by Jodi LaPalm
My mother was sympathetic, but my father was not.
He’d experienced vast remorse over not being there to protect his little girl; it was in his eyes every time he looked at me. And the pent-up rage he held toward my assailant became fully unleashed in the very moment I revealed my emerging disorder.
“Damn it, Courtney! This needs to stop. Now!” he yelled, slamming his tight fist upon the kitchen table.
“Ken. Please,” my mother begged, tugging on his forearm.
“No!” he shrugged her off. “I’m tired of seeing that low-life scum destroy our beautiful girl, over and over and over...” Frustration turned to sadness, and my father’s chest heaved under his shirt.
“Honey,” Mom came to wrap me in her arms, “your dad doesn’t mean it.”
“I do mean it, Helen.” Dad was now calm. “She has a choice...”
“Mine was taken,” I furiously interrupted.
“Bull-shit,” he countered.
My father then rose, slowly, from his chair and walked to where my mother and I stood. Tenderly unwrapping her arms from my body, he filled the barren space with his own warm one. He didn’t speak until I looked him straight in the eye.
“Courtney. You,” his voice rasped within his throat. “You are a different person now. I know that. I accept that because we can’t undo what’s been done.” He paused with watery eyes. “No matter how much I’d give my own life to undo what’s been done, it’s now a part of who you–and we–are.”
He held me tighter and continued speaking, this time to the air over my shoulder. I sometimes wonder if it was the only way he could say what he did.
“There is no way in hell you deserve what happened, Court. No way in hell,” he repeated through clenched teeth. “But sometimes even the horrible things in life can help make us better versions of ourselves.” He sighed. “Don’t give up. Just please don’t give up.”
For the first time in months, I spent an entire night awake thinking about the future rather than the past. And by dawn, I came to this conclusion: my attacker stole one piece of me I could never get back, but I became bound and determined he wouldn’t take anymore.
In those bleak hours, I’d also finally resigned myself to the fact he’d likely never be caught. After thoroughly investigating my case, the police came to the decision there just wasn’t enough viable evidence–other than my story of course–to track down a reliable suspect.
The binding from my wrists, cloth from my eyes, and rag from my mouth revealed nothing, giving the impression he wore gloves. And the intrusive vaginal and full body exam proved inconclusive, meaning he likely wore a condom and several protective layers of clothing.
The officer in charge assured me they would continue to monitor the cold case file, comparing it to similar attacks and remaining vigilant. Yet, for me, it no longer mattered. Damage was done.
My life, however, was not.
It took a full year of intensive therapy with one of the best OCD doctors my parents could find for me to finally return to center. And since they were both still working full-time, they alternated time off and limited vacation days to drive the two-hour trip–there and back–for my weekly appointment in Milwaukee. On a separate day of those very same weeks, I met with another therapist in town for the sole purpose of working through the rape trauma.
By the fall semester of my twentieth year, I was again enrolled in a university. Only this time, classes were less than an hour away from home, and I didn’t live on campus.
attraction
Until the very last moment Jen called for me to wake, my mind was happily empty. It became a practice nearly perfected during those darkest days, and I hadn’t been able–or more importantly, felt the overwhelming urge–to go there before this morning.
Dressing and grooming a woman I couldn’t recognize helped me make it to the kitchen table in plenty of time for breakfast. Bearing witness as Joe and the boys wolfed down bowls of cold cereal and loaves of toast slathered in butter and grape jam again reminded me of where I was.
Jen and I silently poured mugs of coffee and headed out to the garage. Another day of the yard sale was both welcomed and dreaded. For while it provided a good diversion from my difficult walk down memory lane, it also meant hours alone with my sister.
How would I ever hide what was happening from her? I agonized. She knew too much and cared even more. What’s worse, I knew Jen would never allow me to fall down again without at least trying to catch me.
Drawing a deep breath, I channeled the Courtney everyone wanted–the one who proved happy endings were indeed possible. Because for them, I was the distressed princess-locked in a stone castle tower-who had been rescued by the brave prince right before a fire-breathing dragon destroyed the entire kingdom.
I faked it before, and I could do it again.
The morning moved swiftly as friends, neighbors, and strangers shopped amongst our cast-offs. And as each hour passed, I became more adept at participating in courteous conversations without getting overly involved.
Yet when my parents arrived-unannounced-for lunch, warning sirens and whistling bells chimed in my head. Keeping the distance with Jen and her family was exhausting in itself, and I intuitively feared I’d need even more resolve and skill to fool Mom and Dad. They were the only two people who saw me–up close and inside out–those years following my attack. They both knew every trick in my book for masking what I didn’t want others to witness.
After hasty greetings, the boys saved me by pulling my parents into the house to show off the elaborate city they crafted from assorted building blocks and books upon the floor of their shared bedroom.
“Hey, Jen. Things have slowed down, and we both know it’s not going to be much for the rest of the afternoon. I know I offered to stay until four, but do you mind if I head out early?” I asked. “I’d like to swing by the outlet mall, and leaving now would allow plenty of time to shop and still be home for dinner.”
“Sure. No problem. Joe can help out,” she replied without suspicion. And within the hour, I was gone.
Of course I didn’t intend to stop at the mall, but a few hours of solitude seemed more than necessary at this point. I couldn’t handle perceptive looks from my mother, nor was I mentally prepared enough to go home.
Unsure what to do, I pulled into the wayside located a few miles outside town. Just off the highway, it was a charming rest area, complete with picnic area and pond. It was terribly busy this time of day, but I didn’t care.
Being around people who didn’t know me wasn’t the problem.
I selected a far parking spot, secluded yet near families and others walking the path. Even in the bright light of day, I imagined the worst.
After buying a soda from an army of machines lined up in the tidy lobby, I walked to an open bench. Every picnic table was occupied, and this seat afforded a serene view of the pond, which was still lovely despite the layer of mossy scum left over from erratic temperatures.
A whiff of smoking meat and charcoal passed in front of my nose, signaling someone was actually using one of those battered grills cemented haphazardly into the grass. With an absence of appetite, I instead laid my head back, closed my eyes, and let the rhythmic lull of kids and dogs and highway traffic pacify my senses.
Prompted by the lyrical song of a bird calling its mate, my mind wandered to the ritualistic pairing off animals and people do and the natural laws of attraction that guide them.
For while the course many take to find the perfect half to make us whole is similar, the reasons we choose another is not. Sure, we could talk about love and lust in the general context of things. But how could we ever really explain to someone why we love and lust for a certain person?
There wasn’t any concrete way to define the attraction, nor the need, to be with another human being.
Sometimes...it just couldn’t be helped.
***
Returning to academic studies proved troublesome for more than the obv
ious reason of my psychological disorder. Because though I was still in the prime of my youth, I wasn’t even remotely interested in flirting, hooking up, dating, or socializing.
Much like my prepubescent years, boys were again yucky and full of cooties. They were to be avoided at all costs. I rarely sat near them in lecture or worked with them in group study. And when I had little choice but to do so, I suffered with sweaty palms, tight lips, and a racing heartbeat.
I saw past the guise of shy smiles and helpful attitudes into their hidden agendas and raging hormones. But I was the only one.
All of the other girls on campus fell for the evil charms of these boys–hook, line, and sinker-which meant I became an outsider with them as well. I lacked any desire to swap clothes, try new makeup, or peruse the ridiculous fashion magazines glorifying ways to entice the opposite sex while subsequently devaluing the entire female population.
Preferring instead to be invisible, I blended into a camouflaged sea of faceless kids and didn’t date, party, or make myself known in public. Rather, I relied on the support of family and friendships with the few people who proved to be solid and trustworthy, not only before I was hurt but long after. I’d decided two very close friends who understood me were way more important than fifty acquaintances that didn’t.
Roaming campus in oversized flannel shirts and torn sweatpants, I dedicated every waking moment to class or study. I continued therapy but “graduated” to one professional rather than two. And though my OCD was well under control in many ways, it now manifested itself into my academic career.
Knowledge became my new obsession, and I over-loaded on courses to spend more time with it. As expected, my zealous approach to learning led to perfect scores and an early graduation.
I had little problem finding a layout job in a local advertising firm. And when they informed me I needed to learn a new software program for graphic design, my childhood friend, Marnie, suggested the IT company at which she’d recently been hired.
Located an hour to the east, she worked there as a junior salesperson selling hardware, software, and installation services. Apparently, they also housed a top-notch training facility specializing in all ranges of computer programming and development. I signed up for a course scheduled the following week.
BLIP!
Though I recognized the sound of a text delivered to my cell phone, I looked around the wayside in question.
Philip.
BLIP!
Another text. Now thoroughly confused, I stared dumbly at my phone.
Alex.
Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I scrolled down to see the message.
“ETA?” it read.
“At mall. Home by 5,” I typed.
I opened the next one. It, too, was from Alex.
“Forgot to tell you XOXOXOXOXO.”
“Ditto,” I automatically replied.
With nothing to alleviate my festering anxiety, I quickly stood and began pacing the small path circling the pond. My face blushed with shame and though the feeling wasn’t anything new to me, the association of it with Alex was foreign.
The silent pain over Philip’s passing forced me to relive a part of life, which had been long forgotten. And as I became tempted to remember, the debilitating grief I experienced with each rude memory of another man caused me to feel I was betraying my own husband.
***
When I exited that software classroom for morning break-so many years ago-and passed him in the hallway, I literally stopped, turned, and gawked like an idiot.
It couldn’t be him! I doubted.
Yet deep inside I knew it was the man from the airport.
I eagerly waited for the rest of the session to end so I could pry more information from Marnie. But once we sat down for lunch, she unrelentingly grilled me about the class.
“Do you think Carl is a good teacher?” she peered beneath her eyelashes. I really possessed no opinion, but I could tell she liked him so I answered with a mollifying yes.
“Don’t you think he has a cute accent? He’s from one of the Virginia states, I think. I can’t remember which one, but every time he opens his mouth, it makes me...oh, I don’t know...smile!” She dipped a French fry in tartar sauce, and I suppressed a gag.
“He does seem nice,” was my distracted reply. “Um, what time do you get done again? Carl said class will wrap up by four-thirty.” We planned to stop by our favorite clothing store together before I made the drive home.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she paused, “but Carl and the others are attending a going-away party for one of the technicians. And,” another pause as she sipped diet soda, “I’d really like to go. You should come, too, Courtney! There are a lot of cute young guys in IT, you know...” her voice trailed off once she realized what she’d said.
“I don’t think so. It’s okay if you wanna go, though. I’ll just head home. We can shop another time,” I assured.
After eating our sandwiches in silence, she finally spoke up.
“Courtney. You don’t have to worry about the guys here. I mean, honestly, most of them are like our friends from high school. You know, immature and goofy-more like brothers. Aside from Carl, of course,” she added with an excited giggle.
“It just doesn’t sound like my type of thing,” I began. But then all at once, I thought of the man in the hall and found myself saying yes.
“Seriously?” Marnie was incredulous.
“Seriously. Now stop looking at me before I change my mind,” I threatened.
The afternoon session was spent two ways: part trying to uncover what Marnie saw in this guy Carl, and part wondering why I hoped to see that strange man again. He meant nothing to me, and confirming whether he was the same person from the airport served no useful purpose.
Yet, I still wanted to know.
Effectively sweating from my impromptu workout around the pond, I veered toward the beverage machines for a water. And upon checking the clock on my phone, I realized I had to go home. With still another forty-five minutes to drive, I prayed it would be ample time to get back into mommy and wife mode.
spark
“Mom!” Mitch and Sylvie simultaneously shouted once I walked through the door. They were perched at the counter island with hands lost somewhere deep inside ceramic mixing bowls.
“Hello, my sweets,” I smiled while gingerly weaving around Rosie’s prancing body. Embracing each child from behind, I kissed their hair and inhaled fresh air and wet grass.
“You’ve been outside,” I declared while sneaking a glance around the kitchen. The disaster of Chef Dad wasn’t as anticipated. Instead of complete and total chaos, I happily found dinner ingredients and other groceries scattered by the cutting board and a couple drying dishes in the sink.
“Yeah,” Sylvie wheezed. “We spent all day clearing up the lawn and then playing croquet in the backyard!” I could tell by her voice she’d caught a cold from the damp spring air, which sadly was the norm for her when the seasons changed.
“Dad won,” Mitch informed me, his brow wrinkled in serious concentration over whatever was in the bowl. I peered down to see the makings of homemade pizza crusts.
“Of course Dad won,” Alex verified to my back. “Dad is the all...time...croquet...champion!” he grunted and then held his hands above his head while doing a victory lap around the island.
“Mom usually kicks your butt,” Mitch reminded dryly, and I again marveled at how my baby became such an intelligent and funny boy.
“Only because I let her,” Alex insisted before pulling me in his arms. “Missed you,” he whispered against wisps of my hair.
I hugged him back, tightly, and said I missed him, too.
And I did. I missed it all–the space in his muscular arms, the smell of my kids, the sounds of the house. I missed it all. Despite being gone two days, it somehow felt like so many more.
“Who wants a Pineapple Express?” Alex cheerfully asked.
“Ewww. Dad, you know I only
want cheese on my pizza,” Sylvie howled in an exasperated tone.
“I do! And extra ham on mine, too,” Mitch chimed.
While the kids bickered over toppings, I left Alex to play referee so I could unpack and change clothes.
After each of us created our own pizza, Alex baked them on handcrafted stones–a birthday gift from the kids. Dinner was eaten on stools casually propped against the island while we caught up on the past few days. Before long, a great debate ensued over whether to play games or watch movies. Following a family vote, movies won.
Even in my place of comfort, an underlying discontent soon returned, and I devised a strategy to discreetly organize the rooms I feared were neglected in my absence.
