No Way Back (Mia's Way, #1)

by Chloe Adams

  Near tears, I look at Shea, who steps forward. Chris is beside her.

  “Does this change the position of Charles Abbottt-Renou on the morning after pill and abortion?” someone else calls.

  Shea moves into position. As if the floodgates open, people are suddenly shouting questions at her. She gives only a few answers then declares the press conference over.

  Overwhelmed, I let Ari tug me towards the door. She opens it, and I hurry inside and lean against the wall of the foyer.

  “Done,” I breathe. “Thank god!”

  “Very good,” Shea says, following. “Even if you didn’t stick to the script.”

  Fury fills me. I can’t control it. I fling the leather frame at her. It smacks her on the cheek.

  “Mia!” Ari exclaims.

  “Don’t ever talk to me again, Shea!” I yell. “Responsible? You wanted me to tell them it was my fault this happened? You gave them pics of what those monsters did to me! You know, what? Fuck you! I hope you get raped one day so you know how fucked up that is!”

  I go as fast as I can up the stairs, not caring if my mascara smears now. After a stunned silence, Ari follows. I slam my door and fling off the boots, gasping as the pain in my ankle subsides. I slam the bathroom door just as Ari closes the door to my bedroom behind her.

  Leaning against the sink, I stare at myself in the mirror. Ari tried hard to fix me, but I still look awful.

  How long until this is over? How long until I feel normal? When does this go away? I sag and sit on the counter.

  “Mia, I called your mom,” Ari says, knocking on the door. She opens it and holds out her cell, still pale.

  I take it. Ari steps outside and closes the door.

  “Bonjour, my love.”

  I don’t realize just how much I need my mom until I hear her voice with its thick, French accent. I melt.

  “Hi, mama,” I reply.

  “How are you, my love?”

  “I, uh,” I clear my throat, though there are tears in my eyes. “Can you come home soon?”

  “For you, I will. I am here voluntarily, at your father’s insistence,” my mom says. “I saw your speech. It was broadcast live. I am so sorry, my love. I don’t know what your father was thinking by putting you on TV.”

  “His attempt to bribe some magazine not to publish pics didn’t work.”

  “I assumed as much. I’m sure Chris gave you the speech about snuffing the fire-”

  “-before it spreads,” I finish and half-giggle, half-sob. “Yeah, he did.”

  “The speech was horrendous. Shea is slipping.”

  “Shea’s a bitch. She wanted me to say … to say it was my fault, mama!”

  “It’s political, love. Don’t take it personally. Everything you say in public must be a lie or too vague for anyone to misconstrue,” my mom says.

  For once, her bitter words make sense. I never understood her resentment towards Daddy – or reliance on alcohol. After going through the speech, I’m starting to.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I say. “I haven’t even seen Daddy!”

  “His first priority is damage control. It’s what he does well.”

  “Mama, are you there because you really do have a problem?” I ask.

  “Yes, love, I am. But my little girl needs me. I will be strong for you, love. I will be home in two days, though I can’t stay long.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper. The sense of being completely alone begins to fade. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you. I trust Chris and told him to take care of you. Don’t let the rest of Daddy’s lackeys try to tell you what to do. Be strong for me, my love.”

  “I will, mama.” I hang up, and I feel better.

  I take a hot bath. It’s the first time my body doesn’t hurt quite as much. When I’m done, I wrap a towel around myself and walk into my bedroom. I’m tired, but it’s barely noon. Ari is laying across my bed, playing on her iPad.

  “Chris came up. He says you have to write a statement and to meet him in like, ten minutes in the study,” Ari said, glancing up.

  I just want this to be over. But I put on jeans. Ari helps me with the t-shirt. My upper body is too stiff and sore for me to raise my hands above my head. Finally dressed, I go downstairs. Chris is alone in the study, sitting at the table where Daddy meets his team. There’s a pad of paper and a pen in front of Chris.

  “Have a seat,” he says without looking up from his phone. “I want you to write what happened in your own words. We’ll go from there.”

  This has to be the last thing. I feel stronger after talking to my mom. I sit down and write my version of events. It takes up half a page. I slide it to Chris. He takes one look at it and slides it back.

  “Try again. As detailed as possible.”

  The next version, he marks up with a red pen, crossing out details and adding in notes. I rewrite it. He marks up the next one, too. We do this for six hours, until I’m numb and my wrist hurts. The final version is mostly his words with a few of my own sentences. Only one of those sentences is difficult to write. The one where I lie about knowing who hurt me.

  Finally, I’m in tears but the statement is done, written on the official police form.

  “Is this it?” I ask. “Am I done with this?”

  “For now,” Chris says, taking my statement. “I’ll discourage them from further questions. And, apparently, Robert Connor has an alibi.”

  I look up at these words, surprised.

  “I called the police officers you gave his name to. They checked with him. He’s got several witnesses that place him somewhere else. If you remember anything else about who did this to you, please let me know,” Chris says. He’s looking at me intently, like I’m the one that lied about Robert.

  But I didn’t. I have a photo. Rather, Ari has a photo.

  “Where’s my phone?” I ask.

  “I’ll retrieve your property when I drop this off at the station. They said everything went into the fountain, so I imagine we need to get you a new phone.” He slides the statement into his folder and rises.

  “Chris,” I say as he walks towards the door. “What happens now?”

  “Dr. Thompson will be here tomorrow. He’ll help you through the mental damage. Shea is still gauging the press corps’ response to your speech this morning. Hopefully, we can distract them with your sister’s wedding. She’s marrying the son of a former president. Lie low, heal, and get yourself together. You’ve got one year left of high school before you can walk away from the family business. That’s always been your mother’s goal for you, and I think she’s right. You’re not cut out for this. You’ve got two trust funds. Go do whatever you want with your life.”

  “Thanks.” It’s the most encouraging thing I’ve ever heard from him, and it still sucks. He leaves. I return to my room. Ari is still there, but I’m too tired to do much of anything.

  I make Ari swear she won’t leave me alone then go to sleep facing the windows and the sun.

  Chapter Six

  Mom’s two days turn into several days, although she calls every day to say two more days. Ari stays. My nightmares are bad, nothing but memories of the night that changed me.

  Daddy doesn’t talk to me or visit me. He won’t even respond to texts. If not for Ari, I’d spend every minute of every day sobbing in my closet, which has become my second home.

  Finally, on the sixth day after my incident, Chris sends me a text asking me to go to my father’s office. I’m tempted to tell him I’ll be down in six days. But I go.

  Daddy is seated behind his desk when I tap on the door and walk in. He bids me to enter without looking away from his computer screen. I cross quietly and sit in front of his desk, well-aware he doesn’t like to be disturbed and will acknowledge me when he’s ready.

  That takes five minutes, and I still have issues sitting for more than a few seconds without pain. I shift forward at last, and he glances up. Gerard Abbottt-Renou is at least twenty years older than Uncle Chr
is. His hair turned from blond to yellowish, and his blue eyes are bright in his tanned face.

  “You look much better than I expected,” he says with a smile. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” I lie. Daddy doesn’t like bad news.

  “Good, Mia. I was worried you wouldn’t be able to handle this as well as Molly.”

  There it is. The inevitable comparison to my too-perfect half-sister. I want to scream.

  “Daddy, why didn’t you come see me at the hospital?” My voice carries a tremor of emotion in it, one I hoped I could prevent.

  “Mia, dear, you know I would have if I had the time. Your press conference did wonders for my polls this week. Did Shea tell you?”

  I shake my head and look down.

  “You’ve become Daddy’s-little-helper,” he says with a chuckle.

  I’m glad someone can laugh off my rape.

  “And don’t worry about the mistaken identity with Robert Connor. Chris got the District Attorney to seal the reports with Connor’s name. We wouldn’t want any issues distracting the voters from the election, would we?”

  My mouth is too dry to speak. I always know how our conversations will go. I thought my monster face would have some kind of effect on him, like maybe make him realize he loves me more than politics? I’d settle for him loving me as much as politics.

  “Molly’s giving a press conference about her wedding this weekend,” he continues. “Maybe you can watch it, pick up some tips? Shea says people really responded to your unpolished delivery. Invokes a sense of protectiveness in women voters, the demographic I’m struggling with this year without your mother to help me.”

  “Okay,” I say numbly.

  “I’m attending a ceremony within the next few weeks to present awards to the two police officers who rescued you.”

  “Really?” It’s the first thing he’s said that doesn’t make me feel like shit. I look up.

  “Really,” he says. “It’s the least I can do to show the men and women of the law enforcement how much we appreciate what they do.”

  My excitement fades. He’s doing it for political reasons, not because they helped me. It strikes me that Dom and Kiesha stayed with me at the hospital, because they are the kind of people who help others. My daddy is more interested in what others can do for him. I should’ve done more than thank the two.

  “I’m glad to see you’re doing okay, kiddo,” Daddy says in a voice he uses with interns.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” I say and rise. I understand it’s a dismissal.

  Dejected, I leave. I just want him to love me. For once. He looks at me like he’s trying to figure out how he can use my monster face to his advantage to win over voters, not like he cares that I’m hurt.

  I go to my room and ignore Ari, who’s stretched across my bed with her iPad.

  “So?” she asks.

  I go to the closet and curl up in the nest I’ve made there. I don’t feel like crying, after the talk with Daddy. I feel like I’m dead inside.

  Ari leaves the next morning, exactly one week after the incident. Two hours after she’s gone, I still sit in my window seat and stare past the gates, hoping she comes back. Instead, more protestors with signs show up outside the gates.

  I assume Daddy said something controversial. Every time it happens, we end up with protestors. My cell phone and wallet were thrown into the fountain at Sven’s. Chris brought me a new phone a few days ago, one without the pics of the guys who did this to me. I don’t need reminders. I see them in my dreams every night. I promised Ari I’d buy her a new snakeskin wallet someday, if I ever feel like leaving the house.

  One week turns into two, three, four. It takes that long for my eyes to both work right, though there’s still faint bruising around one. The scrapes on my cheek and fingers are gone. My fingernails have grown back partially, and the bruises on my body are almost all gone. I can pee without pain and brush my hair over the stitches in my head.

  In every way, I’m told I’m improving by the physician and the people in my house. Physically, maybe, but I can’t get them out of my head. They’re in my dreams and every dark corner of the house. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, but I’m terrified of nighttime now and of being alone. It still feels like the incident happened yesterday.

  During one of my counseling sessions, I tell my distant cousin, Dr. Thompkins, all of this.

  “Where do you feel safe?” he asks.

  I hate the shrink. He might be the best, but he’s got the personality of my carpet. I look from the window to him. I gave up being sarcastic with him. I don’t think he gets humor of any kind.

  “My closet,” I reply.

  “What makes you feel safe about your closet?”

  “It’s small. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. The light lights up every inch.”

  “How do you feel in the closet?”

  “Safe,” I say and roll my eyes.

  “When you start to feel the fear, can you imagine yourself in the closet?”

  “I can just go to the closet.”

  “Mia, part of what we’re trying to do is give you tools to deal with the anxiety you feel. If you can’t handle it, how can you go back to school? How can you leave the house?” he asks.

  “I will when I feel better.”

  “Feeling better takes active participation and understanding how to think differently about something that disturbs you,” he reminds me for the millionth time. “If you think you’ll ever stop remembering, or there’s a reset button, you need to listen to me when I tell you this isn’t the case.”

  I know as much. I feel overwhelmed and rest my chin on my knee.

  “What goes through your mind when I say that?” he asks.

  “That I don’t believe you.”

  He waits for me to say more. Ari texts me, and I look down.

  Forgot to tell you. The protestor signs say something about Joan of Arc. Did your daddy insult a saint? LOL

  I smile. Ari has been in and out the past few weeks, and Dr. Thompkins has stopped telling me not to text during our sessions.

  “What does Ari say?” he asks.

  “She said the protestors are mad at Daddy for something he said about Joan of Arc or something. Funny, he can even piss of a dead woman.”

  “Does he … piss you off much?” he asks.

  “All the time. He cares more about politics than anything else.”

  “More than you?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t even come to the hospital,” I say.

  “You have a problem with him or the nature of his work?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Do you love your father?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “But you don’t love the politician.”

  “Nope,” I say firmly.

  “What was he doing the night you were in the hospital?”

  “Trying to bribe some paper to keep them from publishing pics of me.”

  “Do you think that’s his way of trying to take care of you?” Dr. Thompkins asks.

  “It’s his way of saving face.”

  “Mia, your expectations of how your father should show affection and the reality of how he does show affection are not on equal footing,” he says.

  “He should’ve been there!”

  “I am saying he shows affection the only way he knows how. Everyone has their own limitations.”

  I look out the window again, tired of being told I’m wrong by everyone.

  “Joan of Arc is you,” Dr. Thompkins says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, those aren’t protestors. They’re supporters. Your supporters. Your speech is still drawing headlines. They’re comparing you to Joan of Arc, a brave woman who stood up when those around her didn’t believe her.”

  “I’m not Joan of Arc,” I whisper. I lied about who hurt me. “I’m like, the anti-Joan.”

  “Making a statement to the press took courage.”

  �
��I did it because I wanted everyone to leave me alone. Didn’t she get burned at the stake?”

  “She was martyred, yes.”

  I shake my head. “I’m no martyr. I want to stay in the closet and to be left alone. Molly loves fans. I don’t.”

  “You’re a public persona, more so now because of your speech,” he reminds me. “Your daddy is giving the two police officers who helped you public commendations. If you hadn’t mentioned them, it wouldn’t have happened. They’re being regarded as heroes.”

  “They should be,” I say, unable to help the small bloom of pride. “They rescued me. They stayed with me at the hospital. They’re heroes.”

  “Your daddy recognizing them is another way he’s trying to show his concern for you. It was important enough for you to mention them in your speech. It became important to him, too.”

  “I guess.” I’m not convinced Daddy isn’t doing this for political reasons. But as I sit and think about it, I realize Daddy is probably missing meetings to commend them. It’s a few months before his reelection; he normally is in the office, traveling or in meetings for twenty hours a day until after he wins. Maybe Dr. Thompkins is right this time. Maybe Daddy is thanking them, because it’s important to me. “But I still don’t understand why he didn’t come to the hospital.”

  Dr. Thompkins’ watch beeps twice, the sign our session is over. He folds his notebook.

  “Think about taking the closet with you wherever you go and escaping to it when you feel anxious,” he says and stands. “We’ll pick up Tuesday.”

  He leaves. I feel alone again, exposed. My eyes go to the Joan of Arc supporters then to my phone.

  I hesitate then Google myself. The results on the first few pages are mainly television and news articles that ran my story. Pictures of my hospital stay are splattered all over the internet, along with the awful pics from my speech. I look horrendous: dazed, bruised, pale.

  It doesn’t seem like a month has passed. I feel the same: guilty, terrified, confused. I’m not even sure where the past few weeks went. It’s been a haze of Dr. Thompkins, painkillers and bad dreams.

  I keep searching and find blogs of the Joan of Arc crowds. I read a couple, surprised to find Dr. Thompkins was right. One site proclaims I’m the new face of violence against women while another says I’ll inspire other teens to come forward about their experiences.