by Tara Taylor
God hadn’t protected me tonight. No one had.
Tears started sliding down my face, and I could hardly say the words I had said so often as a child.
Four angels around my head …
Sobs racked my body. My shoulders shook. My words came out in rasps. There were no angels there for me tonight when I was in the woods. Not one angel came to help me.
“Where were you?” I spoke out loud.
What did I do to deserve this? I’ve tried to be good. I was doing what was right, wasn’t I? Why didn’t I see this before it happened? That’s not fair to give me visions but not allow me to see something like this.
Four angels around my head …
Suddenly, I remembered the word rape flashing twice. Was that supposed to mean something? It had been so long ago. Why didn’t that vision come to me yesterday or two days ago so I could have guarded myself? If it was meant to mean something, that was cruel. It was like teasing a starving dog with a crumb.
One to sing …
I felt myself crying again. I stuck my fist in my mouth.
One to pray …
I would never pray again.
And two to watch until the day.
I hate you, God. I hate you. You didn’t watch over me. Hate you. Hate you. Hate you.
Chapter Twelve
I woke up the next morning to rain and gloom and gray. No sunlight shone through my window, streaking my floor, shedding light. The day was as dark as I felt. New physical pains had surfaced, and now other parts of my body, like my back, ached, bringing back the horror of the night before. But it was inside where the pain was the deepest, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my blood was even flowing. I was hoping it had all been a dream, some awful nightmare, but every hurt told me otherwise. I rolled over and wished I could lie in bed all day with the covers over my head, hiding from the outside world. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.
But I had to. I had to get up, get dressed, and relive it all over again. If I didn’t go to the police station and file a report against him, he would just keep treating other girls like garbage and doing whatever he wanted with them, because he had gotten away with it.
When I entered the kitchen, my mother quickly glanced at me.
“I’m fine,” I said.
“Your boss called,” she said.
“Annabelle?” I answered. “What did she say?”
“She was genuinely concerned. She wants you to call her back at the store. She said she’s working today.” Mom opened the bread box. “You should eat something. Even a piece of toast.”
“I’m not hungry.”
She popped one in the toaster anyway. “Paul called, too.” She paused. “And John.”
“I can’t believe this,” I said. “Does everyone know?”
Mom set a glass of orange juice in front of me. “Drink this. It’s full of vitamin C.”
“What did they say?” I asked after downing the glass.
“Both boys are concerned about how you are. It was nice of them to call. Paul seems very sweet.”
The toast popped, and the sound seemed to bounce off the walls. “I’m going back to the apartment tonight,” I said.
Mom turned to face me. “Indie, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I need to have a life, Mom. My life.” I got up and went over to the toaster. “I can make my own toast. I do just fine living away from here.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t, honey. It’s just…” Mom pulled the toast out, slathered peanut butter on it, and put it in a napkin. “You’ve been through something horrible, and you might need support. I’m here for you. And Dad will be, too.”
“I know. And I love you for it. It’s just that I … have to deal with this my way.”
She handed me the toast. “You can eat this in the car,” she said. “Your dad is meeting us there. He managed to get an early flight in.”
When we got to the police station, Dad was standing outside with his arms crossed and his body tense. His jaw appeared tight, and his eyes, well, they were sad and angry all at the same time. The first thing he did was hug me, and the embrace lasted a lot longer than our usual hugs. His strong arms tightened around me as if he didn’t ever want to let me go. His overnight stubble rubbed against my cheek. His cologne smelled safe and warm. I felt little again, like a child who had scraped her knee and Daddy was reassuring her that it would stop bleeding soon. Only this was so much more than a scraped knee.
When we broke apart, he scratched the back of his neck and exhaled loudly. “I want to kill the bastard.” Dad spoke in a low, forced voice.
My daddy didn’t just want to comfort me; he also wanted revenge.
By the pained look on his face, I knew he meant it. If he had the opportunity, I was quite certain he would throw a few punches and might not know when to stop.
“No one hurts my little girl and gets away with it.” He took my arm and guided me toward the front doors of the police station.
We didn’t speak as we walked up the stairs.
We got to the door, but before entering, he stopped. “I know this will be hard.” He spoke with a tenderness I had never heard in my dad’s voice before. “But you have to do this. He has to be caught, and he has to pay for his actions. We have to press charges.”
Once inside the noisy police station, we filled out form after form, then we were ushered into an office. I sat between my mother and my father. They each held one of my hands. The policeman on duty opened a file and pulled out a photograph. He shoved it across the table. “Can you identify this man?”
I looked down and saw the guy who had dragged me in the woods. His name, I now knew, was Dennis. There was no doubt in my mind that it was him. “Yes. That’s him.” My voice sounded monotone.
“You’re certain.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
The police officer went on to explain that they would be asking more questions of all the partygoers, and it was possible that if it went to trial, I would have to testify against him in a court of law.
“Can you do that?” He sat back in his chair and looked directly at me.
“Yes,” I answered.
“It won’t be easy.”
“I know.”
My dad squeezed my hand. “I’m proud of you, Indie.”
The policeman fixed his gaze on me again. “Good,” he said to me as if my parents weren’t in the room. “It’s important for us that you do this, too. He can’t keep getting away with this. We are also after whoever sold him the drugs.”
My throat constricted, and I wiggled my hands from out of my parents’ grasp and clasped them in my lap to stop myself from shaking. “I wouldn’t know who sold him the drugs or if he sold anything at the party.”
For the rest of the meeting, I answered each question with as few words as I could get away with. After another half hour, we were allowed to leave. I walked out into the gloomy day and got back into the car. Mom and I didn’t talk much on the way home.
Back at the house, I went right to my room. I could hear Mom and Dad in the kitchen talking, my dad angry and, I was sure, ready to punch a wall. My mom cried and cried.
No matter how hard I tried to sleep, I couldn’t.
For the rest of the day, I lay prone on my bed, unable to do anything except think about how messed up my life was.
Finally, after being in my room for a few hours, I rolled over, picked up the phone, and dialed Annabelle. I needed to talk to her. She answered after the first ring.
“I’ve been waiting for your call. How are you?” she asked quietly.
“Why didn’t I see this?” I played with the telephone cord.
I heard her exhale before she said, “I don’t know the answer to that. Perhaps … you did but it was too hard to read. I really don’t know, Indie.”
A picture of Miles’s fat, greasy face crashed through my mind. “I listened before,” I said. “I did what I was supposed to do with a creepy boss. Followed my intuit
ion. And it worked. So what? That wasn’t enough for God? He decides he will do it to me again? Was this supposed to be a joke?”
“It’s not a joke.”
“I hate God right now.”
There was a pause on the line.
Finally, she said, “Indie, don’t give up. You are here for a reason.”
“God is mean.” I knew I sounded like a stubborn child, but I didn’t care. “And there are no real angels. Or divine teams. No one helped me. They weren’t there for me.”
“I think you should take some time off. I can get someone to cover for you.” She spoke softly. I hesitated for a second. I had to go to work tomorrow, because I needed money for rent. I needed to go back to the apartment, to feel as if I had a life of my own, so I would need to work for a paycheck. And now more than ever, I wanted to get away, travel, get out of this city. Maybe I would go and never come back.
If only I could go back in time, even 24 hours. I had been happy, felt fulfilled. I thought I had a purpose. Why had God taken it away from me? I wanted to go back to the way my life was. Before the party. Before Dennis had taken advantage of me when I was passed out, violating my body, my mind, my soul. Who does that? Who?
“Indie, you still there?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I want to come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? So soon?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. But how about we skip my work with you and you just man the store?”
“Sure. That’s fine with me.”
Another moment of silence passed over us like a heavy cloud, similar to the ones outside that didn’t let an ounce of sunshine through, the ones that made the world damp and cold.
Finally, Annabelle spoke. “Indie, I will help you through this.”
“Thanks,” I replied.
“See you tomorrow, sweetie. And if you change your mind about coming in, just call me.”
“Yeah, okay. See you.”
When I hung up the phone, I wondered if Annabelle had seen something about this and maybe she hadn’t bothered to tell me. Could she be trusted? Could anyone be trusted? Forget it. I couldn’t think like that. I couldn’t trust anyone but my family. I flopped back on my bed and slept.
I must have been out for hours, because when I woke up, it was early evening. I rolled over on my back and stared at my ceiling, at the plain white paint. The white started to swirl in circles, and although it made me nauseous, I kept looking at it. That is until I heard a rap on my door.
“Who is it?”
“You have company,” said Mom. She opened my door a crack. “John is here.”
I sat up. “Why is he here?”
Mom stepped in my room. “Do you want me to tell him you’re sleeping?”
I rubbed my temples. If he had made the trip over here, it was the least I could do to say hello. “It’s okay. I’ll come out.”
“You’re sure.” She sounded concerned.
“Yeah. It will be okay.”
I made my way down the hallway, and there he was, standing in my front entrance. Memories flooded through me, and a slideshow of pictures skipped through my mind: me running into his arms on our first, and only, Christmas together. Our first kiss after we had walked by the Rideau Canal. Our bodies woven together in my basement during the big ice storm.
At least I hadn’t been a virgin last night. At least God had allowed me to experience first love.
“I had to see you,” he said.
I nodded, unable to speak.
He stepped toward me. “I still care about you.” He took my hand and kissed my knuckles.
I felt nothing. No sweaty palms, racing heart, or tingles. I felt nothing at all but skin on skin. Was my entire body void of feeling?
He placed his hand on my face, and this time, his warm touch did stir something, but it was like a spark that within seconds of igniting fizzled.
“I’m going to beat the shit out of the guy,” he said.
“He drugged me.”
“He’s an asshole.”
I eyed John.
“I heard he’s a drug dealer,” I said, flatly.
John didn’t respond to that comment.
I continued. “But the police told me that what they really want from him is his dealer, because that would mean a big arrest.”
John dropped my hand but then immediately placed his hands on my shoulders. Instead of pulling me toward him in a comforting hug, he held on to me firmly, stared me straight in the eye, and asked, “Why did you go in the woods with someone like him? What were you thinking?”
I shook myself away from John. How could he say that to me?
“Indie, don’t cry.” John wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tight to his body, stroking his hand up and down my back. This time I didn’t push him away. I let myself mold into his familiarity. How many times had he held me like this? Too many to count.
Moments later, we went into the kitchen to talk. John stayed another 30 minutes or so, and we chatted, mostly about trivial things. I told him a little bit about my job, but not about my card readings, and he told me about how horrible his night dishwashing job was and how it didn’t pay enough. Then he went on a bit of a government tirade about how minimum wage wasn’t enough. In a way, his rant made me feel good, because that was the old John. The guy I fell in love with.
“Well, I should get going,” he said. “I have to drop something off for my mom.”
“How is your mom?” I asked.
“She’s okay.” He flicked his hair back, trying to be cool. I knew the gesture; she wasn’t good.
“She’s been going to the doctor a lot,” he said. “She’s been having pains in her abdomen. She says they’re sharp pains.”
I could tell he was worried about her, but then he was always worried about her. I wondered if she was drinking a lot.
“What does the doctor say?”
He shrugged. “Nothing yet. When I ask her about it, she says it’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“I tried to talk to her about my dad, but she just freaks on me. I’ve stopped asking.” Anger filled his eyes, and he made a fist with his hand. “I’m going to get answers.”
I didn’t say anything.
He looked into my eyes. Suddenly, his shoulders sagged, as if the anger he had just felt had hissed out of him like a flat tire. “I meant it when I said I care about you, Indie. I can’t talk to anyone like I talk to you. You always listen.”
Again, I didn’t speak. My heart pounded. We stayed like that, staring into each other’s eyes for a few seconds. Then the spell broke.
“I’ve got to go,” he said quickly.
I walked him to the door and stepped outside. Gray rain clouds still stalked the sky. Parked by the curb in front of our house sat a shiny silver car. “Nice car,” I said.
He shrugged, almost sheepishly. “My uncle bought it for me.” He averted his eyes and wouldn’t meet my gaze.
He was lying.
He walked down the cement sidewalk toward his car, but before he got to it, rusty old Mable pulled up and parked behind his spiffy silver car.
John stopped in his tracks and squinted, watching Paul’s every move as he got out, carrying a bouquet of daisies. John turned to look at me, then back at Paul. He smacked his fist on the hood of Paul’s car, the noise echoing down my neighborhood street. Paul didn’t flinch. If he was scared, he sure wasn’t going to show it. But then he hadn’t shown it that night on the way home either, when we had almost been attacked. When he’d picked a daisy for me.
John looked back at me one more time, his face in a scowl, before he yanked open his car door and sped away from the curb, sending small stones flying.
Paul didn’t even glance at John’s car, nor did he break his stride as we walked toward me, holding the flowers in his hands.
He handed the daisies to me, and that’s when I saw his hands shaking.
“I remember you telling me daisies we
re your favorite flower,” he said.
“Thanks.” I took the flowers and brought them to my nose, taking in their sweet smell. “You want to come in?” I asked.
“Sure,” he replied. “I won’t stay long, though. You are probably really tired.”
Once inside my house, I led him into the kitchen, and we sat down at the kitchen table. Mom fussed about, getting a vase for the flowers and filling it with water.
“How are you doing?” he asked with such gentleness I had to lower my head. I liked that he didn’t mention John or ask about him.
“I’m okay,” I whispered.
Mom placed the daisies on the kitchen table. “I’m going outside for a bit,” she said. “If you need anything, you know where I am.”
As soon as the back door slammed, Paul said, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there earlier. I’ve thought about this all day. If I had gotten off work even thirty minutes earlier, I could have been with you, and none of this would have happened.”
“Paul,” I said, “this is not your fault.”
“I should have been there. I could have been there earlier. You wanted me to come. I’m such an idiot.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“And it’s not yours either.” He put his hand over mine. I liked his tender touch.
“I heard the police know who it is,” he said. “I know him, too. He went to my high school for a year before he got kicked out.”
A stab hit my stomach, and I glanced up. “He got kicked out?”
Paul nodded. “He was a friend of your…” He let his words trail off as if he couldn’t say the word boyfriend in front of me.
“Did they get kicked out at the same time?” I asked.
Paul nodded. “He’s a year older, and he was in grade twelve, so he just quit. I don’t think he ever graduated. He had his means to make money. When John went over to your school, everyone thought he’d straighten out.” He withdrew his hand, and I watched him flatten it, like he wanted to chop someone. When I looked at his face, I immediately saw that he had clamped his mouth shut, and I swore he was gritting his teeth behind his lips.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said.
