The logging truck veered sharply to the left. HOW AM i DOING?
read the bumper sticker on its back door, the one that encouraged motorists to report reckless driving to an 800 number. I am doing fine, Daniel thought. I am hale and whole, and next to me the person I love most in this world has broken into a thousand pieces.
Trixie watched the side of the logging truck as her father accelerated and passed it, holding down his horn. It sounded too loud for this hour of the morning. It seemed to rip the sky in half. She covered her ears, but even then she could still hear it, like a scream that sounded from inside.
Weaving back into the right-hand lane of the highway, Daniel stole a glance at Trixie across the front seat. She was curled into a ball. Her face was pale. Her hands were hidden in her sleeves. Daniel bet she didn't even know she was crying. She'd forgotten her coat, and Daniel realized this was his fault. He should have reminded her. He should have brought one of his own.
Trixie could feel the weight of her father's worry. Who knew that the words you never got around to saying could settle so heavy? Suddenly, she remembered a blown-glass candy dish she had broken when she was eleven, an heirloom that had belonged to her mother's grandmother. She had gathered all the pieces and had glued them together seamlessly - and she still hadn't been able to fool her mother. She imagined the same would be true, now, of herself.
If this had been an ordinary day, Daniel thought, he would have been getting Trixie up for school about now. He'd yell at her when she spent too much time in the bathroom doing her hair and tell her she was going to be late. He'd put a cereal bowl out for her on the breakfast table, and she'd fill it with Life. From the moment it was over until the moment she entered her own home, Trixie had said only two words, uttered as she got out of his car. Thank you.
Daniel watched the logging truck recede in his rearview mirror. Danger came in different packages, at different points in a lifetime. There were grapes and marbles and other choking hazards. There were trees too tall for climbing. There were matches and scooters and kitchen knives left lying on the counter. Daniel had obsessed about the day Trixie would be able to drive. He could teach her how to be the most defensive driver on the planet, but he couldn't vouch for the moron truckers who hadn't slept for three days, who might run a red light. He couldn't keep the drunk from having one more before he got behind the wheel of his car to head home.
Out the passenger window, Trixie watched the scenery stream by without registering a single image. She couldn't stop wondering: If she had not kissed him back, would it never have happened?
* * *
The phone rang ten times in Laura's office, a room the size of a walk-in closet, but Daniel couldn't seem to hang up. He had tried everything, everywhere. Laura was not answering the phone in the office; she was not at home; her cell automatically rolled over to the voice message system. She had disconnected herself, on purpose.
Daniel had made excuses for his wife on his own behalf, but he couldn't make them for Trixie's sake. Because for the first time in
his life, he didn't think he could be everything his daughter needed right now.
He cursed out loud and called Laura's office again to leave a message. “It's Daniel. It's four in the morning. I've got Trixie at Stephens Memorial, in the ER. She was . .. she was raped last night.” He hesitated. “Please come.”
* * 8
Trixie wondered if this was what it felt like to be shot. If, even after the bullet went through flesh and bone, you would look down at yourself with detachment, assessing the damage, as if it wasn't you who had been hit but someone else you were asked to appraise. She wondered if numbness qualified as a chronic ache. Sitting here, waiting for her father to come back from the restroom, Trixie cataloged her surroundings: the squeak of the nurse's white shoes, the urgent chatter of a crash cart being rolled across linoleum, the underwater-green cinder block of the walls and the amoeba shapes of the chairs where they had been told to wait. The smell of linen and metal and fear. The garland and stockings hung behind the triage nurse, the afterthought of a Christmas tree that sat next to the wire box holding patient charts. Trixie didn't just notice all these things, she absorbed them, and she decided she was saturating herself with sensation to make up for the thirty minutes she had blocked out of her consciousness.
She realized, with a start, that she had already begun to divide her life into before and after.
* * *
Hi, you've reached Laura Stone, her voice said. Leave me a message and I'll get back to you.
Leave me.
I'll get back to you.
Daniel hung up again and walked back inside the hospital, where cell phones were prohibited. But when he got back to the waiting area, Trixie was gone. He approached the triage nurse. “Which room is my daughter in? Trixie Stone?”
The nurse glanced up. “I'm sorry, Mr. Stone. I know she's a priority case, but we're short staffed and . . .”
“She hasn't been called in yet?” Daniel said. “Then where is she?” He knew he shouldn't have left her alone, knew even as she was nodding at him when she asked if she'd be all right by herself for a moment that she hadn't heard him at all. Backing away from the horseshoe desk, he started through the double doors of the ER, calling Trixie's name.
“Sir,” the nurse said, getting to her feet, “you can't go in there!”
“Trixie?” Daniel yelled, as patients stared at him from the spaces between privacy curtains, their faces pale or bloodied or weak. “Trixie!”
An orderly grabbed his arm; he shook the massive man off. He turned a corner, smacking into a resident in her ghost-white coat before he came to a dead end. Whirling about, he continued to call out for Trixie, and then - in the interstitial space between the letters of her name - he heard Trixie calling for him. He followed the thread of her voice through the maze of corridors and finally saw her. “I'm right here,” he said, and she turned to him and burst into tears.
“I got lost,” she sobbed against his chest. “I couldn't breathe. They were staring.”
“Who was?”
“All the people in the waiting room. They were wondering what was wrong with me.”
Daniel took both of her hands. “There's nothing wrong with you,” he said, that first lie a fissure crack in his heart. A woman wearing a trowel's layer of cosmetics approached.
“Trixie Stone?” she said. “My name's Janice. I'm a sexual assault advocate. I'm here to answer questions for you and your family, and to help you understand what's going to be happening.” Daniel couldn't get past the makeup. If this woman had been called in for Trixie, how much time had been lost applying those false eyelashes, that glittery blush? How much faster might she have come?
“First things first,” Janice said, her eyes on Trixie. “This wasn't your fault.”
Trixie glanced at her. “You don't even know what happened.”
“I know that no one deserves to be raped, no matter who she is and what she's been doing,” Janice said. “Have you taken a shower yet?”
Daniel wondered how on earth she could even think this. Trixie was still wearing the same torn blouse, had the same raccoon circles of mascara under her eyes. She had wanted to shower - that was why, when he'd found her, she was in the bathroom - but Daniel knew enough to keep her from doing it. Evidence. The word had swum in his mind like a shark.
“What about the police?” Daniel heard, and he was stunned to realize he'd been the one to say it.
Janice turned. “The hospital automatically reports any sexual assault of a minor to the police,” she said. “Whether or not Trixie wants to press charges is up to her.”
She will press charges against that son of a bitch, Daniel thought, even if I have to talk her into it.
And on the heels of that: If he forced Trixie to do something she didn't want to, then how was he any different from Jason Underhill?
As Janice outlined the specifics of the upcoming examination, Trixie shook her head and folded her a
rms around herself. “I want to go home,” she said, in the smallest of voices. “I've changed my mind.”
“You need to see a doctor, Trixie. I'll stay with you, the whole time.” She turned to Daniel. "Is there a Mrs. Stone . . . ?
"
Excellent question, Daniel thought, before he could remember not to. “She's on her way,” he said. Maybe this was not even a lie by now.
Trixie grabbed onto his arm. “What about my father? Can he come in with me?”
Janice looked from Daniel to Trixie and then back again. “It's a pelvic exam,” she said delicately.
The last time Daniel had seen Trixie naked, she had been eleven and about to take a bubble bath. He had walked into the bathroom, thinking she was only brushing her teeth, and together they had stared at her blossoming body in the reflection of the mirror. After that, he was careful to knock on doors, to draw an invisible curtain of distance around her for privacy.
When he was a kid in Alaska, he had met Yu'pik Eskimos who hated him on sight, because he was a kass'aq. It didn't matter that he was six or seven, that he hadn't been the particular Caucasian who had cheated that person out of land or reneged on a job or any of a hundred other grievances. All they saw was that Daniel was white, and by association, he was a magnet for their anger. He imagined, now, what it would be like to be the only male in the room during a sexual assault examination.
“Please, Daddy?”
Behind the fear in Trixie's eyes was the understanding that even with this stranger, she would be alone, and she couldn't risk that again. So Daniel took a deep breath and headed down the hall between Trixie and Janice. Inside the room, there was a gurney; he helped Trixie climb onto it. The doctor entered almost immediately, a small woman wearing scrubs and a white coat. “Hi, Trixie,” she said, and if she seemed surprised to see a father in the room, instead of a mother, she said nothing. She came right up to Trixie and
squeezed her hand. “You're already being very brave. All I'm going to ask you to do is keep that up.”
She handed a form to Daniel and asked him to sign it, explaining that because Trixie was a minor, a parent or guardian had to authorize the collection and release of information. She took Trixie's blood
pressure and pulse and made notes on her clipboard. Then she began to ask Trixie a series of questions.
What's your address?
How old are you?
What day did the assault occur? What approximate time?
What was the gender of the perpetrator? The number of perpetrators?
The Tenth Circle
Daniel felt a line of sweat break out under the collar of his shirt.
Have you douched, bathed, urinated, defecated since the assault?
Have you vomited, eaten or drunk, changed clothes, brushed your teeth?
He watched Trixie shake her head no to each of these. Each time before she spoke, she would glance at Daniel, as if he had the answer in his eyes.
Have you had consensual intercourse in the last five days?
Trixie froze, and this time, her gaze slid away from his. She murmured something inaudible. “Sorry,” the doctor said. “I didn't quite get that?”
“This was the first time,” Trixie repeated. Daniel felt the room swell and burst. He was vaguely aware of excusing himself, of Trixie's face - a white oval that bled at the edges. He had to try twice before he could maneuver his fingers in a way that would open the latch of the door.
Outside, he balled his hand into a fist and struck it against the cinder-block wall. He pummeled the cement again and again. He did this even as the tears came and a nurse led him away, to wash the blood off his knuckles and to bandage the scrapes on his palm. He did this until he knew Trixie wasn't the only one hurting.
* * *
Trixie wasn't where everyone thought she was. She might have physically been in the examination room, but mentally she was floating, hovering in the top left corner of the ceiling, watching the doctor and that other woman minister to the poor, sad, broken girl who used to be her.
She wondered if they knew that their patient was a husk, a shell left behind by a snail because home didn't fit anymore. You'd think someone who'd been to medical school would be able to hear through a stethoscope that somebody was empty inside. Trixie watched herself step onto a sheet of white paper with stiff, jerky movements. She listened as Dr. Roth asked her to remove her clothes, explaining that there might be evidence on the fabric that the detectives could use. “Will I get them back?” Trixie heard herself say. “I'm afraid not,” the doctor answered.
“Your dad is going to run home and get you something to wear,” Janice added.
Trixie stared down at her mothers sheer blouse. She's going to kill me, Trixie thought, and then she almost laughed - would her mother really be paying attention to the freaking blouse when she found out what had happened? With slow movements, Trixie mechanically unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it off. Too late, she remembered the Ace bandage around her wrist.
“What happened there?” Dr. Roth asked, gently touching the metal pins holding the wrap in place.
Trixie panicked. What would the doctor say if she knew Trixie had taken to carving her own arm up? Could she get thrown into a psych ward for that?
“Trixie,” Dr. Roth said, “are there bruises under there?” She looked down at her feet. “They're more like cuts.” When Dr. Roth began to unravel the bandage on her left wrist, Trixie didn't fight her. She thought about what it would be like in an institution. If, in the aftermath of all this, it might not be such a
bad thing to be sealed away from the real world and totally overmedicated.
Dr. Roth's gloved hands skimmed over a cut, one so new that Trixie could see the skin still knitting together. “Did he use a knife?”
Trixie blinked. She was still so disconnected from her body that it took her a moment to understand what the doctor was implying, and another moment after that to understand that she had just been given a way out.
“I... I don't think so,” Trixie said. “I think he scratched me when I was fighting.”
Dr. Roth wrote something down on her clipboard, as Trixie kept getting undressed. Her jeans came next, and then she stood shivering in her bra and panties. “Were you wearing that pair of underwear when it happened?” the doctor asked. Trixie shook her head. She'd put them on, along with a big fat sanitary napkin, once she saw that she was bleeding. “I wasn't wearing underwear,” Trixie murmured, and immediately she realized how much that made her sound like a slut. She glanced down at the floor, at the see-through blouse. Was that why it had happened?
“Low-rise jeans,” Janice commiserated, and Trixie nodded, grateful that she hadn't been the one to have to explain. Trixie couldn't remember ever being so tired. The examination room was runny at the edges, like a breakfast egg that hadn't been cooked quite long enough. Janice handed her a hospital johnny, which was just as good as being naked with the way it was hanging open in the back. “You can take a seat,” Dr. Roth said. The blood samples were next. It was just like when they'd had to pair up in eighth-grade science to try to analyze their own blood type. Trixie had nearly passed out at the sight of the blood, and her teacher had sent her to the nurse to breathe into a paper bag for a half hour, and she was so mortified that she'd called her father and said she was sick even though physically she was feeling much better. She and her father had had a Monopoly tournament, and like always, Trixie bought Park Place and Boardwalk and set up hotels and creamed her father. This time, though, when the needle went in, Trixie watched from above. She didn't feel the prick, she didn't feel woozy. She didn't feel anything at all, of course, because it wasn't her. When Dr. Roth turned off the lights in the room, Janice stepped forward. “The doctor's going to use a special light now, a Woods lamp. It won't hurt.”
It could have been a thousand needles - Trixie knew she still wouldn't feel it. But instead, this turned out to be like a tanning booth, except creepier. The light glowed ultraviolet, and when Tr
ixie glanced down at her own bare body, it was covered with purple lines and blotches that hadn't been visible before. Dr. Roth moistened a
long cotton swab and touched it to a spot on her shoulder. She left it on the counter to air-dry, and as it did, Trixie watched her write on the paper sleeve that the swab had been packaged in: Suspected saliva from right shoulder.
The doctor took swabs from the inside of her cheek and off her tongue. She gently combed Trixie's hair over a paper towel, folding up the comb inside the towel when she was finished. Dr. Roth slipped another towel underneath her, using a different comb to work through her pubic hair. Trixie had to turn away - it was that embarrassing to watch.
“Almost done,” Janice murmured.
Dr. Roth pulled a pair of stirrups from the end of the examination table. “Have you ever been to a gynecologist, Trixie?” she asked.
Trixie had an appointment, scheduled for next February, with her mother's doctor. It's a health thing, her mother had assured her, which was just fine because Trixie wasn't planning on discussing her sex life out loud, especially not with her mother. Months ago, when the appointment had been made, Trixie hadn't even ever kissed a guy.
“You're going to feel a little pressure,” Dr. Roth said, folding Trixie's legs into the stirrups, a human origami that left her stark and open.
In that instant, Trixie felt what was left of her spirit sinking down from where it had been watching near the ceiling, to take dark root in her beaten body. She could feel Janice's hand stroking her arm, could feel the doctor's rubber glove parting the heart of her. For the first time since she'd entered the hospital, she was completely, violently aware of who she was and what had been done to her.
There was cold steel, and a rasp of flesh. A push from the outside, as her body struggled to keep the speculum out. Trixie tried to kick out with one foot, but she was being held down at the thighs and then there was pain and force and you are breaking me in two.
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