by Cecy Robson
“What I don’t understand is that lots of people overuse alcohol and drugs and still don’t sexually abuse their children.”
“You’re correct, Evelyn,” Dr. Harte agreed. “But substance abuse can severely affect a person’s judgment. The alcoholism also provided your father an avenue to excuse his actions.”
I rubbed my temples, trying to suppress the growing headaches our sessions brought. “Why did I repress so much?”
She folded her hands on her lap in the sage-green chair opposite mine. “The mind often attempts to bury things it determines our psyche can’t handle.”
“But it almost seems worse this way.” I reached for a tissue. “I mean, if I’d remembered, I could have dealt with it a long time ago―not now, not when things are finally going well for me.”
“Perhaps not, Evelyn. The death of your father coupled with the loss of financial and emotional support you experienced were difficult stressors for anyone to endure. Your mind was trying to save you, just as your body would if you endured a life-threatening injury.”
“So then why now?”
Her voice, already soft, became even softer as she took in my mounting distress. “Internal and external triggers play a tremendous role in stirring our memories. Music, scents, stress―almost anything can evoke experiences long suppressed. You’ve been in nursing school, which is a tremendous course of study to undertake. Your rotation in psych this past semester couldn’t have been easy, especially since it contained subject matter so closely related to your abuse.”
“Yeah, it was one hell of a trigger.” I wiped my eyes. “I started hearing my father’s voice in my head during your sexual assault lecture. I guess they were things he used to say to me when he’d hurt me.” I wiped my eyes again. “I didn’t recognize his voice, but I suppose I wasn’t ready to yet.”
“Perhaps.” She leaned forward. “Now that you’re ready, I want you to take your time with healing. Don’t be so anxious to plow through, okay?”
“Okay.”
She eased back into her chair as I began to calm. “If you’re ready, I’d like to discuss Mateo with you.” She smiled kindly when I squared my shoulders. “You’ve found someone you care for deeply, Evelyn. As wonderful as that is, it can bring up past trauma.”
“But he’s a good part of my life.”
“From what you’ve told me, and from what I’ve seen firsthand, it’s obvious he’s a positive influence in your life. But what you need to realize is that having sex with Mateo has made you vulnerable.”
I didn’t mean to become defensive, but I did just then. “Mateo’s never―he wouldn’t hurt me that way.”
“That’s not what I mean, Evelyn.” She offered another patient smile. “Sex affects women on multiple levels―it draws out our emotions and weakens barriers, even those so firmly cemented in place.”
My shoulders relaxed when I realized what she meant. “Barriers that were probably protecting me from my memories.”
“Yes. And I believe those same barriers prevented you from enjoying sex with Donovan.”
I played with the edges of my sweater. I trusted Dr. Harte, but sometimes it was hard to face her when I spoke. “I’d zone out with him. Every time. Was it because my father was still alive then?”
“That seems likely to me. Your father’s presence was a reminder that sexual contact could be painful and frightening, although you probably didn’t realize that on a conscious level. When your father died, that threat and the reminder he represented were no longer present.”
So when Mateo came along, and that danger was gone, I could enjoy it. Especially since Mateo was so patient, waiting for me to be ready.
Dr. Harte sat quietly, likely aware I was thinking things through. I said, “The night that dealer came into the club―the one with the gun―he was another trigger, too. When he fired the gun, the sound almost paralyzed me.” It was also the same night I began showing interest in Mateo. Jesus, between the start of my memories returning and my New Year’s Eve meltdown, it was a wonder there was anything between us. “Now that I’m aware of what happened to me, will more things trigger my memories?”
“Most likely. A great deal has happened, Evelyn, and we’re only just beginning to delve into your abuse. You’ll have good days and not so good ones. But I’m confident you will endure.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see you next week, okay?”
Dr. Harte led me into the waiting room, where Mateo was flipping through the stacks of brochures I’d given him. His gaze softened when he saw me, the swelling around my eyes letting him know I’d experienced another tough session. “You okay?” He pulled me against him and kissed my forehead when I didn’t say anything, realizing I’d probably cry again if I spoke. He nodded to Dr. Harte. “Thanks, Doc.”
We climbed into Mateo’s car. Dr. Harte’s office was situated almost forty minutes from my apartment, allowing us plenty of time to talk, although we usually said very little following my time with her.
“What did you think of the brochures?”
Mateo pulled onto the highway. “The place sounds great, and according to the searches on the Net, it’s supposed to offer the best mechanics’ training out there.”
I placed my hand on his arm. “So do you think you may want to go?”
“I can’t, Evie.”
I rubbed his arm even though he likely couldn’t feel it beneath his heavy leather jacket. “Why?”
“The money. I don’t have the kind of cash for everything I’d like to learn.” He passed a sedan when it became obvious the driver was too busy talking on his cellphone to pay attention. “That’s why I went into the Army to begin with.”
“Maybe we can talk to someone about getting a loan. The school has ways of connecting you with banks.”
“Evie, I’m an ex-con who bounces at a bar. No one’s going to give me any money. I’ve already tried.”
We didn’t say anything more to each other until he rolled to a stop in front of my house. This time, he didn’t bother to pull into my driveway, choosing instead to idle his car along the curb.
I fidgeted uncomfortably, not wanting to leave him just yet, but knowing that was what was coming. We hadn’t had sex since before New Year’s. At first, I thought he was giving me time. But weeks had passed and he wouldn’t do more than kiss me. He’d taken me out for Valentine’s Day and out to eat, but aside from our rides in his car, we were never alone anymore.
I played with the ring he’d given me, spinning it to remind me it was still there. “Do you want to come in?”
“Can’t. I need to train. I have a few fights coming up.”
“A few fights?” He neither answered nor turned my way. “Teo.”
“Look, I’m not going to be around for the next week. I’ve got too much to do. Can you see if Lourdes can take you to see the doc?”
My insides twisted a little. Was he blowing me off? “I can go by myself.”
His hand slid over his steering wheel. “I don’t want you to. I know some of your counseling stuff gets intense.”
More than once, I’d cried all the way home. Guilt dug a hole in my heart. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed or even managed a smile. The sex we’d once had so freely and repeatedly was gone. Jesus. Mateo was a virile twenty-three-year-old man. How many times could I cry in his arms with him receiving nothing in return?
“It does, but…I’ll be okay.” I unbuckled my seatbelt when the silence lingered between us, and inched across my seat. When he looked at me, I kissed him deep. At first, his arm snaked around my waist and he kissed me back, pressing his mouth tight against mine.
But then he pulled away. “I have to get going, Evie.”
I averted my gaze when the sting of his rejection burned its way into my eyes. Crying in front of him wasn’t what he needed or what would keep us together. Besides, I’d done enough of that in his presence. “Okay. Call me later.” I slipped out. He waited until I walked into my ap
artment before pulling away.
He wasn’t at the club the next three shifts I worked.
“Where’s Teo?” Noelle and a few others asked.
But I didn’t know. “He has stuff to do,” was my only answer.
—
A week passed before I saw Mateo. He’d text and call every day to see how I was, and had called right after my next counseling session just to make sure I was okay. In the deep huskiness of his voice, I could sense that he still cared. But I couldn’t be sure that was enough to save us. I wanted to be strong for him. He deserved as much. But the memories of what my father had done had left me a shell of what I once was; I was no longer the girl Teo had told he loved.
Shit. I sat at my ratty desk, reading the same passage in my pediatric text over and over again, and still it didn’t make sense. I finally gave up, too distracted by Mateo and our last interaction in his car. It wasn’t just the blow-off that bothered me, it was the realization that he was keeping something from me.
I didn’t like having secrets between us. But maybe he preferred them. It was probably better than learning that my first experience with sex had been forced on me by my father.
I rubbed my eyes, irritated, anxious, and generally heartbroken. Reading was getting me nowhere, so I skipped to the end of the chapter to focus on the unit test. Maybe if I could just finish that, I would feel like I’d accomplished something.
My phone rang. I snatched it to me when I saw Mateo’s number on the screen, unbearably happy and relieved he’d called. “Hi, babe,” I said softly.
There was a brief pause before a deep voice muttered on the other end. “It’s not Teo, Evelyn. It’s me, Ant.” He let out a long breath as if debating whether to speak. “Listen, you know Teo’s my boy, but I need you to come to the fight club.”
I didn’t speak right away. Ant wouldn’t be narcing on Mateo unless it was an emergency. “Is…is he okay?” He didn’t answer. “Ant. Tell me if he’s okay.”
Ant swore. “No. He’s not. He’s beat up pretty bad. Do you remember how to get here?”
My voice was just above a whisper. “I think so.”
His voice toughened to steel. “Then you need to come.”
Fear clenched my throat like a fist. I shoved my feet into my boots and reached for my long sweater. “I’m coming. Just, God, does he need a doctor?” I snagged my keys and purse and raced out of my apartment.
“We sort of have one.”
“Sort of?” I unlocked my Cherokee. “What does that mean?”
“He’s an EMT. Does ringside fix-ups when things go wrong. But, Evelyn, he’s one guy and there’s a roomful of people he’s trying to get to.”
My hands shook so hard I couldn’t stick the key into the ignition. Anger and fear punched through me and it took everything I had not to rip into Ant. I peeled out of my driveway. “Ant, if he’s hurt as bad as you’re making me think, he needs a doctor. Get him to the closest emergency department now!”
“Evelyn, he won’t go. As messed up as he is, they’ll call it in to the cops.”
“I don’t care about that. I care about him. Is he awake? Does he know where he is―shit, who he is?”
“He seemed out of it when me and Big Chris hauled him out of the Octagon. But I think he might know now.”
If Ant was trying to make me feel better, he was doing a shitty job. “Is he having trouble breathing?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“His ribs are busted up, so yeah, it hurts him to breathe.”
A stream of swear words flew out of my mouth as I veered onto the highway. “What color are his lips?”
“His lips? What the hell do―”
“Are they pink? Yes or no?”
He waited before speaking. “They’re pink—bloody but pink.”
“Okay, okay. That means he’s getting enough oxygen.” I sighed, willing myself to slow as I drove on I-76. The last thing I needed was to bring police there. “Is he able to answer questions?”
“He can talk, yeah.”
“What about his heart rate?”
“What about it? You’re asking me shit I don’t know.”
“Then find out!” I snapped. “Ask him if his pain is radiating to his abdomen—he could have a lacerated liver. Or if it feels like his heart is beating too fast.”
“Do you think it might be?”
My grip to the steering wheel tightened. “If he’s bleeding internally, yes.”
Ant swore a few times. “I should’ve called you sooner. Shouldn’t I?”
I pushed down some of my anger, knowing Ant only meant to help Mateo. “Just find out for me. Please.”
I’d taken the exit into Philly before Ant returned to the line. “Doug says the heart rate is a hundred and his blood pressure is one eighteen over seventy-three.” He waited. “Is that good? Is Teo all right?”
I stopped at light and glanced to see what street I was on. “He’s stable. Look, I’ll be there in ten.”
Ant’s voice lowered. “Park at the church. I’ll send Big Chris to get you. Evelyn, I know you’re worried about him, but do not get out of the car by yourself.”
Chapter Twenty
Big Chris was waiting for me at the church parking lot when I arrived. Instead of taking me ten minutes, it took more like eighteen. I was practically out of my mind when I skidded to a halt next to an old sedan.
We didn’t walk so much as run the three blocks to the MMA gym. Even through the heavy metal door, I could hear the roaring. It was standing room only as two boulder-sized men went at it in the Octagon. As anxious as I was to reach Mateo, the epic numbers of spectators made me pause. “Ultimate Throwdown, super heavyweight,” Big Chris yelled in my ear.
“What?”
“Three-day brawl. Final round tonight. Twelve fighters per weight class. Single elimination. One winner.”
My steps slowed and I thought I was going to hurl all over the floor. The two in the Octagon were so battered their faces resembled pounded meat. Blood poured from their mouths and eyes. “Mateo fought in this tournament, didn’t he?”
Big Chris glanced down. “Yeah. In the heavyweight class.”
My head spun, but I willed myself forward. “He lost, didn’t he?”
Big Chris squared his jaw. “No. He won the whole damn thing.” He hauled me up by my shoulders when my knees buckled, and led me through the crowd. The cluster of people grew dense by the Octagon. Big Chris escorted me safely through them and into the locker room, glaring at anyone who tried to block our path.
We entered the cinder-block room with the howls from the crowd beating against our backs. Showers ran at full blast to our left, trailing pink water into the drains at our feet. The place was small and cramped and resembled a field hospital for wounded soldiers instead of a place to change and stow belongings.
Fighters in varying stages of injury and recovery lined the walls. The bigger guys were dressed, waiting their turn in the Octagon, meeting each other’s stares in challenge or with blatant hate. Others sat against the wall, unable to stand, the contusions covering their bodies distorting and discoloring their flesh.
Big Chris led me past a small section where a guy about Mateo’s size lay sprawled on a cot. Bright red blood coated most of his face and stained towels covered the floor beside him. The medic bending over him wiped his face with thick gauze squares so he could finish stitching the flap of skin that used to be the fighter’s left eyebrow.
Big Chris motioned toward him with a jerk of his chin. “Teo’s opponent.”
The bruises painting and swelling his body almost seemed fake―too outrageous and vicious to be caused by a single human being. My stomach lurched and I had to beat back my nausea. “Mateo did this to him?”
Big Chris nodded. “Ya. Teo’s kinda messed up lately. It’s like he can’t stop once he starts swinging. It takes the ref to haul him off every time. S’been like that since New Year’s.”
“Since New Year’s?” I repeated.
�
��Ya. Lotta anger, you know.” Big Chris moved me along, scowling at anyone who tried to approach me, but careful not to get too close himself. When he slowed, I knew we’d finally reached Mateo.
Mateo curled forward, not speaking, not making a sound, just holding a bag of ice against his left side. The only evidence of his pain was his lowered head and his tightening features. When I paused in front of him, he glanced up slowly.
Mateo’s swollen bottom lip was split at the center and his enflamed face was the color of spilled red wine. Steri-Strips had been applied to his swollen right eye and lower jaw. He favored his left side as he turned to glare at Ant. “You called my girl?”
Ant glared back, crossing his arms. “She needs to be here, man. Doug’s just one guy and you need attention.”
A few whistles and catcalls had me turning around. My old buddy Ring Girl approached, dressed in a tiny hot-pink bikini and carrying a plastic grocery bag in her hand. Her sultry grin widened as she neared. “I got you more ice, baby,” she said to Mateo.
Her delicate and overly made up face turned stony when she found me standing there. “Oh. It’s you,” she said.
“Yeah. That’s right.” I yanked the bag out of her hand. “You can go now. Your services are no longer needed.”
Something in my expression kept her in place. It was that same something that made her leave a moment later with just a small glance back. Despite his pain and his limited movements, Mateo’s strong arms wrapped around my waist and gathered me to him. “Evie, you know it’s not like that.”
“No. I don’t know anything anymore,” I answered him truthfully.
The hurt in my soft tone gave me away. I stepped away from him when he loosened his hold. Someone had left a pile of alcohol prep pads on the bench, in addition to a stethoscope and a blood pressure cuff. I used one of the pads to clean off the stethoscope.
