by Jodi LaPalm
I also shied away from the increasing invitations for parties, ever wary someone might drug or get me drunk against my will. And if I did go out, I took extreme care-more vigilant than most-to stay close by my friends, never straying from the group.
So when leaves began to fall, the confidence in my abilities and comfort in my environment slowly began to rise.
Newly independent and inspired by infinite possibilities for the future, I readily embraced classes and diligently worked hard to keep up with their demands, part of which stemmed from the fact that I took on a heavy course-load. I had ambitious plans to accelerate my credits and take summer classes in the hope of graduating early.
Long days were spent in lecture halls. And whenever I wasn’t in class, I was at the library. I basked in the solemn demeanor of stern-faced librarians, soft whispers of typically rowdy students, and musty odors of lofty book-lined shelves. It was home to me...and far quieter than the dorms.
Night-time became the absolute worst since most kids spent those free hours hopping from room to room, sharing snacks, playing music, and flirting voraciously. I joined on occasion, but when I really needed to get work accomplished I’d head to the main library toward the edge of campus.
Shortly thereafter, it was an almost daily practice to trek the worn path between my ivy-covered brick dorm and the matronly gray-stone library. And with an ever-growing desire for knowledge, I became more caught up in my study schedule than the dwindling light of a chilly autumn. I soon failed to notice any changes altogether, preferring instead to ignore shorter days of a coming season rather than forgo precious time with research books.
When I left one afternoon against a fading sky, I wasn’t concerned. After all, the automatic security lights adorning the corners of each building hadn’t even been triggered yet. Barely a third of the way into my walk back to the dorm, he came up behind me, covered my mouth, and snarled into my ear.
“This’ll be quick. I promise.”
He dragged me behind the thick double row of hedges running parallel along the path. Hidden between towering bushes and a sterile building, he rammed my body into the damp soil. Before I could even read his features or render a scream, he covered my eyes with a dark cloth and stuffed another inside my mouth. Twisting my hands behind my back, he wrapped them in a cord and knotted it.
Knowing it would be excruciating–in more ways than one–for me to do so, I tried to recall everything. And yet, as each detail crossed into awareness, it became altered to the point of distortion.
My shrouded eyes no longer saw anything but black. My nose worked overtime just to give me breath and whenever I did smell something, it was the stench of decomposing leaves underneath my incapacitated body. And my mouth could only taste the contaminated residue of a scented dryer sheet lingering on the rag. My ears, over the vile sound of his labored breathing, witnessed the unfair clamor of regular life on the other side of the hedge.
But my touch...this I tried to ignore.
I didn’t want to ever remember the feeling of this monster’s body selfishly writhing against mine, bruising delicate skin on the outside while scarring girlish dreams on the inside.
Even still, I knew I’d never be able to forget it.
Ten minutes. That’s all it took. No more.
He discarded me there–bound, gagged, blind, and broken–until I eventually realized I held the power to move again.
***
The door opened, and I slowly turned toward it. Joe and Jen were again in the garage. And I saw her hug him and weakly waved my own goodbye.
“It’s your turn, Court,” Jen offered sympathetically. With her back to me, she watched her husband leave for his afternoon shift. I neither moved nor replied. And thankfully, a couple came up the driveway, and my sister went to greet them.
Again, the door from the house opened, and this time my mother descended the two cement steps. Although she was becoming frail with age, she still moved like a cat. She inadvertently revealed her priorities by gingerly cradling a plate of food in her hand and close to her chest, more fearful of dropping the meal than breaking an arthritic bone.
“Since you don’t seem to be coming to the food, I thought I’d bring it to you,” she said, peering along junk-laden tables for a place to set it down.
“Thanks, Mom,” I replied with mustered sincerity. “But, I’m not hungry.”
“You have to be hungry. It’s been hours since you ate,” she insisted.
I briefly considered informing her that she couldn’t possibly know when I last ate, but instead I rose from the chair and stretched my sore muscles in an attempt to stall–or possibly disregard–her.
Unwelcome memories left me not only troubled but without an appetite. I busied my head and hands by moving through the garage, expertly re-arranging books, dishes, toys, and knick-knacks. I re-folded kids t-shirts into tidy piles and then sorted them by size. And finally, after carefully placing similar items together and spreading them out for better presentation, I was again calm.
“Courtney. What’s wrong?” Mom whispered, observing my movements.
“I’m okay, Mom. Just a stressful week with the deadline is all,” I lied.
“Well, maybe you need a break,” she suggested, unconvinced.
“I’m taking one. After this weekend, I won’t have another deadline for at least three weeks.” I completed another round of organizing the displays, taking such care with items that cost no more than a dollar yet treating them as if they were worth thousands.
“Have you been to an appointment lately? That always seems to help,” she softly reminded.
“I have an appointment scheduled for Monday,” I snapped.
“Good,” she answered meekly.
Naturally, my entire family knew what happened to me; we didn’t keep secrets nor did we deny such harsh realities of life. And after the dust settled, my parents became the driving force-keeping me stable and connected when I felt like falling down and checking out.
Over the years, we formed an unspoken agreement to never tip-toe around my assault but to also follow my lead in terms of its memory. There were times when we talked openly and freely, and others when I rightfully asked for privacy.
My response today became a silent signal to my mother that further discussion was off-limits. Despite how much it pained her, she respectfully obliged. And by granting me this courtesy, she knew I’d seek her out when–or if–I needed.
With the air now clear, the remainder of the day became consumed by more sales and visits with people I knew well from my time here as a child. To see so many friendly faces reflecting a happy youth removed much of the melancholy tone from previous days.
By the time Dylan and Trevor returned from school, I was in a carefree mood. I challenged them to a board game while Mom and Jen tended the last hour of the sale. The boys eagerly ran into the house and set everything up.
We convinced Dad to join us, and I secretly relished the rare time alone with him. His gentle teasing of Trevor and patient instruction for Dylan brought even more flashbacks from a fortunate upbringing with him as my father. Even in my darkest moments, his respect and love for me and the other women in his life provided distant, yet needful, reminders of how a man could truly be.
All too soon Jen, Mom, and Joe came into the house, and the tiny kitchen suddenly turned claustrophobic.
While Mom hustled about serving plates of hot dogs from the simmering slow-cooker and heaping bowls of her mouthwatering potato salad and beans, I hastily dashed to my room. The dinner hour made me lonesome for Alex and the kids, and I wanted to hear the sounds of my own home. Like a typical girl, Sylvie answered on the second ring, hopeful it was for her.
“Sylvie sweetheart, how are you?” I gushed.
“Mom! Hi! We’re having a taco party!” she squealed.
“Awww. Sounds fun! Sorry I’m missing it.”
I envisioned Alex in his “day-off dad mode,” sporting a grungy t-shirt and jeans. His favo
rite chef’s apron–bright red with the words hot stuff scrawled beneath a flirtatious chili pepper–would be wrapped around his lean waist.
“I know, me too.” When Sylvie was excited, she’d speak too fast. And this time her reply sounded more like “ina meta.”
Over the blaring mariachi music on the kitchen CD player, I strained to hear the muted voices of Alex and Mitch in the background.
“Can you please put your dad on, Sylvie? I’ll be seeing you tomorrow night, okay? Love you,” I told her.
“Sure, hold on. Love you too, Mom.” Her voice faded, replaced with a solid thud as the phone exchanged hands.
“Hey! Have you made enough so we can retire?” Alex joked. His mellow tone made the distance between us seem even greater.
“Barely enough to get a milkshake,” I laughed.
“It’s fiesta night, and I miss my senorita,” he added seductively.
“I miss you too, Senor. What are you all up to besides eating your weight in tacos?”
“Well, once we’re done with that we’ll fill in any remaining cracks and crevices with triple fudge brownies.”
“Oh no! How many tubs of frosting this time?” I worried.
“Only two. They held great restraint,” he declared with mock seriousness.
As in most families, it’s fun and games when Daddy is in charge. And though I loved his spontaneity and desire to do such things, I could only imagine the mess that would be left for me to clean upon my return.
Jen called down the hallway that dinner was ready, and I quickly wrapped up my call with Alex. Entering the narrow corridor, I heard Mom in the kitchen.
“You know about Bill and Donna don’t you, Jen? Divorce Court.”
“Really?” Jen answered with artificial surprise.
“Like it’s some big shock. They never liked each other. Surprised it lasted this long,” my dad piped in.
“They’ve been married for 25 years!” Mom reprimanded.
“Maybe so, but there was no love there,” Dad argued. “Even you could see that.”
“Regardless, a marriage is sacred, Ken. You don’t just give up. You don’t have an affair. You fight!”
“So is he going to be with Sue now?” Jen bravely interrupted.
“You knew about her?” Mom was flabbergasted.
“Puh-lease. Everyone knows. He should have been with her all along,” she stated.
So no one could detect my blatant eavesdropping, I avoided any movement on the carpeted, yet squeaky, floor. My skin burned with the mention of infidelity, and I fought the urge to physically itch it. This happened whenever the subject came up, and I deftly stayed clear of such unwinnable debates.
How could one ever effectively present the argument that sometimes it was alright...and necessary even...to root for the affair? Too often good people made wrong choices, but what if the wrong choice was the only choice you had for survival?
As it was apt to do, the discussion quickly changed course. And with the onset of a neutral topic such as the boys’ summer activities, I went to re-join my family.
Following a chaotic meal, Mom and Dad finally got up to leave, bringing heady relief. Between long hugs, they reminded me to give their best to Alex and the kids, and we made tentative plans to meet once the school year ended.
After Joe returned from my parent’s home, he and Jen begged me to join them for a movie, but I declined. For once during the past few days, I was so overly spent that I thought I might actually rest soundly.
***
Barely eight o’clock, yet I had no interest in lulling myself to sleep with the stupid romance I brought. And since searching the internet hadn’t proven to be a wise thing, I dejectedly flipped the light off and slid under the chenille bedspread.
I despairingly stared at shapes reflected upon the ceiling from a corner streetlight. Recalling how as kids we’d imagine forms within clouds on lazy summer days, I now examined their edges and movement for something–anything–resembling real life.
I found nothing familiar, and without cause or reason my heart began to race. My eyes darted back and forth and sweat encompassed my skin.
There was little to ease the pulsing panic. No closet to organize. No floor to scrub. Not even a measly load of laundry to fold or put away. Even breathing exercises couldn’t deliver me to a secure place. Within the confines of my loving sister’s home, I was left alone to experience the fear of my reality.
My body involuntarily coiled into the fetal position, and my mind followed its attempt to be a child again by replaying simple pleasures of this afternoon. But instead of idealistic icons from my youth, I became wholly fixated on the time following that fateful semester.
Images came quickly. Much like the snap of a camera and spark of its flash, each one branded itself into my consciousness before the next could overlap it.
FLASH! I hear two guys talking on the path, and I blindly stumble in their direction. I freeze in fear. They run and catch me before I crumple to the ground.
FLASH! My dorm leader and roommate protectively huddle over my heaving body where it sits inside the cramped campus security office. The guard squints at me before hesitantly dialing the phone.
FLASH! A matronly doctor examines my every crevice with quiet reassurance while inside I scream silent, blood-curdling pleas for my mother and my home.
FLASH! I’m back in my dorm room, and I don’t leave until my parents arrive.
I never returned.
In fact, I didn’t attend any school for two years. It took that long–and more–to achieve even the slightest degree of control over my newly acquired obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Despite the unmatched support and patience from my family, I sunk into a deep depression. For the first six months, I shed an additional twenty pounds from an already too-thin frame. And days and nights were spent in my girlhood bedroom where prompts of a simpler time taunted me with their idyllic hopes and dreams.
A patchwork of photos lined the dresser mirror, depicting a happy girl with hopeful eyes. And though I vaguely recognized the friends who laughed by her side, her face was entirely unknown to me.
Silver trophies for spelling contests and volleyball matches covered the heavy walnut bookshelf handcrafted by my father, but their once-priceless forms only appeared cheap. Worn paperback novels tucked amongst the shelves detailed first loves and endless devotion. Now their lies were finally revealed. For I’d discovered it was only a charade, used to disguise broken hearts and shattered dreams.
Even my most prized-possession–the four foot wooden dollhouse handed down from my mother-became a symbol of disillusionment.
I stayed inside those four walls, where life remained safe and the familiar was a guarantee. And after awhile friends on hiatus from college, and even those who never left town, stopped asking me to come out.
But my family...they never stopped.
Each day, Mom or Dad would summon me to the kitchen for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. They refused to let me eat in my room-as I preferred–and instead waited in enduring hopefulness for me to come down when called. It was a given I’d make an appearance for at least one meal since I needed to eat something. And within my first few months home, during these daily treks downstairs, I noticed strange habits forming.
An overwhelming desire to count things like footsteps, stairs, and even bites of food dominated my mind. Initially, I was able to hide such odd behaviors since they were only ideas in my head.
But then things changed.
No longer content with counting a silent sing-song pattern while I walked or ate, I now needed to complete tasks, consecutively and from start to finish. If I got interrupted in the process, I had to start over. It became highly suspicious to the ever-watchful eyes of my parents when I walked up and down the stairway three times in a row before joining them for a meal.
I also began organizing everything in my bedroom. Items would be placed together in perfect precision, and if one was moved out of vie
w-where I couldn’t keep track of it–I’d panic and need to find and replace it to its rightful spot. My need for order inside my room wasn’t difficult to manage as long as my mother didn’t come in and clean or put away laundry.
It eventually escalated to where I couldn’t sleep at night until I triple-checked every room in the house and confirmed things were indeed organized to my satisfaction. Then I’d lie awake in bed and mentally review them one more time before finally allowing sleep to come.
Such patterns continued for approximately nine months before I broke down and told my parents. I knew these actions weren’t common. But more importantly, although I somehow sensed things would never truly be normal for me again...I still hoped to be in charge of my life.
