by Amy Hatvany
“Answer me!” Amber shrieks. “Tell me you’ll do what I want and I’ll drive you to a hospital right now!”
“First . . . get the aid kit . . . from my truck,” I say, trying to ignore the seething heat radiating from my shoulder as it travels throughout the rest of my body. The metallic smell of my own blood is sickening; I can taste it in the back of my throat.
“No!”
“Please, Amber!” My words come out in short bursts, as I try to handle the pain by controlling my breath. “At least . . . give me something . . . a towel or a blanket . . . anything to stop . . . the bleeding.”
“Why should I?” she asks. “You might not be able to see my wounds, Tyler, but you tried to kill me first.”
She’s not in her right mind, I think. The Amber I know would never have pulled that trigger. I’d tried to remain calm since we first climbed into my truck at the station. I didn’t want to aggravate the situation by challenging her. I didn’t want my own anxiety to make the situation worse. But when we got inside the cabin, I decided to change tactics. I thought I could intimidate her. I could force her down from the precarious ledge she’d been standing upon—I thought I might be able to convince her to capitulate and let me go.
“I’m sorry,” I say, grinding my teeth. “I never—”
“If you say you never meant to hurt me one more time, Tyler, I swear to god I’ll shoot you in the head.” Her voice is calm again. Too calm, I think. I’ve never seen her act this way. I have no idea what she might do next. I think about my training, how I’d been taught to deal with mentally unstable people in the field. Make them believe they’re winning, my instructors always said. Keep them calm, let them think that you’re on their side.
“Okay,” I say, looking up at her, my left hand still pressing where the bullet entered my shoulder. “I get it. But please . . . something to stop . . . the bleeding.”
“Not until you promise to turn yourself in.”
Had this been her plan, all along? Bring me to a secluded place, and then shoot me to make me confess? “Fine,” I say. I’ll tell her whatever she needs to hear just so we can end this. “I promise.”
“You’ll go to the police with me? You’ll tell them you raped me?”
I nod, biting my bottom lip, willing to concede anything to get her to help me.
She hesitates, and then walks a circle around me, out of my reach, toward the kitchen, where she rummages around in a few of the drawers until she comes up with a sealed plastic box filled with dish towels. She returns to where I am lying with a stack of them, and throws them at me. “You have to do it.” Her voice is dull now. Defeated. “You have to admit what you did.”
I pull back my hand from my shoulder and try to gauge how much blood I’ve lost by looking at it, but there’s no way to be sure. It’s possible the bullet nicked the brachial artery, and if it did, I need to get to an ER sooner rather than later. I take a couple of the towels and press them hard against my shoulder, managing to sit up and lean against the side of the couch.
“I know,” I say. I worry I might pass out from the pain. But there’s no way Amber can carry me to the truck; I need to stay alert long enough for her to get us back on the road. I look at her, and try to keep the rage I feel from showing on my face. “I still need the first aid kit . . . from my truck. There’s a special kind of gauze . . . that will make a gel and . . . seal off the wound. I’ll need your help . . . wrapping it up.”
“I should have aimed for your heart,” she says, but there is no energy behind her words.
“Amber,” I say. My breathing is still erratic. “Please. The kit.”
She bobs her head, and then disappears out the front door, returning a few minutes later with the large red bag from under the driver’s seat. It isn’t your standard, pick-it-up-at-Target kind of kit. I’d packed it myself with the same supplies that Mason and I use on our rig and in the field. She drops it at my feet, and I notice that she’s no longer holding the gun. Should I hit her? I wonder. Should I knock her down and make a run for the truck? Should I just leave her behind?
I think these things, but I know I can’t do them, not in my current state. I’d bleed out before I got over the hill and back on the highway. “I can’t do it . . . on my own,” I tell her. “Can you find the hemostatic gauze? I need you . . . to wrap the shit . . . out of my shoulder.”
She nods her head again, picks up the kit, carrying it with her to come kneel next to me. We don’t speak, though I can’t help crying out a few times as she tears my shirtsleeve away and shifts me around in order to tend to the wound. When she’s finished, she leans back to sit on her heels, puts her face in her hands, and begins to cry.
“Why did you do it, Tyler?” she asks, and there is so much raw, naked sorrow in her voice, it reaches inside me and claws at my heart. She drops her hands and stares at me. “You were my best friend. You’re the one person I always thought I could count on, someone who would always believe in me, no matter what. And you just tore me up. I didn’t know what to do. What to say. I needed my best friend and I couldn’t talk to him because he was the one who hurt me.” She pauses to wipe her eyes with a stray corner of gauze. “You destroyed me, Tyler. Everything I believed about myself, about my life, disappeared that night. I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know who I am without you there to help me figure it out.”
I open my mouth, about to speak, but she shakes her head. “No, don’t,” she says. “There’s nothing you can say. Nothing to fix us. But you can admit what you did. You can never do this to anyone else again. Please, Tyler. Tell the truth.”
I stare at her, pressing my lips together as she says the same words Mason had said to me just a couple of months before. And I can’t help but think that if Amber had been pushed this far—desperate enough to shoot me—what I did to her in that bed was worse. I know all too well that it’s the wounds no one can see that cause the bloodiest, messiest pain—secret injuries that, no matter the years that pass, never quite heal. I think about the pills I’d taken to try to help manage my guilt, and then, the way I allowed myself to be comforted by the same logic I’d watched my father use to justify his poor treatment of women over the years—the treatment I’d always abhorred. I suddenly feel sick, not just because I’ve been shot, but because I realize that I’d let his criticism of me the afternoon of the party drive my behavior that night. I’d behaved like him long before that even, if I am really being honest with myself. I used Whitney for sex for months, maybe even coerced her that first time on my couch, not giving a second thought to her youth or vulnerability. I’d wanted Amber so much that I didn’t listen when she told me to stop. All I heard in that moment was my father’s voice in my head, telling me a girl like her would never want someone like me, and wanting to prove him wrong. I could rationalize it however I wanted, but if, in fact, Mason was right and the definition of rape is performing a sexual act without the other person’s consent, then I was a rapist. Amber had given consent for everything up until that moment when I lay on top of her on the bed; she’d even instigated it. But she’d also told me to wait . . . to stop. I held her down and had sex with her anyway. And all I’d done since then was try to escape my guilt. All I’d wanted was to blame her so I didn’t have to take it upon myself.
So instead of speaking, I simply close my eyes and shake my head, and begin to cry, too. I cry in a way I haven’t for years. I cry because I know I am guilty, and the only thing I can do to right this wrong is turn myself in. I cry because I know that, even if I do this, I’ve still lost Amber forever. I’ll lose my job, too. I might even go to jail. I’ll be branded a rapist for the rest of my life, and though I still might not be able to reconcile that word with the man I thought I was, as Mason said to me the morning after he drove Amber home, we’d seen it on the job a hundred times—normal, everyday people are capable of doing horrendous things. Drunk drivers who kill another person are still murderers, even if that hadn’t been their intent when they got behind
the wheel. In that case, and now, in mine, intent doesn’t matter. What matters is the result.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my entire body shaking from my tears and the pain that throbs in my shoulder. “I’m so, so sorry. I’ll tell the truth, I promise. I’ll tell them what I did. I wish I could take it back. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy and I fucked it all up.”
“Yeah,” she says, darkly. “You did.” She wipes her eyes as she stands up, and then helps me do the same. She looks up at me with confusion and hurt and fear littered across her face. “Say it to me now,” she says, and I know exactly what she means. She wants me to prove to her that I’ll follow through on my promise, that I’ll actually go to the authorities and admit what I did.
And even though every cell in my brain is screaming at me to clamp my mouth shut, even though I still long to hide behind all my manufactured justifications—I can’t live another minute carrying this soul-choking suffering around. The pain in my shoulder is nothing compared to the one in my heart as I look at Amber and finally speak the truth.
“I raped you,” I whisper, feeling my insides begin to crumble, and I know that everything in my life is about to collapse, that the world I’ve known is as good as gone.
Amber
I couldn’t believe that I’d actually pulled the trigger. That moment, the entire night, had taken on a dreamlike quality, viewed through blurry eyes and filled with strange and shadowy scenes. When I’d left Vanessa’s office that day back in September, trying to think of a way to make Tyler pay other than reporting him to the police and hoping for the best, I never believed that this was where I’d end up. I’d thought that the threat of the weapon would be enough to get him to confess; I never imagined that I’d have to shoot him.
But even now, after watching him bleed and cry, after hearing the words I’d hoped would help ease my pain, nothing had changed. My body still felt his assault and my mind was still an exhausted mess of confusion, anger, and grief. I looked at him and saw not only my attacker, but the boy who’d held my hand while I lay in a hospital bed, fighting for my life. I saw the awkward teenager who’d grown into a strong and capable man; I saw someone for whom I felt as much love as I did hate. That, I realized, was the crux of my despair; this connection between rapist and friend, two labels that described Tyler—two words that would forever ring discordant in my ears.
“Come on,” I finally said, blowing out the one kerosene lantern I’d lit when we arrived. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
He nodded, grimacing as he got to his feet. We stepped outside into the cold midmorning air, and I breathed in the sweet, fresh scent of damp earth and pine, looking up to the tall evergreens in the forest around us. Long, curved branches swayed in a gentle wind, moving like a conductor’s arms leading his musicians through a slow and beautiful symphony. I carried the first aid kit up the hill to the truck, opening the passenger side door for Tyler, who staggered slowly behind me, his left hand still pressing on his now-wrapped wound. I knew he had to be in agony, but I took less pleasure from this than I’d thought I would. Don’t go soft now, I thought. After all of this, don’t let him think that he doesn’t have to follow through.
It took well over an hour to drive up over the logging road and get back on the highway that would lead us into the town of Monroe, where I knew the closest emergency room would be. My parents had taken me there one summer, years before we had even met Tyler and his family, when we’d gone to the cabin and I’d slipped on the rocks in the river and broken my arm. I was half-tempted to make him wait until we got back to Bellingham, where I could take him to St. Joseph’s and the police could come and hear him confess from his hospital bed. I was afraid if I waited, if I let him think too long, he might go back on his word and the entire night would have been for nothing. But as I glanced at the sloppy bandage I’d wrapped around his wound, I could see that, despite the special gauze, it was already soaked through with a large spot of bright-red blood. He needed a doctor, and I was too afraid of what would happen if I didn’t get him to one. However much I hated Tyler, however much I wanted him to pay, I didn’t actually want him dead. I wanted him alive and able to suffer the consequences of his crime. I wanted him to feel every minute of humiliation and loss that his confession would bring.
Tyler didn’t speak during the drive; he only rested his head against the window, eyes closed, continuing to clutch his injured shoulder with his one good hand. He was pale, his breathing was rapid, and his skin was clammy. When I finally pulled up in front of the emergency room entrance and turned off the engine, it was me who broke the silence. “Are you going to tell them I shot you?” My heart raced inside my chest. I kept my eyes forward, unable to look at him as I waited for his reply.
“It was an accident,” he said, and I could tell from the staggered pace of the words that he was in a great deal of pain. “You didn’t know it was loaded.” He must have sensed my hesitance, because he spoke again. “Don’t worry. I know what to say.”
I bobbed my head, still unsure whether I could trust him, and jumped out of the truck, quickly making my way into the ER. “My friend’s been shot,” I said. My voice trembled, and the woman at the front desk gave me a suspicious look, as though she was trying to decide whether to call for a doctor or security. I held my breath until she nodded and picked up the phone. A moment later, a man and a woman dressed in mint-green scrubs appeared with a gurney. “This way,” I said, leading them out to the truck, where Tyler was slumped against the passenger door.
“What happened?” the man asked, as the two of them carefully extracted Tyler from the front seat.
I kept my eyes on Tyler, my muscles tensed, wondering how he might respond. He could easily turn the tables, I thought. He could tell them I kidnapped and shot him, and then every bit of this night, every moment I’d suffered, would be pointless. I could end up going to jail instead of him.
“We were looking at her dad’s gun up at their cabin,” Tyler said through clenched teeth, groaning a bit as they moved him. “We didn’t know it was loaded,” he said. “It was an accident.”
I let loose a quiet sigh of relief.
“Is that true?” the woman asked, skeptically.
I swallowed hard, wondering if she could tell that he was lying. Did she wonder if he’d tried to attack me and I’d shot him in self-defense? Did she think that maybe I’d shot him outright? “Yes,” I said, and despite my exhaustion and frayed nerves, I managed to keep my tone calm and my expression neutral.
“We’ll have to report it,” the man said, as they pushed the gurney back inside, me trailing a few feet behind them. “Reception likely already called the police. It’s protocol.”
“Okay,” I said, not knowing if I should stay with Tyler or wait for him by the front desk. I didn’t want to be around him any more than I had to, but I also was worried what he might tell his doctors or the police if I wasn’t standing right there. My stomach churned, as I was unable to think of anything but getting him back to Bellingham, to the police station, and making sure that he confessed.
Once Tyler was in a small room of the ER, the woman informed us that they were both nurses, and the doctor was on his way. They began running IVs, taking Tyler’s blood pressure, and removing the gauze I’d slapped on his shoulder in order to examine the bloody damage. The female nurse took down our names, writing them on a chart that hung on the end of Tyler’s bed.
I stood as far back as I could, not wanting to be in the way. A short, heavy man in light-blue scrubs arrived and introduced himself as Dr. Morris, then listened to the nurses’ assessment of Tyler’s condition.
“The bullet went through and through,” the male nurse said. “A reported accidental discharge. The police are on their way.”
Dr. Morris glanced at me, where I cowered in the corner, arms crossed over my chest. “And you are?”
“A friend,” Tyler answered for me. “We live in Bellingham, but Amber’s family has a cabin out past Index, o
n the Skykomish. We were up there winterizing it, and unfortunately, when she picked up the gun, it went off.”
“I didn’t know it was loaded,” I said, repeating what Tyler had already told the nurses, hoping I sounded more convincing than I felt.
“I see.” The doctor began to examine Tyler’s wound, ordering X-rays and an MRI to assess the damage. “Looks like you managed to stop the bleeding fairly quickly,” he said.
“I’m a paramedic,” Tyler said. “I had hemostatic gauze in my kit.”
“Good thing,” Dr. Morris said. “Depending on what your tests show, we might be able to avoid surgery.” He rattled off instructions to the nurses, who made note of them as he spoke, and then the doctor and the female nurse disappeared from the room.
I watched as the remaining nurse hung a bag of clear fluid from the silver pole next to Tyler’s bed and then injected something into his IV. “What are you giving him?” I asked, worried that if Tyler got too loopy from pain meds, he might start babbling about what really happened.
“Oxycodone,” the nurse said. “Just enough to take the edge off.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling the word catch in my already dry throat. It had been hours since I’d had anything to drink, and well over a day since I’d slept. My eyelids felt leaden and scratchy as I blinked. I fixed my gaze on Tyler’s face, silently willing him to keep his mouth shut.
“Don’t worry,” the nurse said. “He’ll be fine. If he doesn’t need surgery, you should be able to take him home this afternoon.”
“Thanks,” I said, and then he, too, exited the room, leaving me alone with Tyler, whose skin was as white as the sheets he lay upon. He had to be as exhausted as I was—probably more so, considering the trauma his body had endured. Again, I struggled between having compassion for the boy I used to love and wanting the man who raped me to suffer. Confronting these two opposing versions of him in my head at the same time was excruciating—maybe as much as the rape itself.