I follow his instructions, wiping the sleep out of my eyes. I have to pee, but the thought of him standing over me while I try to force my bladder to go sounds painful.
“Underwear. Dress. Stockings. Shoes.” He ticks them off. “I’m thinking pigtails today.” Handing me each article of clothing, I remove my nightgown, trembling at the thought of him examining my naked body.
He doesn’t even notice my hesitation, his attention turned to the tray that holds the hair brush and rubber bands.
Cringing, I change in silence, his eyes darting back to my face. He watches like a hawk as I move to the dresser to grab the Baby Soft. I dab the required spots and turn to look at him for my next instructions.
“I’m pleased by how eager you are.” He claps his hands together. “Go sit at the desk and eat your breakfast. I’m going to do your hair.”
The chair’s low to the ground and uncomfortable, I have to slouch to fit on it. He sets an apple and a carton of milk in front of me. “Breakfast is served.”
I hate apples – the annoying skin gets caught in my teeth. My stomach growls as I concentrate on drinking the milk, hoping he’ll ignore my hunger pains and scorn for the fruit in front of me.
He busies himself with brushing my hair, the bristles running over my tangles.
“Why aren't you eating?”
“I’m not hungry,” I lie.
The brush goes deeper into my scalp.
“I brought you an apple. You will eat it.”
Sucking down the last of the milk, I’m pulled against the wood slats of the chair as he pulls the plastic through my hair.
“Ouch,” I exclaim.
“Do we have a problem already this morning?”
“No,” I groan.
“I didn’t think so.” He reprimands me, hitting my shoulder with the plastic head of the brush. “And call me ‘sir.’”
“No problem, sir.”
Sinking my teeth into the red of the apple, I purposely take a large bite.
“That’s better, little girl.” Back to gentle strokes. Then he parts my hair and ties each side into pigtails.
“What is the agenda today?” he asks.
I start to answer, chewing, as he thumps me again with the brush. “Swallow before speaking. Manners.”
Gulping, I pause. “Puzzle and books.”
“Yes, you better read. Tonight you’ll read to me out loud.” He strokes my cheek with his smooth palm. If he works on cars, I’d be surprised. Maybe he wear gloves? His hands don’t match a manual labor job.
I’m mid-bite when he takes the apple from me. He points to a paper bag. “Your snack is in there. Water jug as well. A cup’s on the dresser. I’ll empty your bucket and be right back.” He pats my shoulder. “I’d like you to draw me a picture today.”
Luckily I only peed last night.
I half-heartedly raise my hand. “Of what, sir?”
“What you imagine when you think of the beach.” He leaves me sitting. I twist to watch over my shoulder as he grabs the bucket, humming again, watching the metal door.
There’s blackness behind it. No lights, just dark.
He’s back in a little over a minute. I count it down in my head.
Does he dump it outside? Maybe a trash can?
“Okay, little girl. Have a good day.” He tugs on my pigtail. “I’ll miss you. Will you miss me?”
“Yes,” I whisper, fighting back tears.
“Can you sew?” he asks out of nowhere.
I shake my head no. He snaps his fingers. “Darn. She could.” He gives me a pinch on my cheek. “Oh well, I can look for that in the next one.” He turns to leave, sliding the door open.
“What do you mean, next one?” I ask out loud.
“What did you say?” Swinging back around, he crosses the room in three quick strides.
I look down at my hands, avoiding his flared nostrils.
“You heard me.” He grabs my chin, tilting my face from side to side. “What did you say?”
Before I know it, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, the mole on his face lunging at me as he presses his hands on my throat.
Choking me, I squirm under his grip until I go limp, my arms falling to my sides.
When I wake up, I’m in a place worse than the room.
21
Blair
After we get back to Nebraska, we go our separate ways – my parents to our small town, me to university. I only have a couple months left of the spring semester before I’ll be a junior.
My parents and I stop talking, except for Sunday calls after my father preaches at church. And then, it’s only him calling to say hi.
I throw myself into my studies, but I can’t focus, chewing through the pencil, tapping the keyboard wordlessly, or finding every reason not to study.
So I start going out at night. Partying. Binge drinking. I don’t let anyone get close to me, I’m just there to numb myself.
Men are all lumped into the same category – potential threats to my safety. I don’t trust them, even co-ed college boys that ask me to dance or hold hands. Even though I drown myself in alcohol, I watch my drinks carefully, never letting one go unattended.
The self-loathing doesn’t work – I can hardly be alone with my thoughts, the images violent and graphic, my sister always at the top of my mind, but in trouble.
Panic attacks plague me.
I’m scared of the dark.
Terrified to be alone.
Goodman calls me. A body washed up on Waikiki Beach of a young girl. They’re speculating it might be Bristol, trying to prepare us all in advance.
It’s not.
Someone else’s daughter, someone else’s loss.
This time, a nineteen-year old girl from Nova Scotia. Her demise was from drowning-
falling off a catamaran after a storm rolled in. It was never reported in the States because her family didn’t realize she was sailing. Worse yet because she couldn’t swim.
What if Bristol did drown?
At least it would be swift and immediate.
It becomes an obsession, picturing her body out in the ocean, caught on plankton or sunk at the bottom like buried treasure.
This sets off a chain reaction.
I become so fearful of water that showering gives me the willies.
My best friend and roommate, Shay, tries to help, but I’m withdrawn, a shell of myself. Most mornings I stay in bed crying, the thought of showering, making it to class, or studying a steep impossibility.
Besides my fear of water, I’m worried a man will come and take me.
I leave the door open to the bathroom when I bathe. Never turning my back, nervous, my eyes glued to the hallway. I spend maybe a minute, sometimes two, tops, washing and rinsing off, shampoo dripping into my eyes as I struggle to keep them open at all times. If I close them, let down my guard, that’s when I’ll disappear.
The other door to the bedroom is locked since I can only watch one entrance at a time.
When I bother to shave, I sit on the toilet and use water from the faucet and a wet towel.
Night terrors invade my fitful sleep. Most nights I scream until Shay wakes me or my alarm pulls me out of my intermittent hibernation.
One morning, I’m in the bathroom, my usual routine of keeping the plastic shower curtain half-open, my back towards the wall, eyes trained on the door.
I hear voices, stilted and tense.
Shay’s from Chicago, Southside, a family of twelve. This means she has a loud, booming voice, since she never felt she was heard in such a crowded house. Because of the size of her family, she has an affinity for crowds. Part of why I love her is her ability to immerse herself in groups of people she doesn’t know and walk out with fifteen new friends.
I used to love her potential for being the center of attention.
Now I despise it.
Turning the shower off, my eyes tear up from unrinsed conditioner. Tentatively I step out, pausing as her speech bec
omes raised and more pronounced.
My towel hangs on the rack, I share the bathroom with her and the sisters across the hall, two sophomore girls.
Shutting the door, I dry and lotion my skin, throwing on baggy sweatpants and Bristol’s sweatshirt.
Shay’s back is turned to me when I tip-toe back into our room, her shoulders hunched. “She’s not okay though, Mrs. Bellamy. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
She pauses, listening to what’s said on the other end of the line. She doesn’t like the response, shaking her head in silent frustration.
“Okay, then can I talk to Mr. Bellamy?” There’s an edge to her tone.
A lull follows as she waits, a cuss word murmured that only I can hear.
I’m silent, rivulets of water from my wet hair drips down my back, then my legs. I don’t utter a sound, wanting to hear this.
“Hi...Mr. Bellamy? Yeah, it’s Shay Carbona, Blair’s roommate at the Alpha Delta Phi sorority house.”
He says something and she pulls her shoulders back.
“I don’t think she is safe.” She shakes her head. “No, I don’t mean she’d hurt herself, I mean, she’s not okay.”
“I know you’re all not okay,” she says lamely. My father responds, and that’s when she turns to glance in the direction of the bathroom. “She’s in the shower… oh wait, she’s right here.” Her face drops as she realizes I’m eavesdropping.
She looks at me, her black hair pulled in a tight bun. “Your father’s on the phone.” She thrusts the phone in my direction, “He wants to talk to you.”
Reaching for the cordless phone, I say, “Hi Daddy.”
“Hi Blair, how’s school?” he asks. “Two weeks until you’re a junior. How ‘bout that. You ready?”
“Sure.”
“Are you coming home for the summer?” he lowers his voice.
“Yes,” I say listlessly. “Is that okay?”
“Of course. I’m just worried about you. Shay says you have constant nightmares and don’t sleep,” he muses. “I know it’s hard, baby, but you gotta keep it together, be strong for us, for her.”
I stop listening.
“Okay, honey?”
“Sure.”
“See you in a couple weeks.”
But the next weekend, Shay brings a guy home, one she meets at a local watering hole. They’re drunk and stumbling, but I sleep with one eye open anyway. I never get to the stage where I’m well-rested. I’m tired all the time, eyes open or shut.
I turn my back to them, ignoring the grunts he makes and the sounds of sex. It reminds me of farm animals. The bed pounds against the wall, the wooden headboard shakes.
Pressing my eyes tight, I try and force the images of Bristol being violently raped out of my mind.
Shay starts crying out, saying “Stop, don’t do it,” and my protective mode kicks in.
Before I know what I’m doing, I jump out of bed, grabbing the baseball bat that’s replaced my body pillow.
The room is dark, but her twin bed is no more than ten feet from mine, separated only by a nightstand and our plethora of books and marked-up term papers.
Jumping on the dude’s back, I start smacking him with the bat, pulling his hair at the same time as Shay flails beneath us.
They’re both screaming, Shay’s hands reaching out above her, trying to shield the back of his head from my outburst.
“Stop, Blair, stop it!” She shrieks. “We’re just playing.”
It’s like I’m outside of myself, watching from above, as I hit the back of his knees, his bare back, and a final strike on his chest as he rolls over and pins me down. Shay holds my arms above me. The two girls from across the hall sprint in, both in various stages of undress.
It takes all three of them to get me off him. They yank me to the floor and clench my arms.
“Let go of me,” I huff.
The guy wrenches the bat out of my hands, tossing it across the room where it rolls to the wall and hits with a thud.
“What the fuck are you thinking, Blair?” Shay’s crying, her mascara bleeding down her face. “You could’ve seriously hurt him.”
I’m dazed, my eyes adjusting to the dark. “Who?”
Brittany, the sophomore from across the hall, drops my arms to stand and flip on the light switch.
“I thought you were being attacked,” I murmur.
“I wasn’t.” Shay’s kneeling beside the guy, his long ponytail loosened by my fury. “We were just playing.”
“I’ll get you an ice pack.” Brittany motions to the dude. “I’m sure we’ve got a first-aid kit somewhere.”
He nods, trying to cover his junk, pulling Shay’s comforter over his body. He scoots back towards the edge of the bed, shooting daggers at me.
“Are you okay?” The other girl, Monica, asks Shay.
“Yeah, I am. Thanks for coming in.” She gives her a tense smile.
“Yeah, thanks,” he sputters, “for saving me from this crazy bitch.”
“She’s not crazy, she’s sick.” Shay throws her hands up in the air. “Don’t say that about her.”
“Whatever, she was acting crazy.” He locates his boxers, jeans, and sneakers from under the bed. “I’m out.”
“Do you want my number?”
“Nah, I’m good.” He rubs his head. “I don’t want this fuckin’ drama.”
Shay rolls her eyes. “Nice to meet you, Calvin.”
“Kelvin. It’s Kelvin.”
“Whatever. Bye.”
Brittany walks in with a freezer bag full of ice, and she hands it to him with the look of a championship winner who just knocked out her only competition. “Here.” She thrusts it at him.
“Thanks, you’re cool.” He nods at her, pulling his pants up.
“Walk him out, will you, Monica?” Shay motions. “I’m going to talk to Blair.”
“Sure thing.” Monica takes the hint and Brittany follows.
The next day, my parents arrive. My mother refuses to come in to the sorority house, sitting in our Toyota, fingers clasped tight in her lap.
My father, his shoulders hunched, helps me finish packing. Shay had called him and told him I wasn’t well, that I was a threat to myself and others.
He tries to make small talk in the van, but our pain’s insurmountable, and it’s hard to have a conversation that doesn’t revolve around Bristol. Mother’s silent the whole way home, the only sound the click of her knitting needles.
When we pull into the drive, my mother slams her door, stomping inside the house.
Over the summer, the sorority sisters vote to have me removed, concerned about my ‘violent tendencies.’
My failing grades make it impossible to keep my financial aid.
And to add insult to injury, the clothing store fires me. Showing up drunk and only half the time doesn’t work.
It’s for the best, I’m unable to care about what kind of cargo pants or sweaters look great with your eyes and body type, my inability to hold a conversation or make a sale a detriment to the store.
When I ask someone what they’re looking for, I have a canned response that doesn't go over well with customers or management.
“What’re you looking for today?”
“Oh, I’m trying to find something to wear for pictures.”
“Great, I’m trying to find my missing sister who’s probably dead. I hope you have better luck.”
With a depleted bank account and major depression, I become a prisoner at the farm.
But it never feels warm, welcoming, or like home again.
Not with my mother looking at me every day, reminding me how unwelcome I am, that her ‘preferred’ daughter shouldn’t be the one missing, it should be me.
And definitely not with my father commenting that he never got to bring home the son he always wanted.
22
Bristol
When I open my eyes, the first thing I notice is that I’m sweating, the air stifling hot. I’m not bound
, but when I stretch my arms out, there’s not enough room to hold them parallel to my body.
Sweat drips down my back, but I can’t reach underneath to wipe the perspiration away. I’m in a small space. My hands swipe above, scraping against a surface that feels like wood. It’s sharp and prickly against my skin. Compared to some of the smooth varnishes, this is rough and jagged.
My fight or flight response kicks in, I rap my knuckles until they’re raw against the top and sides of whatever I’m in, shouting for help.
Alarmed at the tight quarters, I start hyperventilating, my breathing ragged, the sense that I’m dying controls my brain as it spirals into a dark place.
I suffocate, my body paralyzed in fear.
Too much oxygen makes me dizzy and weak, enough so I pass out.
When I come to, my body is stuck to the hard surface, sweat trickling down my eyelids and into my mouth.
I taste salt and baby powder.
The pain and inability to wipe my face or move my limbs is excruciating. There’s a stickiness on my hands – it’s blood.
This must be the box, I realize.
The ‘box’ is really a makeshift coffin.
I shudder, realizing it’s the perfect length and width for me. I fit snugly into it, with no room to squirm.
Closing my eyes, I try and sleep. It’s impossible, the heat and lack of air force me to lie there, cramped.
My hands tingle, then go numb.
I get a painful twitch in my left leg.
It feels like I’m stuck for days, it’s more like hours. Long, tedious hours of torture.
My mouth feels like I’ve eaten a tub of peanut butter, my tongue stuck to the roof of it, bone dry. I mumble to myself at first, but my energy’s depleted, stuck in this dazed zone where I’m aware of my surroundings but cannot do anything.
A loud knocking causes me to shriek, at first I think it’s coming from inside the box.
It’s some type of tool, whacking against the outside.
Did he nail it shut?
I ball my hands into fists, trying to convince my blood to circulate so the temporary paralysis will subside.
Into the Night Page 15
