What They Don’t Know

by Nicole Maggi

  I fired the first shot. “I was raped,” I said before anyone else could talk.

  I wish I could write that my mom collapsed crying, or my dad grabbed me into a big bear hug, and that Jeremy swore he’d kill the guy who did it. I wish I could say there were tears and promises of support, and that no matter what decision I made about the pregnancy, they’d be there for me. I wish I had that family. You’ve read enough of this journal by now to know I don’t have that family.

  My brain has blocked some of what happened right after I said those words. What I remember comes in slices, like photographs torn in half.

  Slice. Mom’s mouth moving without sound.

  Slice. Jeremy’s folded arms, his face pinched with doubt.

  Slice. Dad saying, “You have to take responsibility” in a clear, firm tone.

  What I remember most was my army coming to life. “You think she’s lying?” Lise yelled.

  “I think you’re refusing to take responsibility for your actions,” Dad said to me, not even acknowledging Lise.

  “I was not responsible for the action that made me pregnant,” I said.

  “Even if that were true,” Jeremy said, “it’s a baby, Mellie. It’s a life. Don’t punish the baby.”

  I wanted to punch him. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Jeremy. The only one being punished here is me.”

  “You have no right to take an innocent life—”

  “My life is worth something too—”

  “Who was it?”

  Hannah spoke for the first time since I entered the house. She stepped away from the frame of the kitchen doorway.

  I looked her in the eye.

  Everyone else in the room disappeared.

  It felt like just me and her, alone in the world.

  I made my lips say his name.

  “Brandon.”

  Brandon Talbot.

  Pastor Charlie’s son.

  Delia’s brother.

  Hannah’s fiancé.

  Now you know, Ms. Tilson.

  “He raped me downstairs in the basement. Right before Christmas.”

  “That’s a goddamned lie,” Jeremy said.

  “I would’ve noticed,” Mom said. “Your behavior afterward would’ve—”

  “All you noticed was the laundry got done,” I said, my eyes still on Hannah. She believed me. I could tell from her face. She believed me because she knew he had that in him.

  Mom collapsed into the nearest chair. Her lips were white and her cheeks splotchy. I want to know what she was thinking. Did she believe me? Did she think back over the last several weeks and realize how absent she’s been from my life?

  “You didn’t report it,” Dad said. His voice, his posture, his eyes—they all accused me. “If it happened, why didn’t you report it?”

  “I didn’t want to hurt Hannah,” I said softly. She hadn’t moved. “I thought I could forget it happened. But then…” I splayed my hand out over my stomach.

  “Oh God,” Hannah gasped and fled into the kitchen. She made it to the sink before she vomited. For several minutes the only sound was her retching. I wanted to go to her, but Dad was blocking my way, and I had to hold my ground.

  Dad stared at me. “I’m having a hard time believing you, Mellie.” It was his I’m-disappointed-in-you voice, the one I used to be afraid of, but now pissed me off. I folded my arms. “If it happened like you said, you would’ve reported it.”

  “Sixty-three percent of rapes go unreported,” Alanna cut in. “It’s the most underreported crime. Probably because people in positions of authority don’t believe the victim. Or they blame the victim.”

  “Nobody asked you,” Dad growled at her.

  “Hey!” I stepped close to him so we were inches apart. “Don’t talk to her like that. She’s been helping me, far more than my own family.”

  Dad brought his face close to mine. “You know what I think? I think you’ve been jealous of Hannah ever since she got engaged, and you seduced Brandon to get one over on her. I know how women work,” he said. “And now you’re carrying the consequence of your actions, and you want to take the easy way out.” I could feel his breath on my nose. “I thought I raised you better.”

  I want to say that his words sent a shiver down my spine. Or that he made me cry. But all I felt was contempt. I looked deep in his eyes. “And I thought I had a father. But all I have is a mayor.”

  He jerked back.

  I stepped around him and broke the circle. “I’m having this abortion,” I said. “I won’t give birth to my rapist’s baby. I won’t do it.”

  “Every baby is a blessing,” Mom said. “Even those that come to us in the worst circumstances.”

  “No, Mom,” I said, “not every baby is a blessing.”

  “She’s gotten to you.” Dad pointed at Alanna. “These people are insidious, Mellie. After all we’ve done for you, you choose to listen to her instead of your own family?”

  “No, I’m choosing to listen to myself.” My voice was steady. “She never once told me to have an abortion. All she told me was that the choice was mine. It’s my body, and I get to choose.”

  “No, it’s not,” Dad shot back. “This is God’s choice. However it happened, He chose to give you a baby—”

  “‘However it happened’? Brandon forced himself on me!” I was so angry I could feel it lighting up my skin. “I didn’t choose that. But I get to choose what happens now. And I won’t spend my life raising this baby.”

  “Give it up for adoption,” Jeremy said.

  “I can raise it,” Mom said in a small voice. I heard it there inside those words, that desperation for another baby. The six she already had were never enough.

  “No,” Dad said. “Hannah can raise the baby.”

  In the movies, during a dramatic moment, sometimes everyone turns to stare at one person. I swear it happened like that. A shudder went through me. I think deep inside, I knew this would be their solution, and that the abortion wasn’t just for me. It was to save Hannah too.

  “He will be her husband in a few weeks,” Dad continued while everyone else stared at him. “We’ll send Mellie away to have the baby. The child will be Hannah’s niece or nephew. It might as well be her own.”

  I’m still asking myself: Did he really say that? It’s like a plotline right out of a bad made-for-television movie. None of this should ever happen to anyone in real life.

  And it won’t. Not to me.

  Hannah walked back from the sink, wiping her mouth on a dish towel. “No,” she said, and she threw the dish towel at him. “No,” she repeated.

  “No, what?” Dad challenged. Mom was still in the chair, her arms wrapped around herself. Jeremy looked like he was going to hit Hannah. But she stared straight at my dad and put her hands on her hips. Like freaking Wonder Woman.

  “No, I will not raise Mellie’s baby,” she said. “And no, I will not be getting married to that man. Because yes,” she crossed in front of Dad and stood next to me, “I believe her. And I will support whatever Mellie chooses to do.” She snaked her arm around my waist and pulled me to her side. Big sister, little sister.

  I had to stop writing to lay my head down and sob. Right now, Hannah is sitting in Rosemary’s kitchen, being taken care of with tea and comfort food. After we left our house, we came back here and she collapsed on the couch, as if all the fight went out of her in one whoosh. She cried for hours. Hannah stood up for me even though I destroyed her life. And even though she insists that she’s relieved she’s not getting married, I know her heart is broken too.

  I didn’t really think about how Hannah was going to react to the truth. I think I never let myself imagine it, because I was so scared of losing her along with everyone else. I never imagined she’d take my side. I guess I thought she’d take Brandon’s.

&nb
sp; You can never assume anything about anyone. You think you know someone, but people are unpredictable. There’s danger in that, but there is also beauty. And for all the ugly that happened today, her standing up for me was beautiful, and I will love Hannah forever for that.

  After she took my side, Dad just stared at us like we were strangers. He was already writing us off. “If you go through with this, you are no longer part of this family,” he said. “Both of you. You are not welcome in this house, and you are not to associate with any member of my family.”

  “Hiram.” Mom’s voice broke on his name. Tears streaked her face.

  “What?” Dad snapped at her. She didn’t say anything else, just buried her face in her hands.

  I opened my mouth, but Hannah’s fingers tightened on my waist and I shut it. I trusted her to talk for me. “Dad,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  Ms. Tilson, I swear there was a note of hope in his voice. But what did he think we were going to say? Did he actually think we would agree to his plan?

  “I won’t be voting for you in the upcoming elections,” Hannah said. Then she turned us around and marched us out the front door.

  I’m actually laughing through my tears writing that. Is that the greatest exit line or what? That is Hannah. Sweet. Nurturing. And with a streak of rebelliousness that can win wars. That streak makes me believe that she’s going to survive this. Even better, she’s going to thrive on her own. That gives me hope that I’m going to be okay too.

  I have no idea what’s going to happen next. Alanna says we can stay with her for as long as we need. But that can’t last forever. We have to figure something out. We have to create a new life outside of our parents. What will that look like? It will be our brave new world. Emphasis on brave.

  But first tomorrow. I have to get through tomorrow before I can think about what comes after.

  Signed,

  Mellie Rivers

  March 25

  Dusk

  Dear Ms. Tilson,

  In the end, it happened on Sunday morning, right around the time I would’ve been in church.

  Daphne drove us. She picked us all up at Rosemary’s house. I rode to the clinic sandwiched between Lise and Hannah, each of my hands twined in one of theirs. The storm was over—in more ways than one—and the sun had come out. I love sunlight after it snows. Everything sparkles.

  I will always remember this day, I thought as we drove to the clinic.

  Daphne made to turn into the alley that led to the underground garage, but I spoke up. “I want to go in through the front.”

  She slowed the car to a stop and turned to look at me. “Are you sure?”

  Lise’s brow furrowed. “It’s not a good idea, Mellie. This is already hard enough.”

  “I know.” I squeezed her fingers. “But I need to own this.” I looked between her and Hannah. “I’m strong enough now.”

  “I’m going too,” Alanna said. “About time I walked through the front doors of my own clinic.”

  I climbed out of the car after Lise, with Hannah behind me. There weren’t that many protesters on a Sunday morning; probably because most of them were at church. Which is where I would be next Sunday. Maybe not at my family’s church. Maybe a kinder, gentler church that welcomes everyone, and picks people up when they fall down.

  The four protesters who were there saw us get out. They were mostly old ladies, their Bibles splayed out on their palms. A sign that read EVERY LIFE IS PRECIOUS leaned against their knees. One of them twisted a rosary in her fingers, rocking back and forth as she said the prayers.

  “Your baby deserves a life,” called out a gray-haired lady wearing a knitted hat with a gold angel pinned to it.

  Lise must’ve felt me stiffen because she muttered “Don’t engage,” into my ear.

  I couldn’t help it.

  I stopped and looked the woman in the eyes.

  “So do I.”

  The women stared at me for a moment. The one saying the rosary paused her praying. I pointed at myself, right at my heart. “My life is precious too. And I’m not going to sacrifice it for my rapist’s baby.”

  It was as if I’d slapped them across the face. Some pro-lifers believe in exceptions in cases of rape, and I could see my words sinking in. Before any of them could speak, Lise led me away. I leaned into her and Hannah. I didn’t need their strength—I had my own—but as long as they offered it, I was going to take it. I wasn’t going to refuse anyone’s help again.

  The ironic thing is that it was over so fast. All these weeks of torture, and it turned out that making the decision was worse than the actual procedure.

  Lise and Hannah waited in the lobby for me while Alanna took me back to the exam room. She’d given me something the night before to dilate my cervix, and when I got to the clinic, she gave me painkillers. I put on a soft cotton gown and climbed up onto the table, then fitted my feet in the stirrups. For a second, my chest tightened and I could feel the basement floor beneath me, hear his breathing above my ear…

  Then the nurse, Maureen, offered her hand. “You squeeze as much as you need,” she said. Alanna nodded, reassuring. There was nothing but kindness here. I was the most vulnerable I would ever be, and they would keep me safe.

  “Cough,” Alanna said. I did, feeling a little prick down there. “Just numbing your cervix,” she said, and placed the syringe on the table next to her when she was finished. I squeezed Maureen’s hand.

  Alanna put a small tube with a suction device inside me and flipped the switch. A soft whirring noise filled the room. I squeezed Maureen’s hand. It hurt the way bad cramps hurt during your period. I closed my eyes tight and waited for it to be over. I knew I had made the right choice, but that didn’t make it easy.

  I squeezed Maureen’s hand tighter. With a steady and gentle touch, she wiped my tears.

  After a few minutes, Alanna clicked off the machine. “It’s done,” she said.

  A tremor went through me. Maybe it was the pain. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was the angel wing brushing my cheek as the baby went up to heaven. Sobs racked my body. Alanna held me. I think she might have been crying too.

  “It’s over,” she whispered, and I felt it, deep inside me. It really was over. My body belonged to me again.

  Maureen and Alanna helped me into the recovery room, which felt more like a spa than a clinic. There were low lights, a Buddha’s head waterfall in the corner, lots of pillows and blankets and magazines to read, juice and crackers on the tables next to the lounges. I was bleeding a lot, so I went to the bathroom to get a maxi pad, and then Alanna settled me in a lounge chair with a heating pad across my stomach. Lise and Hannah came in and sat with me. We didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure there were words left to say, and I wanted quiet anyway, to listen to my own thoughts.

  My own thoughts are this:

  Having an abortion is an experience I would not wish on my worst enemy.

  But if you have to go through one, it should be the way I did. Surrounded by love. Bolstered by support. Having your hand held and your tears wiped away by kind, gentle hands. Recovering in a room that is beautiful and comfortable, where your loved ones can be with you.

  Those women protesting outside, they didn’t know my story until I told them. All the other women who have abortions, we don’t know their stories either. So we don’t have the right to judge.

  Now that you know my story, maybe you’re judging me. Maybe you’ve got all sorts of ideas about what I should’ve done and what other choices I should’ve made.

  You can think whatever you want.

  I know I made the right choice.

  Signed,

  Mellie Rivers

  March 29

  Dear Ms. Tilson—

  On Monday night there was one phone call. It was a hang-up, so I didn’t think much of it. On Tuesday
night there were three calls. Two were hang-ups. The third went like this:

  Me: Hello?

  Person on the other end: Is Alanna Grant there?

  Me: Who’s calling?

  Asshole on the other end: Judgment Day. I’m coming for her.

  Click.

  On Wednesday night there were seven calls. A few were hang-ups, but most were like that last exchange. Last night there were fifteen calls. Today my mom disconnected the phone.

  “Ignore it,” my mom said. She looks freaked, Ms. Tilson. The owner of the clinic is stepping up security, for both the clinic and our house. The sheriff says he’s going to send a patrol car by our house a few times a night. It doesn’t make me feel that much better.

  The thing is, we know who’s behind the harassment, but we can’t prove it.

  It’s Mayor Rivers or Pastor Talbot, or a collaborative effort between the two of them. Probably the latter. On Tuesday morning Delia Talbot hip-checked me on the way to homeroom, her long braid slapping me across the face. “What the hell?” I said. She ignored me and continued down the hall.

  I followed her and cut her off before she could go into her classroom. I know I shouldn’t have done it, I should have followed my escort training—don’t engage—but anger was rising in me.

  Delia stopped before she could run into me, but I was close enough to smell the shampoo she’d used on her hair that morning. “Do you have a problem with me, Delia?”

  She blinked and looked around. Normally she has a couple of friends with her, but this morning she was alone. It was just her and me. “As a matter of fact, I do.” Her eyes narrowed so that her whole face pinched into a mean expression. “I have a problem with the fact that your mother is a baby killer.”

  I’ve heard the protesters use that term all the time, but hearing it here, in school, in my face was different.

  I leaned in close. Our noses were almost touching. “Well, I have a problem with the fact that your brother is a rapist.”

  Delia reared back, and for a second I really thought she was going to slap me. She must’ve thought better of it. Slapping me would result in her getting punished, and I was the guilty one in her mind.