My mother wouldn't be afraid. She was never afraid.
Besides, I was home now. I was safe. Maybe the guy had been a deviant, but it didn't matter now.
Just in case, I took out my phone and dialed 9-1...and kept my thumb hovering over the 1.
My door didn't look tampered with. I unlocked it, phone still in my hand. The apartment was just as I'd left it--super neat and so pretty, a bouquet of red gerbera daisies on the coffee table, six lemons in a bowl on the counter, just because. The balcony was empty, as it should've been.
It wasn't a huge apartment. The only hiding place would be the bedroom closet or the bathtub with the curtain closed. And I never closed the curtain all the way, because I'd seen the horror movies. I knew about these things. I left it half-open every day, because I liked the pretty pattern of birds and flowers.
I put my groceries down, went into my bedroom and, feeling a bit stupid, looked in the closet. No one. Glanced in the bathroom. No one. The shower curtain was closed halfway, just as I'd left it.
I deleted the 9-1 and set my phone on the bureau, almost laughing at my paranoia. Lowered the shades and figured I'd get into my Gryffindor pajamas (gold-and-red-striped, silk, completely impossible to resist) and watch some TV. Bobby would call later, and we'd laugh like we always did.
But because that creeped-out feeling remained, I decided I'd stay dressed and ask Roseline to hang out. She only lived two blocks away, and I had a nice bottle of fume blanc in the fridge.
I went into the bathroom to wash up, bending over the sink to splash water on my face.
Something was different.
Run.
It was a command that came from every cell of my body, my lizard brain, that oldest part of the human mind where instinct lives, unfettered by the limbic system of emotion or rationalization. Run, it said, telling me my life was at stake, and I obeyed before I fully processed the thought. My brain went into overdrive, the thoughts fast and clear.
I was hyperaware of every muscle in my body--quadriceps femoris, iliopsoas, gluteus maximus pushing forward, deltoids and biceps stretching and contracting in what seemed like the slowest motion--one stride, my foot hitting the carpet, my left arm forward, right arm back, back foot coming forward, leg stretching out in a racer's stride, setting down. I was wearing heels, but my strides were sure and strong, powered by adrenaline.
The shower curtain had been closed all the way.
He was in the bathroom.
I heard the metal rings hiss as he whipped open the shower curtain.
The second stride. I was sprinting and silent. The air seemed to have turned to thick red plasma.
Hurry.
His footsteps were muffled on the hall carpeting. I was in the living room, three strides from the door, and I reached out for the doorknob, hurling myself at it when he tackled me, shoved my face against the floor and sat on my back.
"Hello," he said, and fear unlike anything I'd ever felt flooded me in ice.
I screamed. He punched me on my upturned left cheek, and my scream was cut off, shock and pain and a sense of the surreal blurring my thoughts. I'd never been hit before, and my face throbbed with white pain. I flailed and kicked, accomplishing nothing. Then his weight was gone, and he had me by the ankles, dragging me as I twisted and heaved. There was my shoe. Could I reach my shoe and hit him with it? I reached, but it was too far away.
"No!" I screamed. "Let me go!"
He dragged me down the hall. I grabbed onto the bathroom door frame, but my fingers weren't strong enough to hang on. Down farther--the rug burning my chin--into my bedroom, my pretty bedroom with the soft gray walls, the navy comforter with the pink flowers on it, the red vase, the throw pillows.
I heard myself screaming, again and again and again, with every breath. This was a new building, and the walls were thick so residents wouldn't be bothered with the noise from their neighbors. I tried to fling my body weight away from him, and he lost his grip on one ankle. My leg kicked out, but being facedown, I couldn't see my target, and my foot just flailed in the air. He grabbed it again and twisted my legs so I was abruptly on my back.
"Help!" I screamed, that weakest, saddest word, and he kicked me in the ribs, and Holy Mother, his shoes were still on. Pain blossomed in red, spreading through my whole torso. I couldn't breathe--little squeaks jerked in and out of me.
One part of my brain gave calm instructions; another whimpered in terror. You're okay, you're still here.
Oh, Jesus, Jesus, help me.
The wind is knocked out of you. You're okay. Maybe a broken rib.
Please, please, please. What do I--What do I do?
You're going into shock. Stay calm. Stay calm.
The man looked down at me, huge as he towered over me.
He was going to rape me. Kill me, maybe, and the terror won. My brain went white and silent. All I could see was him and how he was going to ruin me.
He looked down at me, a face so ironically banal and forgettable. Voldemort, Harry Potter's nemesis with his evil face and missing nose--at least you could remember that guy.
In the past when I'd considered this situation--because every woman does, every woman sees herself both raped and murdered and also kicking the living shit out of her attacker--I imagined being that fast-thinking warrior who punched in the throat, kneed in the balls, knocked him out cold, the asshole who had dared to try to violate me, and I'd add another kick for good measure. I'd be triumphant, a hero, a role model for women everywhere.
But now that it was happening, all I wanted was not to die.
My mother would fight. She would win. Lily would, too. No one would dare hurt Lily.
My lungs suddenly worked again, and I sucked in a deep breath, rolled away from him, scrambled to my feet and swung, fist clenched, as hard as I could, catching his head. My fist went instantly numb.
It wasn't a good hit. He punched me back, calmly almost, full fist, square in the face, and my head snapped back, my eyes streaming tears, my nose filling with blood. I fell, tried to kick him, and he leaned over and yanked my hair, wrenching my neck.
I screamed, louder this time, but it was April, and April in Boston can be as cold as winter. The apartment's windows were new and snug and shut tight against the cold snap that was supposed to end tomorrow, it was supposed to be in the sixties tomorrow, typical New England. The walls made from brick. Bobby had made a joke about it two nights ago after some very athletic sex. "Good thing the neighbors can't hear," he had said afterward, hugging me close.
I had closed the blinds not ten minutes ago. No one would see me being assaulted. No one would see a woman struggling not to be killed. I thought of the Common, so beautiful in the spring, the statue of Paul Revere, the tulips. Of the little brick restaurant where Bobby and I had dinner the other night. Of how it still felt, walking into the hospital in my white coat.
Tonight I was going to die.
Concentrate, Nora. Stay alive. Stay here.
It was my mother's voice.
The man pulled me to my feet by my hair. "I don't want to hurt you," he said, and I almost laughed, because my face was swelling already. I tried to punch him again, in the throat this time, but my head was woozy, and he caught my fist and slapped my burning, aching cheek. I screamed again--no, I whimpered, and the weak sound broke my own heart.
I wasn't going to win, be triumphant, have the cops tell me I was amazing. No one would know how hard I tried.
Try, anyway.
The man, whose name I would never learn, just watched me. I punched once more, arms weak, hitting him on the side of the neck rather than the Adam's apple, because my arm flopped a little at the last second. He slapped me on the side of the head, making my ear ring and my head loll.
"Just do what I say. If you do, I'll leave. If you fight, I'll kill you."
I imagined that he'd kill me anyway, but maybe something miraculous would happen, maybe the Ambersons in 3F would need me to watch Chanelle, the baby, and they'd knock on
the door. Maybe I could buy some time.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Nora," I whispered. I shouldn't have said that. I should've made something up.
"Take off your clothes, Nora."
With hands that shook uncontrollably, I unbuttoned my shirt. Unzipped my skirt and stepped out of it as tears slid off my chin. Off with the bra. Don't think about it, don't think about being naked. Off with the panties.
"Get on the bed. On your back."
I obeyed, legs shaking, teeth chattering. "You don't have to do this," I said. "Please. Don't do this. You're not a bad person."
He unzipped his jeans and stuck his hand inside, locking eyes with me.
I started to pray. Please, let me live. Please, let me live.
The man started pacing, fondling himself, muttering about what he was going to do to me. He ordered me to tell him I wanted him to hurt me, to rape me, to do all sorts of obscene, unspeakable things.
I said the words.
Apparently, they weren't enough. He couldn't get it up.
A tiny seed of hope poked through the black tar of my fear.
"Maybe we should take a break," I said, and he backhanded me so hard my head slammed to the left. Shock protected me for all of a second, and then my whole face was on fire. I tasted blood, and one of my teeth was loose, maybe.
He shoved his hand back in his pants, muttering horrible words, calling me names. Whore. Slut. Worse.
Think, I commanded. Think of something. I should throw up, but lunch was so long ago, my food was way down in my intestinal track, probably in the descending colon by now. Could I pee? Make him disgusted? I tried. Nothing came.
Think.
Bobby and I had watched The Martian last weekend, cuddled up on the couch. What about that, right? Matt Damon, adorable son of Boston, had been stranded on Mars all alone. He wasn't terrified all the time, though he had very good reason to be.
I don't think Matt Damon is going to help here, said the calm part of my brain. Also, that's a work of fiction.
So not helpful, unless I was trying to make water from hydrazine.
My terrorist kept pacing. He punched himself in the head, and for some reason, that scared me more than the hand in the pants.
I found myself going numb. The pain throbbed, but it was more distant now. There was too much. I was sinking into the mattress. I wanted to go to sleep. It was possible I had a concussion.
Here's the thing about abject terror--you can't stay there. Well, maybe you can. If you're a mother, for example, and your child is the one at risk. And yes, I was abjectly terrified. There was an intruder in my house, and he had beaten me and was trying to maintain an erection long enough to rape me and possibly kill me afterward, and believe me, that was as terrifying as it gets. But here I was, wondering why Matt Damon was so damn appealing.
This morning seemed so long ago. A different life when I had gotten dressed, back when I cared about looking the part of a successful doctor. I loved that white blouse. It was a silk-cotton blend. If blood got on it, would it come out?
Think, Nora. Focus.
I tried to map the man's face. He looked like any ordinary white Bostonian male--not that tall, not that fit, scrawny but with a beer belly, pasty complexion, a few pimples, crooked bottom teeth. Brown hair. Blue eyes.
He looked so normal.
"Stop staring!" he said, coming at me with his fist. I curled into the fetal position, to protect myself, but he pounded me on the ribs, and it hurt, God, it hurt, the pain reverberating everywhere, a fierce, fiery throb.
"Roll on your back and open your legs," he said.
Terror surged again, chaotic and churning, and my mind emptied. Again, I obeyed. There was a cobweb in the corner where the wall met the ceiling. I'd clean the apartment this weekend, with the stepladder, really get every nook and cranny.
Or not. I might be a murder case by then.
I glanced at him. He still didn't have an erection, and when he saw that I was looking, he lunged at me, making me flinch, then laughed, a mean, thin sound.
What could I use for a weapon? The red vase from Home Goods? If I smashed that over his head, would it be enough? Could I cut his throat with a shard of broken glass?
Where was my phone? Why had I put it down? I could've pressed that last 1. I knew something was wrong, why hadn't I listened to myself? I could've made the call, then thrown it and screamed, and the police could track my number (I thought so, anyway) and they'd come, breaking down the door, and I'd be safe.
His hand was jerking rapidly in his pants.
Think, Nora. Think. Be as smart as Matt Damon. He'd find a way.
"I just have one question," I said. Maybe I could buy some time. My words were slurred, which concerned me. "How did you get in?"
He actually brightened, proud of himself.
He had been planning this, he said. He saw me at the corner market about a month ago. He'd followed me home, trailing well behind, just trying to see where I lived.
Took to walking his dog on my street to learn my schedule, figure out when my boyfriend came over. Saw me on my balcony one night.
He was the man I'd waved to. From three floors above, I hadn't been able to see his face clearly.
He'd been waiting to see me again. Tonight, after he'd held the door for me at the market, he'd run around the block, racing to get home before I did. The apartment below mine was empty. He climbed the magnolia tree, jumped onto the balcony, climbed up onto mine and picked the lock. It was amazing what you could learn on YouTube, he said. He had lain down in the tub, so I wouldn't see him at first glance.
He said he'd just gotten in place when I came in.
If I hadn't stopped to talk to Tyrese, I might've seen him coming in the slider and could've run. Instead, I'd wanted to talk to Tyrese because I hadn't felt safe.
Irony could be such a coldhearted bitch sometimes.
I'd waved. I'd waved to my would-be rapist as he was stalking me. Such a nice person, that Nora Stuart.
I looked at the clock. An hour had passed...maybe a little more.
He still didn't have an erection.
Lizard Brain popped in with a new word for me.
Worse.
"Do you want a drink of water, Nora?" Voldemort asked, and while this night had been completely surreal, that was the strangest moment of all, maybe.
"Yes, please," I said.
"Stay here. Don't move. I'll get you some water, and then I'll leave if you promise not to call the police. Okay?"
"Okay." Sure, mister. No worries.
"Stay here," he said again, turning away.
Now, said Lizard Brain. Go.
I was off the bed before he even left the room. He didn't notice.
My ribs screamed in pain, and blood flowed from my nose. My left eye was swollen closed, but I followed him down the hall, just a few feet behind him. I could smell him, his sweat, his disgusting musk.
He stopped. I stopped, too, just three or four feet behind him, and fear seemed to gather in me and lift me off my feet. I didn't even breathe. Every molecule in my body was focused on him. I could feel my heart beating. Otherwise, not a move.
He started moving again, into the living room, around the pale green couch into the kitchen. I went to the door.
He went straight to the end of the counter, because that's where the knife block was, right out in the open, one of my joyful purchases--a Wusthof knife set from Williams-Sonoma. Knives for all occasions--paring, peeling, chopping, slicing. Murdering.
He reached out and his hand closed on the biggest knife handle in the block.
I saw this out of the corner of my eye, because I was almost there, almost out, so close.
Then my hand felt the cold metal of the doorknob, and I snapped the dead bolt open.
Get out. Go. Go. Go.
Then I was out, running down the hall to the stairs, and I was screaming, my voice unrecognizable, hoarse, hysterical, but spot-on in message.
&nbs
p; "Call 911! Call 911! Call 911!"
Jim Amberson, the dad in 3F, opened the door and saw me.
"Help me!" I screamed, staggering toward him.
"Jesus!" he said. "Get in here!"
He slammed the door behind us, threw the dead bolt, yelled for his wife. The kids came running, then halted at the sight of me, bruised, naked, bleeding, swollen. Chanelle started to cry.
My legs gave out, my bladder, too, and I sat in a puddle of urine, my back to their locked door. "Nine-one-one," I sobbed. "Call 911. Call 911."
*
I was taken to the hospital, x-rayed, coddled, given the five-star treatment by my peers. The director of medicine of Boston City came down to see himself, and his eyes filled with tears as he took my bruised hand. My face and chest were x-rayed; I had a cracked rib and a bone contusion on my jaw. My left eye was swollen shut, my face...
Well. We've all seen pictures of women who've been beaten. I also had bruises on my legs, ankles and ribs. No damage to internal organs.
The police told me I was smart and brave and lucky. I told them to check the security video at Avi's grocery store. They took pictures of my injuries and asked repeatedly if I'd been raped. Sent in a female officer to ask the same thing, then a rape-crisis counselor. When they were assured I hadn't been, a sketch artist came in. So did a social worker to talk about PTSD and shock. I was given a sedative; my teeth wouldn't stop chattering, which made my jaw ache horribly.
"I'll call your mom," Bobby said. He hadn't left my side since I was admitted.
"No."
"She should know, Nora."
"No. It's over. Don't call her."
"You sure?"
"She's not that type of mother. She'll be... Just don't."
Besides, I just wanted to sleep. My mother... There was always that hint of blame or...or something. I was too tired to think about it.
I looked at Bobby. I remembered him wondering aloud what it would be like to date a normal person. And we'd been so normal, so happy, so fun...and now look at me. My face was turning all sorts of colors, and I'd just almost been killed. So much for sunshine and bluebirds. "Let's put things on hold," I whispered, squeezing his hand, causing pain to flash in my knuckles from the punch I'd managed to land. "This isn't what you signed up for."
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