TWELVE MINUTES

by Kathryn Hewitt

  I knew that if I said nothing, Diane would let it go. It wasn’t her job to fix my mind; it was her desire to be as helpful as she could, but Diane was very familiar with limitations. The human mind is the ultimate tool of potential. Cultivated correctly, the brain can accomplish the seemingly impossible. But Diane was too well-acquainted with coming face to face with the impossible. I suspected that Diane’s bed partner was Impossibility.

  “I don’t know,” I finally said, despondently. I really didn’t know. I couldn’t reconcile all of these feelings, and the potential fallout inherently linked to feelings. And this Fallout was so tangible that I refused to look too closely at it. I could almost taste it.

  And it tasted of cinnamon.

  Diane just sat there, looking at me.

  I closed my eyes and inhaled through my nose. Center yourself, Rachel said in my head. Own your feelings, sort them and then verbalize them. Make them Real; Make them Yours. “I’m scared, Diane.” My eyes popped open. I swear that was not part of the thoughts that I was trying to sort and verbalize. Arg! Rachel won again!

  “I know, honey.” Diane’s tone was so heavily laced with meaning that it could have sunk to the bottom of the Atlantic if it came untethered. “Just take it slow. Listen to yourself, listen to how you feel. You are the only one who will know if you are ready.” If and when, right? Diane knew that I had been put on birth control, by request, immediately following my assault. Once pregnancy and STI’s had been ruled out, the only blessing to come from this horror, I wanted to be protected. Everyone knew why, everyone knew that I was preparing for the worst, for the what ifs… But this was my body and I was taking it back. Never again would someone have the chance to force me to grow a child in my womb against my will.

  The ultimate choice of whether a woman made life grow inside of her was Her choice to make.

  “It’s not the sex…” I managed to mumble. It really wasn’t. Sex and I had never really had a proper introduction, much to Kenny’s disappointment. So the last thing on my mind was sex.

  “I know, honey,” Diane said, and picked her magazine back up.

  FIFTEEN

  “Don’t worry…about a thing…’cuz every little thing is gonna be alright…” Bob Marley’s iconic voice invaded my room seconds ahead of Diane, who was carrying a ghastly relic that could only be described as a ipod’s prehistoric ancestor.

  I think this was a boombox. Huh.

  Diane was smiling and kind of swaying with Bob, as she approached my hospital bed and sat the overly large stereo on the chair. Not turning the volume down, she began dancing around to the music. Diane was actually kind of good. I got a brief flash into Diane’s other life, when she was dancing like this and didn’t resemble a tightly coiled embodiment of tension. Diane had some moves…if you could call it that, since reggae wasn’t exactly ‘move’ music, but she looked good. I noticed that her eyes were closed and I wished in that second, that despite the fact that I may never be better, Diane could be.

  She deserved it.

  The song ended and Diane stopped swaying, the tension returning, accompanied by a little line between her eyebrows that I swear had only recently made an appearance on her pretty face. Crossing the space from where she had just been…releasing, she switched the box off with a decisive movement of her hands. Carefully lifting it, she placed it down on the ground beside her and then dropped into the chair.

  Despite having her eyes closed, I knew that Diane was thinking about me and was about to drop one of her patented love bombs. Trust me, love shrapnel hurts just as much as hate.

  “You need to loosen up. It’s ok to have fun, you know.”

  I almost laughed. My god, when was the last time that I’d laughed? I couldn’t remember and that hurt.

  “I guess you’re not interested in the joint I smuggled in for you?” Diane’s eyes remained closed. I couldn’t tell if she was joking; her tone was so deceptive sometimes. Her eyes popped open and she looked at me, followed by her famous, or at least famous to me, laugh, that came from her entire body and showed that she honestly felt something was funny. Absent was the razor edge that only occasionally graced her laughter on bad days. Bad days for Diane were usually bad days for me.

  She really needed to get a life.

  “You really need to get a life.” Her laughter only intensified.

  Wiping her eyes, Diane said, “It’s 4/20. As in M-A-R-I-J-U-A-N-A?” What was she smoking? Oh wait… “Calm down, Cass. I’m only messing with you.” And this was funny, how? “I mean, I’m serious about it being 4/20.” Riiiiight. So she’d said. Marijuana. I wasn’t a kid. I got it, I just chose not to do it. Everyone else could do as they pleased.

  “Yeah, I don’t smoke pot.” For some reason, I wanted that clarified in case she actually produced a joint and expected me to smoke it or something. It was always that unknown something that had deterred me from drugs. But, I honestly didn’t care what other people did as long as they didn’t hurt other people.

  …hurt other people…

  There was enough hurt in the world.

  “No worries, Cass, I was kidding.” Diane looked oddly concerned, an expression I rarely warranted from her. For some reason, it made me feel bad.

  “I know.” I kicked up the very corner of the left imperfect side of my mouth as best I could. I knew that she’d get it. “I just don’t smoke. But I like Marley.” I did. Her playing that music made the silence I lived in amplify. I loved music. I needed my…needed music. I couldn’t look too closely at the concept of ‘my’ right now. It was entirely too terrifyingly close to ME.

  And Me was terrifyingly far.

  “Look Cass,” Diane had her serious voice, her tone that when I heard it, I tuned-in and I listened. “I know you can’t see it from my perspective, honestly I’m not sure you can see it through your own perspective yet…” That “yet” hung in the air, saying so much…telling me that Diane believed that I would one day return, telling me that there was hope, telling me that that door had closed for Diane and she was going to do her damndest to make sure that mine turned into giant sliding doors that stayed perpetually open.

  In that moment, that microsecond that accompanied a simple and frequently used adverb, that pregnant pause that swelled like a woman approaching her tenth month, so much was said, so much was heard. Diane Diane Diane.

  Right then, I vowed that the abstract myself that had fled unbridled into the ether, could stay as extraterrestrial as possible. But in that leaden yet, in that silence that screamed a million things at me, I vowed that I would do my damndest to wedge Diane’s deadbolted, padlocked, and chained door, open.

  Even if it required some intravenous valium and a crow bar. And maybe some light pyrotechnics.

  Big acts required big ceremony. And I just liked sparkly things.

  “Yes Diane. I have hope. I get it.” Shoot. That was not the message that I was gearing up for. So what did I do to make this wonderful woman feel better, feel like she was helping me because helping me was the only way that she could stay sane? I closed my eyes and said, “You can leave the boombox.” I swear that I heard Diane snicker. Wasn’t that what they were called?

  I kept my eyes closed until I heard the door shut. I’d have the next person who visited me put some music on. Sadly, it would probably be Diane.

  ✧✧✧

  I felt the light thud hit my chest before I’d opened my eyes.

  Of course I’d heard the door, but I wasn’t having such a great day. The stale hospital air definitely didn’t help my morose mood. It was really an evil trick of that bitch nature, that while my mind needed to heal by escaping what had happened to…what had happened, I was trapped in this awful excuse of a bed as my body healed, leaving my mind no where healthy to turn.

  Some days were dark corners and self-pity.

  Other days were more centered on self-flagellation.

  And besides, I knew it was Diane.

  I knew Diane wouldn’t care if I opened my eyes wh
en she entered the room, unlike my mom who had reminded me ad noseum that it would make my dad feel so much more welcome if I were to do so. Right…Dad would feel more welcome if I did that.

  Diane didn’t give a shit.

  That’s why I liked her so much.

  These thoughts were lightning compared to the black pitch that I was sinking into. Sinking? More like Drowning. Black. My face hurt. My arm was twisted uncomfortably and I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that this was happening…This. This which I’d feared, but too abstractly. I’d never known the true fear so I could never have prepared. Never.

  And that is a blessing.

  Who could prepare for their underwear, a random pair that they’d grabbed off of the top of the basket that they had already been told a million times to put away…to be annihilated. Pulled and snapped and torn nearly unrecognizable, the scrap being discarded just within their peripheral, as if Loki had planned it. The sudden recognition of the blue and orange stripes that had been grabbed so thoughtlessly as to have their pattern make its first non-existential appearance only now, just as the realization of what their decimation meant. Who could have prepared for what it meant?

  It meant pain.

  It meant humiliation.

  It meant fear.

  It meant cinnamon.

  It meant fury.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  There was a brick on my chest and it was holding me under, weighing me down, and I couldn’t even try to remove it as the black tar turned me into Atreyu. Please. My face hurt, my right side was throbbing as the already mangled bones were forced to scrape together in a symphony of calliopes releasing their agonized dirge. Why couldn’t I breathe? Every time that I tried, all I could…feel…was cinnamon.

  Finally I screamed and thrashed, my body’s last mechanism of self-preservation, ultimately resulting in Diane rushing to my side, and what I would later identify as the offending object being snatched from my chest.

  “Cass...CASS! What’s wrong?” Diane was genuinely concerned; this was why Diane was so amazing at what she did. Despite her brusque and flippant demeanor, she was 100% invested in her patients. Patients, who were her friends.

  I think I gurgled. Then, if the rapid disappearance of the world as my eyeballs itemized the hospital wall from floor to ceiling in their skyrocketing path was any indication, I passed out.

  Good God. Did I just faint? How embarrassing.

  That was my first thought as I opened my eyes. My second thought was that I could breathe. And think. I blinked a few times and forced my head to turn. The pain had dulled as well, which was a blessing.

  I had never seen Diane so concerned looking. And oddly sad, like she’d tried her best to glue her Dad’s favorite mug back together, but despite her efforts, she had a humpty-dumpty situation on her hands. And a handle that was upside down. Sad, on its way to cuddle with resignation.

  They are the Worst couple.

  I could only plead with my eyes, willing Diane to transform into Miss Cleo and know exactly why I was so stricken. Unfortunately, although quite intuitive, Diane was no clairvoyant. I needed to speak. I needed to relieve her of the pain that I was causing. I never wanted to cause anyone pain, especially not Diane. I lived in world of pain, so many layers of pain, and I would never visit such a fate on anyone.

  Especially not Diane. She lived in her own world of pain.

  “Cinnamon.” It was a scratch, a grating sound that only vaguely resembled the innocuous word that I was trying to form, but it was the best that I could do. Just speaking the word flooded my senses with the scent and taste of the stuff. Diane’s face didn’t soften, but her eyes implored me to provide her with more. To trust her with more.

  “He smelled…he…” My eyes were closed and my throat was so dry. Dry like my heart felt, barren and sun scorched. “…Tasted like…cinnamon.” I spat the last word, expelling the evil from my body.

  I’d barely finished the harsh sounding sentence and Diane had whipped the small rectangle into the trash in the far corner. I wanted to cheer for her. Apparently in my chaos, Diane had recovered what I now realized was a pack of cinnamon gum, and had just disposed of the deceptively benign item without a thought. I mean, she could have chewed it…far far away from me.

  “Cass…Cass. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” Diane was close; her right hand reached out to comfort me and quickly withdrew, as if it thought better of such an affront. And Diane or not, an affront it would be. My mother was the only person who I allowed to touch me, and anyone with a mother knows that they play fast and loose with the concept ‘allow.’

  He had ruined me.

  Someone sobbed and I looked at Diane with alarm. Only then, once I’d met her comforting brown eyes, the eyes that had seen me through some of my toughest moments following…only then did I realize that it was I who had sobbed. Me! I was so ravaged that I didn’t even feel connected to my own body. And, clearly I wasn’t!

  “Cass, I would give you the biggest warmest hug I could muster right now, you know that right?” Diane looked pleadingly at me, silently acknowledging why she wouldn’t hug me, but imploring me to know that if she could, she would. Diane cared so much about me, and I couldn’t figure out why. I’d been an awful patient, an even worse companion, and truthfully, I didn’t like myself a whole lot right now, so it baffled me that somehow, Diane did.

  Thankfully.

  Right then my sister bustled in with James, all cheer and smiles. They were a beautiful couple, really, my sister also inheriting our mother’s show-stopping blue eyes, but lucking out with Dad’s light brown, easily highlighted and straightened, hair. Contrastingly, James had startling green eyes and perfectly messy dark hair. Two tall, athletic, good-looking people, living a happy and carefree life absent of terror and wretchedness, lucky to have found a star-kissed fate.

  I hated it when they visited. I think that Diane knew this, since she patted my blanket covered feet and quietly left. I didn’t think anyone in my family had any idea how close Diane and I had gotten. Not that it was a secret, I just think that my befriending a nurse wasn’t something that my family was expecting of me. And I didn’t really open up these days.

  James and Kara were just what the world wished they were and had. They really were perfect together, my sister’s sassiness tempered by James’ even-keeled temperament, all wrapped up in undying devotion and mutual respect. And they were both hot. That helped.

  All of these wonderful reasons were why I hated it when they visited. It was hard for me to look at them as I lay incapacitated in bed, knowing that I would never have that. That I may never even want that. It was harsh, but true. James and Kara symbolized everything I had always wanted and everything that I may never have.

  He took that from me as well.

  Because of Him, I had to feign happiness when I saw my sister and her other half, lie to the face of the one person I had never lied to. And James, who’d been with my sister for the last 6 years, and who I had fleetingly crushed on until he began to resemble a brother, well, James could see through it. He had never been good at concealing his emotions, and the hurt that he felt when he was around me, the hurt and pain that he knew I felt, played loudly in his green eyes. I think that my sister was still wrapped up in the effects that my attack had on her, not that she was self-centered, but this had really impacted her as well, so she wasn’t her usual astute self these days.

  Kara was more concerned with my face being damaged, with whether I’d be permanently ruined for life, if she’d lost her sister and best friend. I couldn’t help her with this, despite my desire to heal her. Kara’s introspection and deep analysis prevented her from seeing a lot that was right in front of her. James never missed a thing; I just prayed that he never told her. I never ever wanted to hurt my family…

  I never ever wanted to hurt anyone. There had been enough hurt.

  “Seriously, Cass, I don’t think you’ll even be able to tell.” Kara stared at me earnestly
, once again misinterpreting my reticence as being depression about my face. My Face! I almost wanted to punch her…almost. Get over it, Kara. The fact that I didn’t know if I could ever look at my “Pretty Face” again, weighed on me much more heavily than the fear that I would look like Quasimodo. Truthfully, during dark periods in the depths of the black night, I thought that might be better.

  Did I ever want anyone looking at me and liking what they saw?

  During even darker pits of despair, I would curse my prettiness. That attractiveness that drew Him to me. Whatever that was. Because it was the only explanation that I could come up with after thousands of hours of contemplation. I’d done nothing, at least nothing intentional, to draw attention to myself. I’d never met Him, I was positive I’d never even interacted with him in the public.

  This, coupled with His most haunting statement, left me with little doubt. My slightly better than average face, housing a few remarkable features but not creating the Mona Lisa, had somehow betrayed me by calling to Him. Inviting Him. Volunteering what was not its to give.

  “That is quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. And you say some pretty dumb stuff.” Diane was entirely serious, when I’d voiced my theory to her. And I did say some pretty dumb stuff. “Are you for real?” Um, yes? Even I could hear the questioning higher pitched ending to that yes in my head.

  “Cass. First of all, I’m serious. That is stupid and wrong. You did NOTHING to invite, allure, volunteer, offer, give away, or tempt. You did nothing wrong at all. HE is the one who did Everything wrong. Everything. And you were very pretty, my dear, but you didn’t ask for that. That isn’t something that can even be asked for. That was never within your control. And you, I'm sorry to say, are still pretty damn good looking. That doctor that your Mother handpicked, did his job and then some. I hate to tell you this, but honey, you might just end up even prettier when this is all said and done.” Diane didn’t look like she felt sorry for me. She looked Pissed.