TWELVE MINUTES

by Kathryn Hewitt

  So when we arrived in Bern, still during a record heat wave in Europe, we stumbled across a lovely grassy slope next to a somewhat rapidly moving river, partially shaded by a nearby bridge. Our only desire was to lie unmoving on something relatively cool, and our prayers had been answered. Plopping down and falling prone, followed by a ten-minute conversation of grunts and moans, the rushing water lulled and hypnotized us.

  Ibuprofen, a lot of water, and our staple of bread and cheese later, we were only half-dead. We finally realized that people were floating by on the river that we were not-so-gracefully splayed out next to. Well, more like zipping by. The world focused and we realized that people were jumping from the bridge (this was a major bridge), and then floating by. Then we saw that some of them were getting out at various points along the river, and the fact that they all carried plastic bags suddenly made sense.

  Using the current, this was apparently a means of transportation. People packed their stuff into plastic bags to keep the water out, leapt in, were carried down river until they reached their destination, and then they climbed out. This was insane and so cool! It was like the ladies who carried their running shoes in their purses so that they could switch out their heels and walk home.

  We never grew the courage to leap from that bridge (that was pushing it), but we did jump in from our resting point, first wrapping our belongings up and shoving them into plastic bags. That was one of the joys of traveling. It didn’t matter where the river took you, or where you decided to climb out. It was the thrill of experiencing a literal once in a lifetime feat, the carelessness and freedom of having no real responsibilities, the lack of expectation because you couldn’t even fathom what to expect. It was the sheer deliciousness of being bathed in cool water when you are at your hottest and most worn down, allowing it to do the work for you, giving yourself over to the freedom of release.

  I’m still not sure what this reverie meant at that moment, why I slipped into that moment in time to escape my worst and most horrifying nightmare. There are so many interpretations, most of which are obvious. I couldn’t dwell on it at the time, and I rarely think about it now.

  Somehow, despite the burning throb in my cheek, the painful grinding of my broken ribs as his rhythm overtook my body, the devastation of my internal self, I went to this memory.

  Hangovers, hickies, and all.

  FOUR

  12 minutes start to finish. And finish he did. Not a second too soon, I silently screamed.

  He was out and off of me before I could reconcile the reprieve and the continued agony of my body as I now lay unmoving, no longer rocked and crashed against despite my will.

  30 seconds. 30 seconds for me to blink my good eye into clarity, catalogue the back of his Keep Tahoe Blue navy hoodie, which he’d somehow managed to pull up to cover his head, and the fact that he was already a good ten yards away as he was hurriedly refastening his pants.

  45 seconds and my assailant was gone.

  Assailant.

  It didn’t all come crashing down on me like an Acme Anvil of reality. It was more like I was being showered with feathers of understanding, each gentle realization floating past as the next tickled my face.

  My face.

  God Damn it hurt. Trying to open my right eye, I moaned and immediately gave up on that attempt. Ok, one good eye, I thought, as if to cheer myself on, and blinked it once or twice to emphasize this good luck. Tentatively I lifted my left arm to my right ribcage, delicately prodding as if I knew what I was looking for. I figured that since I didn’t feel anything glaringly obvious like a rib sticking out of my chest, I could proceed with my assessment. I didn’t even try to move my right arm. Instinct had kicked in.

  Most would think that you would hop up and get the Hell out of there and then assess your injuries. I had some precognition that my attacker would not be returning. He was long gone and with the speed with which he had fled, he didn’t seem inclined to stick around.

  Unless he’d left to return with a shovel.

  Oh god.

  My self-perusal suddenly hastened.

  Face? Ouch.

  Ribs? Agony, but I could sit up. I did so abruptly, after declaring such in my head. This is how I discovered that it hurt like a bitch to scream. My face couldn’t contort like that without bone scraping pain. Literally.

  No time for that, just no screaming.

  Silently I assessed my legs and quickly ascertained that they’d escaped seemingly unscathed. Using my good left arm, the one that wasn’t cradled to my side, I propelled myself up on Bambi legs. After taking a tentative step, I realized that I was practically nude. Looking around, I spotted my torn bra, my partially ripped grey t-shirt, and I then, almost as an after thought, pulled my shorts up. Oddly, they’d remained around my ankles, unmolested excepted for perhaps being stretched out a little. My underwear had been torn from my body, a move that was surprisingly quick yet painful, an aspect that they don’t show you on TV when a lover seductively tugs a pair of panties, which then come off in a fluttery motion. Grabbing the remnants of my undergarments, I shoved the swath of material which was formerly my underwear into my left pocket with my non-dominant hand (Damn him!), and tucked the bra scraps under the arm that was now gripping my side like a vice, as if I could put myself back together by sheer force.

  Glancing once more at my feet, and feeling surprisingly reassured by the sight of my familiar old scuffed trainers, I took a painful deep breath. Lifting my head, I looked around, mentally snap-shotting my crime scene as I spun in a slow circle. The birds were the only sound that I heard, and I longed to join them. Make me a Bird. Returning to face the direction of Everything, I took another burning breath and headed toward it.

  SIX

  Without a real plan, I stumbled back to my mom’s house. Still not thinking clearly and wondering if I was concussed, I lurched through the back door and smack dab into the glass door of reality. This was as far as I’d gotten as I heard a scream and a glass shatter. I knew that my mom was saying something, Screaming something in the form of questions, since her already high pitched voice was going up even higher at the end of each verbal assault, but everything had dulled.

  Assault.

  I closed my eyes. I closed my eye. Inhaled the slicing pain of what had just happened, stumbled two steps, and suddenly I was being held up by someone strong. By the smell of his soap I knew that it was James, my sister’s longtime boyfriend.

  Good to know I still had my sense of smell.

  I was gently led to the couch and half-lowered, my contribution coming in the form of a half-collapse, into an oddly rigid sitting position as my ribs complained. I was vaguely aware that my mom was on the phone, that my sister was crouched in front of me asking me questions. I think. My brain had turned into a wind tunnel. Only when James laid a blanket over me did I realize that I was topless. Well Damn. Awkward.

  Finally, through the pain, and abstract and irrational embarrassment that James had seen me half-naked, I made a brief and concise statement.

  “I was attacked. In Colton Park.” But it sounded more like, ‘I wa attaaaa in Col’on Ark.’ It hurt so much to talk, something that I had just discovered, the blinding pain became all too literally that: blinding. Bright white turned to grey, which crescendoed into black, the great Finale.

  SEVEN

  “Sweetheart,” I felt a featherlight touch across my good cheek, the familiar powdery smell of my mom’s Acqua Di Gio transporting me to cotton and comfort and safety and calm. Slowly opening my eye, I cringed as the bright light streaming in from the window struck my face. Then I cringed again because the first cringe had hurt so badly. And oddly, only involved half of my face.

  Hesitantly, I raised my good arm and felt my face, which now apparently sported some kind of Phantom of the Opera mask. What. The. Fuck.

  Then it came rushing back: the dirt being ground into my cheek, the fire in my side, the lightning strike between my legs.

  I clutched my side, appare
ntly bandaged, gasping as I made contact.

  This all meant one thing.

  I had survived.

  I had won. I had made my bargain with the devil and the devil had held up his end of the deal.

  “Don’t touch!” My mom shouted, startling me and interrupting my self-assessment. In a softer tone she continued, “Darling, you’re hurt. Try not to move too much.” She caressed my good cheek again, as if she needed the tangible confirmation of my existence, while being painfully aware that I was in a very fragile state.

  Like I was a Fabergé Egg dropped from the Seattle Sky Needle, raked up by one of those Eastern European public servant brooms that look just like a witch’s, and then glued back together by that As-Seen-On-TV epoxy that allowed that poorman’s Ron Popeil to glue his contractor hat to the beam and dangle from it. That kind of fragile.

  “Sweetheart,” same soothing tone, “You were attacked.” I was vaguely aware of this. “You sustained a lot of injuries…” It was at this point that she sniffed and someone materialized beside her, taking her hand. Kara. My other half. It was my turn to sniff. The pain that I saw etched on their faces was more agonizing for me than anything that had transpired in the last 24 hours. My pain had left me and taken purchase inside of them.

  I vowed to do everything possible to erase that hurt and sadness. It was not theirs to bear, no more than it was mine. This burden, with the weight of the Rascal-towed world, pulling Jupitor hitched by rubber bands, was entirely His to shoulder.

  “Cass, honey, are you ok?” The look on my sister’s face told me that she knew that this was a stupid question, a question that I could not answer. I simply nodded, knowing that they needed some reassurance. “You had surgery,” she continued, sensing that my mother couldn’t discuss the details of my ordeal, at least the portion that she’d witnessed. Thankfully she hadn’t witnessed the real deal.

  “They had to put you back together, Humpty Dumpty.” Kara fake laughed, which she turned into a cough when James appeared at her side. Suddenly she looked remorseful. “Umm…so your ribs were pretty badly damaged, and you required a couple of pins and a rod in your arm, and your hand, well…” She trailed off, looking nervously at James, who squeezed her hand and smiled encouragingly at her. And Kara visibly relaxed.

  That right there was why He didn’t ruin me. Something as simple as a smile, which conveyed everything, was evidence that good still existed. I clung to that.

  Absently, I raised my “good” hand to my face, awkwardly in a cross body motion, my right arm incapacitated by the bandages from my surgery.

  “Bride of Frankenstein,” I muttered flatly, trying to…I don’t know what I was trying to do.

  Kara plowed ahead, relying on her natural ability to do so, always the director of the conversation. “So aside from your arm and the ribs, your face was pretty jacked…,” James cleared his throat, “Um…pretty badly injured on the right side. But, thankfully you only shattered your Zygomatic bone.”

  He only shattered my Zygomatic bone.

  Kara kept going, unaware of the whirlpool in my head. “The doctors said we were blessed…”

  Blessed.

  We were blessed.

  “…that the fracture didn’t breach the Infraorbital margin, and missed the temporal bone.” I must not have been reacting like she thought that I should, because she explained further, feeling the need to spell it out for me. “That saved your life.” She punctuated this last statement with a widening of her eyes. So that explained my Richard Hamilton mask. I closed my eye as my sister’s filled.

  As if psychically bonded with us, my mom stepped in, apparently drawing from the strength that made her her.

  “Sweetie.” She sat down gracefully into the chair next to my bed, moving slowly and with care, being every bit the intuitive mother that she was. Grasping my left hand in hers, she slowly brought it up to her cheek and held it there. My mom closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, her grasp gentle, but death defying in strength. When she re-opened her eyes, the familiar corn-flower blue had focused with a sharp determination and an all-encompassing love.

  My Mother. She gave me life, she would see me through my re-birth.

  My mouth was insanely dry and I needed to connect with something tangible. “Water,” I rasped and it was immediately produced, James holding it under my chin and directing the straw to my mouth. The water was so glorious that I almost missed this kind gesture. I knew that I should thank him, but I was dying of thirst.

  And I didn’t know what to say.

  In my heart of hearts I now know why. I was deathly afraid of what would happen if I opened my mouth. What would come pouring out? I hadn’t even begun to process this…

  My assault.

  Luckily my silence was either expected or understood.

  My mom took over again, attempting to get me to focus. The cup disappeared and she reclaimed my hand, continuing as if uninterrupted. My mom and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but no matter what, she was extremely maternal and protective, and loved her children beyond measure.

  “Honey, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but the surgery had to be performed immediately. The other stuff…” At this point she lost her muster, trailing off and looking pleadingly at my sister. My mom, lost her muster.

  The Other Stuff must be pretty bad.

  I suddenly did not want to hear anything more about the other stuff. Not one bit.

  “They have to examine you,” my sister supplied miserably. James quietly left the room before I could thank him for his compassion.

  As if drawing from each other, my mom took the ball. “Cass, honey, in these types of…situations…” she swallowed and glanced nervously at Kara before she continued. “In cases of assault, documentation needs to be made, evidence needs to be collected…” Her eyes were now too tear-filled to continue.

  As if on cue, the nurse entered.

  She was a white woman, a medium brunette, her hair pulled back in a braid that had clearly been tidy at the beginning of her shift. She had kind eyes; I clung to that.

  “Hi Cassandra, I’m Nurse Michaels, but you can call me Diane.” She made no attempt to shake hands, but our eyes had a warm greeting. “With assaults like yours, we’re required by law to perform some examination of you, documenting the damages.” My mom’s eyes widened, but I appreciated Diane’s candor. How else could you describe what I was left with?

  Damage.

  But I wasn’t Damaged. Was I?

  “It’s mostly simple stuff, and I’ll try to start with the worst and work backward. I’ve found this to be more successful with my patients.” She smiled reassuringly as she delivered this less than encouraging news. Looking only at me, the nurse continued. “I will be the only person in the room during the process.”

  I was thankful that she hadn’t used any technical jargon like SAK, Sexual Assault Kit, examine for evidence…Nurse Michaels seemed to understand that clinical was not the approach. She was upfront, but tried to soften the news. As soon as she looked at my mom and sister, who had stepped away from the bed when Diane had approached to talk to me, they glanced longingly toward me and then left the room. Thankfully, my mother’s, “I love you,” wafted back through the closing door.

  “Cassandra,” Diane was solely focused on me.

  “Call me Cass,” I managed, and she nodded solemnly.

  “Cass, I am going to walk you through everything that I’m doing as I do it. Sadly, I am very experienced at performing this type of exam, and sadder still, I’ve been unofficially made a nurse specialist for this.” She looked disheartened by her hoisted upon promotion. “Normally, this would have been completed upon admission, but in life threatening situations, there is no time.” Did she think that I was upset that I hadn’t been subjected to this second invasion yet? “There are a lot of steps, both invasive and not, but like I said, I will start with the hardest part. Cass, I’m going to lower you blankets and drape them on the chair. Then I will need to remove your go
wn.”

  Ok, naked and freezing was not a good look.

  Slowly, Diane lowered and removed my blankets, folding them quickly and placing them on the visitors’ chair that she had pulled away from the bed. Returning to me, she gently reached behind my neck and untied the top string. Somehow she’d known that they’d never tied the waist tie…whoever they were…and she easily un-tucked and lifted my gown free.

  That now familiar blackness was threatening my vision. As my breasts chilled, the tactile memory returned: course hands, rough touch, painful exploration.

  “Cass? Cass?!” I realized that Diane was looking down at me, a worried expression marring her strictly-business face.

  “Sorry. I’m ok.”

  I was Not ok.

  I heard a click and saw that Diane had produced a bright lamp and a huge camera. I realized that she was taking photos, first of my face, then my breasts, together and individually, gently shifting them with gloved hands to capture would-be hidden bruising and abrasions, then on to my stomach, and so on. She went down to my unharmed toes before returning to cover my arms.

  “I’ll need some more of the front, but I’ll get those with you standing, when I do your back.” Um, ok.

  I closed my one functioning eyelid as a stranger’s kind eyes catalogued the ferocity of my attack.

  “That’s done,” Diane commented blandly. “Next part is a little trickier…” Ok, that did Not sound good. “I first need to comb your pubic hair.” That I could handle…I think. As I felt the first-grade-picture-day black plastic comb scrape against my most sensitive areas, I wondered not for the first time how this could be me.