by Amy Hatvany
“Thank you, Ms. Bryant,” the judge said, and then ordered that Amber’s statement be made a part of the permanent record in regard to my case. A few minutes later, after I’d stood up and officially entered my guilty plea, Peter shook my hand and told me he’d check in with me in a few days so we could get the final paperwork signed. I turned around to face my mom and Mason, both of whom had stood up, too. My mother hugged me, and I patted her back.
“It’ll be okay,” I said, and she nodded against my chest, before sniffling and pulling away.
“I need to get to work,” she said. “I’ll talk to you tonight.” And then she left, avoiding making eye contact with any of the Bryant family, who were huddled together with Tom’s and Helen’s arms around Amber’s shoulders. A moment later, they left, too, without so much as a glance in my direction.
“So,” Mason said in a low voice, standing in front of me.
“So,” I said. “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.” He nodded, but didn’t say anything more, so I spoke again. “You know I’m sorry about all of this. About everything.” I stared at him, wanting him to know just how much our friendship meant, holding out hope that he would understand I wasn’t just referring to what I’d done to Amber. Hoping that he might find a way to forgive me.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said, firmly. “Be better.”
“That’s the plan,” I said. I held out my hand, and after a brief hesitation, he shook it.
“Good luck,” he said. I knew it wasn’t luck I needed—it was rigorous honesty. With others, of course, but mostly with myself. It was taking ownership of the mistakes I’d made and dealing with the consequences. And then maybe, after all of that, I’d earn a chance to start again.
Amber
The first week of January, at the beginning of a brand-new year and a little over a month since I’d made my victim impact statement at Tyler’s sentencing hearing, I stood in the middle of my now-empty bedroom in my parents’ house, my gaze traveling around the space to make sure I hadn’t missed anything when I’d packed. My bed, dresser, and nightstand were already inside the U-Haul I’d rented in order to move, along with all my clothes and a few boxes of household items that I’d need for my new place—dishes, towels, and the like. I’d taken a personal training job at a gym in Edmonds, a tight-knit community just north of Seattle, and found a tiny studio apartment only a few blocks from where I would work. I’d registered to take my exam with the American College of Sports Medicine at the end of the month, and for the next few years, I planned on building up my experience and professional reputation before applying to work at the Seahawks training facility. Reaching my ultimate goal of being a trainer for the team was at least five to eight years out, but I had to start somewhere, and moving to Seattle was the next indicated step.
In the two months that had passed since the day I dropped Tyler off at the police station, I’d spent a few hours a week in therapy with Vanessa, dealing with all my messy, convoluted feelings about everything that had happened since July, as well as another hour with Greta, the counselor in the hospital who’d helped me with my eating disorder all those years ago. She was in private practice now, and was helping me again, trying to get me to develop different and better coping mechanisms for stress, other than restricting what I ate.
“Remember that you’re going to deal with this for the rest of your life,” she’d told me yesterday, at our last appointment before my move. I’d gained back the twenty or so pounds I’d lost since the rape, but I still struggled with taking solace in food restriction whenever my emotions felt too big and unwieldy for me to handle. “Much like dealing with addiction to drugs or alcohol,” Greta went on to say, “recovery from an eating disorder is a process, something you may have to deal with every day. There’s no point at which you are totally ‘cured.’ But if you stay aware of your thought processes and behaviors, and ask for help when you need it, you can manage it. It doesn’t have to rule your life.”
Vanessa had said much the same thing to me about having been raped. “It will always be a part of you,” she said. “You’ll never forget what Tyler did or how you reacted. But it is your choice what you do with that. You can let it control you, or you can integrate it into your past as a traumatic experience, and not allow it to define who you are. It won’t be easy, but you will find a way to survive it.”
I’d nodded then, thinking about what she’d taught me about the concept of “trauma repetition,” and how when I started sexually acting out with strangers after the rape, it was my way of trying to re-create the trauma of what Tyler had done by being in control of the men instead of them controlling me. “More women do this after being assaulted than you’d think,” Vanessa said. “It’s a self-destructive behavior, yes, but while they’re doing it, they get a few moments of feeling safe again. Unfortunately, they’re almost immediately flooded with feelings of guilt and self-disgust, because all they’ve really succeeded in doing is reinforcing the idea that they’re sluts who deserved what happened to them.”
I had already made appointments with two new therapists in Seattle, recommended to me by Vanessa and Greta. I’d also been toying with the idea of attending a sexual assault victim support group, but I hadn’t quite decided if sharing what happened to me with a roomful of strangers would actually help. Still, Vanessa had given me the name of the organization that held the meetings, and a location near my new apartment, in case I chose to go.
Now, with one last glance around my childhood bedroom, I closed the door behind me and headed outside, where my parents were waiting. We were going to caravan together down to Edmonds—my dad and mom driving the U-Haul, and me in my own car—so they could help me move into my new place. It was a cold but clear winter day, and the sun felt warm upon my face.
“Hey, sweet girl,” my dad said, as he loaded the last box onto the truck.
“Hey, Pops,” I said, walking over in order to give him a hug. He wrapped his thick arms around me, and I felt grateful for the solidness of his body against mine. He smelled like coffee and sweat.
“You’re sure you want to do this?” my mom asked, for what had to be the hundredth time since I’d told them my plan to move. “You’ll be okay on your own?”
“I lived on my own at school,” I reminded her, pulling out of my dad’s embrace so I could look at her. She was wearing jeans and a gray PROUD WSU MOM sweatshirt, and her hair was in a ponytail at the base of her neck.
“I know, but that was before—,” she said, stopping short before finishing the sentence.
“I’ll be okay, Mom. I need to do this.” I needed to get a fresh start, to build the life I’d always wanted. I needed to prove to myself that I was still a capable and worthy human being, and the only way I could imagine doing that was away from the environment where I had spent so much time feeling like I wasn’t. But despite the fact that I’d already told my parents all of this, I knew they were worried about me. They were worried I’d slip back into starving myself, that I’d hide from life instead of learning to live it. And while there was no guarantee I wouldn’t do these things, I had to give it a shot. I had to at least try.
A few minutes later, we climbed into our respective vehicles and made our way to the freeway. I had my hands-free headset on, in case my parents had to let me know they needed to make a pit stop, but as soon as we were driving past Lake Samish, the electronic voice in my ear began to speak. “Call from . . . Daniel Garcia,” it said, and I instantly felt a lump form in my throat as I instructed my phone to ignore the call.
Since Tyler’s confession and conviction had hit the papers back in early December, Daniel had left me a handful of voice mails and text messages. “Why didn’t you tell me what happened?” he asked more than once. “I would have supported you. I would have been there for you through the whole thing.” And while I appreciated that he had reached out, I couldn’t bring myself to call or text him back. I was trying to focus on one thing at a time: to find the right words to speak at the se
ntencing hearing, and then to do the mental and emotional “homework” that Vanessa and Greta assigned me each week—practicing new coping mechanisms, telling the truth about my feelings to my parents, no matter how painful they were for me to talk about or for my parents to hear. I didn’t feel like I could add an emotionally laden conversation with Daniel on top of all that. I knew I owed him an explanation; he deserved at least that much. Now is as good a time as any, I thought.
Still, I waited another twenty minutes, until we were just south of Mt. Vernon, before returning his call. I held my breath as the phone rang in my ear, once, twice, until he picked up.
“Amber?” he said, and hearing his voice nearly made me cry. I blinked rapidly and tried to steady my breathing so I wouldn’t swerve out of my lane and cause an accident.
“Hi,” I said, feeling more than a little awkward. “Sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you.”
“That’s okay,” he said hurriedly. “I get it. You’ve had a lot to deal with.”
“Yeah, I have.” I didn’t know what to say next—where I should start.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and there was so much tenderness in those words, the muscles in my throat ached, fighting back more tears.
“I’m getting there,” I said, thinking that this was probably the most truthful answer I could give him. Everything was a process; life was a process. “It’s been hard.”
“I can only imagine,” Daniel said. “I feel like such an asshole, for yelling at you the way I did that morning in your room. Accusing you of being a cheater. I’m so sorry, Amber.”
“You didn’t know,” I said. “I get why you reacted the way you did. It’s okay.”
“You were right about something you said, though.”
“Really? What?”
“That I asked you to marry me so quickly because it was about sticking to my own plan. How I always pictured my life playing out, having a wife before I finished my residency and went into private practice.” He waited a beat. “Don’t get me wrong. I loved you, and I wanted to marry you, but I didn’t stop to think whether the timing was the right thing for you, too. I didn’t show you the respect of really talking about it with you first. I’m sorry for that.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “It meant a lot that you asked . . . I just . . . I wasn’t ready.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me what Tyler did?” he finally asked, as he had in all of his messages.
I had to wait a moment before I could answer him, keeping my eyes on my parents driving the U-Haul in front of me, trying to sort out the best way to explain how I’d felt that morning. “I think I couldn’t, because I hadn’t even processed what happened in my own head. I didn’t know how to tell you. I was so worried what you’d think of me.”
“The only person I would have thought negatively about would have been him,” Daniel said, vehemently. “That fucker. I would have understood. I would have known it wasn’t anything you did. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I get that, now,” I said, slowly. “But at the time, in that moment, I felt like it was. I blamed myself for letting it happen. I’m still working through all of that, and it’s going to take some time. But I want you to know that I’ve appreciated your messages. They meant a lot.”
“Can I see you?” he asked hopefully. “Can I come up and take you out for dinner or something? No pressure . . . just to catch up?”
Before I answered, I tried to imagine what it would be like to see Daniel now. To have him look at me with his dark eyes and kind smile, to perhaps let him hold me the way he used to. Could I do it? I wondered. Could I sit down with him, open myself up, and try to reconnect? But then I imagined telling him about how, after the rape, I’d gone out almost every night and picked up a strange man, and my stomach convulsed. It was too soon, I realized. I still had too much to work through.
“I’m actually driving down to Seattle right now,” I finally said, and then quickly told him about my apartment, my upcoming test, and new job. “I need to get settled, and be on my own for a while. I’m not sure I’m ready to see you, yet. But that’s not about you . . . it’s about me, okay? You understand that, right?”
He was silent for a moment, and the only sounds were his breath in my ear and the low, vibrating hum of my car’s tires on the road. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I understand.”
“Good,” I said. “Because I want you to be happy. You deserve it.”
“So do you, Amber. I miss you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve missed you, too.” While this was true, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to be with him again. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to be with anyone. Even though I understood why I’d sought out those strangers—why I’d kissed them and touched them and never learned their names—I felt sick every time I thought about the possibility of having sex. At this point, the idea of undressing in front of another man, being intimate with him, emotionally or otherwise, was unthinkable. With time, I hoped that might change, but until then, I needed to focus on myself.
“You can call me anytime, okay?” Daniel said. “Just to talk, or whatever. Just as friends. I’m here for you.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks.” My heart swelled with so much regret, it felt like it might burst. Was I making a huge mistake, ruining my chances with the perfect man for me? Daniel was sweet and kind and smart. He made me laugh. Would I ever find someone like him again? I felt panicky, thinking that maybe Tyler had robbed me of the ability to let someone like Daniel close to me. Maybe I shouldn’t let him go. Maybe I should see him as soon as I could, and let him touch me, kiss me, take care of me. If I didn’t, I could end up alone for the rest of my life. I could lose out on the best thing that had ever happened to me.
But then, I thought about how the attack had forced me to dig in deep and find more self-reliance than I ever had before. For years, I’d allowed myself to be buoyed by Tyler and his friendship while I struggled with my eating disorder. Then, I relied on Daniel and his support as I planned out what I was going to do with my life. I’d never thought much about myself unless it was in relation to how a man felt about me, too. I defined my own worth based on Tyler’s love for me and then Daniel’s. It was time for me to learn to love myself, and let that love be enough.
“Take care, okay?” Daniel said, and I could hear the swell of emotion in his voice, too.
“You, too,” I said, and then, after another quiet moment filled with unspoken words, we ended the call.
For the rest of the drive, my mind raced with what might have been if Tyler had never attacked me. I might have been shopping for wedding dresses with my mom today instead of moving. I might have been living with Daniel in Seattle instead of finding my own apartment. I might have already passed my certification test. My whole world, everything about it, would be different. I would be different.
But then I thought about what Vanessa had said, that I could choose how to let what happened affect me. Either it could control my life or I could rise above it and move on. The latter, I decided, was why I had opted to start over. I was going to do everything in my power to not let my past rule the present.
As my parents helped me carry boxes and furniture into my new apartment, I felt happy that I’d found this small space to call my own. It was painted a light gray with bright white trim around the windows and doors, and the hardwood floors were a pale bamboo. There was a closet, a tiny kitchen along the back wall, next to the door that led to the bathroom, and just enough square footage to contain my queen-size bed, a dresser, and a desk and chair. It wasn’t spacious, it wasn’t perfect, but I was grateful that it was mine.
“Let me take you grocery shopping,” my mom said, after we’d finished putting together the bed and setting up the rest of the furnishings in the room.
“I can do that after you guys head home,” I said. “The market is just around the corner.”
“Are you sure?” my dad asked as he adjusted the small flat-screen television th
at he’d just mounted on the wall opposite my bed. It was their gift to me, along with a substantial deposit in my bank account to help me get started.
“I’m sure,” I said. “I appreciate everything you and Mom have done. I know I haven’t made it easy—”
“Shh,” my mom said, cutting me off. “You are the best daughter we could ask for. We love you so much, and we’re so proud of how far you’ve come.”
“Thank you,” I said, once again feeling tears at the backs of my eyes. “I love you, too.” I stepped over to where they stood, and they both put their arms around me. My dad kissed the top of my head, and my mom put her cheek against mine.
“We’re here for you, however you need us,” she said. “Anytime, day or night. You’re only a little over an hour away.”
“And you can always come home,” my dad said, but I didn’t say anything, because we all knew that my visits to Bellingham would be limited now, for fear of accidentally running into any of the Hicks family.
“We might even move down this way,” my mom said, as the three of us finally pulled apart. She had tears in her eyes, too.
“Is that so?” my dad asked, but he said it with a smile. He knew my mother so well, and usually did whatever it took to make her happy. I imagined that it was hard for them to think about running into Liz, Jason, or Tyler, too. It might make sense for them to move.
