See Jane Run

by Joy Fielding

  “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so tentative. It’s just that I’m not sure how to say this.”

  “The direct approach is usually the best.”

  “I hope you’re right.” She paused. “Actually, I’m not even sure I should be talking to you at all.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “This is my first year teaching,” Pat Rutherford explained. “I’ve never had to handle anything like this before, and I’m not exactly sure on the correct procedure.”

  “The correct procedure for what?”

  “Normally, I think I’m supposed to report my suspicions to the authorities ….”

  “The authorities? My God, what do you suspect?”

  “But a friend of mine had an unpleasant experience when she did that—two police officers showed up, scared the kid half to death, the whole school was buzzing, the parents were incensed, and my friend almost lost her job. Plus, nothing changed.”

  “What are you talking about?” Jane sat poised at the end of the small seat.

  “I love teaching. I don’t want to lose my job. So after thinking about it for a while, I decided that rather than go directly to the authorities, I’d speak to the school principal first.”

  “Mr. Secord?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you speak to him about?”

  “I think Emily is being sexually abused.”

  The words, when they finally emerged, had the force of a dagger to Jane’s stomach. She reeled forward, almost tumbling off the small seat. The edge of the desk stopped her, poking into her rib cage. Something was obviously wrong with her hearing, she thought, struggling to regain her composure. She couldn’t possibly have heard what she thought she did. “What did you say?”

  Pat Rutherford sank into the chair behind her desk. “I think Emily is being sexually abused,” she repeated, the words no less deadly for having been repeated.

  A gasp of air flew from Jane’s lips. She felt her insides being expelled with each breath. It can’t be, she thought, then again, no, it can’t be. “What makes you think so?” she asked when she was able to find her voice.

  “Well, I don’t have any concrete evidence, and that’s one of the reasons that Mr. Secord was adamant that I not call the authorities. As he pointed out on several occasions, I’m very new at this. There could be any number of reasons for Emily’s recent behavior. Just that something tells me that this is it. Everything I’ve read….”

  “Has Emily told you she’s been—” The words stuck in Jane’s throat. “Sexually abused,” she whispered, denying the words even as she spoke them.

  “No,” Pat Rutherford told her, and Jane sighed with relief. The woman was clearly mistaken, jumping to ill-considered conclusions because of something she had read. “But her behavior recently is consistent with a child who has been abused in this way.”

  “How so? What kind of behavior?”

  Again, Pat Rutherford hesitated. “Well, she’s become very quiet of late. She was always a very gregarious little girl, full of enthusiasm, always a smile on her face, and lately she’s gotten very quiet. More than quiet, really. Almost sad. Have you noticed that at home?”

  Jane had to admit that she had. “Still,” she protested, “that hardly means Emily is being abused sexually.”

  “If it were just that, I wouldn’t think twice,” Pat Rutherford concurred. “There’s more.”

  Jane said nothing, giving Emily’s teacher permission to continue with a nod of her head.

  “At recess one day, I saw her in the kindergarten class playing with some of the dolls. That in itself isn’t unusual. A lot of the kids like to go there to play with the toys. As long as they return everything to its proper place, there’s no problem. But there was something about the way Emily was playing with two of the dolls that made me stop and watch. She didn’t see me. She was totally caught up in what she was doing.”

  “Which was?”

  “She was touching them about the chest and between their legs, rubbing the dolls against one another.”

  “Couldn’t that be just normal childhood curiosity?” Jane interrupted, feeling her anger rise. Surely this woman, this inexperienced first-year teacher, had not concocted this preposterous story based simply on childhood experimentation.

  “Yes, it could. I thought of that. Obviously, I didn’t jump to the immediate conclusion that she was being molested. I thought it was just as likely that she was mimicking behavior she had seen on television or in the movies.”

  Jane shook her head. She had always closely monitored what Emily saw on television and accompanied her to the family-rated movies she thought appropriate for a child Emily’s age. There had been no such sexual displays. Still, Emily had eyes. She was undoubtedly curious about her own body. And other children talked. “She probably heard something from one of the other kids,” Jane offered weakly, fighting to keep control when all she wanted to do was lunge across the desk and strangle Pat Rutherford for her unfounded accusations.

  “Mrs. Whittaker, please understand that I’m not saying these things lightly,” Emily’s teacher said, as if reading Jane’s thoughts. “I’ve been thinking about the best way to approach this for months. Mr. Secord reminded me many times that your husband is an important man in the community, that he’s a major contributor to the school’s fundraising efforts. And I know how active you are in school affairs, what concerned parents you both are. That’s why I didn’t want to put you through any more than I had to. There may be a very logical explanation for everything.”

  “Everything? So far, I haven’t heard much of anything. At least nothing that would make me jump to the conclusion that my daughter is being molested.”

  “There’s more.”

  Jane held her breath.

  “I might have let the whole matter drop except for what happened last week.”

  “What happened last week?” Jane’s voice was a monotone.

  “I walked into the class and there was Emily at the back of the room with another little girl. She had one hand on her shoulder, and the other on the little girl’s breasts….”

  “This is silly. Two little girls touching—”

  “It wasn’t what Emily was doing so much as what she was saying.”

  “Saying?”

  “She was whispering, ‘You’re so beautiful. You make me want to touch you because you’re so soft and pretty.’”

  “What?”

  “I know those were her exact words because I wrote them down. I mean, it’s not the kind of thing you hear children say to one another. Is it? It sounds like she’s parroting an adult, something she’s either overheard, or something someone actually said to her. I don’t know. I do know this is a terrible shock for you, Mrs. Whittaker, and that you’re probably very angry with me. I know I don’t have any proof at all. But I’ve racked my brain trying to think what else would turn a normally outgoing child into an introvert, what would make a seven-year-old child so sexually aware. I just can’t think of any other alternatives, unless—”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless maybe she witnessed her baby-sitter with one of her boyfriends. Is that possible? Maybe she came downstairs when she was supposed to be sleeping, and found your baby-sitter on the couch with her boyfriend. Maybe she overheard what they were saying.”

  Jane wondered if this could be possible. Both Carole’s children baby-sat for her on a fairly regular basis. Was it possible that Celine had invited a boy over one night when they were out?

  “Are there any teenage boys in your neighborhood?” Pat Rutherford was asking. “Maybe one of them approached Emily, tried to coax her into something….”

  Andrew Bishop’s tall, gangly frame shoved itself front and center in her mind. Could it be that Carole’s teenage son had tried to molest her little girl?

  Jane jumped from her seat with such determination that she almost knocked it over. “I have to talk to Emily.”

  “I was hoping you’d say th
at.” Pat Rutherford took a deep breath. “Emily’s having her lunch. I can go down to the lunchroom and bring her up, if you’d like.”

  “Please.”

  Pat Rutherford exited the room without another word. As soon as she was gone, Jane brought her fist down hard on the teacher’s desk, causing a few papers to fly to the floor. “Goddamnit, it can’t be true,” she repeated. “It can’t be. It just can’t be.”

  She began pacing back and forth in front of the desk in much the same way Pat Rutherford had paced only moments ago. How could this be? she asked herself. How could it be? There was only one answer—it couldn’t. Pat Rutherford had reacted in an extreme manner to an undoubtedly innocent situation that would be cleared up in a few minutes.

  A few minutes, she thought, thinking how a whole life could change in just a few short minutes. Here she was, a happy woman with a wonderful husband and a beautiful child, thinking she had the world by the tail, having the world by the tail, and in the next minute … in the next minute, her world was in ruins. All because of one simple sentence: I think Emily is being sexually abused.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Was it possible? Was it possible that Carole’s children had somehow, possibly inadvertently, been responsible for Emily’s strange behavior of late? Could Celine have brought a boyfriend over one night when she was babysitting? Possible, Jane supposed, but unlikely. According to Carole, Celine didn’t date much, let alone have a boyfriend, and was constantly fretting that she never would. And what about Andrew? Could he really have been foisting himself on her child? The boy always looked as if girls were the last thing on his mind. He was much more interested in his basketball or his baseball. He never stood still long enough to pay much attention to Emily. Still, he was the logical suspect. Dear God, Jane wailed inwardly, fighting to keep the scream inside her. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill that damn kid!

  “Mommy? Hi, Mommy.” Emily ran forward. Jane fell to her knees and scooped her little girl into her arms. “Ow!” Emily protested, and Jane realized how hard she had been squeezing, instantly loosening her grip.

  “How are you, dollface?”

  “I’m fine. I gave Jodi my apple. Is that all right?”

  “Sure, it’s all right.” Jane pushed a few hairs away from Emily’s sweet face, then led her to a nearby desk. “Why don’t we talk for a few minutes?”

  From the doorway, Pat Rutherford indicated that she would be waiting down the hall. “That’s not my desk, Mommy,” Emily told Jane, leading her to the second row and proudly showing off her own desk and small attached chair.

  Jane twisted her rear end into the small seat. “I need to ask you a few questions,” she began, trying to steady her voice. “And I need for you to tell me the truth. Do you understand?”

  Emily nodded.

  “I won’t get mad at you no matter what you tell me. Okay? I don’t want you to be afraid to tell me anything. It’s very important that you tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I will, Mommy.”

  “Honey, when Celine baby-sits, does she ever invite anybody else over?”

  Emily shook her head, the hairs Jane had brushed away falling back over her forehead.

  “She’s never had a boyfriend over when Mommy and Daddy are away?”

  “No. She always plays with me.”

  “What about Andrew?”

  “He never baby-sits me.”

  “He did a few times last year.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember.”

  “But he never had anybody else come over,” Jane stated.

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Has … has Andrew ever said anything to you that made you … uncomfortable?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Has he ever suggested … doing anything … that you didn’t want to do?”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Has he ever touched you in a way that made you feel uneasy?”

  Emily said nothing.

  “Emily? Has Andrew ever touched you in a way that you didn’t like?”

  Emily’s eyes shifted to the floor. Jane fought to stay in control. Inside, her thoughts were raging: I’ll kill that bastard. I’ll kill that bastard!

  “Remember, honey, I need for you to tell me the truth. It’s very important. I know that whatever happened isn’t your fault. And I promise I won’t be mad at you. I know that you’re a sweet, beautiful thing and that you wouldn’t do anything wrong, so I know that whatever happened isn’t your fault, but this is very important, sweetie. I have to know. Did Andrew touch you in a way that made you feel uncomfortable? Did he touch you where it’s private?” Jane shuddered. She couldn’t believe she was actually speaking these words. Maybe she wasn’t, she thought, clinging to the sudden, unrealistic hope that this whole unpleasant episode was nothing but a bad dream.

  Jane heard the clock on the wall loudly ticking off the minutes. It seemed like an eternity before Emily spoke. “Not Andrew,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Not Andrew,” Emily repeated, refusing to look at her mother.

  “Not Andrew? Who, then?” Jane ran through all the various alternatives in her mind. If not Andrew, then one of Andrew’s friends perhaps. Or maybe one of the older boys here at school. Perhaps even a teacher. Maybe the dentist she had taken Emily to see several months earlier. Maybe even a stranger. Dear God, who?

  “Who was it, Emily? Please tell Mommy. Who touched you, honey? Who made you feel uncomfortable? Please, sweetheart, you can tell Mommy.”

  Emily slowly lifted her gaze from the floor to look directly into her mother’s eyes. “Daddy,” she said.

  Everything stopped: her heartbeat; the ticking of the clock; her breathing. All sound ceased, replaced by a loud buzzing in her ears. Surely she had only imagined what she knew she had heard. Surely her daughter was lying, supplying any name because her mother had forced her into this untenable position. She was making things up, trying to appease her mother, having been coached by her teacher. Surely, none of this was actually happening.

  It was impossible. To think that the man to whom she had been married for eleven years, this loving husband and respected pediatric surgeon, this goddamn pillar of the community, active in a myriad of charities, loved by virtually all who knew him, that this man could have been sexually abusing his own daughter—no, it just wasn’t possible. Furthermore, it was ridiculous. This was the man in whom she had placed her total trust for almost a dozen years, a man who had stood by her through the worst of times as well as the best, who was always there to soothe her when she lost control, flew off the handle, let her emotions run away with her. That he could possibly molest their daughter was a betrayal of such magnitude, that her mind couldn’t begin to take it all in. It was impossible. It couldn’t have happened. It hadn’t happened.

  If it were true, she realized, watching as tears left a delicate trail across her daughter’s cheeks, then where had she been hiding all these years? Who was she that she could have been so fooled? What did it say about her that her husband was not at all the man she’d thought he was? Who was Jane Whittaker if the man she had known all these years as her husband was not the man she’d thought he was at all? What kind of mother did it make her when she hadn’t even suspected such abuse? That she’d had to be told by the child’s teacher? What kind of person was she? Who was she that she could protect the environment but not her own child? Who was she?

  She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore.

  “Are you mad at me, Mommy?”

  Jane could hardly find her voice. “No, of course not. Of course I’m not angry at you, darling.”

  “Daddy made me promise not to tell you,” the child continued without prompting. Jane wanted to place her hands over her ears and scream Enough! but it was too late now. She would hear the rest of what Emily had to say whether she wanted to or not. “He said it had to be our secret.”

  “I know, baby,” Jane moaned. “I know.” Wha
t did she know? she asked herself angrily. What did she know about anything? She swallowed the bile that was filling her mouth, then forced the next question out between quivering lips. “Where did Daddy touch you, sweetheart?”

  Please don’t tell me, she begged silently. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I can’t deal with it. I can’t deal with any of it.

  “Here,” Emily said shyly, indicating the area of her unformed breasts. “And here.” Self-consciously she lowered her hand between her legs. “Sometimes on my bum,” she concluded as Jane shuddered.

  “When did he touch you?” Jane heard her voice as if it belonged to someone else. She couldn’t be saying these things, after all. None of this could be happening.

  “Sometimes when I was taking a bath. Daddy would come in and dry me off.”

  “When you were taking a bath?” Jane heard the relief in her voice. Of course! The whole thing was a misunderstanding. Michael had merely been drying Emily after her bath, the way any parent would do. Everything had been blown out of proportion by an overly zealous teacher and a mother too willing to jump to conclusions. Perfectly innocent acts had been made to look sinister, even obscene.

  “Sometimes when you had to go to a meeting, Daddy would crawl into bed with me,” Emily continued, and Jane felt the bubble of her rationalizations burst. “He said he was happy he’d made such a perfect little girl.” Emily suddenly burst into loud, anguished sobs. “He said it was all right. He said all daddies loved their little girls that way.”

  Jane took her daughter in her arms, the next question lodging behind her tongue, refusing to come out until Jane almost choked on it. “Did Daddy … did Daddy ever ask you to touch him?”

  “Sometimes. But I didn’t like to.”

  “Where … where did he ask you to touch him?”

  Emily pulled out of Jane’s embrace, her head dropping, her finger pointing to her groin.

  “His penis?” Jane whispered.

  Emily nodded. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t like when it got all wet and sticky in my hands.”