My father’s beady eyes fixated on me as I approached, signaling his anger was on full throttle. My mother stared pitifully at me through watery eyes. There was no hugging but no hitting, either. I guess my dad wouldn’t abuse his child in front of the police. He thanked the officers, but not long after, his hand gripped the back of my neck and steered me forcibly out the door.
No words were uttered until we got into the car, where my father exploded. “Do you have any idea what you have put us through? Do you?”
“I’m—”
“Don’t speak! In fact, I’m too angry to speak. Everyone be quiet until we get home.”
I cowered in the back seat. We were in uncharted territory. My father, a full-blooded Sicilian, was a champion yeller. A silent waterfall of tears gushed down my face on the ride home, grateful for the blackness of the still barely night.
My parents exited the car swiftly, but my body moved in slow motion, as if wading through knee-high sand. I didn’t want to go inside. I didn’t want to face the music. I didn’t want to die.
“Hurry up,” my father growled. As I crossed through the front door, his foot kicked my behind, propelling me past the foyer and into the living room. The door slammed shut with a definitive sound.
He removed his belt and my heart lurched. He hadn’t whipped me since my elementary school years. Was he going to now?
“This is the last time you will behave this way!” Menace permeated his voice.
“Alphonso,” my mother said, hesitant.
“Not now, Diane,” he shouted.
Resigned, my mother backed out of the room, leaving me to defend myself alone.
“Dad, I’m sorry.” My heartbeat roared in my ears.
“Sorry isn’t enough. You’ve disgraced me. And yourself. And this family.” He moved closer, and I flinched.
“You can’t be serious.” Was he really going to beat me? I scrambled into the dining room.
He followed. “You need to be taught a lesson. This is how you learned as a child, and how you clearly need to learn again.”
My own anger—maybe from fear, stupidity, stress or all three—rose, spilling out before I could squelch it. It was like a waterfall, gravity pulling it downward and out of my mouth. “I’m not a child!” I shrieked. “And I’m tired of you acting like a goddamn tyrant!”
His wrath came quickly and severely as he raised his belt and snapped it against my arm and side. I fled. He chased, backing me into a corner in the kitchen. With no defense left, I curled into a ball while his stinging strap found a place to inflict its pain again and again. Each lash seared my shoulders, buttocks and back. I howled with every strike, yelling for him to stop, but he was relentless, ranting that I was useless, worthless, a disgrace.
Where were the knives? If I could just find my way over to them, I could kill the son of a bitch. And where the hell was my mother? How could she just stand by and let this happen?
“Say it!” my father yelled, whipping his belt against my skin again.
Say what?
“Tell me you’re worthless, a disgrace to this family.”
The pain was sharp and searing, yet I gritted my teeth and remained silent except for my ragged breathing. Call it stubborn pride, but I would not bend to his deranged will. He could not make me. He would not break me.
My father dropped the belt and grabbed me with both hands. Flipping me over on my back, he seized my shoulders and shook me back and forth, slamming my head into the wall with every blow while continuing to spew words about my disrespect and unworthiness.
“Say it!” he shouted.
Never.
“Goddamn you. Say it!”
Fuck you.
He pounded my head into the wall, his face contorted into the mask of a madman.
“Alfonso, that’s enough!” My mother screamed.
He paused.
Sensing my moment to escape, I scrambled to my feet and tried to run, but my legs gave out. I half-crawled, half-walked to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me. I threw open the window and stuck my head out, gulping air and hyperventilating through my tears. My breath came in gasps and fits. Wide-eyed, I tried to decide what to do next. A fresh adrenaline surge gave me a boost of intense, crazed energy. One sure thing was clear: I had to get out of there.
My door opened, and I whirled around. My mother entered, horror frozen on her face.
“You!” I screamed. “How could you do nothing? He could have killed me!”
“You brought this on yourself,” she said weakly.
I stared at her, stupefied. “You’re the one who’s worthless.” I bolted past her and out the front door, leaving the Trapani lunatic asylum behind.
38
The End
I had two options: take the car or flee on foot. It was a no-brainer. My hands shook as I struggled to insert the keys first into the door, then the ignition, but I succeeded. I peeled out, tires screeching.
I drove like a crazed person, sobbing uncontrollably as I swerved and weaved across the road. I couldn’t stop the tumbling emotions fighting for space in the hierarchy: anger, fear, shock, righteousness, incredulity and back again. Even though I couldn’t think straight, I kept driving. I had to get as far from my parents as possible. I steered the car toward the Oakland hills.
I passed Skyline High and could no longer fathom how I’d make it through my senior year. So much had transpired in the short time since school had let out. My entire life had changed.
And what about Pete? Even though he’d been a jerk the night before—had it really been just last night?—it was his arms I longed to hold me now, and his voice I needed to tell me everything would be alright. I steered the Volvo down the road taking me to him, wincing in pain as I shifted in my seat.
All appeared quiet at the O’Reilly house, perfectly logical for early Sunday morning. I cut the ignition, took a deep breath and closed the car door quietly. I crept to Pete’s bedroom window and knocked softly. It took him about five minutes, but he finally materialized, his hair still mussed from sleep.
He opened the window, but didn’t speak.
“Pete…” I didn’t even know where to start.
Silence.
“Listen, it’s been the worst twenty-four hours ever. How about giving me a break here?”
He laughed, but not nicely. “Give you a break? First you stand me up, then I find you drunk at a party, then I hear you got into a hot tub with my best friend, then thrown in jail…and you suppose only your last twenty-four hours were bad? Po-leeeze.”
I couldn’t imagine I had more tears to cry—was it a never-ending well?—but out they gushed. I didn’t even have time to question how he knew about the country club situation. “I didn’t want to stand you up. I tried explaining that last night. My ride was leaving, so I didn’t know what else to do. And I didn’t plan to go hot-tubbing. That’s where Reese took us. I thought we were going to another party.”
“Did you or did you not get into the hot tub?”
“I did.” Resignation drowned my voice.
“And did you or did you not take most of your clothes off to do so?”
“I didn’t want to even be there, let alone get in. I felt pressured, like I had no choice.”
“You had a choice alright, and you made it. You decided to end your relationship with me when you got in that hot tub naked with someone else.”
“I wasn’t naked, and I didn’t do anything with him.”
“Whatever. Whether you did anything more, that was bad enough. How would you feel if I had done the same thing with another chick?”
I wouldn’t like it. “I see your point, but I love you and only you. How can you not know that?”
“Anna, we’re over. I’m done with this kind of bullshit. You can get into hot tubs with whomever the fuck you want. It just won’t be me.”
“Pete, stop. Please. I get that you’re mad, but we have a good thing here. We love each other.”
He laughed h
is sarcastic, mirthless laugh again. “You’re a liar and a whore. This is strike two, in case you forgot. It’s now a pattern. We’re done.” He shut the window and closed the curtain, the finality and shock of his words sinking in as I stood rooted in place.
I stumbled back to my car blinded by tears and screamed once inside, banging the steering wheel with my fists. I gasped and heaved for air. I couldn’t breathe or see the road, but I had to escape. I started the ignition, put the car in gear and drove aimlessly, screaming into the empty car.
Then I knew. I steered a few blocks to the only other place I could conceive of going, despite the gamble. I hadn’t talked to Katy in months, ever since we drifted apart once I began spending my free time with Pete and his friends.
I pulled up at her house, half-heartedly collected myself and tiptoed to her bedroom window. It took me a few minutes to scrounge up the courage to knock on it, but I did. The shade flew open a moment later, and she gaped at me in surprise. She motioned me over to the front door.
“What the hell happened to you?” she said.
I glanced around nervously as I stepped into the foyer.
“It’s cool. My parents are at church. They go early.”
Over sobs, I pieced together the events, from Pete to the country club to getting arrested to the fight with my father and back to Pete again and his final cruel words.
For once, Katy was speechless, but only for a moment. “Let’s take one thing at a time—your dad first. That’s child abuse, Anna. We should report it.”
“No! I can’t. He’d kill me.”
“But, honey, he beat you up. Like, seriously. Your eyes are turning black and you’ve got welts and bruises on your body.”
I cried some more. “I know. It hurts all over.”
Katy handed me a few aspirin and a shot of something nasty from her parent’s liquor cabinet while she made me a cup of hot tea.
“We don’t have to make that decision today,” she said. “As for Pete, he’s an idiot. Although I can understand why he’s pissed about the hot tub thing.”
Convulsing sobs wracked my body. Katy held me, saying I could do better than Pete, but I was inconsolable. I had failed everyone I loved. And for what?
I sat up, blowing my nose into a tissue. “When are your parents coming home? I don’t want them to see me like this.”
“Soon.”
“I don’t want to be alone. Will you come for a drive?”
Katy paused. “Let me change first.”
How much longer did I have before my parents reported me missing, or at the very least, their car? Were the police already looking for me? I drove us to The Point, a safe hideaway, and parked. Perched on the stone barrier that overlooked the bay, Katy whipped out a bottle of wine she’d snagged from her house. I gratefully drank from it, looking for anything to numb the myriad of feelings coursing through me.
“Remember when we used to make those elaborate plans for running away?” I said.
She laughed. “Heck yeah. Your name was going to be Bailey Shifflet and mine—
“Jackie Nelson.”
Katy smiled. “I’ll bet I still have the map of routes I plotted out in the back of my closet somewhere.”
“Katy,” I said, looking at her. “I’m sorry. You know, about everything.”
“Me, too. I don’t even know what happened or why we’re not hanging out anymore. You were my best friend.”
“And you were mine. I miss you.” The truth.
We drank the rest of the bottle, reminiscing and catching up.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” I honestly didn’t, but in the back of my mind, running away began to sound more attractive.
“You okay to drive? I should be getting back before my parents freak out.”
I nodded yes.
Once on the road again, we tried to best each other with what we hated about our folks.
“I hate how my mother makes me dry the tops of the glasses in the dishwasher before I can put them away,” she said.
“I hate how my dad blows his nose so loud every single morning, it wakes the entire house. He sounds like a damn foghorn.”
“My dad hacks up a giant wad of stuff and spits it out in the sink but doesn’t rinse it down the drain. Mega gross!”
I scrunched up my face. “My mother makes me iron napkins and tablecloths. Who does that? It’s medieval!”
“My mother forces me to practice the piano for an hour every day. And sets a timer.”
“I hate how my dad wakes up at the crack of dawn and decides that’s the time to unload the dishwasher. Hel-lo! Some people are trying to sleep.”
“I hate how my parents make little muffled sounds when they’re having sex even though they’re pretending not to.”
“Eww!” I said. “I doubt mine even do it anymore, but if they do, I don’t want to know about it.”
“I found a vibrator in my mom’s bedside table,” Katy said.
“Seriously? What did you do with it?”
“What do you think? I tried that sucker out.”
We broke into peals of laughter. I laughed so hard, I cried.
“Anna, look out!” Katy screamed.
I slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The car skidded off the road, rolling over and over into the ravine deep below.
39
Surreal
As I entered the church, the sheer number who’d gathered blew my mind. Seats in every pew were occupied with friends, parents, teachers, students and neighbors, all from our tight-knit community. A somber mood permeated the air. People spoke quietly, shaking their heads in shared disbelief. Others openly sobbed, dabbing tissues at their eyes. Drawn faces reflected deep sadness. Many sat motionless, unable to process the series of events. We were all in shock. It happened so suddenly.
At times my friends and I joked about dying young, but we never thought one of us actually would. Sure, we did stupid things, but death? We were smarter than that.
Questions flooded my mind. How had it ended this way? How had it gone so wrong? I struggled to piece together the details.
I was upset, certainly. Katy consoled me, and we drove to Sequoia Point where we drank some wine. We got buzzed but not totaled. The last thing I remembered was her frantic yelling, the car skidding then rolling then…nothing. Now we were here, my memory foggy, thoughts muddled and emotions strangely absent.
What, exactly, had happened?
Wordlessly, I left my parents and walked toward the casket. I took a deep breath, my legs inching me forward. It was the moment of truth. I stepped up to the raised black coffin and peered inside, recoiling in surprise.
Staring back at me was myself.
Afterword
A Special Message from Author to Reader
Note: There are spoilers in the Afterword, so I recommend reading the novel first, then coming back and reading my message to you.
Anna’s story parallels my own in many respects. As I was writing hers, I realized I also wanted to share my personal experiences with you—the reader—at the end. In part, because my portrayal of Anna’s wavering self-esteem, reckless choices and questionable behavior may seem over the top (meaning not based in reality), but I assure you it was very similar to what I experienced.
I can recall with a startling clarity the feelings, intentions, drama and unique perspective I had in my teens. It often cracked me up as the dialogue poured out as I wrote this book. More importantly, I share my story in hopes it will open up a conversation with women of all ages who may have experienced their own challenges and can relate. I had no one to talk to about these intense, often confusing feelings and wish I had. This book took on greater meaning knowing potential conversations could result, or that someone might feel less alone or unhappy just from reading it. If you’re inclined to share your experience, I invite you to contact me through my website, www.katherinecobb.com.
I entered high school with the same
hopes, dreams and relative self-assuredness Anna had. A good student, I hadn’t done anything too outlandish or wrong outside of learning how to smoke a cigarette and briefly experiment (with great hesitance) with marijuana and alcohol. Like Anna, I struggled with peer pressure and by that time in my life, my friends had taken on an importance far superseding my own family’s, making it easier to succumb to their pressures (or my own—I just wanted to fit in and be cool) over doing the right thing. As I would come to learn later, a combination of fear, abuse and neglect at home (and I’m not suggesting there was no love, affection or fun—there was) created that hierarchy, as well as fueled self-doubt and tanking esteem. Of course at the time, I had no idea of such things.
The Rape
I loved school for its social aspect, and like most high schools, ours pooled kids from multiple nationalities, races and demographics, providing a large assortment of boys to fall in like with. It’s safe to say my friends and I were boy c-r-a-z-y!
In my sophomore year, I became smitten with a senior, and he with me. We were from vastly different cultures, lifestyles and races, but I didn’t understand why that would matter. After months of him professing his love to me, I not only believed it, I felt the same. Over and over, this boy asked me when he was going to “get some sugar,” and I naively thought he meant a kiss. How wrong I was, which I found out one summer day after he had graduated.
My parents reluctantly let me leave with him to play tennis on this day. I became anxious when he drove away from the area near my home to an unfamiliar park in an unfamiliar part of downtown Oakland. After volleying on the courts for a while, we left to go home, but he stopped at his house first. He nonchalantly invited me in. While everything in me wanted to flee, like a moth to a flame, I followed him inside. My anxiety was so palpable, I sweated as if still on the courts. His father wasn’t home (his parents were divorced, if recollection serves) and as we passed through the living room to the kitchen, the decor alone reminded me of how different we were. Not only that, if forced to find my way out of his neighborhood, I wouldn’t have known which way to go. I was lost and trusting him to take care of me.
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