The constant pounding of my father’s drunkenness forced Jenise and me to grow up fast. We became skilled at the techniques of surviving our home, especially when we entered high school and were more independent.
But when I was eight-years-old, the only ways I knew to survive were to run, hide, or detach, hoping the madness stopped before it crushed me.
And I ran, and I ran, and I ran, and I didn’t stop running for years.
Chapter 2
Aware
"My dad’s an alcoholic, Alex.”
I sat waiting with Alexandra Flowers for my cheer team in the outfield bleachers at the stadium. She was the fiancé of Darrell Sweet, a pitcher on San Francisco's professional baseball team, the Goliaths.
Shortly after I’d graduated from my sophomore year in high school, I came up with an idea that brought together two of my favorite things: Goliaths’ baseball and another afterschool activity. My goal? To stay away from home as long as possible and pad my college resume.
I planned to study business marketing and had put all of my hopes into Stanford. My guidance counselor told me I needed to somehow stand out from the thousands of students also wanting to attend there. I'd been volunteering wherever I could, but over the previous twelve months, I'd become obsessed gathering the necessary data to support my cheer team idea.
After reviewing and editing it more than a dozen times, I finally sent it off to Jose Vasquez, the Entertainment Manager with the Goliaths. In December of my junior year, I was notified that my idea was accepted. With that phone call, I knew there was more than a chance that my dreams of attending Stanford would come true.
Our cheer team consisted of six members: My best friend, Colleen, and our friends and classmates Patty, Lorraine, Kathie, Marilyn, and of course, me.
Was I nervous about walking onto a professional baseball field and performing in front of forty thousand people? With every routine, I fidgeted and had butterflies in my stomach.
Alex was one of two women who had noticed our nervousness and took us under her wing. The other? Tara Summers, wife of Matt Summers, another pitcher on the Goliaths. When they introduced themselves, they also revealed they had both been cheerleaders in school, and offered to assist with our routines.
Tara was a small, petite woman with long, straight, strawberry blonde hair and blue-gray eyes. Her voice was soft and low, and her movements were so gentle and graceful I likened her to a fairy with translucent wings. She generally wore jeans or loose, flowing pants in earthy colors, made from materials like cotton and muslin. Three freckles on the tip of her nose added to the friendly persona she exuded.
Her very good friend, Alex, couldn’t have been more different. She was a tall woman with reddish brown hair and brown eyes. It was no surprise, with such striking features, that she’d been a model since high school. When she wore jeans, they were paired with heels and a designer blouse or sweater. There was nothing easy or relaxed with her, but you knew where you stood with her straightforward manner and honest input. I loved those qualities.
The three of us had many long talks in the bleachers and the two women gradually trusted me, asking me to housesit when they were away and volunteer with them. As usual, volunteering brought wonderful connections. The more we were together at those places, the bonds between us strengthened.
Our team’s first performance was on a Friday evening in early April. It was the usual cold night. We were thankful our uniforms had long sleeves underneath our jerseys, as the warm nights in San Francisco wouldn't arrive until September when “Indian Summer” came to the Bay Area.
I couldn’t help but remember sitting in the stands with my father at six, seven, and eight years old, slurping up a hot fudge sundae, eating a hot dog, or bag of popcorn.
I wish he were at the game now to see me cheer for our heroes.
We were getting ready for our sixth game. As usual, we waited behind the outfield fences. Noises of the gathering crowd, the sound of a vendor’s yelling out, and the smells of hamburgers, pretzels, and nachos surrounded us.
I still hadn’t gotten over my nervousness and my stomach flipped. I was self-conscious and had anxiety from just about everything, no coincidence considering the type of household in which I'd grown up. I appreciated Alex sitting beside me.
“I thought it was something like that,” Alex said when I told her about my father’s alcoholism.
Although she was only twenty-one, to finally share my life with someone older was a relief. The conversation we had that day cemented the relationship with my two new women friends.
“I created this for Stanford, but it's also an escape,” I said. “My dad and sister argue all the time. My mom is . . . I want to get out of there.”
“What’s your relationship like with your Dad?” Alex asked.
“I love him, but he's made me . . . I’m kind of . . .” I stumbled to find the word.
“Numb? I know, sweetheart.” she patted my back. “I know.”
How do you know?
"I'll be right back." She excused herself to check on my teammates.
“What’s your routine like tonight?” Tara asked, the next to sit beside me.
I stood up, waving my hands in the air to demonstrate.
The Goliaths were on the field taking batting practice, shagging balls, and doing their sprints and stretches.
“Looks like you guys have it down,” Tara remarked. “I’ll watch to make sure I don’t see anything you need to work out. If I do, you guys can come over later this week to rehearse.”
When I sat down again, I noticed Ryan Tilton, a relief pitcher—the premier closer for the Goliaths—looking our way.
Ryan’s six-foot, two-inch frame, athletic body, blue eyes, and golden brown hair acted like a beacon to those around him. I’d watched the players, and already noticed how in just a few weeks, people were naturally drawn to him.
The parade of women around the ballpark was endless. They wore skimpy and revealing outfits, designed to attract him and other single—or sometimes married—players on the team.
“Hey, what’s Ryan Tilton staring at? He’s been looking at us off and on for the last half hour,” I said. "I think he's trying to get your attention. Matt and Ryan are good friends? Do you know him well?"
“Don’t mess with that one.” Tara brushed the air with her hand. “That is a very wild boy.”
“I gathered as much,” I admitted. “He seems like an ass. You know, almost everyone has come out to introduce himself to us. He’s among the few that hasn’t. It's always a handful that are too good to be a part of things, isn't it?”
“You and your friends aren’t missing anything. He’s got quite a reputation along with his pal, Kevin Reynolds.” Her eyes narrowed as if angry about something he'd done. “And there’s a blonde woman named Jesse who hangs around him. Oh, she's a bitch. Always flaunting herself . . ." she shook her head. "I think she’s his girlfriend, but when it comes to that boy, who knows. Don’t give him another thought. He hangs around the wrong crowd. Selfish. All of them.”
“No chance of that." I buttoned my jersey. "I don’t even date.”
I entered into my adult life innocent and extremely naive about sex and boys. I was shut down, closed off, and afraid that having a boyfriend meant I’d lose control of my life and the vulnerability I'd need to share would be exploited and used against me. I thought having one would be a roadblock to Stanford. From my first day of high school, I had marked the beginning of college on a wall calendar with a red pen. I couldn’t risk anything getting in the way of that goal.
Secretly, however, I longed for those kinds of distractions.
A personal fortress was what I had built around my heart, keeping the hurt out of my life that my mother had let in hers.
In my mind, letting someone get close meant risking it all—and I'd ultimately be left alone and abandoned. Additionally, with boys, that meant having sex. I wasn’t ready for any of it. My friendships were the same I'd had since gramm
ar school.
In fact, I was so closed off to boys, I couldn’t understand why, at only fifteen and sixteen, my friends were sexually active. This seemed way beyond me, especially since my sister was raped around the same age, six years earlier.
My body had been the beginning and end to controlling my life. The thing I feared most was letting another get so close that I'd give it away without having true love.
Chapter 3
Ripped Apart
The day my sister’s life changed forever, I came home from school at the usual time.
It was typical for Jenise to be a few hours behind me. She often hung back to talk with her friends, having the occasional gossip session, beer or joint, planning the details of some sleepover, or talking about an upcoming dance.
When she was late that night, no one really gave it a second thought—that was until dinner came and went and she hadn’t called. Our parents had bought my sister a cell phone so they could reach her, and she them. That day, Jenise didn’t answer.
My mother began cleaning the house instead of reading her romance novels—a sure sign that something was wrong.
My father had been passed out for hours. Without his sparring partner at the table, he ate dinner quietly and then went up to bed. Maybe under his numbness, he knew something was amiss. Regardless, he left my mother to handle the crisis on her own.
“Did you hear from Jenise today?” Mom finally asked.
“No. I came right home and went up to my room to study,” I closed my history book. “Do you want me to call Patty? Her sister is one of Jenise's friends.”
“I’ve called them all.” Mom started to vacuum. “As far as they knew, she was coming right home.” I’m sure my mother’s heart crashed into her stomach. I imagined her walking a tightrope. Should she call the police, go look for her daughter, or stay put?
In a way, she was trapped.
She knew if Jenise called and she wasn’t home, my father couldn’t help—he was already passed out. I was too young to drive and what if I panicked, writing down a message incorrectly or not getting the right details? What if Jenise was in danger and she had one call to make? As much as she probably wanted to do something instead of sitting and waiting, Mom couldn’t.
I joined my mother in mindless work and did the dishes. When we finished, we sat together in the living room, eating a bowl of ice cream and watching TV, as if doing so would make everything okay.
At about 9 p.m., Jenise walked through the door. Her clothes were disheveled, and the color was drained from her face. Her eyes were distant.
She looks dead. It was the first thought that crossed my mind.
“Where have you been?” Mom's anger was ready to boil.
“I was raped,” Jenise answered; no fluctuation in her voice.
Mom's face became stone. She seemed afraid, trying her best to be brave—again. Even so, I was sure I saw her armor crack.
Her lip quivered.
She braced herself on the wall.
One hand held her forehead.
“I wanna take a shower.” Jenise could have been a zombie.
“Just stay right there,” Mom ordered. “Don’t move, wash, or take anything off . . . don’t even comb your hair. We need to go to the hospital.”
Her experience helping girls at “Juvie” who’d been molested or raped made her well aware of the necessary protocol. I don’t know if she wanted to take her daughter in her arms and tell her she loved her, but she didn’t. As always, Mom did a good job of pushing her emotions down, keeping her control, and not escalating an already volatile situation.
“Watch your sister.” Mom rushed to her bedroom, got dressed, and then came back downstairs. She hurried into the kitchen and called the hospital, asking for a “SANE” professional to be present with a rape kit. After they left, I found out online her request meant she wanted someone trained in rape trauma.
She hung up and walked down the hallway, and grabbed her purse and keys off the small table by the front door.
My sister hadn't moved.
When she finally looked at me, my hero seemed helpless. It was as if her sad eyes were screaming, “Why did this happen?”
Rather than give her the hug she almost certainly craved, a hug that would let her know she was loved and everything would be all right, I turned away. I didn’t know how to process the pain I felt from seeing the numbness and defeat in her eyes.
She’d been the one person in my house I looked up to.
I didn’t want to hear her talk about her violated body, the strength being ripped out of her, or the way she’d just lost her innocence. I knew she’d never look at life the same way again.
“Do you want to come to the hospital or stay here?” Mom asked.
“I’ll stay here.” I couldn’t face Jenise and didn’t want to hear her if she broke down in her pain.
Not another broken family member, please God, especially not my sister.
In the days that followed, I heard the details of what happened at the hospital. When law enforcement questioned Jenise, Mom found out it was three high school seniors who’d raped her daughter. They went to the same school and had followed my sister for several weeks. They knew her route and what time she went home.
She knew them from a few classes they’d taken together and even danced with one of them at a school dance. One of the boy’s parents was on a business trip and the twisted fantasies of the disturbed young men became real.
They lured her into their car.
Jenise was fourteen.
I was eleven.
My sister’s legs were spread open yet another time that day. Medical professionals gathered semen, hair, and blood samples as evidence while she lay vulnerable.
I imagined my mother looking on at her hurt baby girl while Jenise closed her eyes, detaching as her body was probed—again.
She had another trauma to bury.
We all had another trauma to bury.
Even though I was already an adult in many of the ways I had to take care of myself, I was adept only if the trauma was happening to me.
Watching my sister’s expression, as she stood frozen inside our doorway, even for just that brief instant where her desperate eyes burned through my heart—I realized what little girls we were.
Some switch turned on deep inside my body that said, This is what happens when you come of age, flirt, go to parties, show off to boys, and open up to sex. It kills your spirit.
I loved my sister, and I knew if my hero could be hurt, I’d never grow up to be healthy. Jenise was the strongest person I knew; she was the one who took the belt for me, challenged my father, and kept him away.
She was my friend, my power, and the only one who truly shared in our family secrets the same way I did.
On more than one night over the next several months, I heard Mom and Dad talk about "the incident." We habitually used terms like that to cover up how broken we were.
It was a way to keep the secrets of our family and the rawness of the act buried, along with the thing that stabbed us—the hurt and pain—from killing our hearts for good.
I imagined my sister in hell, reliving her violence, answering questions from the police, medical professionals, and our parents. They challenged her about why she had gotten into the boy’s car, what she’d been wearing, if she was already having sex, and other questions that made any woman feel like her attackers—rather than her—were the victims.
When she was asked to name the boys again, for the fourth time and to make sure her story “stood up,” and continued to "have teeth," Jenise stopped cooperating.
She’d had enough.
I wondered if her mind was closing down as she went more deeply into shock. Maybe her body was clicking on, protecting her from a complete break. Perhaps only she heard its words, silently whispering, “You won’t talk about this with them any longer. It's time to close down and begin healing.”
The first few weeks after her attack, Jenise stayed ho
me from school. She was ashamed—even though she had nothing to be ashamed of—and afraid she’d see the boys who attacked her in the halls at school on her way home or with friends. She didn't want to hear their mocking whispers, never letting her forget.
Jenise decided not to bring charges against them because of her fears, but the state did. As it turned out, she didn't have to take the witness stand, nor did she have to endure them in her personal life, but I'm sure she saw them every day in her mind.
I didn’t talk with Jenise about the details of her rape until years later. What my own friends heard from their older siblings was that she became introverted and withdrawn. I made sure to stay away from her so I wouldn't have to see her pain.
Fortunately, a school counselor urged her to seek professional therapy. For nearly two years, she learned how to recover. My parents paid for it of course, but never thought to initiate the help.
In an alcoholic and abusive household, to accept help is a weakness.
Talking about our home life meant being a traitor.
It meant someone had to spill our violent details.
Even shut down and broken, my sister forged ahead, helping herself to silently and powerfully come back to life, unashamed and in charge.
At the time, I didn’t understand the strength it took to do that.
What was my reaction?
Did I admire her?
Did I brag about my sister’s determination?
No.
Before she got help and was able to stand up for herself, I was angry she let those boys take her down. I don’t mean she invited the violence. I thought she’d “let” them become such an influence, that she stopped fighting and withdrew from the things she enjoyed. She stopped going to dances, parties, and sleepovers. I didn’t understand giving in like that.
It was as if she let them conquer her.
When I overheard her on the phone, discussing with her friends how the boys gave her a choice of “where she wanted it,” I didn’t understand why she let them have her vagina.
Shadow Heart (Broken Bottle Series Book 1) Page 2