by J. D. Glass
*
I didn’t get to make any decisions at all, because I opened my eyes to the cool white light of a hospital room, and the painful twist of my head revealed a drip on the right side and hooked into my forearm, and the distinctive vitamin smell of O2 rushing up the plastic in my nose. The needle itched and someone held my other hand.
“Colposcopy with toluidine blue dye showed tears in the fossa navicularis as well as the posterior fourchette. And here…okay. She needed a few stitches, too.” The voice was male, clinical and subdued, and as I looked for its source, I spotted a TV screen on the wall showing an image of pink flesh with some extensive purplish blue markings, then some deeper-colored viscera that seeped blood. I watched as a pair of small-tipped forceps pushed a curved needle into one end and out the other, closing the tear.
“That…had to hurt,” I thought, “wonder what it is.”
“Hey, you’re with us.” Jean’s voice cut through my thoughts and I oriented on it instead.
“Hi,” I said as I found her face right above the hand she held. Her eyes were warm as always on me and I smiled at her. “What are we up to?” I tried to sit up.
“Relax, stay there.” Jean leaned over and pressed gentle fingers against my chest. “You passed out.”
“Really? I did? Why?”
“I’m Dr. Petrossi. How are you feeling, Ms. Scott?” the same male voice I’d heard before asked.
I thought about that question before I answered. Better. I wasn’t nauseous, and the cramp that had knocked me silly seemed to be gone. “I feel better.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Ms. Scott, I have to ask you a few questions, and I need you to be really honest, even if it’s embarrassing, okay?”
“Sure,” I said, not really caring much about anything, because I was feeling light, drifty, like everything was made of gossamer and about to float away.
“Are you on medication for anything?”
“No, not at all.”
“Do you use recreational drugs, like Ecstasy, K, or GHB?”
Why in the world would anyone ask me that? “No, I don’t do drugs.”
“Okay,” he answered, “you should know you’re testing positive for ketamine and for GHB.”
“What’s ketamine?”
Jean smoothed my forehead. “It’s an anesthetic and a hallucinogen, and GHB is Liquid X.”
I struggled to think and wondered what the doctor was talking about; I didn’t do that shit. “Benadryl,” I said finally. “I had Benadryl because the wine made me itch…and some water.”
“Well, it’s not Benadryl alone that made you that sick,” Dr. Petrossi said, “even with the wine, Ms. Scott.”
“It’s Tori. Jean, tell him to call me Tori?” I asked and squeezed her hand.
“Tori it is, then,” the doctor answered. “Tori, do you remember what you did or where you went earlier today?”
“What?”
Jean’s grip on my hand tightened almost imperceptibly as he repeated the question, and the floating, drifting feeling started to crumble as I remembered the funeral, the amazing amount of grief that had hit me in waves as Trace held my hand and pressed against me at the burial.
I’d driven her home and she’d cried some more, and then I’d had the glass of wine and the Benadryl about fifteen minutes later, which I supposed had knocked me out, and then we…toluidine blue, that’s what the doctor had said. It was used to detect abnormal cells in cervical cancer, and a low-percentage tincture was used in the ER because it clung to damaged tissue and was especially useful during colposcopy in evaluating for—
Once more nausea raced through me, but my head was perfectly clear when I sat up and ripped the damn tubing off my face. “What’s that on the screen?”
“That’s the colposcopy exam,” Dr. Petrossi answered.
“You didn’t ask me if you could perform that exam,” I said tightly. I might not have been feeling my personal best, but I knew my rights.
“I just did the immediately necessary, Tori. You were passed out and bleeding. It’s up to you if you want to go through the rest of it…and you might be a little light-headed,” he added as I shifted and swayed. “I did administer a mild anesthetic so the exam and the stitches wouldn’t be painful.”
“I gave permission for that, Tori,” Jean said quietly. Her thumb brushed across the back of my hand.
I nodded briefly. Of course. She had the legal right to do that for me, as I did for her.
My heart started to pound as I stared at the image on the screen. That…was me. My body, the toluidine clinging to the damaged tissue like it was supposed to, making what would have been varying shades of pink, some of the tears invisible, a vivid portrait of bruised blue. What the fuck had I done to myself?
“Get this line out of my arm, stop whatever the fuck you’re doing. I want my clothes, and I want to go home.”
“You’re almost done, baby, we’ll be out of here soon,” Jean soothed, but that familiar heat had flamed up my neck, and though I was trying very hard not to flip out, I was hand over hand on a very thin line.
“Don’t fucking touch me. I don’t want anyone to fucking touch me,” I snapped and swung my legs off the bed.
“Just a moment, Tori,” the doctor said, “you’re gonna hurt yourself. Let me—”
“Fine. Whatever. Just let me out of here. Can you take this out of my arm, please?” I asked, holding up the arm with the line in it.
I got a good look at Dr. Petrossi as he clipped, closed, and carefully removed the needle that was sunk into the vein of my arm. Had I not been so scared and angry, I would have said he looked both kindly and intelligent, with salt-and-pepper brown hair and a close-trimmed beard.
But I was both those things and more, so it was a great relief for me when he didn’t try to smile as he put a piece of gauze and tape over the insertion site, then asked me to hold pressure on it for a bit.
“Tori,” he said, and his voice was serious and steady, something I could listen to without reacting, “this is all recorded if you want to press charges, because considering your urine, bloods, and my findings, I’m finding it hard to believe this was consensual,” he stated quietly as I stared back up at the screen.
Consensual. It was an adjective we learned well in 911, because consent had legal ramifications for all patient-care providers, especially at the pre-hospital level. My brain seized on that word. Consensual: by mutual agreement of all the parties involved, legally. Medically, biologically, it meant the reflexive response of one part of the body to the stimulation of another, such as both pupils reacting to light even though only one is being directly evaluated.
“You’re gonna need to come back and see me in two weeks. I would like to make sure that you’re healing properly. You’ll also want to avoid penetrative sex for about that long too, or at least until you’ve been reevaluated.”
I shook my head, staring at him in disbelief.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said reassuringly, misunderstanding my reaction. “There’s no permanent damage, everything should clear up in a few weeks, you’ll be able to have sex, have kids, you’re young and healthy, you’ll be okay.”
I nodded curtly. Now I felt completely humiliated. “I’d like to go home now.”
“I understand, Tori,” he said sympathetically, “I really do, and you can if you really want to, but please wait for at least another twenty minutes before you leave. Settle down a bit, let the anesthetic wear off, let your system normalize before you go running out of here. You blacked out earlier, and while you’re okay right now, you might again, and I’m sure you don’t want that.”
Jean stirred next to me and reached for my shoulder, then dropped her hand. I felt instantly guilty.
“So…another twenty minutes or so?” she asked him instead.
Dr. Petrossi nodded. “That sounds about right. In fact, I’ll make sure I’m back in twenty minutes. Tori, you and Jean just relax here for a little while, okay? I promise you, as
soon as I come back, I’d like to speak with you because I’ll have a few more lab results, and then you can leave.”
“Where are my cousins?” I asked instead. I remembered that Samantha had driven my car, and I was sure that Nina knew by now just how far I’d fucked up. I looked at the walls, I looked at the ceiling, I looked at anything but the doctor with his kind eyes or Jean with her loving ones because I wanted to scream, rip that damn screen off the wall and fling it until I could feel the muscles in my shoulders tear and hear the glass shatter in that ultimately satisfying way. I wanted to curl up into the tightest ball I could and cry, I wanted to shred the skin off my body with my hands so I could feel clean again, and I didn’t want either one of them to see how I felt, read it on my face.
“Samantha picked up Nina to get my car and some clothes for you a little bit ago. They should be back soon,” Jean answered. “Do you want to see them when they get here?”
I found a ceiling tile to fixate on as I nodded yet again because I didn’t trust myself to speak.
“I’ll tell the nurse to send them in when they return,” Dr. Petrossi said. “You and your…Jean…should probably take a few moments to talk. I’ll see you in a few,” he concluded and left the room, the door a quick breeze with a smooth click as he closed it behind him.
“Tori, baby, look at me.”
I shook my head because I couldn’t. I had really fucked up. This was beyond all fucking recall. It was like the more senior techs and medics said: A M F, YOYO—adiós, motherfucker, you’re on your own.
“Why?” I countered.
She took my hands in hers, and though I tried to draw them away, she wouldn’t let me. “Tori, baby, this isn’t your fault.”
I kept my eyes focused on that spot of tile. “It sure is,” I chuckled bitterly, “it sure as hell fucking is. I went to the funeral, I went to her place. I should have known better than to drink with her, I shouldn’t have let myself fall asleep there. I just didn’t think—”
“Think what, baby? That she…that something would happen? Why would you have thought that?”
This time I looked at her directly. “Jean. I shouldn’t have let it happen. And…” My throat squeezed so tightly I thought I’d never get the words out, but I had to, I had to tell her. The expression she wore was killing me—her heart in her eyes for me, the way it always was, and I didn’t deserve. “And if you want to move your stuff—”
Jean put her arms around me. “Don’t you dare pull that shit on me, Tori, don’t you fucking dare.”
I rested my cheek against her chest as she held me closely and the steady thump under my ear became a strong, hard beat.
“I am not going anywhere, you’re not going to lose me, and I will not let you push me away.”
I slowly put my arms around her and let myself believe her, even if just for a little while, because it was nice to hear, even if it might not be true, and she rocked me lightly as she smoothed my hair.
Nina and Samantha did come in with the promised clothes, and I have to admit that when Nina unhesitatingly threw her arms around me I spent all of about five seconds wanting to cry helplessly, but I stopped myself—she was pregnant, and I didn’t want to add to her stress.
Between the discussion with the doctor and Jean, it wasn’t too hard to put together all the missing pieces and even easier to privately conclude that it probably hadn’t been the first time I’d ingested an interesting chemical or two at Trace’s. It definitely explained a lot.
I learned that the severe vomiting and the hallucinations, as well as the out-of-body experience, were typical of ketamine, while the GHB had caused the increased sensation and the sudden transition from blackness to alertness.
Add the Benadryl and the alcohol, and the effects magnified. I was lucky that I hadn’t gone into a coma or respiratory arrest; the doctor told us GHB had been known to cause temporary coma-like states that lasted two to three hours. That news scared me, terribly, because a whole lot more things might have happened—not just earlier that day, but at other times—that I didn’t remember.
I must have shivered because Jean withdrew the hand I hadn’t realized I was crushing in mine and put an arm around my waist so I could lean into her.
By mutual agreement we all returned to Nina’s, and Jean was no more than an inch away from me at any given time while I told my cousins what I did know and everyone made suggestions about next moves.
From what Jean and I had understood from our discussion with Dr. Petrossi, the options were slim: both drugs were legally available, the perpetrator was also female, and…we were in Richmond County. The laws were slightly different here than in any of the other counties of New York City; in this county lesbianism was a defense for, well, only crimes of this sort by a male perpetrator, since the law didn’t mention this specific type of incident involving a female perpetrator—which meant it didn’t legally exist. The doctor had clippings from the local newspaper of trials where he’d testified as a medical expert for the prosecution. That specific defense, “she was a lesbian, it made me temporarily insane,” had cleared more than one offender. And because I had at one point been in a sexual relationship with…her, as he’d stated matter-of-factly, we couldn’t do a lot.
After I shared that information with Nina and Samantha, Nina walked into the kitchen and I could hear her speaking with someone on the phone.
I sipped the glass of water Sam had brought me earlier.
“Although,” Jean said quietly for my ears alone, “with the, uh, the knife cut, it might be possible to get an assault and battery conviction, if nothing else. I could ask Pat.”
I gaped at her. I didn’t want to talk with anyone more than I already had, and the thought of telling anyone else, especially a member of Jean’s family…I couldn’t bear it. “Jean, I can’t. I don’t want to have to tell—”
“Kitt—Fran will be here in two days,” Nina announced with a grim smile when she returned to the room.
Samantha stood and stared. “You’re kidding.”
“No. Not at all. If we can’t do something on the criminal level, there’s got to be something on the civil, and she’ll find it.”
“I’m not sure I want to do anything just yet,” I said into the silence that met that statement. “I’m not even sure I can say that this whole thing isn’t just a big fuckup on my—”
Jean shifted next to me on the sofa “Don’t even say it, Tori,” she took my hand, “because you didn’t do anything voluntarily that landed you in an ER, okay? You have to understand that, baby,” she said, her gaze steady and serious on my face. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You should never, ever, feel guilty, ashamed, or embarrassed for something someone else does.”
I tried to understand, I really did, but I suddenly realized how tired I was, and tomorrow? Tomorrow was a workday.
“Jean, do you mind if,” and I turned to Nina and Sam, “is it okay if we stay in the house tonight?”
An almost overpowering case of nerves descended on me. I was shaky and unsure, edgy. I felt like I might fly apart at any moment; a good strong wind would come and tear me away, tear me into a thousand pieces, scatter me like sand. I loved the home Jean and I shared, but there was something to be said for being on the second floor of a house that had the kind of security setup my cousins had.
“It’s always okay, Tori,” Nina said. “This is always your home, both of you.”
“Absolutely, and bring Dusty in too,” Sam suggested and smiled. “I’m sure she’ll love being able to visit with everyone.”
I smiled at that myself, because I knew that Dusty always sat as close to Nina as possible, so much so that I was surprised she didn’t think her name was Samantha.
I stood suddenly, tired, sore, and drained. “Do you guys mind if I go take a shower? I just, you know, need…” I waved my hands in the air.
“Of course not,” Nina said, and I moved toward the stairs.
Jean stood too. “I’ll go pick up a few things and b
ring them over, okay?”
“Thanks, baby.” I smiled at her, because I loved her. “I’ll see you in a few?” I touched her arm.
“Yeah,” she said softly and kissed my forehead. “I’ll be right back, and I’ll bring Dusty too.”
*
Once in the shower, the hot water running down my head, I took stock of myself: the blood had dried on my thighs and the cut just below my navel was a duplicate of the one Jean had, maybe slightly larger, and although it had been cleaned and bandaged in the ER, to my eyes it was large and ugly, the lines clear, dark pink and topped in red. They stung as the water sluiced over them.
“I’m finding it hard to believe this was consensual,” Dr. Petrossi had said, his words echoing in my ears as I once again saw the image onscreen and felt the slick rough kiss of Trace in my mouth as I rubbed at the stubborn rust that stained my thighs.
Nothing, from the image that still shone from the playback in my mind to the fragmented memories in my head, had anything even remotely close to my participatory agreement. I’d never even had the chance to say no. She had taken that—forcibly taken it—from me.
The realization shattered me. I could feel my internal structure crack, a spiderweb stretching across a windshield, as the knowledge leaked into my bones.
In that moment I was filled with an almost blinding black rage. I couldn’t fucking believe this had happened, couldn’t fucking believe I’d fucking let her touch me; I had stitches—stitches—inside, stitches that had to be checked and removed in two weeks.
And now, I had a fucking mark across my stomach too, a mark where Jean liked to kiss me after I’d come in her mouth, a fucking scar where Jean would splay her hand over me as we lay together, her fingers stroking gently on the skin there, right there, before or after we made love, or absently in her sleep.