by Lizzy Ford
We both buy new handbags then head to the make-up counters in one of the upscale department stores. Two bottles of fingernail polish, three eye shadows and a pair of shoes later, we leave the store and stroll through the mall.
I almost, almost feel normal. I’m shopping with my best friend, gossiping about the kids at school and family. My hands aren’t shaking, and neither are my insides. Loud noises still startle me, but it’s okay, because I’m just another face in the mall.
We pass by the music and video store, and Ari stops to window shop. We go inside, so she can grab some DVDs. I stop beside her as she searches through a rack and glance up at the television playing the news a few aisles over. The sound is off, but the newscasters look cheerful. I glance at Ari as she moves away then back up at the television.
I read the ticker and gasp.
Latest trend among political heirs: Senator Henry Jakeson’s son ditches politics, intends to follow Keith Connor’s son into the NFL next spring.
The footage from last spring shows Robert grinning and talking to an attractive sports reporter. He’s just come off the football field from something called the Combine and carries a water bottle in one hand. His stance is easy, his smile confident. Arrogant. Like there’s nothing in this world that can stop him after his first round draft pick and the multimillion dollar contract.
“Oh, god.” He’s here, too. He’s everywhere.
“Don’t look.” Ari grabs and yanks me hard away.
My knees are weak, my stomach churning. Tunnel vision makes Ari blurry. She staggers as I lean into her.
“Okay, okay,” she says. “Just … okay. Close your eyes. Pretend you’re in the closet.”
I close my eyes and sink to my knees.
“Okay, we’re in the closet,” Ari’s voice warbles. “It’s bright. Your shoes are like, right here. Handbags are here …” I can’t hear her anymore. I’m stuck in the in-between place.
It’s safe here. I don’t like it, but it’s dark and quiet.
“Mia!” Ari’s loud voice is accompanied by a pinch so hard, my eyes snap open. She and the store clerks are standing over me. “Okay, okay. She’s okay.” Ari’s voice is frantic and her eyes are large. “Right? You’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I mumble.
“Here,” another clerk joins us, holding a bottle of soda from the coolers near the cash register. Ari takes it and opens it. I sit up and sip.
“Chris is sending a car,” Ari says. “Please tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay. Why’d you tell him?” I ask, irked.
“Right! Because you just passing out shouldn’t freak me out.”
I sigh. “Sorry, Ari.” I get to my feet.
The clerks step back, but lingers. I test my legs then gather my bags. Ari follows suit. I’m still feeling queasy, but try not to show it, for her sake. We leave the store and move into the mall. Ari is staring at me.
“I’m okay, Ari,” I tell her. “I just … I saw him and freaked …”
“I understand.” Ari is quiet for a long moment, thoughtful.
We walk towards the entrance. I don’t want to go in the car Chris sent, but I’m also more than ready to go back to my closet. I can’t believe what I saw: a guy with no cares in the world, getting a multi-million dollar deal. Being rewarded for being who he is. I can’t make it through the whole day without crying. I can’t sleep in my own bed. I can’t forget him, but he doesn’t think about me for even a second of his day, week, life.
“Mia, I was thinking...” Ari starts as we walk into the warm, autumn day.
My body is shaking. I don’t see the car yet and head towards a bench sitting against one of the walls. It smells like cigarettes.
“Maybe … maybe you should go to the police about you know, him.”
“I can’t, Ari. You know that.”
“But you can’t pass out every time you watch TV.”
“I’ll get better.” Eventually.
“Mia, I’m serious,” Ari insists. “Go to those cops who rescued you. You got them medals. They’ll listen to you.”
“Ari …” I sigh. She has no idea how right she is, especially about Dom. “Let me guess, you think it’s the right thing to do, too.”
“It is the right thing to do.”
Her words kill me. She sees the look on my face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …” Ari sighs.
“It’s okay. Everyone tells me I’m wrong. Oh, I didn’t tell you about yesterday, did I?”
She shakes her head.
The car pulls up, and we both walk towards it. The chauffeur opens the back door, and we slide in. I raise the privacy glass between us and the chauffeur, then inch closer to Ari. Her mouth drops open as I recount the trap the DA set for me.
“Omigod!” she breathes. “I can’t believe they did that to you. What’d Chris say?”
“I didn’t tell him.”
“Because …”
“Because I don’t know what to do.”
“Oh. Wow. So you might do what they want you to?”
“Shea says if I step forward, they’ll humiliate me and my family, because I was drunk and underage and had a fake ID and stuff. Chris says he-said, she-said cases are hard to prove in court, that the burden will be on me to prove he hurt me,” I continue.
“In either case, your daddy will lose the Connor family, fracture the conservative base before elections, and give the press way too much fodder on your family,” she murmurs.
“Yeah. I can’t go through it again, Ari.” I slump in the seat. “But last night, instead of seeing him in my dreams, I saw all those girls. I can’t stop thinking about them, Ari.”
“Well, the football deal he got will take him away,” she reasons. “Maybe if he’s not here, with the other guy, maybe he’ll stop hurting people.”
“I hope so. I hope I was the last.”
There’s pain in Ari’s eyes as she looks at me. I can see what she’s thinking: that Dom and the DA are right.
I try to smile, but can’t. “I want this all to go away, Ari.”
“I know.” She squeezes my hand. “It’s so shitty you got stuck with community service. Why didn’t Chris get you out of that?”
“I don’t know. You know the cop, Dom, who helped me? I’m going to do the service at his sister’s shelter or something.”
“Really?” Ari grins. “You know, he’s a hottie.”
“No.”
“Um, yeah, he is. I saw him on TV when your dad gave him the award.”
“I guess I’m not really … I kinda don’t want anything to do with guys. Ever, ever again,” I say with a frown.
“If you have his phone number, I’ll call him.” Ari giggles.
I manage a smile, but her suggestion bothers me, maybe because Dom is my guardian angel.
“I’m just kidding, Mia. But he’s hawt.”
“If you say so,” I mumble.
“When do you start?”
“Chris hasn’t said. But he said I’ll have to do it during school, too. One hundred hours, Ari.”
She rolls her eyes. “Lame.”
We make it back to the house, and I hop out. She’s headed back to the mall to get her car, and I go upstairs with my bags. I walk into my closet and pull out my new shoes and handbag. I stand there for a moment, staring at my nest on the floor.
Robert Connor got a football deal and a new life somewhere else. My closet suddenly seemed too small. I’m not sure what to do. I put my make-up in my bathroom and leave, lingering in the middle of my room.
Am I angry or scared? Both?
“You start tomorrow morning.”
I twist to face the door I left open. Chris is in the doorway, portfolio in his hands.
“What?” I ask.
“You’re going to the women’s clinic in the morning. You’ll do four hours a day, four days a week, until school starts. Immediately after, you’ll meet with Dr. Thompkins.”
I gaze at him. I’m not paying
any attention to what he’s said. He waits.
“You’re not in your closet,” he says finally.
“I saw the news,” I reply.
“And?”
“It’s not fair.” I look towards my closet. “I hate my closet. I hate that I can’t leave it, while he gets all that!” I wave my hand at imaginary riches.
“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”
“Robert Connor got a football deal. I’ve got my closet.”
“We’re back to Robert Connor.” Chris sounds puzzled. “I thought you cleared this up with your daddy when you talked.”
“Right. Because Daddy lets me tell him what to do,” I reply.
“I’m not sure what to do, Mia. Here’s Dr. Thompkins’ card.” Chris holds up a business card and steps far enough into the room to place it on the table under a mirror on my wall. “If you need to talk, call him.”
“You and daddy have a lot of limitations,” I tell him, angry again.
“Community service starts at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Please be on time.” He leaves my doorway.
I grab a pillow, the nearest thing to me, and fling it at the door with a frustrated growl. I go back to my closet, my anger fizzling into panic once again. I grab my journal and write.
* * *
Dear Diary,
I saw Robert Connor today on TV. Made me want to throw up, but I realized something. He’s not living in a closet or going to community service. Why am I?
* * *
I pause and peer out of my closet at my bed. Standing, I leave my closet and circle my room a couple of times, restless and upset. Dr. Thompkins’ card is clenched in my hand. I put it in my journal then sit on my bed to continue writing.
* * *
Sometimes I just wish someone in my house cared a little more. Chris is trying, but he’s driving me crazy. I mean, it’s like he’s got a checklist of things to do to help me feel better and when he runs out of ideas, he hands me over to Dr. Thompkins. How do I get out of this rut? How do I become more like everyone else who can leave the house without passing out and less like … me?
Eight
I arrive at St. Mary’s Women’s Clinic at eight thirty the next morning. My good luck quarter is in my pocket. My newly appointed bodyguard opens the door, and I enter. My jaw is clenched. Shea made me change clothes before I left the house, and I saw why as soon as the car leaves the gates.
Members of the press followed me to the clinic, snapping photos of me that I’m sure will help Daddy look good. Just like his team planned. The waiting area of the clinic smells of disinfectant, and there are two women behind the reception desk.
“Hi,” I say, approaching. “I’m um, here for my, ah …”
“I’m Gianna, Dom’s sister.” One of the women is short with sparkling brown eyes and dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. She appears to be in her mid-30s and is wearing a thick, gold wedding ring. She holds out her hand.
“Hi,” I respond, shaking her hand. “I’m Mia. This is …” I gesture to my bodyguard. I don’t remember his name. He doesn’t supply it. “Fabio. He’ll be around.”
“Fabio?” the receptionist snorts, looking him up and down.
Fabio is African-American, almost seven feet tall, in a suit and sunglasses. He looks like a statue. I’m not even sure he breathes; maybe he’s a robot.
“Your people explained,” Gianna says. “We open in half an hour. Let me show you around real quick.”
She smells like fresh bread and cinnamon. I take a huge whiff as she moves past me.
“We offer counseling, emergency shelter, meals, and limited medical treatment for women,” she explains, leading me down a hallway.
I soon discover the source of Gianna’s food scent. We pass a large kitchen and cafeteria, restrooms, crude open bays with bunk beds where I hear crying children and see women and enter the medical clinic area. There’s already a line of women outside the door.
“Any first aid or emergency medical training, like from Girl Scouts?” Gianna asks, her Jersey accent clear and thick.
“Uh, no.”
“That rules out helping the nurses. I don’t guess you know how to clean?” Her question is accompanied by a wink.
“Not really.”
“We’ll probably put you in the office. You can type?”
I nod.
We walk through the quiet building to an office area with six cubicles, four of which are occupied. Gianna leads me to one of the two empty ones.
“This is Lorena’s desk. She’s on maternity leave, so you can take her spot.”
I look at the messy desk. There are crumbs on the keyboard, a coffee cup with mold growing in the murky liquid, an ancient monitor caked with dust and grime, and papers everywhere. I’m afraid to touch the filthy desk. There’s no way in hell I’m sitting there. Then I look into the warm gaze of the sister to the man who saved my life, the man who wants me to do the right thing, because he’d never let anything bad happen to his sister. What’s it like to have someone who loves you?
I hate my life.
“Okay,” I say.
“You may have to run errands in the building every once in awhile. Our operation tries to save money by keeping a small staff,” Gianna explains. “We rely on support from the Catholic dioceses and private sponsors, like your father.”
“Let me guess. He had to bribe the Church so they’d let the daughter of a Southern Baptist politician come here.”
Gianna laughs. “We prefer to call them donations.”
I roll my eyes. That explains what else Chris had to arrange.
“Come on. I’ll show you the supply closet and break room, then get you started,” she says.
I follow. Gianna seems really happy for someone who works in a place with sagging walls covered by depressing signs about abuse statistics and biblical quotes. We go to the break room, with its ancient refrigerator and stained microwave, rickety table and mismatched chairs. Gianna sits down and pats the table in front of a chair across from her.
“A little bit about me,” she starts. “I’m married with three kids. Monsters, all of them.” Her smile is contagious. “I’m a certified counselor with a master's in social work. I’ve been in this field for years. Something about helping other women and kids that makes me feel like I’m contributing to the betterment of the world. It’s a rough job at times. You’ll see a lot of pain, but a lot of hope, too.”
“Your family is all about bettering the world,” I say when she pauses. “Your brothers are cops.”
“Yes! Dom told you?”
I nod.
“And you? What’s your background?” she asks.
“My family destroys the world,” I reply dryly.
Gianna smiles.
“I don’t know. I’m the product of a politician and a French actress. My older, step-siblings want nothing to do with me because my mother replaced theirs in the family. My daddy’s lawyer and publicist babysit me while my parents are … uh, doing what they do. I go to school and hang out with friends. In a year, I can leave this all behind me and do what I want with my life.”
Gianna’s smile has faded. “What is that?”
“Not this,” I say, glancing around. “Maybe something with animals. I lost my faith in humanity.”
“Dom told me you’d been through something awful recently,” Gianna says.
“Something like that.”
“Many of the women here have been through experiences similar to yours. Dom couldn’t tell me why you are serving community service. I was pretty angry when he said a rape victim was given one hundred hours. I just want you to know, if you need to talk or if something you see here upsets you, please let me know. I talk to women who have gone through rape and abuse on a daily basis. There’s nothing you can tell me that I won’t be able to handle. Okay?”
I look away and nod.
“Let’s get you started on something.” She stands and leads me out of the break room.
“I saw on TV. He’s very quiet about his work, but I put it together yesterday, when your people called for a time this morning. Dom called right after. He said you’re a fighter.”
I say nothing. I don’t know how he can speak well of me after the other day. What if he thinks I’m a coward?
“Here we are,” Gianna says.
I look at the dirty desk. This is hell.
She shows me how to fill out some forms online then gives me a stack of forms with handwritten entries that I have to type into the computer. I do so in between texting Ari about how much this gig sucks. As soon as the doors open at nine, the place is flooded with people. It’s loud, and everyone seems upset.
I want to cry after two hours there. I take a break in the kitchen and drink a diet soda while wondering what all the stains are in the microwave. There are roaches; I see a huge one waddle across the floor.
I’m not Gianna. I can’t work or live or even visit a place like this. I don’t know how she can. She’s a better person than I will ever be, just like her brother.
When my four hours are up, I bolt to the awaiting car. There’s still a line outside the center and a crowd inside. Gianna texts me a cheerful, See you Wednesday! I don’t know how to respond. I want to tell her I’m pretty sure I’d rather go to jail than show up Wednesday.
I arrive home and walk inside to find Dr. Thompkins waiting for me with Chris in the foyer. I groan.
“Later? Please?” I beg.
“Nope. Go,” Chris replies. “Study.”
I sigh and obey. There are cookies and small sandwiches along with a pot of tea. I grab a few cookies and pour myself some tea, then sit down and wait. Dr. Thompkins sits across from me and Chris at the head of the table, a few seats away.
“Tell me about today,” Dr. Thompkins says.
I glare at Chris, but assume he’s not about to leave. I go over my day with Dr. Thompkins, who peppers me with questions while Chris listens.
“I understand you had an incident yesterday at the mall.”
I tense at Dr. Thompkins’ words. “It was nothing.”
