The First Conception_Rise of Eris

by Nesly Clerge

  I caught the reflection of the upper half of my body in the mirror. There were bruises on my breasts. I checked to make sure Jenni was still out then rushed to the full-length mirror. There were bruises and finger marks everywhere.

  Jenni found me curled in the fetal position in bed when she returned sometime in the afternoon.

  “So, the prodigal student decided to return.”

  I pulled the covers over my head. “Not now.”

  “You’ve never stayed out all night before. First time for everything, I suppose. So, where did you sleep? Or, is it more like with whom?”

  Lying was the only option. “My best friend was in town. I stayed with her so we could gab until the wee hours.”

  “That’s disappointing, and, sadly, probably true. I’d hoped you’d regale me with tales of wanton lust fulfilled rather than something that dull.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Please tell me you’re going out again, and that you’re leaving soon.”

  “As it happens, I am. I need a sweater because I’m going to be out late. Only I plan to have a better time than you did.”

  “Good for you. And when you get back, please don’t tell me anything about it.”

  “You’re such a smartass, emphasis on ass.”

  “I’m very near copying you and throwing hard objects in your direction.”

  Jenni slammed the door right after calling me a bitch.

  The phone woke me at 4:47.

  “Hey, K. That was some fun we had last night. Although, Clyde said you don’t remember any of it, or you’re pretending you don’t, and that you left in a tizzy.”

  “Abigail—”

  “Believe me. You had a good time. I was there, remember?”

  “I vaguely remember who was there but that’s all.”

  “Damn. The whole point was for you to enjoy yourself and remember it. Guess I should have given you half a pill since it was your first time and all.”

  “Abigail—”

  “Definitely should’ve given you just half.”

  “Speaking of the pills, where did you get them?”

  “Jared gave them to me. I told him you were kind of on the uptight side, being a virgin and all. He said one pill in alcohol would loosen you up. Then he laughed like hell at his own joke.”

  I rubbed my forehead, as though that might erase the several types of pain erupting inside. “You drugged me. I can’t believe you did that. To me.”

  “You wouldn’t have relaxed if I hadn’t.”

  “I wasn’t relaxed. I was chemically altered.”

  “Whatever. I know you had at least one orgasm. As for me, I lost count of mine.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “No way would I lie about that. One for you—maybe more, and who knows how many for me.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Anyway, Jared and I brought coffee and breakfast back to the room. Needed some fuel for round two. Or was it round five? Anyway, we were all disappointed you weren’t there.” She laughed. “But we didn’t let it affect us for long. One man is good. Two’s even better. They left a few minutes ago. That Clyde is a stud. You should call him again. Go out with him a few times to get more experience then invite Jared to join you. You won’t regret the attention they give you. Plus, it’s way past time for you to broaden your horizons.”

  The ache in my head had improved slightly before the call, but Abigail’s revelations about the evening, and herself, caused it to throb again. “I can’t believe you set me up.”

  “What set-up? I test-drove each of them, and the pills, the night before. I wasn’t going to pick someone unskilled for my best friend. Or for me, for that matter.”

  “I’m covered with bruises.”

  Abigail laughed. “Those aren’t bruises. They’re passion marks. You know, hickeys. Remember? I used to get them all the time and would tell you how they got there.”

  “My nipples are sore.”

  “That was Jared. I told him to go easy but he was excited.”

  My stomach lurched. “I’m sore elsewhere.”

  “That’s the cost of being a virgin, K. Clyde didn’t mind, not like some men would. But they all love it tight. You’re lucky I found him.”

  I cupped my forehead in my hand. “You don’t understand what you did to me.”

  “I did you a favor. A big one. And I’d think you’d express a bit more gratitude.”

  “The last thing I am is grateful. You had no right to use me that way.” I lambasted her for another five minutes, ignoring her attempts to interject her opinions. The effort exhausted me and I stopped speaking.

  “I don’t get you,” she said.

  “Then let me help you. I was sexually assaulted and abused as a young child. Forget my giving you details. It isn’t important that you know them. What is, is that you, of all people, did this to me. I thought you loved me.” I would have yelled and ranted, but my head was pounding.

  “You never said anything. Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”

  “I never wanted to tell anyone. It’s all too humiliating and painful. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve spilled my story to, and the only reason I did was so you’d understand what you’ve done. So you see, the last thing I wanted or needed was a sexual escapade. You did me no favor. In fact, quite the reverse. You’ve compounded my shame by degrading me in such a manner.”

  “Geez, K, I’m sorry. But it’s your fault for not ever saying anything.” She paused, waited for me to speak then said, “Look, I’m only here for one more night. Let me buy you dinner. I can fill you in on the details.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “C’mon, don’t be like that.”

  “You deliberately drugged me. You arranged for two men—two complete strangers—to engage sexually with me, without my permission, and watched me closely enough to claim I had an orgasm. And you think the problem is my attitude?”

  “Really, K, I can’t believe you’re so upset.”

  “I’m not upset, Abigail, I’m devastated. The expanse between those two emotions is so vast that I seriously doubt you could comprehend it.”

  “We’re still best friends. Aren’t we?”

  I hesitated a moment then said, “I’ll have to get back to you about that,” and placed the receiver back in the cradle.

  A different kind of friend would have asked the looming question, What about your precious Hubby-Buns? But I didn’t care. That was her problem. And his. Let them figure it out.

  I had too many emotions roiling inside me to deal with anyone else’s stuff.

  As I thought about what she’d revealed to me, and imagined the scenario in my mind, I broke into a sweat. I barely made it to the bathroom in time as my stomach began to express what I felt in a tangible manner.

  CHAPTER 34

  I woke mid-morning on Sunday, feeling almost myself again, physically, that is. Jenni’s bed remained undisturbed, and I wondered if it was her feeble attempt to compete with me about staying out all night as well as grade-wise.

  After a steaming shower, two cups of tea, three glasses of water, and sunglasses affixed to the bridge of my nose, I made my way to the cafeteria for a late and light breakfast. It was obscenely nice weather out, when it should be dismal, like my mood.

  Feeling somewhat revived, I went to the library to look up cures for hangovers. More of the same of whatever you ingested or hydrating were the top contenders as remedies. I chose hydrating.

  It was easy to stay in my room the remainder of the day. In bed. Downing a glass of water every hour I was awake. The sole intrusion happened when Jenni dropped by with several of her friends to get something she needed.

  According to Johannes Kepler, “Nature uses as little as possible of anything.” I felt justified using as little physical, emotional, and mental energy as possible.

  I forced myself to sleep, anything to avoid facing what h
ad occurred.

  And what I’d lost.

  During the first lecture on Monday morning, as I dug around in my purse for a pen, I found and extracted the folded paper Emily Saunders had given to me what seemed a lifetime ago. I opened it. The next WAM meeting was scheduled for Wednesday evening. Feeling like an abused woman, I decided to attend. What would be the harm in seeing what Patricia Hill had to say, I wondered.

  WAM’s facility turned out to be a multi-storied structure designed by an architect who believed the more turquoise glass the better. Stunning in design, it was positioned near the front of, I estimated, about fifty or so landscaped acres that included groves of trees.

  A couple hundred women occupied seats in WAM’s auditorium. I sat in the end seat on the last row in the middle section, in case a silent exit was needed or desired, and watched women dressed in suits, jeans, long skirts, and so on, position themselves closer to the stage.

  After ten minutes or so, a tall woman with blond hair fixed into a chignon, and dressed in a tailored pantsuit, crossed the stage. She stopped behind the podium. The audience erupted in applause and cheers. The woman raised her hands to quiet them.

  “My husband cheated on me repeatedly. Each time I attempted to discuss this with him, he became verbally abusive. Salt in the wound, you might say, though he didn’t restrict his abuse solely to words.

  “Most of you won’t be surprised to hear that I stayed with him. I doubt many of you here would ask why. We all have our whys for staying in an abusive relationship. Our boundaries erode. Our self-esteem plummets. And we think that if we can just find the magic formula, we can make our world right again. That with that formula, we’ll be able to fix what’s broken in our partner, all the while failing to recognize that the brokenness we should be more concerned about is within us. It is, after all, the only one we can fix.

  “One of the greatest shocks is to realize they didn’t break us. They did, however, reveal we were already broken. Once we recognize this fact, we can begin to heal ourselves. Although, sometimes we do need support from those who understand us and our situation. But, often, it takes something specific to wake us up, to get us to move out of that degrading environment, no matter how afraid we are.

  “I became pregnant. It was a high-risk pregnancy. I lost my baby. And not once did my husband demonstrate any care, concern, or even a moment’s grief over the loss of our child. Was this the final straw that moved me out of that relationship?”

  Most of the women yelled, “No!”

  She pointed at the audience. “That’s right. I stayed with him, even though his infidelity and abuse continued. I stayed where I was, as though one of my shoes had been nailed to the floor. I spun in circles but went nowhere. I stayed because I’d given up on myself. Then he did something that did wake me up. He had sex with my best friend.”

  Boos issued forth from the audience. So far, I was relating only minimally to the woman’s story.

  “Did I pack up and leave?”

  Attendees who knew the routine shouted, “No.”

  “No. But some switch inside me flipped, a switch I’d never known existed. I decided to take revenge.”

  I sat up straight in my seat, ears twitching in anticipation.

  “Please understand that revenge is not what I recommend, but I will always be truthful with you about my experience. Would you like to know what I did?”

  When the women yelled the affirmative, I joined them.

  “I set up a video camera in our bedroom, disguised, of course. Then I seduced my husband’s best friend. Got him to come to my house when my husband was away on one of his supposed overnight business trips. I pulled out all the stops, as the saying goes. I wanted that recording to be as raunchy as I could make it.”

  What an unappealing method, I thought.

  “My husband was home the next night. I put on the same sleazy outfit I’d worn for his friend and convinced him that I was willing to engage in sex games. I lured him to the bedroom, got him naked then handcuffed him to the bed. His antenna stood at ready attention.”

  All but I laughed. I cringed at the image of Clyde’s “antenna,” and Buster’s. My stomach did a flip-flop.

  “While my husband anticipated getting his jollies, I played the tape. To say he was furious would be an understatement. What I never asked him, and didn’t care to ask, was which one infuriated him more—the tape or that he wasn’t going to get from me what he’d expected?

  “Neither did he expect what came next. I took the same belt he’d used on me and lashed him good. The fool didn’t beg me to stop. Instead, he cursed at me. Called me every vile name in the dictionary.

  “He screamed at me the entire time I packed my things. Threatened me over and over. But that didn’t stop me from finally leaving him. And before you ask, I took the tape and destroyed it. And before you ask, I have no idea who eventually freed him from the cuffs or when. Nor did I care.

  “It would have humiliated him to admit I’d beaten him, literally and figuratively, and for me to state all he’d done to me for public record, so no charges were filed. Nor did he contest the divorce. In his relief to be rid of me—and I think a bit of fear as to what I might do to him next—and his being an extremely wealthy man, he turned over half of everything, as mandated by California law, and with barely a whimper. I used some of that money to start this group and expand it around the country, as well as across the pond.”

  She stretched her arms out wide and said loudly into the microphone, “Ladies, welcome to WAM. My name is Patricia Hill, and like you, I’m a survivor.”

  I was on my feet, cheering and whooping with the rest of them. Perhaps our stories weren’t the same, but she’d said two words that resonated in every cell of my being.

  Survivor.

  That’s what I am.

  She’d also said revenge.

  I didn’t care for her particular strategy, but the word tasted sweet in my mouth.

  CHAPTER 35

  What followed Patricia’s testimonial was general housekeeping matters for the organization, and that was followed by several testimonials. I waited for at least one woman to tell a story similar to my childhood one but waited in vain. Later, I mentally gave myself a head slap. Why would they? They were sharing what had happened to them as women in relationships. I’d never been in one. Patricia had said they’d entered their relationships already broken. At the very least, we had that in common.

  After the meeting ended, I waited until after the women who’d rushed to crowd around Patricia disappeared, before approaching her.

  She glanced at my name tag and extended her hand. “Hello, Katherine. I haven’t seen your face before. First time to a meeting?”

  “I attended one in Spokane recently. Emily Saunders says hello.”

  “I’d ask how you liked it, but you’re here. Do you plan to become a member?”

  “What’s involved?”

  “Each of us contributes to making the organization better and more effective. But the most significant thing we do is support each other. We don’t have set dues but do request monthly contributions, based on what each woman believes she can contribute. Some women who are better off financially contribute for those who are struggling. You see, some of the women who find their way to us are still in shelters. We help them in numerous ways, such as image makeovers when needed for a job or to help them feel better about themselves, skills training, and job placement. Do any of these appeal to you? Any chance you’re in need of employment?”

  I shook my head. “I’m in med school—Stanford—and I have financial means. Nothing like yours or some of the others, but enough.”

  “What drew you to the Spokane meeting?”

  “I went with a friend.”

  Patricia began to gather her papers. “Want to tell me what brought you to a second meeting?”

  I shrugged. “Basic curiosity. Emily recommended I hear your story.”

  She studied my face with her piercing gray eyes
then patted my arm. “That explains it then. Walk me out?”

  I stayed with her as she locked up and let her do the talking. We parted in the parking lot as we went to our separate cars.

  Patricia exuded composure. She was kind. Maternal. Three things that registered as a deep thirst in me that craved quenching.

  If I decided to attend another meeting, my sole reason would be to spend time with her.

  CHAPTER 36

  For the next four weeks, I attended every lecture and lab, applied my focus to my studies as needed, and always found a reason during free times in the evenings and on weekends to be at WAM headquarters. I made myself resourceful and useful by filing, making photocopies, stapling whatever, answering the phone at times, anything that would cause them to allow me to hang around.

  As for Abigail, I’d neither called her nor received a call from her, which suited me. It hurt to lose touch with her but was also a relief. Nor did I know if it was even possible to remain friends. The only thing I was certain about was that I could never trust her again. When trust is gone, what’s the point?

  Also curious—and which turned out to be a true favor—was her getting me to a WAM meeting in the first place. She hadn’t known I’d been abused, nor had she been a victim of such treatment. I surmised it was another attempt on her part to “fix” me.

  Saturday of the fourth week, I finished filing the last folder. Patricia and I were the only ones left.

  “You put in a long day, Katherine. Let me treat you to a late lunch.” She checked her watch. “Make that an early dinner.”

  “I can pay for myself.”

  “No doubt, but I’d enjoy the company. And as I invited you—”

  “Okay. But the next time’s on me or at least we split the tab.”

  “Deal. Let’s lock up this place. One car or two?”

  “Two is probably best.”

  I followed Patricia’s Lexus to a quaint café with outdoor seating in a back courtyard. A soft breeze rustled through leafy trees that formed a canopy overhead. She asked that we be seated at a back table, near the fountain.