Surrendered

by Jennifer Sienes

  “I don’t know. Is it church appropriate?” I stack the pancakes onto a plate.

  “I’m not planning on going to church, so it doesn’t matter.” She rummages in the fridge, collecting orange juice, butter, and a bowl of strawberries.

  “You haven’t been since Sean died.”

  “Are you keeping tabs?”

  I refill our coffee mugs and join her at the table. “Just an observation.”

  “I’ll make a deal with you.” She spears two pancakes and drops them onto her plate. “You worry about you, and I’ll worry about me.”

  “Not laying a judgment on you, Tess. Just thought you might like to join me.”

  Elbow on the table, she points a loaded fork at me. “I don’t get you.”

  “Good. Then we’re even.”

  “I mean, on the one hand, you act all mysterious, like there’s something dark and twisty in your past.”

  Not about to touch that one.

  “And on the other hand, you have this quirky, chivalrous thing going on.” She pops the forkful in her mouth and chews. “And then, on the other hand—”

  “Three hands? Really?”

  “You cook.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. You’re the minority in that department.”

  “Very funny.”

  I cut into my stack, strategize my approach. “You’ve had a lot to deal with over the last decade or so.”

  “Ya think?” She focuses on her food.

  “It would make anyone…distrustful.”

  Head tilted, she glances at me. “Is this the psychological approach?”

  “How’m I doing?”

  “Well, let’s see. You’re too transparent, for one thing. Even if I wasn’t a psych major, I’d see through it.”

  I nod. “So maybe you could give me a break and just come to church with me.”

  “There’s no point.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  Fork mid-way to her mouth, she lowers it. “Most of my life, I was a good Christian girl. I attended church every week, honored my parents, kept myself pure, and read my Bible.” She drops her fork with a clatter. “What good did it do?”

  “You’re one of those, huh?”

  She scowls at me. “Excuse me?”

  “You think ’cause you played by the rules, you should be protected from life?”

  She shoots out of her chair. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Show me in the Bible where it worked that way for anyone. Moses. Joseph. David.” I rise so we’re eye to eye and lower my voice. “Jesus.”

  Eyes swimming, her mouth opens and shuts. “That’s not fair.”

  My conversation with Kent rears up. How many times had I made that same proclamation? Even in the last week? “Life’s not fair, Tess. But we’re not promised fairness. At least not here on earth. You can’t take every hard knock and throw it back in God’s face. It doesn’t work that way.”

  “You have no idea…” Her voice cracks and she turns away.

  “You’re wrong.” I start to reach for her then clench my hand instead. “I haven’t suffered the same as you, I get that. But I haven’t escaped hard knocks, either. If you keep a tally sheet of disappointments, you’re missing out on the big picture.”

  “What big picture?”

  Unable to look at her pain, I stack our plates. “That’s what you have to figure out. I don’t have all the answers.” Setting the plates in the sink, I look out the window. Fall’s coming in a burst of color. Further evidence of His presence. “But I have to believe in God’s promises. Until you’re ready to see things from His perspective, you’ll never receive them.”

  “And you think going to church is going to fix things?”

  “It’s a start.”

  She scrapes a hand through her hair, eyes set on something out the corner window. “I’m not ready.” She picks up the plate of remaining pancakes and carries it to the counter. “I know you mean well, but I need more time.”

  I nod, although I doubt she sees me. “You have a plan?”

  She turns red-rimmed eyes on me. “What?”

  “School. What’re you going to do about it?”

  She pulls a box of plastic wrap from the drawer. “Whatever I have to.”

  That sounds ominous. I turn on the water. “This professor—what’s his name again?”

  “Ste—” Her mouth snaps shut. She turns to me, eyes narrowed. “Oh no you don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Stay out of it, Jake.”

  Before I can respond, she whips past me, slamming through the swinging door with the force of a linebacker. Dread settles in my gut, souring the pancakes.

  Something tells me she doesn’t plan to turn the other cheek.

  * * *

  Tess

  The problem with dramatic exits? You’re left with the repercussions—a little embarrassment mixed with a healthy dose of humiliation. Now I’m stuck in my bedroom, waiting for Jake to retreat to his corner. Instead, he’s in the kitchen doing the dishes. It serves him right since he wasn’t invited in the first place. But it leaves me trapped, a victim of what Dad called my Irish temper.

  When did Jake worm his way into every aspect of my life? One minute, he’s nothing more than an irritant, and then all of a sudden, he hands out advice like pearls of wisdom. I could discount him—and I would have a month ago.

  If only I could trust him.

  My past is laid out for him like some warped virgin offering, while his is still as mysterious as the Bermuda Triangle. Talk about unfair!

  I take an inordinate amount of time making my bed—align the blankets just so, tuck in the sheet with military precision, and rearrange the pillows three times until they’re Martha Stewart perfect. Now what? Flopping onto the edge with a sigh, my eyes catch the tower of boxes in the corner. After months in the same place, they’ve become a decorative fixture, topped with a small lamp like a tall end-table.

  Who knows what’s in them? When I moved from the downstairs bedroom, I pulled them from the storage area under the stairs with the intention of tackling the task of organizing their contents. There’s no time like the present. I have a notebook in there somewhere. It’s time to start a plan of attack on Fields.

  I approach the chore with some hesitancy. How many years of my life are crammed in those boxes? Opening one might be analogous to Pandora’s Box. As if there hasn’t been enough evil lurking in my past. Then again, I might find reminders of who I used to be—someone too strong to be taken down by shame and regret.

  The first box is heavy, the top of it above eye-level. Lowering it from the stack requires quick reflexes as it gets away from me and lands at my feet with a thud. So much for finesse.

  Within seconds, there’s a rap at my door. “You okay, Tess?”

  Jake. Who else? I must be his charity project for the year.

  I glare at the door, as if he can see me through the thick wood. “Aren’t you gone yet?”

  His mumbled response fades away.

  After ripping off the packing tape, I fold back the flaps of the box. Books. Lots of books. Some I set aside to donate, others, such as Little Women, the Anne of Green Gables series, and the Laura Ingalls Wilder collection, I place along the edge of my bed. I reach back in and retrieve an untitled book. I flip through the pages. It’s not a book, but a journal filled with the dips and swirls, teen-girl style.

  Opening mid-way, I glance at the date and calculate—the summer I was fifteen. The journal, along with the Bible at the bottom of the box, was a gift from Mom on the day I was baptized. The day I determined to be that good Christian girl I flaunted in front of Jake. The one who didn’t believe anything bad could happen if I just behaved.

  Bible in hand, I scoot to the wall and rest my back against it, folding my legs. I run my hand over the worn leather cover. My name, engraved in gold, is barely legible. How many hours did I pour over this? How many times did Dad and I talk about the Biblical heroes? Moses. Joseph.
David.

  And Jesus.

  I take hold of the blue-ribbon marker and flip it open to Genesis 37. Of course. What else? Tilting the book to catch the morning light pouring through the window, I begin to read. About Joseph’s betrayal by his brothers, years of prison, false accusations. And redemption. Sounds great in a Bible story, but—

  A tap at the door startles me. “Go away, Jake.”

  The door opens, and Katie sticks her head through. “It’s me.”

  “You’re up early for a Sunday morning.”

  “It’s almost ten.” She steps into the room, leaving the door ajar.

  Ten? How did I lose so much time? “Is Jake still in the kitchen?”

  “I didn’t see him. What’re you doing?”

  I look down at the small type on the tissue-thin pages. “Contemplating.”

  “Sound’s boring.” She flops onto her stomach at the end of the bed. “What’re all these books?”

  “Do you remember the day you were baptized?”

  “Sure. Dad threw me a big party.”

  “I was fifteen. Mom gave me this.” I hold up the Bible. “I used to spend hours reading and journaling.”

  “You didn’t have a lot of boyfriends, did you?”

  I grunt. “Not so you’d notice.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “What?”

  “Why you didn’t have many boyfriends. I mean, you’re super pretty. And smart. Not that guys like that.”

  “Thanks. I think.”

  “Don’t you like guys?”

  “What a question, Katie.” Heat spreads up my neck.

  She scrambles into a sitting position and raises her eyebrows. “I’m still waiting for an answer.”

  I’m doomed to be surrounded by pushy people. “When I was twelve, Dad gave me a purity ring. Do you know what that is?”

  “Yeah. I got one too.”

  “I made him a promise.” I give her a pointed look. “One that I vowed to keep.”

  She drops her eyes.

  “Most guys don’t understand that promise. They think it’s archaic.”

  “It kind of is,” she mumbles. “I mean, if you can’t even get a guy to go out with you…”

  Hugging my knees to my chest, I close my eyes. “It’s not like I never dated. I even had a steady boyfriend in college.”

  “He couldn’t take the pressure, could he?”

  “I broke up with him.” I swallow. I can’t keep baby sister in a bubble forever. And it seems bringing my shame into the light with Jake and Julia has already reduced some of its power. If Katie is old enough to make out with boys, she’s old enough to handle the truth. “I didn’t want to be around any boy after I was attacked by one of my professors.” I look at her.

  Katie’s face is pale, mouth agape, eyes wide.

  “I wasn’t going to tell you, but it’s time you see how dangerous the world can be.”

  “When?”

  “Around the time Mom got sick.”

  “You didn’t want to go back to school. That’s why?”

  I nod.

  “Oh Tess.”

  Scrambling to my feet, I sit next to Katie and put an arm around her. “You’re too trusting, Kitkat. I didn’t tell you to make you feel bad. I told you, so you’ll be aware. There are guys out there who’ll take advantage of your sweet nature.”

  “But Tony’s not like that.”

  “Dad gave you that purity ring for a reason.”

  “And look what good it did you.” Katie could use a lesson in tact.

  “I didn’t give it away. It was taken from me.”

  But I did nothing to make sure he didn’t do it to any other unsuspecting girl.

  Chapter 25

  Tess

  If someone asked me what topic was covered today in my Theoretical Foundations class, I’d come across as illiterate—which would be ironic given that the class is all about literacy. More than halfway through the lecture, my notebook is blank, aside from the date and subject title.

  Stephanie sits two rows ahead of me. Over the last week, she’s made a point to look right through me as though I’m invisible. Like ignoring my existence will change the facts. But then, my facts may not be her facts. Had I given off a vibe of some sort, asked for the attack?

  The mere thought of it is too disturbing to contemplate for the brief moment it flits through my mind. What was it Jake said? Rape is about power.

  “So, gang,” Professor Litkis says. “That about wraps it up for today. Any questions, see me up front.”

  Great. I slap my notebook closed. I don’t relish the idea of taking on Fields only to jeopardize my chances of passing this class. Who can I get the notes from?

  Stephanie passes me as I pack up my bag. In for a penny…

  I sling my pack on my shoulder and follow, maneuvering my way through other students to keep her in my sights. I promised Carol I’d meet her after class, but if I can catch up before we get out of the building…

  I spot her three steps ahead of me, a throng of people a barrier between us. “Stephanie.”

  She turns her head slightly—enough to know it’s me—and doesn’t slow her descent. Big surprise.

  Battling with Jake’s taught me persistence. I squeeze through two bodies to shorten the gap and touch her shoulder. “Stephanie. Can you slow down for a sec?”

  She shrugs off my hand. “I’m late for my next class.” Her shoulders curve in as if she’s trying to hide, eyes on the floor.

  How many times have I adopted that same posture? One of fear and shame? Call it women’s intuition or an aha moment, but this is not the same girl I talked to last time. To ignore it would be as criminal as letting Professor Psycho walk scot-free.

  But how do I get her to admit it?

  “I got sidetracked in Foundations. Would you be willing to email me your notes?”

  She steps off the last tread and moves to the side before facing me, head shaking. “You really expect me to buy that?”

  Rummaging through my pack, I pull out my notebook. “See for yourself.” I show her the blank page. “Ever since I spotted Fields on campus, I can’t seem to focus.” Not a complete lie.

  Her eyes drop. I was right, otherwise she’d jump to his defense again. She reaches in her purse and pulls out a cell phone. “What’s your email?”

  “My name is Tess O—”

  “O’Shay. I know.” Eye contact so brief, a blink and I’d have missed it. “Email?” I give it to her, and she thumbs it into her phone. “I’ll send them tonight.”

  Yeah something’s definitely changed, but to push now… “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  If she does send the notes, at least I have her email address and she has mine. That’ll have to be enough.

  For now.

  I step outside and a brisk fall breeze has me pulling my jacket tight. Crossing my arms to ward off the chill, my hair catches and whips across my face.

  Tucked into a wool coat, Carol’s waiting at our meeting spot—a bench between Placer and Calaveras Halls. “I was just about to give up on you.”

  “Opportunity knocked, and I was answering.”

  “Oh?”

  “You know that young woman I chased out to the parking lot last week?”

  “Stephanie?”

  “I caught up with her after class and asked for her notes.” I grimace. “She’s sending them to my email tonight.”

  “I don’t get it. Last week, she was ready to have your head.”

  “I know, right?” If my instincts are correct, and Stephanie was raped since we last spoke… Why didn’t she listen to me? And why, when I warned her, does guilt still plague me like locusts with an unrepentant Israel?

  “Did you talk to her? I mean, about that teacher?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to spook her.”

  “Now what?”

  “Let’s go somewhere warmer. Are you up for a cup of coffee?”

  She pulls back the sleeve of her coat an
d checks her watch. “I have about forty-five minutes. Ashton needs me to take her to the bookstore. It seems her English teacher gave them a tough assignment.”

  I muster a smile for Carol. “Poor thing. I’d write up a petition and have that slouch of a student teacher removed.”

  Ten minutes later, we’re seated in the corner of Starbucks. Every table save one is filled, and the line grows by the second. There’s anonymity in a crowd.

  Carol leans toward me, voice low. “Okay, we’re warmer. What’s your plan?”

  I pull a folded sheet of paper from my pocket and slide it to her.

  “What’s this?”

  “Look at it.”

  She sets her coffee aside and opens it. “An address?”

  I nod.

  “Stephanie’s?”

  I glance around, but no one’s paying attention to our little melodrama. Even so, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Professor Fields.”

  “What?”

  “I did a little research this weekend. You know, it’s possible to find just about anything on the Internet.”

  Carol rubs her eyebrow as she scans the sheet. “I’m afraid to ask what you plan to do with this ill-gotten information.”

  “Ill-gotten? You make it sound like I committed the crime.”

  “It depends on your intentions.”

  I huff out a sigh. “Are you kidding? This creep”—I point at the paper still in Carol’s hand—“is the one who committed the crime. I did nothing wrong.” It’s the first time I’ve voiced the truth aloud and it’s empowering.

  “Yet.” She bites at her lip.

  I toss my hands in the air. “You’re worried about me violating”—a couple people look my way and I lower my voice—“his rights?”

  “No, Tess.” She grabs my hand and squeezes. “I’m worried you’ll put yourself in danger. You need to go to the police. Let them handle it.”

  “Handle what? A ten-year-old crime? They’ll laugh me out of the station.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t understand.” I pull my hand from Carol’s. “Without proof, he’ll walk. If he knows the police are onto him…”