"That's what I thought." The gentle caress I had once loved made its way to the back of my neck. He hoisted me up and hurled me into the dresser.
Blood invaded my eye. As I tried to gain my balance, he pinned me to the desk. "Is this what you want? You really want to leave after all we've been through? Where are you going to go, Rowan? Let me help you understand something—you're nothing. You hear me? You're fucking NOTHING! You think someone is going to love you like I have? Like I always have? Fine," he said, "if you want to go, let's get you out of here."
He rose to his feet and snatched my hair, yanking me toward him. I tripped over my resistance, and he dragged me and my exposed breasts along the hallway and out the door. I turned onto my back, thinking it would spare me more agony. My spine beat against each step, the rug beneath me burning hotter and hotter. As we crossed the threshold, the rain hit us.
Hunter brought me to my feet as we struggled and staggered toward his Explorer.
"Hunter, stop! Can't you see you're hurting me?" I wondered how far we were about to go. Were we going to the hospital, or was he leaving what was left of me for a morning jogger to find? I looked to the sky and wondered how we got here. There must have been some mistake—it wasn't supposed to be like this.
"We're going to do this together, Rowan. All I ever did was take care of you, and you show me no respect. You can go find someone else to take care of you like you always wanted."
In a sick way I wanted to end things there—with my arms around him, kissing in the rain. I wanted to tell him that all I ever wanted was for him to love me. We could cue the music and roll credits . . . maybe as the cast reel is going, we could do a montage of us going to couples counseling, getting married, and then cut to me in the delivery room.
But instead I said nothing. I was tired of screaming. I was tired of fighting.
He opened the back door of his Explorer and threw me in, slamming the door behind him. We whipped backward, and made off into the night. I managed to clip the seat belt around me.
Hunter didn't signal as we turned onto King of Prussia Road, and I couldn't help but think of my mother. You have to use your directional, Rowan. It's dangerous not to—you need to tell people where you're going. Hunter was going too fast for me to think about opening the door and taking my chances jumping out. We hydroplaned—speeding around every twist and turn. I looked over at him—his wet hair clung to his face, his shirt completely soaked through, his eyes still red from alcohol and fury. I pulled desperately at my seat belt—it had locked. All that was left to do now was hope—hope that Hunter decided not to crash. Hope that he decided we wouldn't burn.
When the car finally came to a halt, we were six miles from school. Hunter took me in his arms. "It doesn't matter where you go, Rowan. You belong to me. I fucking own you. I left my mark, and every man will know you're mine. No one will ever love you because I . . . I am the only one who loves you. So fucking go. Get off my campus and leave. Because soon you'll realize the world doesn't want you. I'm the only one that wants you." He placed the sweetest of kisses on my forehead before forcing me onto the cement.
My skin parted against the hot pavement as my blood cooled, soothing me, my body trying to reassure me I was alive. And then he was gone.
I lay there for a while—crying, screaming, bleeding. Part of me hoped he would return—that he'd still want me to be his. I waited until my eyes ran out of tears before rising to my feet, using the rain to wash the night off.
I inched, step by step, wincing as pebbles tried to become part of my feet, searching for what I knew was most certainly there. The paint of a set of double yellow lines gave my bare feet much needed relief. My blood grew a little paler as the rain fell harder. When I stepped forward, any evidence of me washed away. All that remained were my bare feet, the rain, and those two yellow lines.
* * *
Mom and I came face to face as Mikis's train pulled into the station.
"Is that him?" she asked, looking at Mikis boarding the train to Philly.
"No."
I don't know if she believed me. I don't know why she didn't hug me. I don't know if it was better or worse that we made the drive back to the house on Elderberry in silence. All I knew was I finally felt safe.
Dad was out the back door and halfway down the driveway before we pulled onto the blacktop. He damn near tackled me, wrapping his arms around my ribs, pressing his fingers in tighter and tighter, trying to make sure they hadn't come loose.
"I love you," he cried. "I love you, Rowan. Oh god, are you okay, baby? What did he do?" He wept, stepping backward, taking my face in his hands. "What did he do to my little girl? Oh god!"
Mom walked past us and into the house. After going to the bathroom, she put the kettle on, and took a seat at the kitchen table.
The first words I said to her were, "Where's Aidan?"
The first words she said to me were, "He's upstate camping with Jerry."
"You hungry, Rowan?" Dad asked, opening all the cabinets in the kitchen. "What do you want? I'll make anything you want."
"I'm not really hungry," I said, walking behind Mom's chair at the head of the table, toward the stairs. "I just want to go to sleep."
Halfway up the stairs, Mom called to me, "Rowan, about your room."
I let her pass me on the stairs, and followed her up, then down the hallway. She opened the door to my room. The bed was missing, and had been replaced with an Ab Lounge, two blue exercise balls, and a dresser that used to be in Aidan's room.
"You guys got rid of my stuff?"
"No, no," Dad soothed. "We just relocated it upstairs."
"In the attic?"
"You always said you wanted to live up there," Mom said coolly.
She was right. As a teenager, I'd always wanted to live in the attic, away from everyone. But now, going into my last year as a teenager, all I wanted was to be close to someone, to know there were other people breathing in the house.
"Just temporary," Dad said.
"Okay."
"And tomorrow, Rowan," Mom said, "we need to have a talk."
"Okay."
"No, not okay. There's going to be changes, there's going to be rules—"
"Yeah, Mom, I get it."
"Good night!" she snapped, slamming the door.
* * *
The days after were filled with questions. What's his full name? What are his parents' names? Where does he live? Did I go to the police? Where can we find him? But I gave no answers.
If I betrayed Hunter to my parents, to the police, then we were over. There'd be no way we could fix this, no way we could get back together . . . no chance for a future. Hunter was the only man who had ever loved me, and I still wanted to protect him.
After a few weeks, Mom and Dad realized I wasn't going to cooperate, and threw their anger and frustration into assessing my damage. They took turns shuttling me from doctor appointments to therapist appointments.
It was discovered that a wrist fracture hadn't healed properly—most likely from when I'd used it to block Hunter from taking a cast-iron skillet to the right side of my head—and I was put in a cast for six weeks.
In the beginning, I refused therapy. Then, about a month into being back at the house on Elderberry, I woke to darkness. The attic was black, the rain pounding against the window, and my palms began to sweat. I thought it had all been a dream—Mikis, being home, therapy—and that I was back in that room, waiting for Hunter to rape and beat and leave me. I started to scream.
Mom was shaken when she turned the light on and leaped into bed with me. I tried to fight her off, but she just wrapped her arms around me and squeezed. She didn't say anything as I screamed and wept and drooled. And when I was finally quiet, Mom didn't leave. She lay there, her arms around me, until the sun came through the windows.
It was decided I needed a routine, a schedule, boundaries.
The rules were the same as before I'd left. Mom had to know where I was going and who I was wit
h. I was to be home by eleven p.m. every night, without exception. I was to have no contact with Hunter, nor was I to mention his name while I lived there.
"I'm going to be twenty in, like, two weeks. Why do I need a curfew?"
"Rowan, these are the rules. You want to live here, you follow the rules. It's not that complicated," Mom spat back.
"Aidan is eighteen, and he doesn't have a curfew. He lives here too. How come he doesn't have to be home by eleven p.m.?"
"BECAUSE AIDAN DIDN'T RUN AWAY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT WITHOUT SO MUCH AS A NOTE! BECAUSE AIDAN DIDN'T DISAPPEAR FOR OVER A YEAR. BECAUSE AIDAN—" Mom took a breath to calm herself, or maybe she realized she didn't owe me an explanation of why things were the way they were. Either way, she also informed me I was to get myself to Nassau Community College, in an attempt to salvage what remained of my college education. Once my enrollment was complete, I was to secure some form of employment and go about obtaining my learner's permit because "we all have jobs and responsibilities, Rowan. It's your job and responsibility to get yourself where you need to be. You've made a real mess of things, and it's time to clean it up."
Then I remembered why I left—I hated the rules, the chores, the way she loved Aidan more than me. But mostly, I hated Mom. I hated how she blamed me, how she looked at me.
I didn't know she felt like she had to be hard on me, to be strong for me—that she refused to let herself fall apart until she put me back together. I also didn't understand that she was hurt, and took my actions personally, as if, somehow, the only way she knew how to show me love was by refusing me her tenderness.
* * *
People tended to say the same things. They told me Hunter was a piece of shit, that he wasn't good enough for me. But if he was a piece of shit who wasn't good enough for me, why didn't he want to be with me? If I "deserved so much better than him," then why wasn't I with someone who reflected that? Why was I always left behind?
The more I thought about it, the more I realized this went back further than Hunter and Cole and the boy I had a crush on in sixth grade. It started with BioMom.
I decided it was time for answers and put in a request for the files pertaining to my adoption. Two weeks after faxing my request, a receptionist called to tell me my files were ready for pickup.
When I asked for the address, I was surprised to hear New Beginnings Family and Children's Services was a mere fourteen blocks from the house on Elderberry, just before the Mineola train station. Since I was still without a license, I decided to walk.
I crossed over Mineola Boulevard after noticing the address was an odd number. As I walked closer to the train station, I thought there must have been a mistake—the red awning read, Marchello's Law. It wasn't until I approached the door that I saw four businesses listed in white vinyl.
Inside was a small atrium, and two doors on the left—both belonging to the law office. I decided to climb the carpeted staircase and immediately knew I was in the right place.
The office was adorned with pictures of Asian infants being held by white couples. A poster to the right featured a darker-skinned toddler and read, Considering adopting from Pakistan? Let us walk you through it!
"Can I help you?" asked the receptionist, whom I didn't realize I was ignoring.
"Yeah, my name is Rowan—"
"Do you have an appointment?" she said, turning her attention to the computer.
"No, I'm just here to pick up some papers."
"Do you have a case number?"
"No, I'm not adopting. I've been adopted." I could tell I was fucking this up by the confused look on her face. "I was adopted from here like years ago and I filed a request for my records."
"Name?"
"Kelly, Rowan."
After she shuffled some papers and started looking through the drawers, I asked, "Is it that folder with the Post-it on it?"
She snatched the folder and removed the Post-it angrily before asking me to sign for it. Once outside, I made a right toward the Station Plaza Diner. I pushed through lawyers from the nearby courthouses looking to grab a quick bite, and groups of nurses from Winthrop Hospital picking up lunch orders, and took a seat at the counter.
After ordering a grilled cheese, I braced myself for what I might find and opened the envelope: Agreement of Adoption, Statement of Adoption, Initial Social History—shit choice of words.
I had always assumed I was abandoned, which was why there were no instructions for my care. It was easier to think of her as an honorable mother, painfully doing the right thing.
My eyes scanned the top of the social history and stopped. Park, In Seon. She'd given me a name.
In means compassionate—seon, good-natured. Perhaps she came to know these things about me, or it was who she hoped I'd become. She had never found out, so it didn't matter.
My hometown is called Kyongdangnam-do, but Google asks if I mean Gyeongsangnam-do when I search for it. I am of nowhere and nothing. I scrolled through the results, hoping to recognize something when I saw it . . . I didn't.
BioMom's identity, along with BioDad's, are listed under the next section, Background Information. A patch of Wite-Out beneath a CONFIDENTIAL stamp covers their names—squiggles made with a black ballpoint pen are mirrored on the back of the page.
My grilled cheese comes when I get to History of Birth and Admission. I see stats on her period of pregnancy, my weight and delivery type. Below are two long paragraphs detailing my admission, and I can't help but laugh.
According to the bio-mother, the history begins.
My biological father was the eldest of four, born in the town listed as my birthplace, and became a farmer after finishing middle school. He is healthy, with a medium build, and has an active disposition. Reading about him in the present tense is strange, but knowing he could be alive is stranger.
My biological mother is the youngest of four, and worked in a textile factory after middle school. She is healthy, with a medium build, and has a poised, quiet disposition. I've never been poised or quiet.
They met in 1978, dated, and moved in together. She got pregnant while they were living together, but the disaccord of their aims and goals led to their separation. After that, she gave birth to the child, In Seon, on 5 November at Kao Maternity Home in Kyongsangnam-do, but felt that it would be impossible for her to raise the child for herself. Thus, she referred the child for adoption to this agency Jinju branch, on 6 November.
I was collateral damage—clothes that hadn't made the cut into the carry-on, pictures and ticket stubs thrown into a trash can and left to burn. There was nothing wrong with me—I just wasn't worth the trouble.
Chapter Ten
* * *
"What's your name?"
"Rowan."
"Rowan? Rowan, my name is Maddy—I'm a nurse here. You're not alone," she says. "You're in a safe place and we're going to make sure you get the help you need. Okay, you believe me?"
I nod.
Her eyes tell me her word is her bond—that even if she has to stay an additional three hours after her shift ends to make sure I'm all right, she will. It makes me want to tell her the truth.
"Now," she takes a deep breath, "what happened?"
"His name . . . his name is Cole."
Maddy tells me to take a seat in the first chair in front of the main desk and brings some tissues. She tells me she is going to make some phone calls, that she's going to be "right over there," that it's going to be okay. I believe her.
After what seems like a very long time, a woman in black scrubs and a ponytail meets Maddy at the desk. They look at me. Maddy shakes her head, and both walk over to me.
"Rowan, this is Sylvia," Maddy says.
"Hi, Rowan," Sylvia says, extending her hand. I do not trust her.
"Hi."
"Rowan, Sylvia is going to take things from here. She's one of the best SANE nurses we have."
"You're not coming with me?"
"I'm sorry, no—I have to stay at the front des
k," she says, looking at Sylvia. "But you're going to be fine." She pats me on the back and motions for me to follow Sylvia, who is several steps ahead.
"Thanks," I say as Maddy goes back to the front desk. I never see her again.
I read somewhere the reason so many hospitals choose to paint their walls yellow is because it makes people think of sunshine and happiness. The exam room Sylvia takes me into is light blue and makes me feel cold. She motions for me to sit on the opposite side of the desk, while she slides into the wheeled chair near the computer.
"So, Rowan, my name is Sylvia and I'm a SANE nurse. Do you know what a SANE nurse is?"
I shake my head no.
"SANE stands for Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner. I specialize in patients who have experienced sexual assault or abuse."
I nod.
"Why don't you tell me what brings you here today. Maddy tells me you mentioned a man named Cole. Did he hurt you?"
"No," I whisper.
"Rowan, this is a safe place, okay? No one can hurt you here. But if I don't know what happened, I can't help you."
I don't want to talk to Sylvia. I want to tell Maddy it isn't supposed to be this way. Maddy would agree that Cole had played me. Maddy would understand I just needed to find one person who wouldn't leave me. Maddy would hug me as I sobbed and wondered how it got to this point. Maddy would know I need medical assistance to find the source of my dysfunction. Maddy wouldn't think less of me for giving my body to random strangers to fill the emptiness that men I loved and mothers who abandoned left in their wake.
But Maddy isn't here now. Only Sylvia is.
This is my chance to come clean—to tell Sylvia I'm not a rape victim, but that I've spent the past few months in the bed of any man who'd have me so I wasn't alone. That I let them use my body for anything—for everything—and I was scared of what might be within me. That I needed an exam, a diagnosis . . . an explanation.
But if I told her that, a bill from North Shore–LIJ would find its way to the house on Elderberry. I might beat Mom to the mailbox that day, I might not. But if I didn't, Mom was sure to open the envelope and demand answers.
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