Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

by Sheehan-Miles, Charles

  Randy, or whatever the hell is name was, had already been carried out by the paramedics before they arrested me. But I couldn’t clear my head of the vision of him, slamming her up against a wall, one hand over her mouth and the other up her skirt as she struggled.

  I didn’t care if I went to prison. I hoped the son of a bitch was dead.

  As they shoved me into the back of a patrol car, a wave of exhaustion and nausea swept over me. Was it really only three hours ago that she whispered, I’m losing my virginity tonight. God, I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kick my way out of the back of the car, run back to her and throw my arms around her, protect her, love her, take care of her forever.

  But, I’d screwed that up, too.

  So, instead of doing any of that exciting, dramatic, powerful stuff that I’d have liked to do, I sat there in the back of the car for what seemed an eternity while the police continued to do whatever it is that police do. Onlookers on the street walked by, glancing in the back of the car, where I was Exhibit A for the guy you do not want your daughter to fall in love with.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I was there for maybe thirty minutes before the police car finally pulled out. Two officers were in the front, a male and a female. Neither of them said a word to me at first, until we got stuck in traffic. Finally, the male officer, sitting behind the wheel, said, “If you care, dispatcher says it looks like the guy you beat up is going to live.”

  My hands, still wrapped behind my back, were hurting like hell, especially the one in the cast. I suspected I’d done more damage to my hand. Worth it.

  I shrugged in response to the officer’s comment.

  “Why’d you do it?” he asked.

  I looked up at him. Conventional wisdom said I should have stayed quiet until I saw a lawyer. But what difference did it really make? I wasn’t going to fucking lie to anyone. Yes, I’d gone way too far. But the fact was, I was protecting her. If I had to go to jail for that, so be it.

  I finally answered. “He sexually assaulted my girlfriend. I intervened.”

  The female officer winced.

  “I call bullshit,” said the male. “I’m guessing she was getting a little on the side, and you got pissed off.”

  I had to swallow the surge of rage I felt. Do not respond. Don’t do it.

  I finally said, “I don’t think I want to talk to you any more.”

  The officer burst into laughter and slapped the steering wheel. “You hear that, Perez? He doesn’t want to talk to me any more. Fucking college kid punk. I tell you what, he ought to be in the fucking Marines learning some discipline, instead of fucking around at penthouse parties on the Upper West Side. You hear that?” he shouted at me. “I fucking hate rich kids. All of you. Think you can do anything, get away with anything. I bet your dad’s lawyer will be pounding on the front door of the police station before we even get there.”

  Perez, the female officer, leaned over and whispered something urgently, to her partner. Whatever. I shook my head, turned to stare out the window. He could think what he wanted, it didn’t make any difference to me.

  The abuse continued for a little while, but I tuned it out, concentrating instead on the growing bloom of pain in my right hand.

  The problem was simple.

  I was no good for Alex. I wasn’t even any good for myself. Yeah, I’d protected her. But what about next time? What if the next person who pissed me off and I lost control was Alex?

  Hopefully, after tonight, she recognized that. But what if she didn’t? What if she had some misguided belief that she could somehow heal me? There wasn’t any healing. What happened in Afghanistan was part of who I was now, and if I thought about it honestly, something like tonight was bound to happen again.

  I’d kill myself before I ever laid a hand on her. But I’d seen what happened to couples over the long term. I’m sure, once upon a time, my parents had had that bloom of love and happiness. But too much alcohol, and too much stress and anger and hate finally turned them into a perfect caricature of the abusive couple. It wasn’t until my Mom got clean—and kicked his ass out—before she finally got her life together.

  No way in hell was I going to put Alex through that. And it would happen. It would happen sure as the sun was going to rise in the morning.

  I blinked back tears. Because I was going to have to figure out a way to let her down easy, to say goodbye, and disappear into my own world, this time permanently. Like I should have done in February, when the bomb meant for me killed my best friend instead.

  At the jailhouse, they booked me in, which took forever. Fingerprints. Search. It was humiliating.

  That was the point where my escort, the cop from the car, finally muttered something when he got a look at the mess of my leg.

  “What the fuck happened to you?”

  “Got blown up in Afghanistan,” I answered.

  He grunted. I guess that was all the apology I was going to get.

  They confiscated my wallet and everything else, and into the jail cell I went. Right where I belonged.

  The holding cell was packed, and then some, with about ten guys in a tiny little space. I took up a station near the door, and eased into a sitting position. No one looked at me or said anything and that was fine with me.

  The cell itself was small, maybe ten feet long, with long benches down each side which might have once served as beds of a sort, but now each seated four or five guys, most of them slumped over trying to approximate sleep.

  Closest to me was someone who stood out: a man in a suit and coat, though his tie and shoelaces were missing. He looked more like a banker than a hardened criminal. He also looked terrified, and huddled on the end of the bench as if his life depended on holding onto it. It was dark, the only light coming in through a narrow grate in the door, and the floor was damp. At the opposite end of the cell from the door was a toilet with no seat. It stank of piss and shit and unwashed bodies.

  This hole wouldn’t have looked out of place in Afghanistan. In fact, some of the accommodations we provided prisoners over there looked considerably more humane than this.

  Where was Alex? I wondered if they’d taken her to the hospital for an examination, or had the police questioned her? I didn’t want her to have to go through any more trauma than she’d already had to deal with tonight.

  Except, I thought, I was going to be the one to deal the final blow.

  For a moment, I had second thoughts. We loved each other. There was no doubt. Could that survive all of this? Could we overcome whatever challenges we had? Could love heal the fucked up state of my heart and mind and soul?

  Yeah, right. Not likely.

  Hopefully I wouldn’t be in here long. Crazy as it sounds, I had about thirty thousand dollars left in the bank. A year of tax-free hazardous duty pay, plus my infantry-signing bonus, all my paychecks for a year, had been sitting in the bank, pretty much untouched. I didn’t need anything in Afghanistan, didn’t need anything in the hospital. When I moved home, my mother insisted I hold on to the money, not spend it on anything at all, though I’d been sorely tempted to buy a car. Not that I could use one here anyway. So the money sat and earned interest, and now I was going to end up using it to bail myself out of jail. If they let me make bail. If there was any way for me to access the money.

  The sad thing was, if they ever gave me the phone call rumor said I was supposed to get from jail, I didn’t have anyone I could call. Sherman, I suppose, but I didn’t have a clue how to reach him. And if I called him, he’d probably be with Carrie and Alex. And I didn’t want to drag them into this. Not any more than I already had.

  My eyes pricked with tears, and I turned away from the other men in the cell.

  Tears because I was going to miss her. Tears because even though I knew I was doing the right thing, it was breaking my heart all over again. And I knew it would do the same to her.

  It would have been better if Roberts had lived. It should have been me.

&nb
sp; I closed my eyes, and pictured her long, lush brown hair, her deep green eyes, the tilt of her lips, her cheeks and neck, her beautiful spirit and her loud, free laugh. And I thought that if I had to live without her, I didn’t want to live at all.

  Now it’s my turn (Alex)

  “We’re going with her,” Carrie told the police. “She is not going alone with you to the hospital. I’m her sister, and Kelly’s her best friend.”

  The police officer looked uncomfortable, but finally agreed.

  Carrie turned to Sherman.

  “Ray, you take Joel, and go down to the police station, and see what you can find out about Dylan. Call me as soon as you know anything?”

  Sherman nodded, took out his phone. “Let me get your number,” he said.

  She gave it to him, and Sherman came over and squeezed my arm.

  “We’ll talk later, okay. I know you’re shaken up, but remember, he loves you. We all do… we’re sort of family now, okay?”

  My eyes teared up again. I’d not even known Sherman a day, and he was being incredibly kind. Impulsively, I reached out and hugged him.

  Then I said, “Take care of Dylan, okay? Let us know, as soon as you know anything.”

  “I will,” he said, patting my back.

  Joel reached over and squeezed my shoulder, then kissed Kelly on the cheek. The two of them turned and left the building.

  Half an hour later I was at the hospital. Carrie held my hand while the doctors did the examination. The rape kit. I’d made it clear that he hadn’t succeeded, but the police were insistent. While the doctor was doing the exam, I stared off at the wall, tears running down my face. It was hideously uncomfortable, and more so, it was humiliating, to a degree I’d never imagined.

  But that was nothing to the police interview.

  It happened in a borrowed office in the hospital, and because they were both considered witnesses, neither Carrie nor Kelly were allowed to stay with me during the questioning. In fact, both of them were being questioned, too.

  The office was cramped, and I was sitting, exhausted, with a cup of stale, burnt-tasting coffee in my hand.

  “Have a seat, Miss Thompson,” said one of the officers, a somewhat florid, overweight man who introduced himself as Sergeant Campbell.

  “We’re trying to sort out this mess, and we’d like you tell us, in as much detail as possible, exactly what happened tonight.”

  I did, starting with the two dates I’d had with Randy last spring. The whole time I was talking, Campbell was taking notes, and didn’t interrupt me. I fought to stay composed. I was still in shock, and frustrated, and angry. Especially angry that for the second time, Randy had used physical force against me and I’d done nothing to stop it. Nothing to turn him away. Dylan shouldn’t have had to come to my rescue like that. And if I’d been able to handle it on my own, he wouldn’t have needed to.

  “Okay, I’ve got some questions,” Campbell said. “Starting with… You say he assaulted you once before. Why didn’t you report it then?”

  I could feel my face flush. I stared down at the floor, and kind of shrugged, and said, “I guess I was ashamed. I’d been drinking, and I thought I knew him better than that, and… I don’t know exactly why. I just wanted it to be over. And I thought it was, until a few weeks ago.”

  “What happened a few weeks ago to change your mind?”

  “Randy showed up at the 1020 Bar and started to harass me. When he wouldn’t let go of me, Kelly pepper-sprayed him and the bouncer threw him out.”

  Campbell frowned, then said, “That’s twice now you’ve told me you were drinking. Underage.”

  I nodded, looking away.

  “What about tonight? Were you drinking?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? You were drinking with him last spring, and again at the 1020 Bar, why not last night?”

  “My boyfriend doesn’t drink. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable.”

  “I see. That would be Dylan Paris.”

  I nodded.

  “So Dylan doesn’t drink. How long have the two of you been dating?”

  That was a complicated question. I answered the best I could. “We met on a foreign exchange program three years ago, and were together after that. But we split up last February, while he was in Afghanistan. Then just recently got back together.”

  “How long ago?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “Did Randy Brewer have any reason to believe the two of you were together?”

  I shook my head, violently. “I made it very clear I wanted nothing to do with him.”

  “Tell me how you ended up alone with him. You’re in a dark hallway all alone with the guy you claim tried to rape you previously. In a short skirt. How did that happen?”

  In a short skirt? What the fuck?

  “I went to get some water. I didn’t even know Randy was at the party, but he showed up in the kitchen while I was in there, and backed me into the hallway. I was trying to get away from him.”

  “So you went off on your own and led him into the hallway.”

  “No! Why are you treating me like this is my fault?”

  “Miss Thompson, I’m just trying to get to the bottom of what happened. A young man is in the hospital with a possible fractured skull. I need to know if you were playing any games. Maybe trying to make your boyfriend jealous? I mean, I’d be jealous if I came along and found a girl like you in a dark hall with some guy’s hand up your skirt.”

  I couldn’t help it. I started to cry, in disgust and rage.

  “You are so wrong. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Then help me understand.”

  “I’ve already told you. I was trying to get away from him. He threw me up against the wall and I screamed, so he put his hand over my mouth. I was struggling.” My voice rose to a shout. “Do you want to see the fucking bruises?”

  “I don’t think that will be necessary, Miss, I know the hospital personnel took photos. All right, let’s go through this again. Last spring, you and Brewer were dating.”

  “We dated exactly twice.”

  “Right. While your boyfriend was off in the Army.”

  “After we broke up!”

  “So you went out with him, drinking underage, and started to have sex and wanted to stop?”

  “No! He pushed me down! If his roommates hadn’t come in when they did I don’t know what would have happened!”

  “Gotcha. His roommates come in, interrupt, and you… what? Call the police? Report him? Run away?”

  I stared at the floor. “Yes, I ran away. And I tried to forget about it.”

  “So he comes back tonight, at some upscale party in a penthouse apartment, and sexually assaults you, and ends up with a fractured skull. It just doesn’t add up to me. If you’d reported it last spring, it’d be one thing. You say Dylan doesn’t drink. Did you know he does drugs?”

  “What?”

  “Oh, you didn’t. Yeah, his system was completely loaded. Opiates, among other things.”

  I shook my head. “Did you know that his right leg was pretty much shredded by a roadside bomb in Afghanistan nine months ago? The painkillers are prescription.”

  “What happened to his hand? Why’s it in a cast?”

  I swallowed, and whispered, “We were having an argument, and he … he punched a wall.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Campbell said. His face twisted, one side of his mouth lower than the other, and shook his head just slightly. “He punched a wall hard enough to fracture his own hand?”

  I nodded. “It’s not how it sounds.”

  “You better be glad he didn’t punch you, kid.”

  “Dylan would never do that.”

  “Look, Miss Thompson. I get it. I served in Iraq myself. But let me tell you, when someone is fucked up on drugs, and angry, sometimes they can’t distinguish between the wall they’re punching and the girlfriend they’re punching. You need to stop trying to defend him and worry abo
ut yourself for a change.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you any more.”

  “I didn’t ask what you wanted, Miss Thompson.”

  “If you have anything else to say to me, you can speak to my lawyer. This discussion is over.”

  I stood, and stared at them, then said, slowly and quietly. “What I don’t understand is this. Just about every question you’ve asked me seems designed to blame me—the victim—or Dylan, who protected me. Why aren’t you asking questions about Randy Brewer? Why aren’t you interested in him? He’s the rapist!” My voice rose to a scream as I finished the sentence.

  I turned, opened the door and walked out of the office.

  “We’re leaving,” I said to Kelly and Carrie. “Has Sherman called?”

  Carrie nodded. “He said no contact. Dylan will have to go to an arraignment hearing on Monday sometime, and they’ll set his bail, or not, then.”

  Monday. Christ, two nights in jail. God only knew what was happening to him in there. This was so unfair.

  I swallowed, hard. There was nothing I could do about it, other than try my best to help him when the time came.

  “Let’s get some sleep, then. Would you guys mind if we got together in the morning—all of us—to figure out if and how we can help him?”

  Carrie and Kelly both stared at me, open-mouthed.

  “I don’t know what we can do,” Kelly said.

  “That’s what we have to figure out. What I know is, he’s all alone in there because he protected me. Now it’s my turn to protect him, and I’ll do the best I can, with your help or without it.”

  Friends (Alex)

  Everyone looked pretty rough when we met at the big round table in the back of Tom’s the next morning. Carrie’s eyes were swollen and red, and she’d pulled on jeans and a pullover. She looked as relaxed as I’d ever seen her, but also exhausted. She sat next to Ray Sherman, something I’d have been incredibly tickled about if it had been any other time. Sherman was the only one at the table looking reasonably normal. Wide awake, stuffing away about a thousand pounds of food. The two of them had arrived together, and I had the funny feeling they’d been together all night.