by Jody Kaye
“I’m fine. I just need a shower.” I can feel the heat at the tips of my ears. It’s a telltale sign I’m sick or lying. I’m glad Kimber doesn’t get all of my idiosyncrasies. My mom would call me on it.
As if her intuition spans from one point of the Triangle to the next, my cell vibrates in my pocket. I hold it up, wiggling my mother’s picture on the screen so Kimber can see who it is.
My bio-mom’s cheeks apple. “Take your time showering once you’re done talking to your mom. I’m sacking out while Owen has his morning nap. Tell Ghillie I said ‘hello’.”
“Aidy, Sweetheart, you’re a tough cookie together ahold of!” Mom is chipper on the other side of the line.
“I’ve been busier this semester than last year,” I explain away my avoidance without telling my mom where I am. I love Mom too much to hurt her feelings and make her concerned I’m choosing sides. She and Kimber aren’t in competition for my affections. However, nothing about my biological mother’s life reminds me of what’s happening when I’m on campus and my nightmare ceases to exist for a moment.
As a child, my mom kept me safe from the monsters under my bed. Now, I’m trapped with the monster living in the room and between the sheets she’d taken me out to purchase when my college acceptance came in the mail. All of the amazing memories, how my mom studied with me and cheered me on, are tarnished because I trusted the wrong person. I’m ashamed of myself for letting her down and feel guilty for lying to protect my parents.
“We’ll if you can spare a minute for us, it’s Daddy’s birthday today. He’d love a hug and if you could make it home for dinner.”
How did I let that slip by? I feel awful. Mentally, I rearrange the things on my agenda. Preoccupied by cake and gifts, hopefully my parents won’t notice if I’m acting off. And maybe it’s a good test to see if I can control my emotions in front of them. I hope the evening with them proves as big a distraction for me. All I have to do is hold it together and make sure I don’t cry when my mom or dad hug me.
“I’ll be there.” I can’t disappoint them, not today.
I shower and get ready to go back to campus.
Sloan arrives as I’m about to tell Kimber my plans have changed. I’ve met Sloan a few times before. She exudes a cool confidence I aspire to. Almost as if nothing gets under her skin.
She and Kimber are also thick as thieves. I find this funny since finding out they aren’t childhood besties. According to them, they’re the only other person who understands what it’s like being Trig or Carver’s better half.
“If I don’t take off now, there won’t be time to get a gift for my dad and get to class.” I apologize to Kimber and Sloan.
“Never be sorry about putting the people you love first.” Sloan’s thick accent next to her jet black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and exotic features make it hard to believe since her roots are southern. She’s the kind of gorgeous that makes you understand how men, and women, could drool over a person.
“Drive Safe, Dumplin’, and wish Don a Happy Birthday from me and Trig.” Kimber pulls me into a tight embrace. I use her strength to push through my fears.
Spending the evening of my dad’s birthday at home helped. I’d been hard on myself that I wouldn’t be able to act normal around my parents. It stopped me from seeing the forest for the trees.
Mom had urged me to spend the night, and as much as I wanted that escape, I needed the solitude of the car ride back to Pinewood last week to let my trapped emotions out. I’d have sobbed too hard that night in my childhood bed, and they’d have found out for sure.
Since my trip home, mom and I have sent more frequent texts to one another. Simply feeling closer to her and the extra bit of support has helped me catch up on one whole class. It’s an elective I should have taken this upcoming spring, but because of a schedule conflict, the other course I was supposed to take instead was at max capacity. Elective doesn’t mean easy by any stretch. There’s a reason behind waiting. I’m certain I’m missing the building blocks for this one, but it’s far more interesting than the others I’m taking. Seeing the red ink circle around a B-plus boosted my confidence, and I’ve been throwing most of my initiative behind maintaining the grade.
It’s late when I close the textbook propped in my lap. I stretch, leaning forward. My pillow falls from where I have it propped up against the desk. I slide the book on the top and open a drawer, searching for something to chew on. My fingers touch a packet and out with a stick of gum comes the cards the nurse had given me. I’d stowed them in there because not throwing them away was the only decision I was capable of making. It was too much effort to do anything more than hide them.
My pillow goes back against the closed desk drawers. I shuffle the cards in my hands, stuffing them between folds in the blanket I have tossed over me when my roommate comes back from the bathroom down the hall.
Hailey sits down on her bed. Her knees bend and she slides to the floor, sitting with her legs crisscrossed. “I got it when you were sick, but don’t you think the bed is more comfy?” She braids her wet, sandy blonde hair, looking at me with eyes wide enough to give an LOL Surprise doll a run for their money.
“I think I got used to this. It’s like camping.” I push my fingertips into the carpet pile to prove it’s plusher than the bumpy ground under a tent.
She gives me a noncommittal shrug, snags her pillow, and props it against the chair that’s pushed underneath the desk so we’re seated next to one another. While Hailey’s distracted, I slip the cards some place safer where she won’t find them.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” She unloads the hall gossip about who is sniffling on our floor and someone who has gone home with mono. I let Haley continue talking, soothed that I’ve become the sounding board for her small troubles like the wilted lettuce on her burger at lunch, how her cell phone keeps using too much data and then slowing to a snail’s pace, and the bad movie ending she saw last weekend at her part-time job.
I met Hailey in class last year. I’d never classify her as a narcissist. Hailey works hard and we have similar family backgrounds. Well, in as much as our parents stayed married to their first spouses and we both used to go home a lot on the weekends. Hailey still does so she can work three days a week to afford her tuition. Now, I give my mom an excuse that I’m babysitting Owen even when I’m not even headed to Brighton.
“You know the guy you went out with when school started, Brandon?” Hailey asks, picking lint off of her pajama bottoms.
The mention of his name makes me uneasy. I swallow hard and look to the doorway. In my head, Brandon is “he” or “him”. More of a lurking shadow I can’t place who interferes with the foggy memories which don’t quite align in a proper sequence. Giving Brandon a name again makes him corporeal, human. It reminds me of the person Brandon led me to believe he was before that weekend instead of being the boogeyman keeping me from a regular night’s sleep in a bed with sheets and a mattress.
Hailey doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Alexa, who was in Freshman English with us, went out with him. She said Brandon was all hands. Stupid jerk. Don’t they know us girls all talk and his reputation will get around. I mean, what guy does that? She even said, ‘I’m not telling you again, take your hands off of me’ and he acted like it was her who was doing something wrong… Although, Alexa has sort of had a carousel of boyfriends in the past, if you know what I mean. So maybe he figured she was one of those girls who’d be okay with it. I still say he was a colossal asshole. I’m glad you dodged the bullet there. He’s probably the kind who hits on your best friend when you leave the room.”
“Yeah…” The words of agreement come out low. Not once has Hailey pushed for a reason why I stopped seeing Brandon. I guess she thought me being “sick” was what put the kibosh on any longer-term relationship. I’m not about to tell her otherwise.
Hailey scrambles back up to her bed when her phone dings. She texts someone back with a smile on her face. I ask her to turn out t
he light a few minutes later and scootch my pillow down under my head and shoulders, laying on my side and making a nest of blankets and whatever else I’ve found that’s squishy and warm to placate my senses.
The screen on Hailey’s phone keeps lighting up. Her nails clickety-clack on the glass, responding to the incoming messages. It must be a guy. If it weren’t so dark in the room, from the shy but happy expression, she could be blushing. I roll over, pretending to give her privacy.
The comforter for my bed hangs in my face. I touch a hanging thread. I miss happy. I want the normal pressure of college life back. The life I led six months ago when everything I was going through seemed hard, but I hadn’t realized it could get harder. I want to sleep in a bed the whole night through. Not this one, but at least the way I had those few hours at Kimber’s before I’d woken up thinking someone was outside the guest room.
The only place things seem normal is when I’m in Brighton with them. Maybe because it has an air of unfamiliarity. My life with my adoptive parents was distinct from the one my biological mother led.
I haven’t known Kimber as a full and unique person for long. Until I was older, she was more like a mythical fairy who bore me. At the point when I started college, everything in my life was changing. Our interactions became more frequent as I made my own choices as an adult. I like being with her and Trig and Owen. I’ve pondered, based on the comments at the kitchen table, if Jasper’s girlfriend has few friends and if she needs one the way I feel like I tend to when Hailey’s not around. And—no matter how hard I try not to—my thoughts land on Morgan.
It’s not just that he’s attractive, or the mystery surrounding why he lives with Trig and Kimber—which wouldn’t be mysterious at all if I bucked up and asked, but it seems rude. It’s that he’s part of their inner circle and I’m an outsider. When it comes down to it, I’m not under any illusions I’m girlfriend material for a guy like him. I’d love to have Hailey’s secret smile, glowing in the dark, spreading from one side of her cheeks to the next. However, Morgan won’t be the one to put it there. I guess I’m curious if I’m good enough to be friend material for any of them.
As it is whenever I try to sleep, my eyes flutter open and shut as the clock ticks on toward twilight. The phrase “good enough” lingers throughout the night. I can feel the cards under my hip where I hid them. I’d had plenty of confidence before. I didn’t worry about my grades or if anyone considered whether I wasn’t good enough for anything. I didn’t care if I didn’t fit the girlfriend mold for the rugged and built, drop-dead gorgeous guy. I could still admire him, and the men who paid attention to me weren’t any you’d need to fight off with a stick. It wasn’t until my world came crashing down all the second-guessing began. Am I worthy of a friend, a boyfriend, my parents, my grades, the life I had?
I’m tired of feeling like this. I’m exhausted. And I don’t know how to get the rest of it all to fade away the way sleep used to give me a reprieve from my ridiculous worries.
I pull the blankets up over my head until after Hailey has left for her class. Inspecting the hotline call number for the group in Brighton the nurse recommended, I have nothing left to lose. It’s not like learning the date they meet obliges me to go to the session.
My thumb slides across the digital numbers on my phone. It rings once. I panic, ready to hit the red hang-up button.
“This is Dr. Nash.” A cheery female voice answers my call on the second ring.
“My name is Aidy—” I begin because my mother taught me it’s the polite thing to do. Like the questions plaguing me, now I’m not so certain if I’m supposed to give my real name or if this is anonymous.
“Hi Aidy. What can I do for you?”
“I—” I don’t even know where to start or what to ask. “There’s a group?”
“We meet in Brighton. Is that near you?”
“No, but not far away.” I’m relieved Dr. Nash knows what I’m referring to without having to explain.
“Wonderful. I’m so glad you reached out. We’d love for you to join us.” Dr. Nash tells me she along with a few graduate students facilitate the program and the number of group members varies depending on the week. She also emphasizes the organizers leading the discussion “fully understand” what the group members have been through. At first, I take her reassurance at face value, but reading between the lines I realize what Dr. Nash isn’t saying; the psychology graduate school moderators have all been victims. “Our goal is to give women a chance to connect in a positive environment, express their concerns, and many times find solutions based on other’s experiences after trauma. What’s shared we ask for participants to keep confidential.”
“Do you have to talk?” How would these women react if they knew I remember nothing but what happened afterward? I can’t even prove who it was and, even more than a judge and jury, I doubt they’d accept me when the stories replaying in their heads are vivid or viscous.
“Share only what you’re comfortable with. No one will stop you, but there’s no expectation within the group that anyone bare their soul. Many women prefer to keep certain aspects of their experiences to themselves or between them and their therapist or crisis counselors. We’re about moving forward. Sometimes it helps to know you’re not traveling the path alone. That another woman has had the same feeling of overwhelm about a situation others may deem insignificant. Even taking small steps can be hard, but those little leaps of faith add up.”
Dr. Nash has a quiet comfort to her voice. Her words are strong, yet tender. It’s like she’s in the room with me. In all likelihood, she isn’t saying anything I hadn’t been told at the health clinic. The difference is, I’m willing to absorb it.
“Our meeting is today. If that’s not too soon for you, Aidy, please come. Feel free to come observe and see if our group is a good fit for you. Maybe go back and discuss it with your own counselor.”
I won’t admit I don’t have a therapist but agree I might come.
Driving to Brighton means missing my sole class for today. Academically, I’m so far behind this one instance won’t affect it. I’d rather be too chicken to get out of the car once I’m there than sit in a lecture hall worrying I should have gone. My mental distractions on campus already prove more than I can handle.
I get to the address Dr. Nash gave me over the phone with a few minutes to spare. Several women are walking into the building at the same time. A few clutch the straps of their purses. My grip tightens on my wristlet. Two ladies chat as if nothing is amiss and I’m surprised when they follow the signs to the same room. Before I can take a seat, a woman in her mid-forties approaches me, introducing herself as Dr. Nash. The slightest crease in her brow releases when I tell her who I am.
“Welcome. We’ve all been the new person in this room,” she reminds me without mentioning our call.
“Thank you,” I respond, taking a spot a few down from the others so I’m not listening in on their quiet conversations and close enough I’m not a pariah. I’m antsy waiting. Removing a hairband from my wrist, I tie my purple locks up into a messy ponytail. It’s better than wringing my hands, and there’s a sign stating cell phone use is prohibited.
I laugh inward at the things about myself I no longer understand. I stole the first box of hair dye. I want to sink into obscurity, but I liked the color and touched up my roots. Apparently, I’m also still a person who will silence their cell phone before the message flashes across a movie screen.
There’s a momentary lightness to my mood. Then someone brushes beside me and the metal chair scrapes on the floor. I see a swath of long black hair as the woman takes the seat beside me. Sloan lets out a long breath as I catch her profile. She doesn’t turn to face me. Instead, Sloan pats my knee and I close my eyes, fighting back tears.
Embarrassment has my heart wildly beating until I realize why Kimber’s friend is here. This is rape, incest, and sexual abuse survivor group. The way Sloan behaves outside of this room, I wouldn’t have had an inkling
she’d ever belong here—as if it’s a club with membership privileges.
My hands are folded in my lap. Sloan holds out one of hers, palm up. When I take it, she laces her fingers through mine. The rest of the session she doesn’t look or react to me. Sloan’s focus stays on the young woman speaking who has concerns about going on a business trip with a male counterpart at the company she works for. The description she paints of him is that he’s never given her any reason to doubt his fidelity to his wife. No one insists her fears are unfounded because he’s a family man with small children. They encourage her in small ways they’ve found emboldened by. I get the impression based on her reactions that whatever has happened to her was recent. Like me, she’s gun-shy, picking apart every nuance of her existence. A few other women give her advice, making me recognize their personal stories’ involved someone they trusted.
Later in the hour, it’s not the case. I’m wiping away tears, watching someone else rub spots on their arms where her bruises have faded away, but her horrible memories linger. I’ve hated the shadow not knowing what really happened that night with Brandon cast on me. But these women? They live each day with the vividness of those demons.
As each of the ladies gathers their things to leave, I’m drained. For weeks I’ve been alone in my head and I’m also struck by how being here has changed me. Anyone can throw whatever statistic they want out, but people make things real.
Sloan squeezes my fingers before she stands. I’ve been so wrapped up in the session I almost forgot she was here. Embarrassment flows back over me.
“So—” She huffs. “What happens in Vegas, you know?”
I nod in agreement.