“It’s not too soon, Dakota. We need to get you help so we can all—especially you—start processing and dealing with it. Most importantly, you need to heal. This is the only way to move forward.”
“I don’t need it. You can all help me. I don’t need a damn shrink!” I protest angrily.
Mom takes a deep breath and looks me straight in the eyes. “Okay, I want to ask you something.”
“What is it?” I try and calm down.
“Remember with the last car we had and it broke down? It was that really hot day, I had groceries in the back and it wouldn’t start. We had to get it towed to the mechanic.”
“I remember that,” I say.
“Did Dad or I try to fix it?”
“Well, no. You don’t know anything about cars.”
“That’s right. We don’t know anything about cars, which is why we leave these things to people who’ve studied and do have the knowledge. It’s exactly the same with the counselor, Dakota. She’s studied, and knows how to help you move forward. All we can do . . .” Mom points to herself, Sam, and Dad, “ . . . is support you and be here for you when you need to cry, when you need to scream, and when you simply need us.”
I nod my head in understanding. When Mom breaks it down like that, she’s right. If I don’t get the proper help now, I may not be able to move on with my future. I might get stuck in the past, always full of resentment and hate that may end up ruining my life.
“I get it,” I say. “And I’ll go wherever you need me to go.”
Mom leans over and offers me her hand. Letting go of Sam, I reach across and take it. “We need to go to the doctor first, Dakota. And that appointment is at two.”
I turn to look at the clock and see it’s nearing midday. “Okay. I might go lie down for a while before we go. I’m feeling flat.” Weak.
“Okay, darling. I’ll come wake you up in about an hour.”
I head into my room, and grab my phone from my table. Opening it up I see there are numerous messages and phone calls from Reece. They all have the same general theme of, ‘is everything okay?.’ Each message gets more desperate, and every voicemail has the same urgency as his messages.
I dial his number and he picks up on the fourth ring. “Dakota, are you okay?” he asks in a panic.
“Yeah,” I sigh as I lie back on my bed.
“What’s happened? Are you safe? Are you okay? Your dad looked really angry yesterday and I was calling because I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” My voice is flat and lifeless. “They know.”
I wait for Reece to take in what I said. It takes him an entire minute before he finally comprehends my comment. “Shit. How? What happened?”
“Someone at Dad’s work told him.” I have to be careful what I say, because the police are investigating it and I can’t say much in case I slip up and hinder the process. “Anyway, I can’t say much, but I’m safe, and I’m okay.”
“Well.” He clicks his tongue to the roof his mouth, and then grumbles something inaudible. “As long as you’re okay. Can I see you today?”
“I can’t today, Reece. I really don’t feel like I have the energy for company, and besides there are some things going on here.”
“What? Maybe I can help.”
“Trust me, if I could tell you, I would, but I can’t.”
“Dakota, please.”
“Don’t ask me to do something I can’t. I promise you, Reece, I’m okay and my family is looking after me. Maybe on the weekend you can come over if you still want to.”
“Of course I want to,” he replies with frustration in his voice.
“Can we talk tomorrow? Seriously my head is pounding and I need to have a rest before I go to my first appointment.”
“What’s the appointment for?”
Crap. I don’t want to tell him. “Just a thing.”
Frustrated he mumbles more into the phone. “One day, will you tell me?”
“When I can, then yes. Of course I will.”
“Okay. Can you do me a favor?”
“What would you like?”
“I’m worried about you, Dakota. I know you said your parents are looking after you and of course I trust you, but can you message me later on? It makes me smile when I see your number, and it settles me down too.”
Aw, how damn sweet. “Sure, I’ll message you later.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.” Looking up at my ceiling, I watch as the ceiling fan goes slowly around and around. I give myself over to the exhaustion clinging to my body. The blades of the fan make a soothing sound as they cut through the air. My eyes drift shut, and I fall asleep.
“You’ll feel a small sting and the needle will be in,” our Doctor says as he’s inserting the needle.
“I hate needles,” I say to Mom, who’s sitting beside me watching our doctor take blood.
“I don’t know of many people who enjoy them,” he says with a chuckle. “My daughter, she’s twenty-three, and still she hates them. But you’d never know, because she’s got tattoos everywhere. I once asked her why those needles are okay, but these aren’t. You know what she said, Dakota?”
“No,” I answer while breathing through this stupid blood test. “What did she say?”
“She said, at least with tattoo machines, they end up giving you something pretty on your skin. These needles do nothing to make you feel nice.”
“That can be argued. Because sometimes you need an antibiotic and the only way you can get it is through a needle, which in turn, eventually makes you feel nice . . . well normal.”
“You should have this argument with my daughter, Dakota. Right, I’m done. That didn’t hurt did it?”
I look over and he applies pressure with a cotton ball, and puts a Band-Aid over it. “That was painless.” I smile, rolling down the sleeve of my lightweight sweater.
“Now, about the HIV test. It’s slightly different to the tests for other sexually transmitted diseases. HIV has a longer incubation period, and it can take up to six months for it to show up in a test, which means you’ll need to be tested again in two months, then two months later, and again two months after that.”
“Six months?” I sigh. “Really? That long?”
“It’s a long process, and unfortunately there are no shortcuts. I suggest you refrain from any sexual activity.” I cringe and look away. “The blood system tries to fight any disease by making antibodies to it. The test looks for those antibodies and that process can take anywhere from two weeks to six months to get results. In the meantime, try to remain positive, Dakota.”
With the hand I’ve been dealt, I don’t know if I’m going to die an early death, or if I’m going to live to a ripe old age. He’s telling me to remain positive. How am I supposed to stay positive when I have to live the next six months worrying I may have a disease that could kill me?
”If I do have it, can I infect someone else?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.
“The only way HIV can be spread is by the exchange of body fluids, most likely through sex. And Dakota, even if you do have HIV, the drugs these days are so much more advanced than what they were twenty years ago. People are living a lot longer and healthier.” I snarl at his word ‘healthier.’ “Trust me, we’ll get through this.”
I’ve got my head down, feeling self-pity and sorrow. I think I’m allowed to; this situation is horrendous. No one should ever go through this.
“Because the rape happened over two months ago, I won’t do a rape kit on you since all the evidence has been washed away now. But have you had any itching, or burning when you go to the bathroom?” I cringe when he says the ‘R’ word.
“No, nothing.”
“Any discharge or odor?”
“Nothing.” Yuck.
“And you’ve done a pregnancy test?”
“No, but I’ve had my period twice since.”
“That’s great. We’ll still do the blood test to confirm you’re
not.”
“But I’ve had my period,” I protest. “I can’t be pregnant. I’ve had it twice.”
“Usually, we’d say you’re fine and that’s okay. We’ll just make sure.”
“So I could be pregnant?” God help me, I can’t cope.
“Very unlikely. But there have been rare times where the woman will continue having a light period throughout her pregnancy.”
“You have to be kidding me. How long do I have to wait for those results?”
“I’ll get the results for the pregnancy test back tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I say with a deep sigh. “At least I’ll know something quickly.”
“Do either of you have any questions for me?” I shake my head, and look over to Mom. She shakes her head too.
“Thank you for seeing us today. Shall we make an appointment for tomorrow on the way out?” Mom asks.
“Yes, make it for later in the day though. I’m not sure what time I’ll have the results back and I don’t want you to have to sit here, waiting. It’s only a matter of them sending it through electronically, but it depends on the backlog of work they have.”
“Okay, well we’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.” I stand and press the button on the bottom of my phone. It flicks to life and the time brightens up the screen. We have about twenty minutes before my appointment with the counselor.
We leave the doctor’s office and I’m suddenly overcome with anxiety. Mom drives to the counselor’s office. She’s chatting, but I can tell she’s just trying to distract me. She laughs nervously over something she’s said, and I look over to her, not really having heard a word she’s spoken.
She smiles at me, and reaches across the center console to hold my hand. She gives it a small squeeze and lets go, returning her hand to the steering wheel. We head to the opposite side of town, and Mom easily finds the street thanks to her navigation unit.
We pull up outside an older-style home in a residential neighborhood. It has clean, crisp, white stucco on the outside with ocean blue window shutters. The house is well maintained with a lush green garden running along the length of the house, only interrupted by the five steps leading up to the porch.
“We’re here,” Mom needlessly points out as she turns and watches my reaction.
“It’s cute,” I answer, unbuckling my seatbelt.
Mom rubs her hands together, then tucks some hair behind her ear. She’s nervous; this is obvious. But I’m not sure if she’s anxious for me, or for another reason.
Hesitating, I open the car door, taking a minute to look at the cute, inviting house. Mom moves first toward the steps, and I follow close behind. As we approach I notice the gold plaque on the side wall near the door. It’s small and not intimidating, but it lists Tara’s full name, and what she specializes in. There’s a lot of letters in her title separated by a lot of commas, so I can only imagine the amount of training she’s had.
Mom stands to the side and waits for me to open the door. I reach out and grab the handle, turning it and walking through to a welcoming, light blue waiting room. There are a couple of sofas and four single chairs lining the L-shaped waiting room. To the left is a small, yet organized white desk with an older lady sitting behind it.
“Hello, dear,” she says with a nice, warm smile on her face.
“Um, hi. My mom and I are here to see Tara. We have an appointment. My name’s Dakota Bennett.”
“Oh, yes. Now Mrs. Bennett, there’s some paperwork for you to fill in. Here you go.” She hands Mom a folder and a pen and indicates she can sit anywhere and fill it out. “Tara won’t be long.”
“Thank you,” Mom and I reply in unison.
We sit down and I can’t help but look around the waiting room nervously. My entire body is tense, nerves thrumming while I try to distract myself in the waiting room, I can’t help but feel anxious. Nausea makes an appearance and I concentrate on my breathing to push the sick feeling aside.
I pick up an old, dated magazine and flick through it but nothing holds my attention for long.
“Dakota?” An older lady stands in front of me and smiles warmly. She has blonde hair, thick –black rimmed- glasses and a gentle, caring smile. “I’m Tara, would you like to come in?” I look to Mom, petrified. Tara catches my panicked gaze and adds, “Would you like your mom to come in too?”
“Yes please. Is that okay, Mom?”
“Of course, honey. Anything you need.” Mom hands the completed paperwork to the lady at the front desk, and we all follow Tara into a room.
“Please, sit wherever you’ll be most comfortable.” She sweeps her hand across the room indicating any of the seating available.
Mom and I sit in two side-by-side armchairs. I take in Tara’s appearance. She’s older but dressed quite casually, in a t-shirt, jeans and black slip-on shoes.
“Your mom called me late yesterday and explained the reason you’re here.” I nod my head. “Do you want to be here, Dakota?”
What an odd and strange question. But I take the time to really think about it, I stare out the window and see a large tree shading us from the late afternoon sun. “At first, no,” I answer honestly. “I didn’t want anyone to know, and I didn’t think I needed help.”
“You didn’t think you needed help?”
“Let me correct myself. I mean, I didn’t think I needed help beyond what my family can provide.”
“But now?”
“Now I think it’s dangerous for me not to get help.”
“Can you explain that to me?” She picks up a notebook and begins to scribble. “Why do you think it would be dangerous?”
“I’ve held this secret for months, and forced my younger sister to keep it too. I figured I’d eventually bury it so deep inside that I’d forget about it. But I suppose you can never forget something like that. I’m afraid it’ll affect any relationship I may have in the future.”
“How old is your sister?”
“Sam’s fourteen.”
“And how do you feel now knowing this is no longer a secret, particularly from your parents?”
“A little relieved. When it first happened, I did everything possible so no one would find out. Then I convinced myself that it was too late to say anything. And I also convinced myself that no one would believe me, or they’d think I’d been drinking and deserved it.”
“Before you were raped.” Every hair on my body stands to attention when she says it so bluntly. My breath gets caught and I shiver with revulsion at myself. “Is that what you thought when you heard of anyone being raped? They’d been drinking and deserved it?”
“I’ve never considered it before. I don’t think I ever paid attention.” I cross my legs on the chair and lean back so I’m comfortable.
“So this happened at your prom, right?” I nod my head. “And your parents found out yesterday?” I nod my head again. “What happened when they found out?”
“I don’t understand the question.”
She places the book on her lap and steeples her fingers together, placing the tips to her mouth. “Tell me how your parents found out.”
“Someone at his work showed my Dad a photo from social media. His son was added to a group yesterday that shared photos of me.” I gulp. “Explicit photos of me from that night. His son recognized me from a company picnic, he showed his dad, who showed my dad.”
“Were you frightened, relieved, or indifferent? There was probably something running through your mind. Can you remember?”
“I was definitely scared, because I was worried that Mom and Dad wouldn’t believe me.” Mom reaches out and rubs her hand up and down my back. “At first they thought I’d had sex and let the other person take pictures, but when I told them the truth, they were both as horrified to hear it as I was to say it.”
“Then what happened?” She picks up her pen and notebook and continues jotting down notes.
“There were a lot of tears, explanations, and then there was the police.”
“T
he police are firmly involved?” I nod my head. “Okay, we’ll get back to that, but right now, I want to know how you’re feeling.”
I look down at my fingers and begin picking at my nails. I push the cuticles back on every finger, while my leg twitches beneath my body. Eventually I find the courage to answer her. “I don’t know how I feel. Maybe the best way to describe me is numb. I’m numb to what happened that night, I’m numb to the blood test I had an hour ago to see if I have a sexually transmitted disease or if I’m pregnant. I’m even numb to you. I’m numb to sitting in here, and numb to talking. My body is aching, my heart has been ripped out, stomped on and shoved back in while it’s only partially working. I don’t think I have any more tears left, and my head is splitting in two from a headache I’ve had ever since it all came out. I can’t say anything else but I’m numb.”
“I think your explanation is quite beautiful.” She jots down more notes.
I stare out the window, and listen to everything Tara has to say.
We’re only skimming over everything, and when she asks me to tell her what I remember of that night, I break down. I thought I had no more tears left, but as it turns out, I have plenty. The session seems to go on forever and toward the end of it, she has me looking at the situation differently, analyzing it.
We leave the office after making another appointment on Monday, three days away. Tara wants me to try some meditation techniques to help me relax when everything gets to be too much. She also said this weekend will probably be the worst for me because everything’s coming back up to the surface.
We walk out of her office and I’m a mess. My tears won’t stop, my head is banging loudly and my body is aching. All I want to do is go home, crawl into bed and forget about the world.
Forget about this entire chaotic situation and forget how one degrading night changed my entire life.
These last few days have been a blur. Night and day blend into each other, with no clear distinction separating the two. My appetite has been lost, and it seems all I do is cry.
Mistrust Page 31
