Maybe I Will Page 11

  I went back into the car, pulled out my phone, and checked for messages. “Nothing,” I said.

  “Maybe you should call them and see what they say.”

  I shoved the phone in my jacket pocket and tried to figure out what to do. I leaned over the car with both palms of my hands on top of the trunk and tried to breathe. “They’ll tell me to come home,” I concluded. Just then my phone rang.

  “Are you going to answer it?” Shanika asked.

  I took a deep breath and nodded. The caller ID flashed Home. “Hello,” I answered tentatively.

  “Hi, Sandy. It’s me, Dad. Where are you?”

  “Shanika’s bringing me home. But we were wondering if it would be okay for me to go with her to pick up a pizza and take it back to her dad at the studio.”

  “Not tonight, Sandy. I want you to come straight home.”

  I knew it wasn’t worth arguing, but wanted to see what he might tell me. “Why? What’s up?” I could see Shanika straining to hear what Dad would say. I held the phone several inches away from my ear so she could hear, too.

  “Nothing’s up. I just want you to come straight home. Where are you now?”

  “In Shanika’s car.” I answered. “I’ll be home soon.”

  As I hung up the phone, Shanika exclaimed, “Nothing’s up! How do you like that?” We both got back into the car. “He knows you’re going to see the police car as soon as you get there.”

  I took a deep breath. “I don’t care,” I said. “I really don’t.”

  Shanika gave me a weird look, but then asked, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just drive me home.”

  Shanika turned the car around and started driving back toward my house. “Do you want me to go in with you?”

  YES! I wanted to scream. Instead I looked away. “This is my mess. I guess it’s time I faced it.” I looked back at Shanika and felt tears forming in the corners of my eyes. “Thanks, though.” I wiped my eyes.

  Neither of us said another word until I was getting out of the car to go inside. “Sandy,” Shanika said. “Call me and let me know what happens, okay?”

  I nodded.

  When I walked in, Mom and Dad and two uniform police officers were all sitting around the kitchen table. Mom had a legal pad she was scratching notes on. Dad had a glass of wine and was flipping through some papers. Mom rushed to greet me, gave me a big hug and whispered in my ear, “I don’t want you to say anything until we figure out what’s going on.”

  She introduced me to the officers and then said, “If you’ll excuse us, my husband and I would like to talk to Sandy privately for a moment.” She motioned to Dad to come with us. “If you want to wait right here, we’ll be in the study.”

  As we walked into the back room, I felt my pulse quickening, and the monster taking over. “Nothing’s up!” I shouted at Dad. “You’re sitting here talking to the police and nothing’s up!”

  “Lower your voice, Sandy,” my mom instructed. “You haven’t been exactly forthcoming with us lately either.”

  Touché. I shut my mouth, seething in the silence. I waited for my parents to sit down, but they didn’t. Apparently we’re not staying long.

  “For God’s sake, Sandy,” Dad said. “Just help us understand what happened.”

  “Nothing,” I retorted. “The store thought I was shoplifting and banned me from ever going back. End of story.”

  My parents looked fully taken aback. “Shoplifting?” Mom asked. “You think this is about shoplifting?”

  “What store are you talking about?” Dad demanded.

  Mom waved her hands. “We can talk about that after the police leave.” She reached out her hand toward Dad. “Here, give me the notebook copies.”

  As Dad passed the papers to Mom, I could see that the note-book that had been copied was mine . . . the one I left in Conaway’s class. I gasped and tried to grab the papers from my Mom. She handed them to me without a struggle.

  “Maybe we’d better sit down,” Mom said. We sat on the leather couch, Mom and Dad on opposite ends and me in the middle. “Sandy, the officers are here to investigate a possible sexual assault.”

  I dropped the papers, balled my hands up in fists and pressed the heels of my palms as hard as I could into my eyes to hold back the tears. It was no use. I wept uncontrollably. My parents enveloped me in their arms and let me cry. Eventually, I struggled to free myself and motioned toward the box of Kleenex. Dad got them for me. Still, my throat was swollen shut and my nose so stuffed up that I couldn’t speak.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Mom asked softly.

  I picked up the papers, handed them to her and threw my hands up in the air as if to say, “It’s all there.” I was breathing so heavily. Every time I tried to say a word, all that escaped was a high-pitched whine. I blew my nose and shook my head and blew my nose again.

  After several totally “mom” moments, Mom shifted into her lawyer mode. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said turning to my dad. “These officers just need to make an initial report. They need enough details to determine a crime occurred and have a detective assigned to the case. That detective is going to want to talk to Sandy. It’s not going to happen tonight.” Mom turned back to me. “Okay, Sandy?”

  I nodded. She put one hand on my knee and lifted my chin up with her other hand so she could look me in the eyes. “You’re not going to talk to the police tonight. But I need to you answer a few simple questions for me right now.”

  I nodded.

  “Were you sexually assaulted?”

  Tears filled my eyes as I broke down again. My parents encircled me once more.

  “I need you to at least nod or shake your head,” Mom continued gently. “Can you do that?”

  I nodded.

  So Mom asked me again, “Were you sexually assaulted?”

  I nodded. I began to feel Dad shaking beside me, but he didn’t let me go, and he didn’t say a word.

  “Was it Aaron Jackson?” Mom asked.

  I nodded. Dad held me tighter.

  “Cassie’s boyfriend?” he asked.

  I nodded again. Mom took a deep breath and reached for a Kleenex for herself. Then she handed one to Dad. They were both crying now, too.

  “The officers are going to need to know where you were when it happened,” Mom said softly.

  “At Cassie’s.” It sounded more like a long whimper than actual words.

  “At Cassie’s?” Mom confirmed.

  I nodded.

  “Okay, Sandy, just one more question and then I’ll go back and talk to the police.” She sighed deeply. “Do you remember when it happened?”

  I nodded. “The Ides of March,” I mumbled.

  “Sometime in March?” asked Mom.

  “The Ides of March,” said Dad. “March 15.”

  I nodded.

  Mom gave me a big hug. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “You two stay here.”

  Dad and I waited in silence. I leaned back on the couch, closed my eyes and let myself drift off to Neverland. I could hear Wendy’s voice: You just think happy thoughts. They just lift you in the air. But no happy thoughts came. So I tried to think of nothing instead.

  When Mom came back, she told us the officers wanted to take my notebook with them. I pulled it out of my backpack for her. She quickly compared it to the photocopied pages. “Have you written anything new today?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “All right, then. I’m going to let them have the notebook, and we’ll keep the copy.”

  23

  How poor are they that have not patience!

  What wound did ever heal but by degrees?

  —Othello, Act II, Scene iii, Lines 376-377

  I DIDN’T GO to school the next day. Dad stayed with me in the morning; then Mom came home for the afternoon when Dad had classes to teach. We were all together for lunch, though, and that’s when we started really talking again. I told them about the drinking, and the
alcohol I’d taken from their liquor cabinet and the stores. I assured them I was done with drinking, but I didn’t tell them about the vodka I still had hidden in my closet. Just a little extra security, just in case.

  I didn’t tell them that I was with Aaron and Cassie when I took that first drink, either. When Dad brought the subject of Aaron up, Mom told me that I could talk about it if I wanted, or that I could wait until our appointment with Dr. McMann that evening. Then we talked about the whole Erin/Aaron and therapist/theRapist thing and whether I thought I could be comfortable talking to Dr. McMann.

  “I’ll cancel the appointment if you want me to,” my mom said. “But all three of us need to get in to see a therapist as soon as possible.”

  “You mean a counselor, right?” Dad interjected.

  “Sorry,” Mom apologized. “I plan to remove the word therapist completely from my vocabulary.”

  “Let’s just see how it goes tonight,” I said.

  The phone rang as we were eating and talking, but no one rose to answer it. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message,” Dad said. It was, and they did. A Detective Morales left the message saying she wanted to arrange a time to talk with me. “Can we wait until after we meet with Dr. McMann?” Dad asked Mom.

  “I don’t see why not,” Mom agreed. “I’ll return the call tomorrow morning.”

  “Just make sure it doesn’t interfere with rehearsals,” I said. I was already stressing about having to miss rehearsal that afternoon since I wasn’t at school. So I watched the old Peter Pan video starring Mary Martin and studied my lines all afternoon.

  When it was finally time to go to our appointment with the counselor, Mom grabbed her keys and called for Dad to come out of the study.

  “Can I drive?” I asked. I’d had my permit since driver’s training last summer, but we’d agreed to wait until summer to get me my license and a car. “I need the practice driving downtown, and it’s past rush hour.”

  Mom exchanged a glance with Dad before nodding. “Here you go,” she said, handing me the keys. “And your dad can ride up front with you. I’ll be happy to take a back seat this evening.”

  We rode in silence. My parents firmly believed music or conversation was an unnecessary distraction for teenage drivers. So I pushed everything else from my mind and focused on driving my mom’s Mercedes. It wasn’t new or fancy, but I loved the Metallic Steel Grey color and how powerful it felt to be in the driver’s seat with my hands on the steering wheel.

  There was nobody in the waiting area when we arrived at Erin TheRapist’s office. Dad and I sat down in chairs on either side of a table with magazines, and Mom went up to ring the bell by the abandoned receptionist desk. Erin TheRapist appeared within seconds.

  Mom handled the introductions, then Erin TheRapist suggested that she meet with each of us briefly, individually during the first part of our session, and then together during the last half. She turned to me and smiled brightly, ‘Would you like to go first, last or in between?”

  Or how about not at all? I shrugged. Everyone was staring at me, waiting for me to answer. “Why do I have to decide?” I asked finally.

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” Her voice was reassuring. “Who would you like to decide?”

  I shook my head, trying to figure out the game she seemed to be playing. Suddenly I wanted to talk to Mom. “Dad can go first,” I said.

  Erin TheRapist nodded. “Dr. Peareson, if you’ll follow me, please.”

  “Certainly,” Dad said, “And you can call me Bill.”

  Mom sat down in the chair beside me. I picked up a People magazine and started leafing through it. Mom pulled her reading glasses and an advance sheet of recent court decisions from her bag. I watched her as she started reading.

  “So how much have you already told her?” I asked.

  Mom removed the reading glasses from her nose before turning to look me in the eyes. “Pretty much everything I know about what’s been going on.”

  I rolled up the magazine and used it to tap on the table like a drumstick. “Has she seen the notebook?”

  Mom nodded. “I faxed her the pages last night after you went to bed.”

  I swallowed hard and tried to look like it didn’t matter. “Did you know she was going to meet with us individually at first?”

  “No.” Mom shook her head. “This was scheduled as a family session, so I just assumed we’d all go in together.” She pulled a pint-size water bottle from her bag and held it out towards me. “Want a drink of water?”

  I shook my head and unrolled the magazine like I was going to read again.

  Mom opened the bottle and took a drink. “Let me know if you want some. I’ve got another one.”

  I stared at the bag and wondered what all it contained. Mom stuff. Lawyer stuff. Woman stuff. All the stuff we might need. I rolled the magazine up in the opposite direction to straighten it back out again. “So why do you think she’s doing it?” I asked. “To divide and conquer?”

  Mom looked at me and smiled. “Maybe,” she answered, raising her eyebrows. “Or maybe she just wants the chance to establish rapport with us individually or to see if there’s anything we have on our minds that we might be reluctant to say in a family session.”

  “Do you think Dad has something to say that he doesn’t want you to hear?” I asked.

  Mom sighed. “I really don’t know, Sandy. I don’t know much of anything anymore.”

  “Do you want to go next?” I asked.

  “Up to you.”

  We sat in silence. I wanted to go sit on her lap, like I used to when I was a kid, and have her wrap her arms around me and hold me tight until I felt nothing but safe and loved. She used to kiss me on my forehead and call me her beautiful child. When was the last time? Third grade? Fourth grade? By sixth grade I was as tall as she was. She’d still sneak up behind me sometimes, though, when I was sitting at the table and plant a big kiss on top of my head. Nobody but my mom ever kisses me anymore.

  I opened the magazine back up and pretended to read.

  “Who’s next?” Erin TheRapist asked when she and Dad returned.

  “Mom,” I said without looking up. Mom packed up her reading and followed Erin TheRapist back into whatever waited behind that door. Dad took her seat next to me, but didn’t say anything.

  “So where did she take you?” I asked, wanting to hear every detail.

  “Back to her office,” Dad replied. He picked up a Reader’s Digest, but didn’t open it.

  “What’s it like back there?”

  “Cozy. There’s an overstuffed chair and a loveseat. No couch big enough for me to lie down on.” Dad forced a phony smile.

  “So what did you talk about?” I asked. I noticed that I was bouncing my right leg nervously, but I didn’t feel like trying to stop it.

  “We talked about me. What I want to happen in our family.” I watched him closely as he spoke, trying to gauge whether he was holding back, whether they’d really just been talking about me. I waited to see if he would volunteer more, but he turned back to the Reader’s Digest. We waited in silence for Mom and Erin TheRapist to return.

  When my turn came, Mom gave me a big hug before sending me back with Erin TheRapist. Her office was bigger than I had pictured. A built-in bookshelf covered the wall by the doorway. There was a desk in front of that with different colored files neatly stacked on one corner and journals stacked on another. Over by the window was the loveseat and chair Dad had described. There was also a table and two chairs off to the left of that.

  “Have a seat wherever you’d like,” offered Erin TheRapist. So I sat down in the chair behind her desk.

  24

  Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt

  Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

  —Sonnet 144, Lines 13-14

  IF ERIN THE Rapist was surprised or upset that I was sitting behind her desk, she didn’t show it. She went over and sat down on the love seat. “Thank
you for agreeing to talk with me privately before we do a family session,” she said.

  I felt myself swiveling back and forth in her chair. I looked up and met her gaze, but I didn’t say anything. In my mind I could hear the monster chanting Aaron the Rapist, Erin TheRapist. First the shout, Aaron the Rapist! Followed by an echo, Erin TheRapist. I looked away.

  “Maybe we should start with your just telling me a little bit about yourself.” She looked so relaxed, like this was some sort of college interview or something.

  Psycho Therapy. Psycho Therapist. Tell her what she wants to hear.

  “I was sexually assaulted.” I blurted it out like I didn’t even care, but I was swiveling faster now.

  She nodded. “One time or more than one time?”

  I stopped swiveling. “One time.”

  She nodded again. “How long ago was that?”

  I stared at her. “March 15,” I said. The words sounded cold and sent a shiver down my spine.

  “Of this year?” she asked, oblivious to the coolness that suddenly permeated the room.

  I nodded.

  She leaned forward. Resting her elbows on her thighs, she clasped her hands together as if she were going to pray, but her eyes stayed focused right on me. “Sandy, we can talk about the sexual assault as much as you like, but that single event doesn’t have to define you. I’d like you to tell me what you would have told me about yourself if I’d asked you on March 14th.”

  My monster fled. Tears filled my eyes and began spilling out, rolling down my cheeks. She reached for a box of Kleenex from the table and held it out toward me.

  “It’s okay, Sandy,” she said.

  I stood and slowly walked over to accept the box of Kleenex. Instead of taking it back behind the desk, I collapsed in the over-stuffed chair beside her.

  “On March 14th I would have told you that my life was perfect.” I pulled a Kleenex from the box and blotted my eyes and nose. “I had the lead in the spring musical, plans to go to Juilliard, dreams of becoming a rising star on Broadway, maybe even in Hollywood.”

  “Do you still have the lead in the spring musical?” she asked quietly.

  I nodded.