by Noelle Adams
My dad has a sprawling estate outside the city, and I went there afterwards. My mom died a few years ago—I don’t think I’ve mentioned that yet—but my dad tried to be there for me now. He even took a week off work, something he’d never done in my entire life.
He felt guilty, I’m sure, since what happened to me was because of him, but I couldn’t be angry with him. I couldn’t feel close to him or comforted by him either, but the part of my mind that could still make reasonable connections recognized that he was trying.
The justice systems moved the way it normally does. Slowly and not very satisfactorily.
They rounded up the entire Albanian gang, mostly thanks to Gideon’s work undercover. The Albanians aren’t like the Italian mafia, with a clear, organized hierarchy. It’s more like loosely related clans, often connected transnationally. Gideon’s operation was able to take down the U.S. network of one of those clans.
I’m explaining this for clarity—not because it mattered to me at the time. I didn’t care about any of the nuances of Albanian gang culture or about the success of any of the FBI’s organized crime initiatives. The only thing that mattered were the specific men who had hurt me.
Those men pleaded out on the rape charges, with minimum consequences because they were needed to testify against men higher up the food chain.
That’s how it works. If you want to take down an organization, you have to overlook smaller criminals to get to the big ones. The men who raped me would go to prison, but a U.S. prison would be a cakewalk compared to what they’d probably lived through growing up in the Balkans when they did.
I’m not sure anything that could happen to them would be bad enough to make me feel better.
There didn’t seem to be any feeling better for me. Just the hope that numbness would continue to cover over the pain.
In the hospital, I’d asked about Gideon—because I really did want him to be all right. They told me he was pretty beat-up but he would be fine, and that he was going through a required, extended debriefing, which I guess was pretty intense.
He’d been undercover with the worst kind of men for eight months. I’m not sure how that would affect you, but I’m sure he needed some recovery and orientation time afterwards.
When I was out of the hospital and at my dad’s place, he started to call me.
I didn’t recognize the number the first time, so I didn’t pick up. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I hadn’t seen any of my friends since it happened and I hadn’t gone back to work, so I wasn’t about to talk to someone on the phone whose number I didn’t recognize.
He left a brief message on my voice mail, saying he was just checking in to see how I was doing. He gave me his number and asked me to give him a call when I felt up to it.
Hearing his voice did something strange to me. It broke through the safe numbness that had wrapped me up for so many days. Just a crack, but it was enough to send a surge of panic shooting through me.
I remembered details about that room, about what happened when they’d dragged me out, about how it had felt when they raped me. I didn’t just remember. I experienced it all again. And that brief moment of re-experiencing it was so intense and so horrifying that it was like demons had taken possession of my body.
I didn’t call him back.
He kept calling. Not often enough for it to be creepy but enough so I couldn’t forget about him. Sometimes he left messages, and sometimes he didn’t. After a while, there was an edge to his tone. Not anger or even frustration but almost desperation.
I didn’t understand. I appreciated everything he’d tried to do for me. I really did. But he was never a part of my life before, and it was ridiculous to think that such a horror should somehow make him a part of my life now.
He made me remember the horror more vividly—his voice caused demons to rise—and that’s what I couldn’t let happen.
It happened anyway. However safe it feels, that numbness just can’t last forever. And then it’s nothing but the pain.
And eventually it feels like the pain is everywhere, everything—like you’re nothing more than how much it hurts.
Some women are strong and they can go on with life, despite the pain. I’m not strong, and I couldn’t.
For two months, I put on a pretty good act. My dad worked most of the time, so I could fool him when I saw him. I’d known the couple who kept his house since I was a baby, and they were incredibly kind. But they were domestic staff, so I could keep my distance. I talked to my friends on the phone as often as I could stand, and they seemed to think I was starting to heal. I hadn’t gone back to work, but my boss said I could take all the time I needed. He’d hired some temporary help. To prove to everyone else that I was getting better, I even started spending some nights alone in my old apartment.
Those nights were the worst.
I couldn’t sleep unless I took pills, but even then I would wake up with nightmares. I didn’t tell anyone about those.
I know I wasn’t dealing. I wasn’t getting better. I wasn’t taking the help I was offered. I wasn’t doing anything I should have done to heal.
The thing is I didn’t even want to. It was too long and too hard a journey out of the darkness. I just wanted not to hurt.
So, one night, I was alone in my old apartment, where all my once-loved antique furniture mocked me with their triviality, their meaninglessness.
I might as well have been sitting on the cold, concrete floor of that empty basement room.
I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t cry and I couldn’t stop the world from hurting me. And I was holding in my hands a way to make the pain end.
A brand new bottle of the pills I’d been taking to sleep.
It felt like someone else was sitting on my bed, opening the bottle.
I swallowed the regular dose with a gulp of water. Then I stared down at more of them in my hand for a really long time.
Then I was taking them.
I don’t remember how many I took. Most of that evening is a blur to me now. I don’t remember much except lying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, hoping all of it would finally end.
For some reason, I kept picturing Gideon. I’d been a stranger to him, and he’d fought to protect me anyway. For some reason, it mattered to me now more than ever.
I picked up my phone and started listening to the string of voicemails he’d left me over the last six weeks, starting from the beginning.
“Hi, Diana. It’s Gideon. Gideon Walker. I hope it’s okay for me to call. I wanted to see how you were doing. If you get a chance and you’re up to it, maybe you could give me a call back.”
“Hi, Diana. It’s Gideon. Just calling back to see how you’re doing. It’s really fine if you’re not up to talking yet. I’ve just been thinking about you. I hope you’re...Anyway, just wanted you to know I was thinking about you and thought I’d check in. Give me a call if you can.”
“Hi, Diana. It’s Gideon again. I hope you don’t think I’m bugging you. Maybe I am. I’m really sorry if I am. I just feel like we should...I don’t know. I’d love to hear how you’re doing.”
“Hi, Diana. It’s me again. Gideon. Checking in to see how you’re doing.”
“Hi, Diana. It’s Gideon. I don’t know if I should even be calling you anymore. Maybe you just don’t want to talk to me. But I keep thinking about you, and... No, that’s it. I’m just thinking about you.”
“Hi Diana. It’s me. I guess you don’t want to talk to me, since it’s been a month and I haven’t heard from you. I think I can understand why. I thought it might help if we could talk. I mean, I don’t really know why it would help. I just feel...I don’t know...connected to you somehow, and I can’t seem to get past it.”
“Hi, it’s me again. I hung up after the last message and was afraid it might have sounded kind of creepy. I really just want to hear how you’re doing. I promise I’m not asking or expecting anything from you. Sorry if the previous message freaked you out.”
<
br /> “Hi, Diana. It’s Gideon. I wasn’t going to call again. In fact, I was told that I needed to stop, since you obviously don’t want to hear from me. Anyway, if you don’t call me back after this, then I won’t call again. I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. I’m really sorry that I couldn’t stop it from happening. I’m really sorry I didn’t do more. I know I don’t know you very well but I could tell even from the short time we spent together that you’re really sweet and you’re really brave and you have a really...a really good heart. And something like that shouldn’t have happened to you. It just shouldn’t have happened. And—”
“Hi, I got cut off before I could finish the earlier message, so this isn’t another call—just a continuation of the last one. Sorry about the rambling. What I mostly want to say is that I really liked the person I met that...that night, and I’d like to get to know you better. But only if you want to. If you don’t, I can respect that, and I won’t call again.”
That was the last message. He hadn’t called again.
I stared at the phone in my hand, realizing that my mind was starting to get fuzzy. But I suddenly felt an overwhelming flood of guilt. Gideon had been beaten to the floor in that row house, in that room. For me. All he wanted now was a call back, and I hadn’t even given him that.
Without thinking, I found his number and hit send.
It was after midnight, a fact I realized after the fourth ring. I’d just leave a message, to thank him. Then at least that one thing wouldn’t be left unfinished.
I was fighting through a growing haze in my mind, preparing to leave a message, when his voice was suddenly on the other end of the call.
“Hello? Hello, Diana?”
“Yeah,” I managed to say, surprised and disoriented and groggy. “Yeah, it’s me.”
It felt like there was some sort of emotion in the brief silence that followed, but I was in no state for figuring out what it was. Then he said, almost diffidently, “Hi.”
“Hi.” I felt strangely embarrassed, despite everything.
“I’m glad you called.”
“Sorry it’s so late. I...I wasn’t thinking.”
“It’s not too late. I’m really glad you did. Where are you?”
“I’m back in my apartment.”
“Oh. That’s good. Where do you live?”
I told him because he sounded genuinely interested and because it didn’t matter anymore.
“Really?” he said. “I think I know where that is. My place isn’t very far away.”
Then the conversation drifted into silence. At last, he asked in a different tone, “How are you?”
There was no way in the world I could answer that question. I wasn’t even sure I could raise my head. “I just wanted to tell you...I just wanted to say thank you. For what you did. For fighting for me.”
There was a pause on the line before he answered, “I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. That what I did couldn’t help.”
“I think it...” I had to clear my throat, since my words were starting to slur. “I think it did help. A little. Knowing that there was someone in the world who would do that for me, for a stranger. It was like a little glimmer of light in the darkness.”
The pause was much longer this time, and it felt like it was full of emotion. Finally, he murmured, something rough in his voice, “There should have been more light for you.”
The world and the room were darker than ever now. I could feel the pills closing in. “But still, it meant something to me. It was the last one I’ll see.”
The pause this time felt different, although there was no way I could work out why. Gideon’s tone was different too when he asked, “What do you mean?”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I could make my mouth form lucid words. I just breathed into the phone. My hand was starting to shake.
“Diana?” His voice had gotten urgent, grating on my ears. “Diana, what’s wrong? What’s happening?”
“It’s just...dark.” I didn’t know if he could even understand the mumbled words, but the phone slipped out of my hand.
It fell on the bed, kind of near my ear, so I could still hear Gideon’s voice, talking urgently with words I couldn’t quite make out.
It was all a dark, thick haze, but I wasn’t entirely unconscious. And my whole body jerked when my stomach heaved and I started to gag on my vomit.
My body might have been made of lead, but I managed to roll over on my side so I didn’t choke.
I hadn’t really thought about things before I took the pills, but I’m sure I would have assumed I’d just go peacefully to sleep. But the body doesn’t want to die. It never wants to die. And it will do whatever possible to fight off every threat.
In this case, it was horrible, convulsive vomiting—on my bed because there was no way I could even hang my head over the side.
In the middle of it, one whisper-thin part of my mind heard something else. A pounding. Maybe like a knock on the door. The pounding didn’t last very long, and then there was a loud crash. It didn’t make any sort of impact on me because I was retching again.
Then Gideon was there, and I had no idea how he’d gotten there. I couldn’t even see his face clearly, but I knew it was him. “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck, Diana. What did you do?” He was leaning down and turned me over some more so I wasn’t at risk of choking as I puked.
He must have already been on the phone with someone because he lifted his phone to his ear without dialing and said, “She’s vomiting. It looks really bad.”
There was a pause, and then he reached down to grab the bottle I’d let drop on the bed. He read out the name of the pills to whoever he was talking to on the phone.
Then he was lifting up my body. “The ambulance will be here soon. I called it in before I got here.”
That didn’t make any sense at all, but I was far past trying to process such things.
He must have carried me to the bathroom, although I wasn’t aware of his doing so. We somehow ended up there, though. I vomited some more. Then there was a shock of water on my face and neck and chest. I had no idea where it came from. And we were both on the floor of the bathroom, and he was holding me up as I gagged on painful dry heaves.
He was telling me that it would be all right. That help would come. That it would be here soon. That I’d be okay. There was something broken about the way he sounded, but I was broken too.
We’d been on the floor together in that other room too, when help hadn’t come in time.
***
The next thing I was aware of was opening my eyes to a bleak, painful light.
It hurt my head so I closed my eyes again. I was gradually waking up, though, and I realized I wasn’t on the floor anymore. I was in a bed. But the sheets felt different than my normal sheets.
My whole body hurt as I tried to stretch.
When I managed to get my eyes opened, I realized I was in a hospital room. It would hurt to turn my head, but I cut my eyes around the room until they landed on a man in the chair.
His hair had grown out some since when I’d seen him in that row house. It was light brown and thick—the kind that would stick out if he didn’t keep it cut pretty short. He looked different too in what must be his normal clothes—gray t-shirt and worn jeans. He had a light cast on his arm still but no sling.
All this I noticed in the few seconds it took for him to open his eyes. He must not have been asleep.
He straightened up as soon as he saw me looking at him.
“Wha—” I tried to ask, but the one word stuck in my throat.
He got up quickly and grabbed the water in the hospital cup beside the bed. He guided the straw to my mouth so I could drink it.
I swallowed a couple of gulps and then panted from the effort.
“You’ll be okay,” Gideon said, still holding the water in case I wanted to drink it again. “We got you here quickly enough. There’s no permanent damage to your liver or kidneys.”
“I’ll be...okay?”
“Yeah. They called your dad. He’s in Russia, I guess, but he’s on his way back now.”
My dad traveled all the time for work, so I wasn’t surprised or particularly interested in this fact. Gideon’s face was a little strange as he said it, as if he was more concerned by my dad’s absence than I was.
I still couldn’t quite figure out how I’d even gotten here. The details I did remember were random and disconnected. “Did you break down my door?”
“I kicked it in,” he admitted. “I was worried about you. I had to call someone to find out what apartment you were in.”
I moved my head toward the water, and he positioned it for me again. I drank several more swallows before I lay back.
“But I’m a stranger to you.” In my mind, the random comment made sense with what had come before—the idea that he would have gone to such great lengths to get to me, to help me.
“You’re not a stranger anymore.”
I couldn’t begin to understand that, so I just left it alone. More was coming back to me. Retching in the bathroom, with Gideon’s arms around me. Lying on my bed as he burst through the door to reach me.
And then the missing piece clicked in my head. I remembered why it had all happened at all.
“You bastard,” I hissed, shrinking away from him. He’d been giving me the water again, but I pushed it away, so violently the cup dropped to the floor, spilling and then rolling under the bed. “You bastard! Why did you do it?”
He didn’t react at all to my anger, but he must have understood where it was coming from. “I wasn’t going to let you die.”
“But I wanted to. I wanted to. It was almost over.” I don’t know where I got the energy, but I was suddenly lashing out at him, trying to hit him despite my physical weakness. All I could reach of him was his stomach and chest. “I wanted it to be over.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” He hadn’t moved from where he was standing next to the bed, and he made no effort to defend himself from my fists. “But I wasn’t going to let that happen.”
I wasn’t really hurting him. I wasn’t capable of doing so, but I tried anyway. I hadn’t been so angry...maybe ever. “You fucking bastard! It’s not your choice to make.”
