She slapped her palm to his shoulder, a bit harder, like a bump. He stood as motionless as a statue.
“Harder.”
A flashback to the night with Gary made her pause, his weight on her, attempts to push him off. “I can’t.”
“Come on. Get your weight behind it.”
Panic crept into her limbs and, instead of doing as he asked, she pushed him softly. Her mind raced. Why hadn’t she fought Gary harder? Her brain had been slow to register the danger at first. Even when his motives had become clearer, several drinks over the course of the night had lent a surreal quality to his actions. So what prevented her from participating now?
The answer rushed at her like an unexpected wave, crashing into her and knocking her off balance. For all these years, she’d believed the ugly ordeal she’d lived through had been in her power to stop, only she’d given up too easily. Maybe because she worried she’d led him on by kissing him at the party. Or did she worry over what others might say, as she’d learned to do growing up?
A tremor shook inside her gut. “This is dumb.” She shifted to return to her seat.
“You’re doing great. How about one more try?” Trent’s fingers gently slipped around her wrist.
She jerked her arm away. Her hands instinctively flew up, palms flat. They slammed into his shoulders. Hard. Fast. Decisive.
Trent tumbled backward, his arms flailing to stay upright. His foot lifted airborne, and he toppled away from her. Thud! He hit the mat, bottom first.
Applause echoed in the gym. Veronica glanced around. The entire class watched them, many smiling at her accomplishment.
Trent’s face flushed, but then a wicked smile crossed his lips. “Now that, ladies, is how you do it.”
The heat of embarrassment rushed her skin like a wildfire. She wanted to crawl into a hole. Trent stood, brushed off his pants, and walked away from the group, motioning for her to join him. She went over.
He leaned close and whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to grab your arm. That was wrong. But see? Look at the power you have.”
She swallowed and blinked away the tears that blurred his face. He finally came into focus.
“What’s wrong, Pearls?” He furrowed his brows. “Talk to me. I want to help.”
She glared at him, furious that he’d grabbed her, but also angry with herself. On the night a reaction like that had mattered the most, she’d been weak, scared. Through gritted teeth, she said, “Don’t ever grab me like that again.”
“I’m sorry.” He lowered his voice. “I’d never, ever, hurt you.”
She wanted to believe his words, but Trent seemed like the kind of guy who could hurt women other ways.
She returned to her seat and sensed his gaze following her as she stepped up the bleacher. Once seated, she dared to glance his way. Trent watched her, eyebrows squished together and lips parted slightly, but not a single word floated out.
Chapter 12
Boomer nudged Veronica’s elbow with his damp nose as she typed at her computer. Her fingers slipped, causing a typo. “Sorry, Booms. Give me a sec.”
The large dog plopped near her chair, making a sound that she swore was a sigh.
The PartyTime.com website appeared on the screen. The Internet had definitely changed the world. Without it, Veronica might have replied yes to her friend’s annual event, completely unaware of Gary Tishman’s emergence into her circle of friends.
She scanned the list of guests and stopped at Carin’s entry, held her breath, and checked for their response. Not Yet Replied.
Her relieved sigh was short lived. The party wasn’t for a few weeks, and they could still answer at the last minute. Compared to the terror of the first time she’d spotted him on the invitation, however, a revived sense of strength rested in her bones.
The way she’d shoved Trent to the floor had not only pushed him, but she’d pushed herself across a line, one she’d avoided for decades. The insistent demands Trent placed on her during the exercise had forced anger. All fury she’d really meant for her attacker.
What exactly had Gary done with his life? Had he left other victims in his wake?
She moved her fingers along the keyboard. At the search engine, she typed a “GA” and paused. Many times over the years, Veronica was tempted to search for Gary on the Internet. Not to see if he’d found success. More the hope he’d been found by some 20/20 undercover investigation and his life had tumbled into the same hell he’d forced her into. Her index finger lingered over the “R,” but she lowered her hands and closed the computer top. Even if she found something, it wouldn’t change what happened to her. She stood and went to the kitchen.
Boomer followed and stared at his stainless steel bowl. She picked it up, scooped in his kibbles, added a little water, and put it on the floor. Last night’s heroic shove had rekindled rage bottled up from the night of her attack. Yet she’d been anything but heroic after Gary’s violence.
After he’d left, she’d wanted to tell someone what he’d done. Instead, she’d curled up on the sofa and cried, for a long time. When she finally did reach for the phone, a larger reality had set in: the outcome of another rape reported on campus the year before. Students, the school newspaper, even the local media, all voiced their opinions on the woman who reported a member of the football team had raped her. The victim was called horrible names, accused of being a willing participant because she’d been seen with the man at a party.
Still, Veronica had been terrified and needed to talk to someone. She’d dialed her home to speak to her mother, but hung up before it could ring. Her mother touted privacy, even if it meant sacrificing their concerns in order to save face in public. Why even bother to ask? Why face the shame?
Thus, the secret never escaped her lips.
Instead, she’d prayed every night for the next month she wasn’t pregnant or hadn’t caught any sexually transmitted disease. Someone must’ve been watching over her because only the emotional damages of his attack remained. She’d skipped graduation ceremonies to avoid Gary, and returned to Northbridge after her last exam, turning down a job offer in D.C.
The phone in the living room screamed, and she jumped. Boomer lifted his head and woofed. The display showed an “800” number.
She ignored the call, went to the sink, and filled a glass with water. As the cool liquid ran down her throat, something she’d never considered about that night came to light—she’d not only lost trust in certain types of men, she’d lost trust in her own judgment to choose the right man.
All this time, she’d worried everyone would judge her if they knew what had happened. But a new notion popped into her head; maybe she’d been the harshest critic of all by blaming herself for being drawn to Gary in the first place.
She wanted to take back the useless textbook advice she’d offered to Ry. The real answer to him rested in her revelations about her own experience, the details enough to open anybody’s eyes to the horror of being forced to submit to non-consensual sex.
The past had hidden inside her for so long, dormant, like a buried bomb. Lately it seemed unearthed and a lit match waited next to the fuse. She hurried to her computer, anxious to finally get this story off her chest.
* * * *
Early on in his dating life, Trent learned there were two kinds of women: those who would do anything for him and those he’d do anything for. Veronica Sussingham was the second kind, and yet he hardly even knew her.
He sat down at a small table near the cottage’s sliding glass doors in his living room, put down his dinner plate, and pressed the computer’s power button. While it warmed up, he stared into the trellised grape fields, nibbled on a salad, and allowed thoughts of Veronica to swarm his mind, as they’d done all day. One thing seemed certain; she wasn’t Etta. If Veronica had gone to college in Boston and Etta had never visited the city, they couldn’t be the same person.
He still hurt from the shove to the floor l
ast night, a price he didn’t mind paying to get a reaction from Veronica. Jesus, she really hung on to some real anger. Anger he hoped wasn’t directed at him. He’d do anything to crack the code that kept her so distant, so silent.
The computer finally ready, he pushed the plate aside and checked his blog for responses to his latest post. After a few quick replies to some regular visitors, he opened his e-mail account. One from Etta, sent only a half hour ago, contained a surprising subject.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: My little fib
Hello Ry,
True confession time. I’m ashamed to admit this, but my last response to you on how to handle your reluctant student was probably what a professional might say. It’s not really how I feel, though.
If this woman in your class is like me, then treading lightly is needed. BUT, that alone cannot begin to heal what goes on inside her. There’s probably something missing from her life. TRUST. And trust isn’t something she’s likely to simply hand over easily.
For the longest time, I didn’t trust men. I’m not even sure I do now.
I select dates with great care because I’m not even sure I trust my own judgment. After all, I was the one who let the guy who hurt me into my home.
My attack is what some would call “date rape.” I would reply that rape is being forced to submit, no matter what the circumstances. Up until this moment, I’ve never told anybody the details.
Today, though, I’m going to tell you. Maybe it will help your understanding of your student. Maybe it will help me heal.
Back in grad school, a friend invited me to a large off-campus party. Loud music, a keg, and about fifty students from various programs attended. It was fun and I was on the heels of a breakup, so I needed a night out. A few hours into it, I headed through a packed kitchen to find the bathroom. I bumped into a guy and knocked his beer from his hand. He turned around, quite annoyed, but the second we made eye contact, all was forgotten. He was handsome. An all-American face. A genuine interest in me.
We talked for hours on the front stoop, getting to know each other. He made me laugh, he made me feel interesting, and when he kissed me, I remembered how I missed a man’s touch. So when he offered to walk me home, there were no warning bells. I believed him to be a real gentleman.
We reached my apartment, and he asked if he could come inside. Within moments, we were on my sofa, kissing again. My head was muddled from a few beers. Only as he pushed me onto my back, placed his strong body over mine, I began to feel closed in. Trapped. In what felt like seconds, his tenderness disappeared. Kisses became rough. Almost violent, as if he’d forgotten I existed.
It wasn’t easy, but I managed to pry my lips away from his and asked if we could slow down. It was then that he grabbed a handful of my hair, crushed his mouth to mine more forcefully, and pressed his pelvis into me…where I could feel all his eagerness for me. My desire disappeared, replaced by fear…disgust.
Trent stopped reading, aware of his dry mouth, vanished appetite, and the rage building inside his body toward Etta’s attacker. He closed his eyes, but still couldn’t get the image of her in such a vulnerable position out of his head. He needed to read on, because it would help Etta. It might help Veronica.
When I could, I pulled my lips away. God, I can still remember the tremors in my body, making it hard to talk. The weight of him on my chest, making it hard to breath. But I again asked him to let me up. He ignored me, only reached for the tops of my jeans, undid them, and shoved them down, despite how much I tried to stop him. Somehow, when he undid his belt buckle, I began to worry we’d gone past the point of no return. Still, I begged. Said I didn’t want to do this. I said stop. Over and over.
I can still remember the cold stare in his eyes—as if he almost wanted me to beg for mercy. My resistance was no match when he pinned me with his hips and strong legs. He somehow secured my hands. Resisting. Fighting back. They were useless, only added to his arousal, and yet I tried, until something inside me gave up. When I cried, he slipped his hand over my mouth. I retreated into my head, ignored the harsh punishment my body had to absorb.
And Ry, when he finished, he pulled up his pants and didn’t even look at me. Like I was nothing. As he started to leave, I worked up the courage to point out what he’d done. He looked right at me and said, “You wanted it too.” Then he walked out.
A tear dropped to Trent’s hand. He blinked the blur from his eyes and read her closing remarks, highlighting how she’d done nothing wrong, and yet, couldn’t shake the shame about what others might think.
Each disgusting detail she’d painted about being forced to submit to a man, despite repeated requests for him to stop, made Trent’s fury rise to the surface. He wanted to pull Etta into his arms, offer her the comfort she deserved.
An urge to meet Etta swamped him with surprising force. He recalled her plea to keep their names and personal lives separate from their friendship, an odd request, one he’d almost considered paranoid. Now, though, he understood why.
He groaned as the double-edge sword of their relationship sliced down his center. He could never ask her to meet him. Doing so would destroy the little trust she’d handed him by sharing these intimate details of her past.
At least Etta had some faith in him. Gemma had only pushed him away, turned to drugs instead and cheated on Trent with a man who encouraged her drug habit.
He needed Etta to know he was there for her. But how?
A moment from rehab came back to him, and he furiously typed a reply.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Your bravery
Thank you for putting your trust in me. Anger and sadness barely scratch the surface of how I felt after reading your e-mail. I ache for what happened to you and wish I could work magic and change your past. Facing a painful past is never easy. Some days it’s also my cross to bear.
I once heard a quote, something about not seeing your strength until being strong is the only choice you have. Bob Marley, I think. Kind of stuck with me and really does help sometimes.
Back at a time when I dealt with some deep troubles, I was told a story, one you may have heard about a father and daughter crossing a bridge. The worried father asks his daughter to hold his hand, but she replies, “No, Dad. You hold mine.”
The father says, “What’s the difference?”
The young girl replies, “If I hold your hand and something happens to me, chances are that I may let go. But if you hold mine, I know for sure that no matter what happens, you will never let go.”
I share this, Etta, so you know that I’ll never let go of your hand. Ours is a different relationship, but you can come to me whenever you need to, and I promise I’ll always be here.
Trent signed off and hit send. His counselor at rehab had shared the story, suggesting if they were on the road to recovery now, most likely someone had offered them a hand to get better. In Trent’s case, that person was Duncan.
Etta’s story wound around Trent’s heart and twisted tight. What most people showed on the surface was rarely the full story of what they’d been through.
So what was the story Veronica didn’t show? Did she need a hand, but couldn’t ask? Etta had lost the ability to trust. Trent considered Veronica’s behavior, so obviously void of trust—at least with him.
If Veronica developed some faith in him, there was a good chance she’d try harder in class. She’d signed up for a reason, so any progress in her self-defense skills might leave her with a sense of empowerment.
Trent searched the Internet for “trust building exercises.” Urgency consumed him, a dire need to save Veronica. The fuel behind his resolve crystalized, a straight line leading to his wife’s addiction and her refusal for his help. She’d denied him trust, and trust meant everything to him, her rejection still the source of his pain.
&nbs
p; The need to help two other women—one from a distance and the other right under his nose—suddenly offered the redemption from all the mistakes he’d made trying to help his wife.
Maybe by saving Veronica, he’d finally save himself.
Chapter 13
Veronica found a spot in the last row of the jam-packed parking lot across the street from Griswold’s. Karaoke night always drew a large crowd. As she stepped out of her car, a gentle breeze brushed her body, making the soft drape of her chambray skirt dance around her bare thighs. Autumn inched closer, the scent of a season change lingering in the air.
She grabbed a lightweight sweater off the passenger seat, rested it on her shoulders, and hurried to the entrance. The e-mail she’d read from Ry seconds before leaving occupied her thoughts. Confessing her full story to him had been a risk, but his supportive response had left her lifted, more confident than ever.
She entered the rustic restaurant. A noisy crowd muted background rock music and the scent of fried appetizers drifted to the aged ceiling beams. Every stool at the long bar was occupied.
Veronica ventured into the main room, scanning the knotty-pine tables, searching for her friends. Meg’s flailing arms appeared from a table set against the back wall. Veronica squeezed through the maze of seats, noting the usual suspects at their table, with one addition: Trent.
She did her best to avoid looking at him, since his presence left her insides a jumbled mess. Instead, she inventoried the remaining places to sit, spotting an empty chair to Meg’s right and two other chairs at the far end, near Duncan, Sophie, Jay, and Eileen—right across from Trent. She sat near Meg, across from Dave and Bernadette.
“Hi, everyone.” Her eyes swept over the group, latching for a few seconds on Trent’s watchful gaze. “I can’t believe Sophie beat me some place.”
“She’s getting better.” Duncan sipped foam off the top of his beer. “I’m rubbing off on her.”
Harvest Moon Page 13
