by Harlow Hayes
“Thank you, Roe and Destiny, for your stories,” said Dr. Moore. “Roe, you say that you blame yourself for trusting this Alex, and you called yourself stupid, but what needs to be understood is that Alex was responsible for Alex, and he made that horrible decision, not you. You are blaming yourself when you are not the one to blame, and sadly our society conditions us to believe that if these things happen it is our fault, that it is the victim’s fault. They say we shouldn’t have been drinking or been out in the dark or wore that dress, and if that is the case then how are we allowed to even breathe? Because it seems that in our society, just walking from your car into your apartment at night is just cause to be raped. Rape culture in our society is so prevalent. You know, I saw a meme yesterday and it just didn’t sit right with me. There was a woman standing in the doorway wearing a man’s shirt and nothing else, and it said, ‘A man’s shirt on the naked female body is like a flag on a conquered fortress.’ And this is okay for most people. Most people don’t see the problem with it, they don’t see what it represents.” She closed her notebook in her lap. “If you look at the history of rape, that is what it is about—rape, conquer, and pillage. It is about power and possession, and there it was, so celebrated by men, celebrated by our culture. We as women, as survivors, and as human beings cannot continue to allow this type of ideology to infiltrate our homes and be taught to our children. The only thing this is telling young males is that a woman is nothing more than stolen goods and spoils of some imaginary war in their minds. And that thinking is dangerous, not only to women, but our society as a whole.” She took a sip of her water and looked at each of us, studying our faces before we gave our responses to her revolutionary speech, but we had none. An awkward silence prevailed.
“Well, ladies, we covered a lot of ground today and I deeply believe that our collective past struggles will help each other heal and begin anew. Last session your journal assignment was to write about how you felt about this group and what you hoped to gain from the experience, but today I want you to think about what has happened to you and what kind of obstacles it has placed on your path. Or you may want to focus on the positives in life, but it is your choice. But whenever you feel inclined, I want to you write in your journal. It can be a word, phrase, or anything you are thinking or feeling at that moment. If it is an obstacle, then I want you to think about what you have told yourself about this obstacle and how it has affected your life. Do you believe the story your obstacle is telling? Is it saying that you are worthless? Is it saying that you are a slut? If you believe it, explain why, and if not, what story would you like to write for yourself? Let your story out and let it help guide you in understanding your feelings, behaviors, and thoughts, and know that it is okay to be sad and frustrated, but you know, it’s okay to be happy. And if you have been punishing yourself, blaming yourself, hating yourself, you must stop, and if you feel like you will never be happy again, write it out in your journal, because you never know what your pain will reveal to you. Please be thoughtful in your writing because we are just scratching the surface.”
All of them buried themselves in their journals, scribbling and taking note of the assignment while I sat picking at my fingernails.
“Before you all leave, grab some coffee and bagels. I don’t want them to go to waste,” Dr. Moore said.
The women got up and I sat in my chair a little longer to avoid the rush at the table. Dr. Moore stayed seated. “Mara, how are things going for you?” she asked. “You haven’t said much of anything yet, only your name since we began. I’m concerned.”
I listened, but I didn’t know what she wanted me to say.
“I know it can be difficult at first but—”
“No, nothing’s difficult,” I blurted out. “Just tired, that’s all.”
“If it’s the schoolwork, let me know. I have some pretty awesome resources that could be beneficial to you,” she said.
“Thanks.” I stood up in front of my chair.
“How’s your journal coming?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s coming,” I said as I swung my bag over my shoulders.
“Well, if you have anything you’d like to share or talk to me about privately, my door is always open,” she said. “We can even meet earlier, just you and me, if you’d like.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.” I gave her a smile before I turned and walked away to the snacks.
I poured a cup of coffee and the new girl stood next to me, spreading a mound of cream cheese on her bagel. It was awkward to be so close and not say anything, so I spoke.
“I’m sorry about your little boy. That must be terrible for you.”
She was too immersed in her task to look up.
“Thanks, but I’d rather not talk about that right now,” she said before she walked away toward the door.
She blew me off. What a bitch. She brought up her sob story and then blew me off when I tried to offer the peace, support, or whatever it was I trying to do.
I stood there with a stupid look on my face.
“Mara, are you okay?” Carla asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine, just thinking.” I grabbed half of a bagel off the table and started spreading cream cheese on it just to look busy.
My response was enough to appease Carla, so she went on her way, but that new girl; she wouldn’t be getting my sympathy again anytime soon.
I grabbed my bag and left, leaving the bagel on the table. I walked fast, each step echoing down the hallway. I wanted to get out into the light, away from walls, to breathe the fresh air and not feel the smothering effects of that room that drudged up old memories. I sent Frankie a text to make sure he was home, and home alone. I wanted to feel safe. I wanted to feel loved and curl up in fetal position with Frankie rubbing my back and telling me it was going to be all right. It was the best I could do.
I busted through the front door of the building and out into the sun, paying more attention to my phone than to where I was going. I crashed into some guy walking in, but I didn’t care. I didn’t even stop to say sorry. I heard him mutter some words, obviously pissed I had bumped him, but I didn’t catch it and I didn’t care. He could choke on a nut, or better yet, my pepper spray, if he wanted to be bold. People were always testing me, and I wasn’t one to be tested.
My blood pulsed underneath my skin and my veins protruded from my arms. I couldn’t feel my feet beneath me and the train platform seemed so far away, but it was right there. How did I get to the platform? I was just at the counseling center. The sound of the train against the rails was dizzying, and then I realized—it was happening again. Moving people became blurs of color. Light became shadow. There was a final cry from the rails, and then it was black.
Chapter 7
My eyes opened to darkness. When they adjusted, I was sitting on a bench, train tracks several yards away to my left and the moon high and bright in the sky. The outline of buildings to my right resembled a small town and reminded me of certain parts of Evanston, but in front of me the writing plated to the cement read Oak Brook Shopping Plaza. The temperature had dropped and my skin pimpled as a result, and what had been a warm, sunny day was now a cool, chilly night. The streets were bare except for the occasional lone car and the only place that showed any sign of life was a small bar nestled across the street.
I knew nothing about Oak Brook, only that it was somewhat affluent and Rosalina had grown up there. I looked around for my bag, but it was nowhere in sight. My shoes were scuffed and my clothes were sopping wet. The musty smell of sweat radiated from my skin and I had nothing, no phone, no pepper spray, no money. Only the sweaty clothes that clung to my back. I thought to call a cab and make Frankie pay, but I was terrified that if I got in one I would never be seen again. I leaned over and stomach acid came up along with some of the remnants of a southwest salad I had eaten for lunch.
It wasn’t the thought of hurting myself that scared me. That I could have walked into traffic or fell on the train tracks, but the thought of som
eone else violating me again that made me lose it all. My throat tightened and I choked on my own vomit. I had to get home. I stood up, woozy, and assessed my appearance from the neck down as best as I could. I ran my fingers through my hair, damp with sweat and slick with grease. It took everything in me not to plant face-first into the ground. My shoes felt like they were three sizes too small and I winced in pain with each step. Rock music blared out into the night from inside the bar and a number of Harleys were lined up in a row outside.
This is not my kind of place, I thought to myself as I prepared for what I might encounter. With each step, beads of sweat dripped down my back and my feet burned like coals. I stepped inside the bar and the music was so loud my head felt like it was being stabbed by a thousand knives. There was a long mirror behind the bar, underneath the liquor, for décor, and I was frightened when I saw what I really looked like. My hair was frizzed and frayed and my eyes baggy and bloodshot. The bartender, an old fat guy with no hair, saw me standing at the end and walked over.
“I need to see some ID,” he said, filling up a pitcher of beer.
I tried to formulate the words but I couldn’t. I leaned in as if I didn’t hear him the first time but my mind couldn’t find the words.
“I need to see your ID,” he said again as he continued to fill more pitchers of beer from the tap.
The words came but they didn’t sound right in my head, “Can I use your phone? It’s an emergency.”
He rolled his eyes and sat the pitchers on the counter. Things were happening too fast, then they were moving too slow. He walked over to the other end of the bar and brought the phone down to me, and by the time he got back it felt like New Year’s had come and gone twice.
The phone was covered in sticky gunk and grease soiled the earpiece. I called Frankie, fingers moving slowly as I pushed the keys. It was like trying to wake up out of a sleep, dream, or nightmare that just wouldn’t let go of you. I called and waited. The phone rang once but the number I dialed was no longer in service, so I dialed again and got the same response.
That stupid fucking new number, I thought, and of course I hadn’t memorized it. I slammed the phone on the counter and I could physically see my heart pounding through my chest. Sounds blurred and I felt like my head would pop under the pressure. I wanted to throw up again, but there was nothing left inside of me. I was sick, stranded, with no money, no Frankie. I wanted to die; I wanted to lay across the bar and die. I laid my head down on the bar in surrender. I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t put up this act of being strong and unbroken. I just wanted it to be over.
“Are you done with the phone?” the bartender asked. I raised up my head.
“No,” I said.
He walked away and I picked up the phone and dialed information. I could remember that much.
“St. Paul’s Hospital, Chicago North,” I said, and my heart fell silent as I waited.
“St. Paul’s, how may I direct your call?”
“Yes, I’m looking for a nurse, for Rosalina Connors. She’s a nurse on your psych ward. Please tell her it is an emergency.”
“Please hold.” I felt sweat running down my temples. I wasn’t a religious person anymore, but I prayed without ceasing while the on-hold music played in the back ground. I prayed that she was at work.
“Hello? Dad, is that you? Is it Mom?” Rosalina said over the phone.
“No, Rosalina, it’s me, Mara,” I said, my breath heavy.
“Jesus, Mara, what are you doing calling me at my job? Have you lost your mind? I thought something… What is it?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, hoping she would calm down.
“Never mind about all that, what do you want?” she said.
“I need…” My legs started to tremble beneath me and I leaned against the wall and slid to the floor.
“You need what?”
“I need your help…. I’m stranded out in Oak Brook at some bar and—”
“Your drunk ass called me about being stranded at a bar? Call a cab or something. Isn’t that what you do all the other times you’re out running around all hours of the night? You make it home fine then. Figure it out.”
“Rosalina, please…” I pleaded, near tears.
“What?”
“Please… I don’t know how I got here…” I couldn’t hold them in anymore and they started to come. I tried to cry quietly to keep from making a scene. “Please help me. Rosalina, I’m scared. I don’t have my purse, my money, my phone, and I don’t know how I got here. Please. I’ll tell you everything, but please.” I turned my face away from the creepy man that had been staring. I had already drawn enough attention to myself and I didn’t want any more. Rosalina was quiet.
“Rosalina? Are you still there?” I asked.
“Mara, what’s going on? Have you been drugged? Are you hurt? Do you need to call the police? Should I call the police?” Her voice had changed so fast, and what was once cold was now kind and full of concern.
“Please don’t call the police,” I said. I couldn’t afford to have any more run-ins with them. “I don’t know… I don’t know how I got here, but please don’t call them.”
“Where are you? I’m going to call my parents to see if they can come pick you up.”
“Some bar called Rick’s, I think, it’s right by the train tracks. I saw a sign that said Oak Brook Shopping Plaza. Please tell them to hurry.” I wiped my snotty nose with my arm and wiped away my tears.
“They don’t live far. Stay on the phone,” she said.
I wanted in silence and tucked myself as close to the wall as I could until she returned to the phone.
“Go wait outside. They will be there in a few minutes,” she said, and I did as I was told.
I waited. Looking over my shoulder at every bump, thump, or thud. Even the sound of the crickets made me jump. I was still sweating, but my heart rate had slowed down and I knew now with certainty why I was in Dr. Moore’s group. I was weak. And the thought of being weak made me weaker. I had let myself down and the tears that dripped into my hands were the proof. When I finally looked away from the puddle in my hands I saw a black town car creeping through the streets in the distance. My body tightened, but as it got closer I saw that it was Rosalina’s parents. I got up from the bench and limped into the street. The car came to a stop, her parents staring at me through the window. I heard the door unlock and hopped into the backseat.
“Mara, what on earth?” Rosalina’s mother asked. “Are you hurt? Rosie called us in a panic saying that something bad had happened to you and that you needed us to get you?” She took off her seat belt and twisted her body towards the back and assessed me.
“How did you get out here? She said you had no money, no phone? Were you attacked?” Mr. Conners asked.
Their words were spinning around me. I knew they were concerned but I couldn’t answer their questions.
“Thanks for coming to get me. Could you take me to St. Paul’s? They can help me there.” I stretched across the backseat and closed my eyes and felt the touch of a soft hand on my face and the words, “It’s going to be all right.”
* * *
The bright light at the ER entrance made me dizzy, and it was hard to make out the figure that stood outside until I heard her voice.
“When was the last time she said anything?” Rosalina asked her parents.
“She’s alert, honey, but she isn’t saying much,” her mother said.
“I’m going to take her in now. Thanks, Mom, Dad. I got it from here.” She grabbed my hand and guided me into a wheelchair.
“You call and keep us updated, Rosalina. We want to make sure she is okay,” her dad said.
Rosalina nodded her head and pushed me through the automatic doors. We passed the waiting room and passed another set of automatic doors. On the way, another nurse asked me all kinds of questions while Rosalina kept pushing. We passed a policeman at one set of automatic doors before they moved me to an all-white room with only a
bed and a TV that was enclosed in a plastic box—I was in the psych wing. After having my arm poked and prodded and lights flashed in my eye, I couldn’t stop having flashbacks in my mind. I almost lost it until I was distracted by screams in another room.
“Valerie is dead! Don’t lie to me! I saw them people take her, the government’s got her and they’re coming for me now!” a voice yelled.
“No, Ma, what you’re seeing isn’t real,” another voice said, and it made me think that maybe all that I was feeling wasn’t real, even if only for a second, but I knew I wasn’t that far gone and the thought left as quickly as it came.
The attending nurse was petite with a short strawberry-blonde haircut with an array of bobby pins securing the flyaways.
“Mara, have you ever had a seizure before?” she asked.
“Yes, once before,” I said.
“How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Two.” I looked past her at Rosalina.
The nurse looked back at her. “You can go now, Rosalina. I’ll take it from here”
“No, I’m going to stay,” she said. “Mara, you good with that?”
I felt like I didn’t have a choice.
“Yeah…” I said. “She can stay.” The nurse said nothing and continued her assessment.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“I think I blacked out.”
“What was the last thing you remember before you blacked out?”
“I was leaving therapy—I mean work,” I said. Then I paused to think. “I called Frankie, my friend Frankie… It was still light outside… Then I woke up in Oak Brook on some bench with nothing.”
“Has this happened to you before?”
“Yes… Yes, it has.”
Rosalina looked at me, surprised.
“Can we take a break now? My head.”
