I screamed with my chest open, ruthlessly. My friends were stunned, began laughing, and the men grew testy, looking around uncomfortably, stuck at the red light. They began peppering my scream with Crazy bitch! Crazy bitch! But I didn’t care. Their polished Mustang, their specks of hair, their dumb logistics; even if we did want to come to the club, we couldn’t all fit in the tiny car. I don’t want to have sex with you, I don’t want to go to the club, I don’t want you walking next to me, asking me where I’m going, how I’m doing, in a tone that wraps around me and pulls my shoulders up into my ears, making me want to go deaf and disappear. The tire full of nails had burst, tinkling like rain down onto their car. I felt powerful, intimidating, insane. I didn’t care if the entire world woke up. The light turned green. Chase them, my friend said, and we began running.
We were three girls sprinting after a single black car. She caught up with them at the next light and slapped the taillight. Get the fuck away from my car. Don’t you dare fuck up my car. They were angry at us, these women turned menaces, stepping out of line. I was still yelling, the adrenaline flooding, you stupid-ass pigs. But when I looked in the window, I saw the way one of the men glared at me.
Suddenly it didn’t feel like a game, and I snapped into defensive mode. Stop, stop. We stepped back and they sped away. Witness, if they come back we need a witness. My head swiveled around. There was a young guy with glasses about thirty feet behind us. He seemed taken aback, hands in his pockets, as if we were going to turn on him too. I was secretly thankful he was there. I held my forehead, out of breath, our chests still rising and falling.
That night, though I had planned to stay through August, I decided it was time to go. Home was not an option, anywhere but home, the hotbed of assault, festering memories. I needed to continue my route of avoidance.
The day Lucas’s internship ended, he boarded a plane and arrived in a rental car. He helped me pack up, gently rolling my prints, my whole life in this blue vehicle. We would drive down to Philadelphia, where I could stay with him until the hearing. He waited in the car, giving me time to say good-bye. I stood in my yellow room, my refuge, my chamber, remembering all the nights of suffocating heat, the terror that coated the walls, then melted away every morning. I left the fan, standing alone in the middle of the room, hoping it would bring coolness and quiet to whoever came next.
5.
THE HEARING WAS set for September 27. I had three weeks. In the last eight months I’d never spoken the full story aloud. If anything, I’d become less and less ready, my anxiety swollen inside me. I was standing at the edge of a cliff, tissue paper and sticks in my hands, being told to build something that would fly me and my sister safely to the ground.
Alaleh had arranged a call with me to begin preparing. In the month I’d been in Philadelphia, Lucas asked me many times, Do you have questions for her? Yeah, I said. Do you want to write them down? Not right now, I said. I don’t want to talk about it, maybe later. On the day of the call, he handed me a list of questions he’d typed up, outlined and categorized; Hearing vs. Trial, Timing, Communication with Other Party, Range of Final Outcomes, Settlement, Witnesses, Support for Chanel? I had scribbled a few words in pencil, slanted and trailing off the corner. I had questions, but all of them lacked neat answers: can I take Xanax on an empty stomach, will I ever be employed, is he mentally stable, am I losing my mind.
The call was scheduled for 5:00 P.M. I’d asked Lucas to join me, another set of ears to absorb the information. At five, my phone rang, but it was Tiffany; she was walking home and wanted someone to keep her company. She was telling me that she’d seen a documentary about how albatross couples mated for life, can you believe it. Lucas tapped my arm, gesturing toward the clock. He whispered, Time for your call.
I shook my head.
Hang up, it’s time! He motioned again.
I looked at him. Tiff can I call you back? Thanks.
I stood up. What’d you say?
It’s time for your call, he said.
You think I don’t know I have a call at five o’clock?
He was still.
What, you think, you think I can’t tell fucking time? That I can’t see the fucking time on the fucking stove? That you get to decide when I can and cannot talk to my sister? Hey, who was there that night? You? No? Who? Oh, her? That’s right. You know what kind of shit she’s going through? I will take every fucking call from her, EVERY FUCKING CALL FROM HER. You want to help me? You think SITTING here is fucking HELPING me?
My anger came pouring out, vile and immediate. My voice rose as if someone else’s hand was steadily turning the dial. He backed away, stood transfixed across the room, staring at me, scared of me, I was scared of me too. My words bled freely with nothing to clot them, How could you know anything about what this is like, what the hell can you do about it. I slammed my phone onto the counter. We both heard it break.
The screen had not cracked, but shattered, glass spilling onto the stools, the floor. Humiliated, I screamed at him to get out. He offered me his phone, I said, Get out. He paused. I’ll be downstairs if you need me, and the door clicked shut behind him. Trembling, I ran to grab a sock from my drawer, slipped it over my hand, used it to push my shattered phone into a ziplock bag. I locked myself in the bathroom with his list of questions and curled over my knees on the bathmat. My bag of glass was glowing, Alaleh was calling. My sock puppet slid and slid across a shard of glass, there was hardly enough surface left to accept the call. SHIT SHIT SHIT. Hello? Yes! Doing well! How are you?
When the call was over, I laid down with my sock on my hand. I didn’t recognize who I was becoming. Volatile, enraged, touch the topic and I’d explode. Soon I’d fly to California alone, while Lucas continued his life at school. I imagined a gap between us widening, my gradual unraveling, our relationship collapsing. What if when I returned I was even more fragile, destructive.
When I was ten, I attended a sleepaway camp, atop a hill dense with sugar pines. My dad gave me his down sleeping bag from his college years. But it had a tiny hole. When I woke up, little white goose feathers rested in my hair, all over the place, like it had snowed. Instead of asking a counselor to repair it, I decided to wait until we were scheduled to go to the art room, to get tape. I took one long piece, about six inches, and held it at the tip of my finger. After art, we had swimming, so I hid it, dangling off a bench, away from backpacks and legs and water. At night, I delicately carried the flappy piece all the way up the hill. But by then it had become wet and dusty, didn’t stick on like I hoped it would. For months after the assault, I’d been carrying around this little piece of tape, planning to patch everything up on my own. But it would not be enough. You need to tell somebody, you need to seal the holes, restore your warmth, stop cleaning up the feathers. The next day, I agreed to go to therapy.
It may seem strange I had postponed it for so long, considering my dad’s a therapist. But I was still in complete denial about the magnitude of the role this case would play in my life. Only when it was staring me in the face did I succumb to addressing it.
Growing up, all I understood about therapy was that on take your kid to work day, I never got to go. My dad was busy helping people with divorce, marital issues, alcoholism. When I was young, I thought my dad was a doctor for head injuries; if you bumped it, he gave you a Band-Aid, etc. I also wondered how he knew all the answers. Did he have a secret guidebook? I don’t tell them the answers, I guide them.
We used to stop by my dad’s office every Sunday morning. I’d dust the wooden bookshelves. Spray the ficus. Rake the sand in the stone garden. Stack his yellow legal pads. Feed his fish. I loved the teal and pink pebbles, silver striped minnows, orange billowing cheeks. Then I’d collect my payment; when people reclined in his cushioned chairs, coins fell out of their pockets, so I’d stick my hands in the crevices, scooping out pennies and gum.
I wished I was a fish so I could listen
to these strangers who trusted my dad with their secrets. For one hour they could safely unravel and cry and say the things they would never say in their daily lives, and when time was up, they’d bind themselves up again, setting off into the hum of the world.
But the people I imagined in his office never looked like me; they were adults who wore ties, women with large purses, finicky hands. I was the one who fed the fish, never the one in the seat. I called and made an appointment with a therapist who had worked at Women Organized Against Rape. A tall building. A sign-in sheet where I scribbled my name illegibly, afraid to be traced anywhere. A cream-colored couch. Deb, a woman with wavy brown hair, blue eyes. Notes on her side table, a family of small flowering cacti, quilted tapestries depicting branches. So quiet, at ease. I would do well here.
I needed to show her Emily, needed to bring her to the scene where she was found beneath the trees. For the first time, I was handing someone a flashlight declaring, Come with me. She followed me, pulling back branches, as I shined the beam of light on her body. The therapist looked with me. I told her we had three weeks to get Emily on her feet, get her ready.
The telling was a doozy, but afterward I felt lighter, like I’d left some of the weight up in the building, which made it easier to walk in the streets. I bought a small, red notebook and wrote, It feels better when the story is outside myself. I remember at Costco, my dad would buy tissues and toilet paper in bulk that Tiffany and I stacked to create a cushioned throne inside the shopping cart. Maybe he needed so many because people kept crying, their insides coming out, like me.
When my therapist asked me if I’d noticed the assault affecting other parts of my life, I instinctively shook my head. The whole point is that it’s entirely separate from my life, I’ve kept it that way for a reason. She didn’t respond, the two of us sitting in silence a moment. Sometimes I wondered if my testimony would work better for the defense, because if he asked, So you haven’t been affected? I’d want to say, Nope. I sat on my hands. Maybe, I’ve noticed some things. Anger, I’ve noticed. The way I carry myself, more nervous I guess. I wear this pretty much every day. I lifted my arms, the black sleeves of Lucas’s jacket extending past my hands like empty sushi rolls. As I spoke, I realized the assault had moved from the periphery to the very center.
I railed off all the worst things I’d heard about myself, judgments made and memorized from reading comments. They think I’m, they tell me, I shouldn’t have, on and on. She said, Can I ask if you’ve ever heard any of this in person? I thought awhile, pinching my mouth together, then shook my head. No, not once. It had never occurred to me that I’d given the opinions of online strangers equal weight to actual people. This was a powerful revelation. I had never heard those horrible things spoken; when the news was relayed to a person, silence enfolded them, a palpable sadness, a teardrop, a hug. I began to distinguish real experiences from online ones. I repeated mantras in my head, when I washed dishes, before I slept.
I did nothing wrong.
I am strong.
I have a voice.
I told the truth.
* * *
• • •
Alaleh called. The hearing was called off for September 27, moved to October 5. There was a sadness in the way I was able to say no problem without a second thought or a glance at my planner. For the past month my schedule had been empty, therapy only occupying a small chunk of every week. Take any day of mine you like, I have emptied them all for you. Great, she said. Can you let your sister know about the schedule change?
I was always the first to be updated, the one responsible for keeping Tiffany in the loop. I sat on the bed with the phone in my hand, knowing that in normal life, the date changes meant upheaval, collapse. She’d already rescheduled her finals the last time. Now she had six classes and two jobs. I dreaded the call. I’m sorry, I said.
I was met with a long pause. But I’ve already rearranged everything, she said. I can’t keep explaining. I could hear the strain in her voice, the stress spreading, turning into I can’t, I can’t, could hear it all stacking in her mind, but I already.
They will understand, I said. I’ll talk to them. I’ll help organize your schedule. You can quit one of your jobs, I’ll help you with your readings, we’ll get everything fixed. But she said no and no, that she could figure it out herself. I could hear her retreating, going quiet. I’m fine, she said, I don’t want to talk anymore. I need to go now.
I’ll make it up to you, I said as she hung up the phone.
I knew there were already times she’d stepped out of class, pacing the hallway, too unstable to reenter the room. I knew she’d abandoned plans with friends to go look at lineups at the police station, gave up concert tickets, missed birthdays and makeup quizzes. Knowing all of this hurt me the most. My life overshadowing hers, claiming to be more critical. The coldness of the court system, picking off pieces that make up a life.
A minute later my sister called back. I just wanted to make sure you know I’m not mad at you, just the situation. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I’ll figure it out, okay? My eyes blinked wet and taut. I nodded, I understood. I knew what it felt like to have nowhere to put the frustration, the way it infected our lives, caused us to lash out at one another, all of us lost.
I was ready for October 5. On the night before my flight, my small suitcase sat packed and zipped by the door. My red notebook was stocked with grounding techniques and encouragements: You are more powerful than anyone who has ever hurt you. It is not pathetic to feel and react. You are stronger than you know, even if you can’t feel it yet. I had soft pants laid out for the plane, clean socks. I stood in my flannel pajamas in the kitchen with a pair of scissors trimming the bonsai tree I’d bought to liven up Lucas’s apartment. My phone rang at 11:00 P.M.
I’m sorry, the hearing has been postponed, my DA said. Don’t get on the flight tomorrow. I held the phone without speaking and stared at my suitcase by the door, bloated and sealed. I tried to envision myself rolling it back into the bedroom, the exhale of it unzipping. Taking the time to tuck each piece of clothing away into its respective drawer, returning my toiletries to the sink, curling up into bed. Waking up to another vacant day, waiting to be told to pack up again. Preparing for court had become my sole purpose, all this momentum now halting. She also said since they’d paid for my first flight, I’d have to buy the ticket when the time came. I couldn’t afford it.
I’m coming home, I said. I told her I would stay in Palo Alto until whenever it started. All right, she said. I’ll keep you updated. Just let your sister know it’s off for now. That night, I did not call Tiffany. I would wait a couple of days to hear the final plan before rearranging her life. I was done jerking her around.
* * *
• • •
My parents’ home is a sun-infused sanctuary, one story, made of old wood, two brick chimneys, built in the seventies, painted a burnt salmon color, with a cracked cement driveway. Out front there are lava rocks, small banana trees, large palm fronds and lavender bushes my dad planted. Our door is lined with small nails for Christmas lights we keep up year-round. But when I got out of the car, I hated the neighborhood, hated the sunshine, the way time never seemed to pass, the green leaves that never changed. I hated the palm trees, so damn spunky. I missed the cluttered streets of Philly, the way lives overlapped, the crowded elevators and shopping bags bumping into my legs and the smog of buses and flimsy boxes of red chicken smeared in white cream from silver halal carts. My street was empty, the park empty, my house empty. I hated it.
I went to visit Gong Gong, my grandfather, who lives close by my parents’ house. He didn’t know about the assault, my mom said if he found out he’d be too heartbroken. He came to the United States when I was four to help raise me and Tiffy; once I saw him in my room, squishing my pillow between his hands. No good, he said. Next thing I knew we were at Ross and he was squishing all the pillows, findin
g a firmer one that would better support my neck. When he says “Chanel” it comes out sounding like “xiao niao,” which means little bird in Chinese. He hand fed me and my sister like little birds growing up, and every time I am in Palo Alto his is the first meal I eat.
I sat at his low table covered in Chinese newspaper and free calendars from banks as placemats. I ate a few bowls, helped translate his mail. The call came in. The hearing was back on. Alaleh said I could come see the space if I was free. I threw my empty bowl in the sink, hugged him, sprinted toward my car.
The courtroom was small, much smaller than I’d anticipated, dark and cramped and musty. Natural light came in from mold-spackled squares in the high ceiling. In the corner was a withered flag that never rippled, only hung, permanent in its formation of folds. Everything was stagnant and dreary, like the air had been stored there for years. I would be entering from the doors at the back, walking down the aisle like a bride. I didn’t like this period of vulnerability, everyone’s eyes on my back as I approached the witness stand. I would have preferred to emerge before them, more of a ta-da moment. The judge would be sitting to the left of me, perched above, a bigger bird in the same nest. My DA would stand before me at a podium. I would be looking directly at her.
Here’s where you will be sitting, get a feel for it. Brock will be sitting there. She pointed to an empty chair close to my stand. I nodded but it seemed impossible, that soon those seats would be full of bodies. She laid out the guidelines: I would first be sworn in. Be sure to speak loudly and clearly. I cannot respond with a nod, must give an audible yes. If there’s an objection, I must stop and wait for the judge to grant me permission to speak again. Only answer directly what is being asked. It’s okay to cry, but avoid being overly emotional. My advocate would sit in a chair adjacent to the stand, but during testimony she was not allowed to talk to me. I would be asked to identify Brock. They’d be using my first name in court, referring to me as Chanel Doe. Do not take his defense attorney’s confrontations personally. His questions will help her figure out his angle and prepare for the trial. You must always tell the truth.
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