Layers of Her

by Prescott Lane

  Whipping around, I see him smiling, and that’s all the reassurance I needed. He spends a few minutes talking with us, explaining where things will go from here. Tate will be moved to a room in an hour or so, and we can meet her up there. She’ll need to spend the night in the hospital, but he sees no reason why she can’t go home tomorrow. And in four to six weeks, he can turn the implants on.

  A pat on the back, and he rushes off. I’ve done a lot of things with women before, but never had three hug me at the same time. Jenny hugs everyone all the time, anyway, so that’s nothing new, but I’m a little taken aback when Jade gives Campbell a quick squeeze. “I’ll go now,” Jenny says. “I’ll see her tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for everything,” Campbell says.

  “Of course. I’ll get your mail and stuff,” Jenny says, turning to me. “Stone, would you like me to check on your place? I can go shopping, too, maybe stock up on some things for when Tate comes home.”

  “You don’t have . . .”

  “That would be great, Jenny,” Campbell says. “It’s better to say yes. She does it anyway.”

  Jenny laughs and kisses us both on the cheek. “Text me a list,” she says then she’s off.

  Getting rid of my sister may be a little more difficult, but Campbell already had to twist Dr. Ridge’s arm to get permission for both her and me to stay. No way can Jade stay, too. “Hey, sis,” I say. “I know you want to stay . . .”

  “Relax, I know Blondie has replaced me,” Jade says with a twinge of playfulness in her voice so I know she’s teasing. “I just want to see Tate before I go. I’ll grab you guys something to eat and bring it back by, but I need to see Tate first.”

  Jade may have regretted that decision because Campbell was right. We could hear Tate hollering as soon as they pushed her gurney off the elevator. She was some kind of pissed off, so Jade’s visit was cut pretty short.

  The nurses are desperately trying to set up the room, but Tate isn’t making it easy. “Baby girl,” I say, reaching out to hold her, but she only kicks and screams. “This can’t be good for her.”

  Campbell touches my arm then starts singing that stupid song she made up to the tune of “New Attitude.” She elbows me a little. “Sing, Stone.”

  “She can’t hear us,” I say.

  “But she can sense that we are relaxed, that everything is okay,” Campbell says and starts up again.

  I can’t believe I’m going to do this, and in front of her nurses. But I’ll do anything for my daughter—face The Guillotine or sing a chick anthem. Campbell steps a little closer to the bed as Tate gasps between screams. Kneeling down over the bed, Campbell takes her little hand, and Tate begins to quiet, her eyes glued on Campbell’s face. Then she reaches up with both hands.

  Campbell lowers the side rail to the bed, crawling in beside her and continues to hum softly. When the nurse approaches to check her temperature, Tate screams and clings to Campbell like any child would to her mother.

  Finally, everything is set up, and the nurses leave. Tate is still crying softly, so I try again to approach her. She moves her foot up away from me like I’m a spider she’s afraid of. I can’t really blame her. Between me and Campbell, Campbell’s the obvious choice as the more comforting one. So I pull a chair up behind Campbell and rub her back and shoulders. “Thank you for being here.”

  She flashes me a little grin over her shoulder but doesn’t miss a beat in her humming. It seems like hours, but finally the humming stops. “She’s sleeping.”

  “Finally,” I say, peeking over at Tate curled up next to Campbell. “You must need to stretch or maybe . . .”

  “I’ve got to pee so bad,” Campbell says. “But I’m not moving. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask.

  “Crawl in with us. Just don’t wake her.”

  “Won’t she have a tantrum again?” I ask.

  “She’ll be calmer when she wakes up, and you need to rest. You tossed and turned all night last night, when you weren’t pacing the hallway,” she says.

  Quietly, I lower the other bed rail. The bed is tiny, so I lay on my side, half my body hanging off. It’s hardly comfortable, but my girls are here, so there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. I reach over and twirl a strand of Campbell’s blonde hair on my finger. “Not every woman would take on us. Know that I realize that and love you even more for it. You’re going to be a great mother to her and any other kids we have one day.”

  “Stone,” she whispers, a tear rolling down her cheek.

  I catch it with my thumb, knowing it’s not a tear of exhaustion or relief, but sadness. “You’ve got to talk to me.”

  Her face crinkles up. “You won’t want me anymore,” she cries. “You won’t want me around Tate.”

  Her hand flies over her mouth, and I get the feeling she’s trying to hold in years of sadness and self-hate. “I’ll always want you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says, pulling back in her emotions. “You don’t need this right now.”

  Stroking her cheek, I say, “Right now is fine.”

  She kisses the palm of my hand. “No, it’s not. Let’s focus on getting Tate home.”

  “Then we’ll talk,” I say.

  *

  I don’t think most men are talkers by nature. Everyone knows a woman saying we need to talk is the kiss of death. Men tend to solve their problems by fighting, fucking, or forgetting. I’m not fighting or fucking, and I haven’t forgotten, but other things seemed to be more important the past few weeks, like Tate.

  Kids are resilient little fuckers, and Tate is no exception. She was raring to go the morning after her surgery, but she was supposed to stay calm for a few days. It was all we could do to wrangle her in. Then work started back up for both of us, and before I knew it, a couple of weeks had gone by. Then we started preparing for the day that her implants would finally be turned on.

  Walking out of my office, I hear punching and stick my head back in the gym. My last class ended about an hour ago, so no one should be here. Rounding the corner, I spot Campbell at a punching bag. Should have known it was her. She doesn’t make a sound when she hits. Most people release some sort of grunt, but not her. She’s completely silent, no matter how long she’s been punching, no matter how much sweat is dripping off her. She never lets a sound out.

  That’s no different tonight, but she’s dressed all in black again, and she’s beating the shit out of the bag, punching, kicking, jabbing. “Hey, baby,” I say. “Thought we were meeting at my place.”

  She stops but doesn’t look at me, her hands steadying the bag. “I needed to hit something,” she says.

  I definitely understand that need. “Bad day?”

  She turns her head to me, leaning it on the punching bag. “No, but it might be a bad night.” She pulls on a long chain dangling from her neck and disappearing into her cleavage. “I had your bloodstone made into a pendant, so I can always have it with me.”

  In two steps, I’ve got her cheeks in my hand. “Look at me, baby. What’s going on?”

  I was completely unprepared for what a loaded question that was. She talked for almost thirty minutes straight, about her aunt and cousin, her mother, her English teacher, meeting her father for the first time in a public bathroom. She had never told anyone any of this, and it was obvious she needed to get it out. But now she’s just stopped and her eyes are filled with tears, gripping the stone for dear life. On instinct, I know the next bit of the story isn’t good, and while I thought I knew what was coming, I was totally wrong.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CAMPBELL

  Standing in the bathroom stall, staring into my own eyes, I’d waited for this moment for as long as I could remember. “Lucas Jensen?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I think you knew my mother,” I said, butterflies bouncing inside. “She was one of your students, Charlotte May.”

  He stepped to me, his fingers lightly brushing my hair back. “You
look like her?”

  There was something unsettling about this touch. Maybe it was the setting, or maybe it was something else—but I’d always hoped for a warm, fuzzy feeling if my father ever touched me. I didn’t expect to feel creeped out. “Yes, except the eyes.”

  His long fingers outlined my jaw. “What’s your name?”

  I began to open my mouth when the bathroom door burst open and Aunt Marcie flew in, screaming, “Get your hands off her!” She yanked me by the arm and threw me towards Jenny. “You girls get out of here.”

  Jenny pulled me into the hallway and toward the entrance of the bookstore. “No, wait! I didn’t get a chance to tell him.”

  “Tell him what?” Jenny asked.

  “He’s my dad!”

  Jenny stopped and stared at me. “What are you talking about? Your dad died before you were born.”

  “He didn’t. It was a lie.”

  “Why would they lie to you?” Jenny asked me.

  “Let’s go,” my aunt said, coming up beside us and shoving us out of the store. “What were you thinking, Campbell?”

  “How did you know we were here?” I demanded.

  “Jenny’s mother. I hate to think what would’ve happened to you.”

  “I was fine. Jenny and I are both fine. What is your deal, Aunt Marcie? You’re always showing up at the worst times! He was finally right in front of me!”

  “I’m just trying to protect you, honey,” my aunt said.

  “Protect me?” I cried. “I’m sick of being protected! I have a right to know where I come from! And I will go to the end of the earth to find out!”

  Aunt Marcie asked Jenny for a moment of privacy then turned her attention back to me. She exhaled deeply before saying, “Look, I see you won’t ever let this go until you know the truth. Your mother never wanted you to know, but it seems I’ve got no choice. Campbell, your father is a terrible person.”

  *

  Jenny drove herself home, and I rode back with my aunt. And she finally told me everything. My mom’s story was one I’d heard a hundred times before—college professor uses his position and takes advantage of a student. But that’s not what it really was. Taking advantage sounds far too tame. It was much more. It was a man using his physical strength to dominate a woman.

  It was rape.

  And in my book, it was also murder. The man killed my mother—the girl who believed she’d be in love when she lost her virginity, the girl who believed things like rape happened to other people. He killed her spirit, and she was never the same again. She never came back. What happens after the trauma is almost as important as the trauma itself. And while nothing could ever wash away the trauma of rape, recovery could’ve been possible with the right treatment and the support and love of her family. My mother had none of that because she kept what happened to her a secret from almost everyone. So she had no support system to help her. She never went to the hospital, and she was afraid to go to the police.

  My mother instead went to the campus authorities, which amounted to nothing but a big cover up. He apparently said the sex was consensual, and the college backed the beloved professor. He might’ve gotten a little slap on the wrist for “dating” a student. Scared, ashamed, and scarred, my mom left college, but she didn’t leave empty-handed. She carried with her a little reminder of that night—me.

  I was the product of rape. There are only a few people who know that truth about me. My mom let her own parents, my grandparents, believe she’d had a quick fling with some random guy. Her boyfriend at the time, my poor English teacher Mr. Warren Donnelly, forgave her for what he thought was a drunken one-night stand, and he loved my mother so much he offered to marry her and raise me as his own. But not wanting that for him, she turned him down and returned home with a Scarlet letter.

  So my mother chose to carry the shame, to let people think she was easy, rather than let any shame fall on me. But she couldn’t raise me. She couldn’t look me in the eyes—her own daughter’s eyes—because I reminded her too much of that night, of him. Like Aunt Marcie said, he was terrible.

  And if my father could commit such heinous acts, what darkness must be in me? What must I be capable of?

  Because, after all, I was literally the spawn of Satan.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  STONE

  Needing to say something and finding the damn words are two different things, and her big blue eyes are begging for some sort of response. She’s the product of rape. Until tonight, that never crossed my mind. I see so many domestic violence victims in my classes, and watching my mom go in and out of abusive relationships, I just assumed it was something like that. It seems stupid now, not to have considered sexual assault. I guess no man wants to think about rape and the woman he loves in the same sentence.

  But now I have to. She needs me. I’ve never been at such a loss for words before, never been so unsure how to proceed. My fists are clenched together so tight, the blunt tips of my nails are almost drawing blood. My anger is all over the place. I’m pissed at her mother for not taking care of Campbell, and anger doesn’t begin to describe what I feel towards her father. It’s a rage so deep, it’s almost consuming. Then it hits me. Campbell feels that same rage.

  “I was only sixteen when I found out the truth, but it changed me. I didn’t want to be around anyone anymore. I didn’t ever want to hurt anyone, even accidentally. Jenny is the only one that didn’t take the hint. She just kept coming around.” I can’t help but smile over her too-happy friend. “I vowed to do everything in my power to right his wrongs, to make the world better.”

  “That’s why you became a nurse?” I ask, and she nods. “So why did you start following him? What made you want to kill him now?”

  “A little over a year ago, the news was on in the break room at the hospital. Lucas Jensen, a highly-esteemed, tenured professor had been accused by no fewer than two dozen women of rape, and the college had covered it up. I followed the case like a hawk, but ultimately no charges were brought. A civil suit was filed and settled out of court. But some bad press and a fine are hardly punishment for what he did to my mother and all those other women.” She takes a deep breath. “That was the first night I walked into your gym. It wasn’t long after that when I started following him.”

  “I remember you that night, the look on your face. It never left me,” I say.

  “I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I was. I wanted to be. This past month or so with you and Tate has meant more than you’ll ever know.”

  “Me, too,” I say, my fingers lightly touching her face. “This changes nothing for me.” Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath from crying so hard. “Did you honestly think I wouldn’t want you?”

  “There’s more,” she says softly. Pulling away a little, it’s like I’m toe-to-toe in the cage again, only this time I don’t know what or who my opponent is. “I’ve made an appointment with my gynecologist.”

  “That’s good . . .”

  “I’m having a partial hysterectomy. Day after tomorrow,” she says.

  “Isn’t that where they take everything out?” I ask.

  “Not everything. The doctor will leave my ovaries.”

  “But you won’t ever be able to get pregnant?” I ask, and she nods. “Why? Are you sick? Is something wrong?”

  “No, I’m perfectly healthy. I don’t want to get pregnant,” she says.

  “So you take a pill or get an IUD. You don’t do that.”

  “There’s still a chance of pregnancy with those options, even with getting my tubes tied. I’ve done all the research. I’ve got no choice,” she says.

  “I don’t understand. We even talked about having kids.”

  “No!” she snaps. “You talked. All I ever said was I didn’t want to get pregnant. You inferred what you wanted.”

  “And you fucking let me.”

  Her breath catches, shocked at my tone. “You saw all those pamphlets and . . .”

  “You never int
ended to get the IUD, did you?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “Just because I can have children doesn’t mean I should,” she says.

  “This doesn’t make any sense. Why?”

  “Because my father is a fucking serial rapist. Those genes live in me. That’s why I have to do this. I can’t risk passing on his DNA,” Campbell cries.

  “What about us? Our family?” I ask.

  “That’s why I’m telling you.”

  “Two days before? How long has this been scheduled?” She looks down. “How damn long?”

  “Two weeks,” she whispers. “But with Tate and . . .”

  “Don’t you dare.” She bites her bottom lip. “If you’re looking for me to say this is okay with me, I won’t say that.”

  “I’m not asking for permission, Stone,” she says, cocking her chin up. “I’m simply telling you. I’m doing this.”

  “Over my dead body,” I shout. I have half a mind to toss her over my shoulder and carry her cute little ass out of here.

  “My mother had no say in what happened to her body. A man took that away from her, and I’ll be damned if I let any man tell me what I can and can’t do with my body.”

  “I’m not any man,” I say. “I’m the man that loves you.”

  “Then support me,” she says, placing her hand on my chest.

  “Not in this.” Her fingers slowly slide down, one at a time losing contact with my body. It’s like time is moving in slow motion. First one finger, then the next, until she’s no longer touching me, until the inches of space between us feel like miles. My body aches with the loss, wondering if I’ll ever feel her again.

  “So if I do this, I’ll lose you?” she asks.

  “I told you before. You won’t lose me unless you choose to. So I guess it’s your call. You choosing to lose me?”

  *

  CAMPBELL

  Walking past him and out of the gym was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. And I’d be lying if I didn’t admit a part of me wanted him to chase me, run after me. But Stone is a proud man. He’s not going to do that, and I can’t really blame him. I wouldn’t chase me, either.