by Sandra Block
I have a flash of a face looming over me. Two boys trying something. Pain. I have a flash of being pushed off a mattress. Repositioned, tugged. Pain. A line of men, laughing.
“I don’t remember.”
Morris snaps his notebook shut. “Listen, dear, we can’t help you if you won’t help us.”
Daisy rolls her eyes. “And you were being ever so very helpful.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. From the handbook. Always be polite, always apologize.
“Well,” Morris says. “You’ve been through a lot.”
I nod and start crying. I am pathetic. Just a tincture of kindness will do it.
“Okay,” Morris says. “We’ll talk more later, when you’re not in shock.”
Is that what this is, I wonder. Shock?
“We’re going to have to take some quick pictures now, like your friend wanted.”
So I let them. The flashes blinding me. Documenting scrapes, bruises, my privates. Like some kind of weird forensic centerfold. I am seeing red spots. Daisy is holding my sweaty hand and I think I can’t possibly get through this. There is no way, but then I realize that it’s going to be okay. Of course it will be okay.
I won’t have to apologize, or be polite, or be helpful, or anything. It’ll all be better soon. Because I have a brilliant, infallible idea.
I’m going to kill myself.
Chapter Seventeen
Dahlia
At work, people tiptoe around me.
And why wouldn’t they? Not only did I perform my extravagant fish-flop routine in the break room, but now I’ll also be forever known as the “girl in the video.” Not that I’m ashamed of what happened. If Rae-Ann has taught me anything, it’s that I’m not responsible for the behavior of violent assholes. But, be that as it may, people still treat you differently. They shouldn’t, but they do. And it sucks. For instance, no one has asked me to do any extra projects today, and Connor didn’t meet my eyes in the hallway.
At least Sylvia doesn’t tiptoe around it. “I heard about what happened,” she says the moment I sit down.
I yank a file drawer open. “Uh-huh.” I’m hoping my tone conveys my desired reticence on the subject right now.
“If you ever want to talk about it…” She lets the sentiment trail off, which is probably for the best. Sylvia is many things, but a social worker is not one of them.
“Thanks,” I say and put on a smile. “It was such a long time ago.”
She uncaps a pen and starts crossing out paragraphs with a flourish. “My cousin got raped by some jerk in college too.”
“Oh…yeah?” I don’t have a pat answer for that one.
“Never reported it though.” She recaps the pen, then looks back up. “I wouldn’t either. Cops are such assholes.”
“Uh-huh.” It’s a generalization, but I can’t say my experience belies this.
“Hey, did you see that IT guy again?” She is apparently ready to move on to safer conversation topics. Men. Men who don’t rape, anyway.
“James,” I answer. “Sort of.” I’m not sure if a hospital visit counts.
“He seems really…intense or something,” she says. “Reserved. I mean, what do you guys talk about? Still waters and all.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “You don’t always need words to communicate.”
She shoots me a knowing grin, misunderstanding this, and I decide to let her. “Okay, now I gotcha.” She lets out a lurid giggle, then crosses off more paragraphs. “He does have nice shoulders,” she admits. And when I think about it, it’s true. “You do your thing, honey. I totally got you now.”
What she doesn’t know is that I’ve been thinking about James, a lot.
I took two days off work after my seizure. Maybe they’re not real, but they’re still exhausting and I needed to recover. But instead of the deadening self-care that I usually do after them, I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said.
We could hurt them, like they hurt you.
I didn’t focus on acceptance and understanding, things I’ve been taught to do like a trained monkey. I didn’t lie on the couch while Eli cheered me up with goofy stories, or take hour-long baths.
I felt angry. Deeply, deeply angry.
And the idea kept coming back to me, like a boomerang that will always fly back no matter how far it’s thrown.
Hurt them. Make them pay.
And I kept asking myself. Could I do that? Could I do that to them? And I’ve decided the answer is yes. I could. I want to do that. I want to act finally, not just react. I don’t want to understand and accept. Not anymore.
I want to make them hurt. I want my revenge.
My text sound dings and I turn the volume down. We’re not supposed to be checking our phones at work. But I doubt anyone would challenge me on it today. I would just give them puppy dog eyes and say it was “my family checking up on me.” I can work the system when I have to. It’s James.
Hi. Wanted to see how you were doing?
Better, thanks. I pause, and before I can second-guess myself, I keep writing. Were you serious about what you said in the hospital? About revenge?
The response is quick. Yes.
Then I want to do it.
After a pause, another text bubble appears. When?
Do you have any plans tonight? I ask.
No.
Wanna come over?
Sure.
Good. 7 pm? I type in my address.
He texts, Okay. Bye.
So I write okay, bye too.
Grabbing my eponymous mug, I decide to head to the break room. Two of the senior lawyers skitter away when I enter. But Connor stays behind.
“Hey, Dahlia,” he says.
“Hi, Connor.” I head over to the coffee maker.
He trails me, then leaves a foot between us. “I’m really sorry about the other day. Those guys shouldn’t have been watching that. Actually, no one should have been watching that.”
“Oh yeah, I know,” I mutter. “It’s okay.” It’s not okay, of course, on so many levels. But there’s nothing else to say. And if he’s worried about me suing for sexual harassment or something, he doesn’t have to.
He pauses, and I can see his cheeks are flushed. “If you ever want to prosecute those…people,” he says, as if he’d like to call them something else. “I’d be happy to help you. Just so you know.”
“Thanks.” I toy with the handle on my mug. “Not right now, but…thanks.” I look up at him, and he nods, then leaves the room.
• • •
After work, I run to see Rae-Ann before my date with James.
She agreed to an early session when I called her from the hospital. Now sitting next to her on the musty couch, watching the video again, my resolve has not weakened. Hearing their glib comments while raping me, the pained moaning noises I’m making in the video, I am filled with the same feeling. The feeling that simmered in me in the hospital bed, that I’ve beaten down and held back for such a long time now, I can barely remember it.
Rage. Burning hot rage.
Rae-Ann holds my phone with a death grip until the video ends, then she sighs. “This is awful, Dahlia.” It’s the right thing to say, though the obvious thing. She stands up from the couch and goes over to her desk, and as she rips open her packet of tea, her hands are shaky. The scent of peach ripples through the room. “Are you going to the police?”
I shake my head.
The top of the flowery china teapot clinks as she removes it. “It might be different this time.”
“Or,” I say softly, “it might not be.”
She leans back in her chair with a frown. “You’re right. The awful thing is you’re right.” Staring in the distance, she lifts and dunks the tea bag. “I can’t promise you it’ll be worth it in good conscience. I just can
’t.” She replaces the lid, and sinks back into her chair. “Have you gone back to S.O.R?”
“No. Not yet.” Survivors of Rape, the one I met Natasha in. I always hated the survivor thing, to be honest. Surviving. What kind of life is that? It’s not like we chose it. The Unlucky Club would be more appropriate.
“You might want to go back,” she says.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, though I’m not sure. I may have finally reached support group saturation point. At some time, you have to act, not just keep talking.
“At the risk of sounding like Pollyanna,” she says, “there may be a positive in this.”
I stare at the vanilla candle flickering on the side table, which sends off a scent that competes with the peach. “What would that be?”
“You got some of the time back.” The tea gurgles into her mug as she pours. “Maybe that will help bring some more memories back.”
I shift on the couch, playing with a loose brown thread. “I know it’s what I always wanted. But in the end, it’s kind of a watch-what-you-wish-for situation.”
Her smile is sad. “We’ve talked about integration, right? Closure?”
“Yes,” I say, holding back a yawn. It’s been a long couple of days.
“Having that gap of time seemed to be preventing that. Maybe this will help you close it.”
“Maybe.” It makes sense. Patching a piece into my life’s quilt to make it complete. But to extend the metaphor to absurdity, it’s a terrible square of fabric.
We talk a bit more and then I leave, back through beautiful-ugly Harvard Yard, back to the brick T station that will carry me to a job that I don’t love. My body is exhausted, bone-tired. Spying the station up ahead, I realize that for the first time ever, I didn’t tell Rae-Ann the truth. I didn’t tell her about my date with James tonight. I didn’t tell her about my dreams last night, of people holding me down. Laughter over me. Pain in my stomach. But weaved in there was the vision of James’s tattoo, like a beacon.
Revenge.
Rae-Ann is not about revenge. The concept is antithetical to her. She is about accepting, integrating, moving on, with a cup of tea and a vanilla candle by her side. But right now, I’m ready to take a different path. Right now, there is no closure, no moving on.
Pretty Girl is dead.
And I’m ready to hurt them, like they hurt me.
Chapter Eighteen
Dahlia
While waiting for James, I try to ward off pangs of guilt.
Because I know in my heart, I shouldn’t get him involved in all this. Just because he gave me the idea doesn’t mean he needs to be ensnared in it. I have the video. I can track down the rapists on my own. I don’t need to risk getting James in trouble. And if he comes tonight, we’re crossing the Rubicon. We’re doing this thing.
But I can’t forget the feel of his hand on my elbow. The determined look in his eyes. His tattoo. I guess the fact is, I’m selfish. I want to get him involved. And if I’m honest, I’m afraid to do it alone.
My stomach growls. Simone lifts her triangular head off my lap and stares at me with some disdain. “Sorry. I’m hungry.” I glance at the clock. 6:40 p.m. James will be here soon, with food.
Crouching on the couch, I turn on the video on my iPad. James helped me save it in case the site goes down, which was rather resourceful in my opinion.
I don’t want to watch it.
It goes against every fiber in my being and every basic instinct. I literally fight the urge to throw up to do so. But I have to. If I’m going to take revenge, I need to be scientific about it. I need to figure out who these people are and where the attack took place. And this is my only horrible, despicable clue.
So I keep watching. Then at minute 3:10, I notice something. An odd noise.
I rewind the video a bit and replay it. Simone pricks up her ears. I play it once again, focusing on the sound. A tinny, metallic noise, followed by a high-pitched, two-tone whistle. Like a birdcall. With a shock, I realize it’s the sound from my nightmares. Birds. But where would there be birds in the room?
It takes a couple of times replaying the ten-second clip, when I realize it’s a mechanical sound. Then I see it in the corner of the screen. A little bird emerging from a clock, tweeting.
“A cuckoo clock,” I say with the satisfaction of solving one vital chunk of a jigsaw puzzle. I rewind it one more time, staring at the screen, when a memory jars me. A party, freshman year. Daisy is drunk and yelling above the music, Why do you guys have a cuckoo clock? You guys should have a Hawk Clock, get it? Hawk Clock? It was a stupid, barely memorable joke. But I remember it. I think I remember it anyway, or maybe I just want to remember it? It is a hazy, dreamy fragment of memory. Grabbing my phone, I text Daisy.
Did the Hawk Club have a cuckoo clock?
I play the sound from the video one more time while waiting for her response, which comes back immediately.
So that’s completely random. But yes, I think so. Why?
Did you know any of the guys in that club?
A few of them. What’s up?
That’s where the rape occurred.
My phone rings in my hand while I’m still texting.
“How do you know?” she asks, her voice breathless. “Are you sure?”
“I think so. I remembered the cuckoo clock.” A faint squeaking noise comes through the wall of the apartment next door, followed by the hum of a vacuum. “And if they had a cuckoo clock, it has to be them.”
“But… I mean… So you started getting some memories back?”
“Not exactly.” I pause a minute, deciding whether I should tell her. The vacuum noise blares, then retreats. “Someone put up a video of it on this psycho anti-woman site. It’s a long story, but I saw it. At work.”
“What?” Her voice is panicky, which is why I didn’t want to tell her. Daisy veers toward the dramatic side at times. “It’s on the internet? You saw it?”
“Yes, they did. And yes, I saw it.” I try to sound nonchalant, though it could throw me into a seizure. A fake seizure.
“Oh my God,” she says in a shocked whisper. “Did you recognize anyone?”
“Just one guy. Terry, I think his name was? From Civ Ed. But I can’t remember his last name.”
“Terry,” she repeats, as if trying to place him. “I don’t remember any Terry in our class. Though I wasn’t in Civ Ed. Was Quinn? She remembers everyone.”
“I’m not sure. Did you know anyone else from that club?” The vacuum suddenly stops, leaving utter silence. Then, the bumping sound of it being put away.
“Jeez, I’m not sure… Tom Lashmore?”
“Yeah, I know him. Wasn’t in there. Well, he could have been, but not in the video.”
“Justin Heller… He was the one who drove a Porsche everywhere.”
“He sounds kind of familiar,” I say.
“Taylor Dewey, he was their token black guy.”
“Not there.”
She exhales. “I’d have to think, Dahlia. But no one else comes to mind.”
After debating a moment, I decide to plunge ahead and ask. “Would you be willing to watch it? Just to see if you recognize anyone?” There is a long, painful pause on the other end. “Forget it. You don’t have to—”
“No, no,” she jumps in. “Of course I will. You lived through it. The least I can do is watch it.”
“I know it’s not exactly pleasant. But I would appreciate it.” I pet Simone, who yawns extravagantly. “I’ll email you the link, okay?” I ask and realize how odd that sounds. Like I’m sending her a funny puppy GIF or something.
“I’ll watch it later when I get home,” she says. “And, Dahlia…” Her voice gets thick. “I’m sorry that you’re going through this.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say and hang up. As I do, another text comes in from James.
I’m here.
• • •
“This is nice,” James says.
He’s referring to the Coltrane playing from my cheap wireless speakers. I dig into my rice container. “You play an instrument?”
He tears open a packet of soy sauce. “I played cello for a while. But I sucked.”
“Really? That surprises me.”
“Yeah, I know. An Asian kid who can’t play an instrument.” His tone is only half-joking.
“Actually, I meant…” I scoop out more rice. “It just seems like you’re really good at everything.”
He shrugs, looking embarrassed, but not displeased. “Not cello,” he says and puts his water bottle down, crinkling the plastic. “Total disappointment to my parents. They’re both good musicians.” He twirls the lo mein with his fork. “Rob was a great musician too. Violin.”
“Who’s Rob?” I ask, grabbing another napkin.
“Oh,” he says, his gaze dropping. “No one, forget it.” He takes a long drink of water, maybe to hide his expression. “How about you?” he asks then. “You play anything?”
I wipe my mouth with the napkin. “I played guitar for a little bit. Pretty much to be cool. Didn’t get past the calluses though,” I say, examining my fingers.
We don’t talk for a bit as the music plays and we finish our meals. The evening has darkened to black outside, as the soft base line rumbles through the room. James tosses his Chinese food containers in the trash, then goes to the couch while I rinse off the plates and put them in the tiny dishwasher. Simone rubs by my leg, then perches on her favorite seat, and I go sit next to James, bringing a plate of Rice Krispie Treats. Brandon with the AC/DC tattoo made them for Eli, who was too polite to say he wasn’t a fan. I am a fan. I’m hoping Brandon makes lots of Rice Krispies Treats.
“So,” he says, putting his hands on his knees. “Where should we start?”
For a bizarre second, I think he’s referring to the protocol for making out. “With what?”
He tilts his head at the question. “The revenge plan.”
