You need to talk to her. But first you need to tell me if you told anyone about the letters.”

  She nods, clearly confused at what that has to do with anything. “I told your girlfriend.”

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Amber

  Some people say friends and family give us the inner strength we need to deal with our demons, and help us find the will to keep going no matter what challenges face us. But as I check the bulletin board in the Student Services Building, I realize the right poster can have the same effect.

  I remove the brochure from the display below. Self-Defense Class for Beginners. Perfect. I slip it into my backpack and enter the Counseling Center.

  A few students are waiting in the plastic seats along the wall. Some spare me a glance when I enter. I gasp at the sight of one girl. She’s tall and athletic and has familiar long blond hair curtaining her face.

  I don’t know if she heard me or felt me watching her, but her head turns in my direction. It’s not Emma. The heaviness residing in my chest since last spring stirs. I push it aside and walk to the front desk.

  A female with purple chunks in her short dark hair looks up from her computer. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I’d like to book one. To see a counselor.”

  She taps at her keyboard. “We had a cancelation for this afternoon at two. Can you make that?”

  Accepting help is a sign of weakness, Mom’s voice says in my head.

  Is it? Until I reached out and helped Brittany, she was scared and uncertain. A week later, she’s strong and determined never to give another guy power over her.

  Mom was wrong. Accepting help isn’t a sign of weakness. It’s a sign of strength.

  I’ve already failed two of my exams in the past two weeks because of the nightmares, insomnia and flashbacks. I can’t keep living like this.

  “That will be great. Thanks.”

  I leave the center a tiny bit lighter than when I went in, and return to my dorm room as Jordan is leaving hers, wearing her favorite T-shirt to study in. It’s black with the word HOPE in rainbow colors on the chest.

  “Are you and Brittany studying now?” she asks.

  When Brittany discovered I was struggling with math, she offered to help me study for the final. Although she’s not Marcus, she’s not a bad tutor after all.

  I nod. “But I want to show you and Brittany something first.”

  We enter my room. Brittany’s at her desk, working at a math equation. I remove the brochure from my backpack and place it on her textbook.

  “We’re signing up for this,” I tell them.

  With Jordan looking over her shoulder, Brittany picks up the brochure and reads it. “You want us to learn to kick some major ass?” She nods. “Yep, I can live with that.”

  “I don’t know,” Jordan says slowly. “We could get hurt.”

  Both Brittany and I look at her, eyebrows raised.

  She removes the brochure from Brittany’s hands. “Do you really think knowing this stuff would have helped you two?”

  “You’re right,” I say. “It wouldn’t have helped me. When Paul kidnapped me, he had a gun. There’s probably nothing I could have done. But not every situation is gonna be like that.”

  “Amber’s right,” Brittany chimes in. “If I had known how to defend myself, I could have escaped.”

  “It’ll be fun,” I promise. “Don’t you have ass-kicking somewhere on your bucket list?” I wrap my arm around Jordan’s shoulders. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

  “Okay,” she sighs. “But only if you promise you’ll talk to Marcus.”

  I drop my arm from her shoulders and step away. “Why would I do that? I told you it’s over between us.”

  “Is it? You’re miserable and from what Chase told me, so is Marcus. Marcus won’t tell him what’s going on and you haven’t told me anything, either. But I saw him yesterday and he told me he made a mistake. I swear, Amber, h
e still cares about you.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Just talk to him. I get the feeling you two have unfinished business, and you won’t get closure until you talk things through.”

  “You have a psychology final tomorrow, don’t you?” Brittany says with a smirk.

  “How did you know?”

  Brittany and I can only laugh, even though Jordan has a point. But whatever I decide to do will have to wait for a few more hours. I have a math final tomorrow that I have to study for before my counseling appointment this afternoon.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Amber

  I sink farther into the black leather couch, the weight of my phone with Marcus’s messages heavy in my hoodie pocket. I haven’t listened to them yet. First, I was too afraid to. Too afraid to hear the disgust in his voice. But after Jordan told me what Chase said, I decided to listen to them before coming here. Except I was too busy studying and lost track of time. As it is, I barely made it here in time for my appointment.

  “What is it that you want, Amber?” the therapist asks from the matching couch. Behind her is a large painting of a young girl reading under a tree filled with cherry blossoms. A golden retriever puppy sits next to her, listening intently to the story.

  “I want to feel normal again.” Like that girl.

  “What does normal mean to you?”

  I have to think on that one. It’s been so long since I’ve felt normal, I don’t know what it means anymore. “I guess it’s no longer having nightmares and flashbacks. To not feel scared all the time. To feel whole.”

  “Why do you want the nightmares and flashbacks to stop?”

  “Because I want to forget what happened. Because they’re affecting my classes. I can’t sleep. I can’t do anything.”

  She smiles, the sight of it reassuring. “It’s your desire to forget, Amber, that’s causing the nightmares and flashbacks. I want you to try the opposite. I want you to accept what happened. You can’t go back and change it. You need to accept that it happened and move on. While you’ve been blocking out the painful memories, you’ve also been blocking the good ones that happened during the same period. Those are the memories that are important to help you heal and be emotionally healthy again.”