Seven
I GAVE SCHOOL an honest try. I really did. But that night, the same dreams returned and though I wasn’t ill from them, they were taking over me in a new way:
I couldn’t stop crying. I couldn’t stop groaning into my pillow from the pain of my wounds and the misery in my heart. I wanted to escape; I wanted everything to disappear. I never wanted anyone to see the truth, and the more time that passed, the more transparent I felt I was becoming. I knew I should tell someone. Maybe unloading this burden would have made it easier to process. I heard before that rape victims often felt ashamed, but I never comprehended how that could be possible until it happened to me.
I was so, so ashamed. And every day, I was lost in a mental prison that made me both numb and hypersensitive to everything I encountered. It took every ounce of my energy to even get out of bed to use the restroom, and showering drained me completely, but I wanted to do it all the time. Twice a day, if not more. Wake up, survive, sleep, repeat.
When Friday came, Mom finally insisted that I be examined at the hospital. “She’s not getting better,” she told one of my dad’s colleagues while I sat in a cotton gown on the cushioned table. “She was throwing up earlier this week, but we assumed she had a virus. She’s been really puny since.”
“Sometimes the body is still fighting off the virus even after the worst symptoms resolve themselves,” Dr. Fletcher explained, inserting a thermometer into my ear. “Any stomach cramps, diarrhea, chills, body aches . . . ?”
“No,” I murmured. How could I explain that a virus had nothing to do with it? How could I get out of this and leave them satisfied that it was nothing of concern?
“Mrs. O’Hara, may I speak to your daughter privately for a moment?”
Her eyes widened. “She’s seventeen. You can’t be serious. I have a right to know what’s going on here!”
He pulled her aside and spoke quietly. I couldn’t hear him, but I could see Mom’s face.
“Of course it’s nothing else!” she hissed. “She’s just sick.”
“Mrs. O’Hara, please . . .” his voice trailed off.
She looked at me and tilted her chin up indignantly as she left the room. He closed the door behind her and then faced me, his eyes softening. “May, I have a question.” He approached and then sat down on his stool before me. “Are you really feeling sick?”
I shook my head, confused. Did he not believe me? Did I need to come up with another lie? “Of course. Maybe it’s something else . . .”
“I believe it is,” he nodded. “Are you feeling depressed? Anxious? Are you having issues at school?”
I gulped, feeling as though I was underneath an enormous microscope. The only difference was that his face wasn’t distorted through the glass; instead he was caring and attentive. I felt my eyes flood. My lips trembled. I cursed myself for it. “People are just cruel,” I stammered. “At school, I mean. I don’t want to go back.”
He frowned sadly. I had known Dr. Fletcher since I was born, which was part of the reason I avoided this for an entire week. He had always been able to see the deeper issue, but it had never been something this deep before. “Are you being bullied?”
I almost scoffed. Bullied? What was this, elementary school? “Not really. It’s hard to explain. I don’t want to explain it. I just want out.”
“May,” he said, imploring me to focus on his warm, brown eyes. “Did something happen in particular?”
Anyone else would have crumbled. Hell, even I would have crumbled if I wasn’t so angry. I felt my blood beginning to simmer and soon it would boil over. I knew better than to confide in him. He was legally obligated to report the truth if I were to offer it. “Nothing happened. I just don’t want to be there anymore.”
He sighed, relenting as he scribbled something on his clipboard. “Do you feel anxious around big groups of people? Do you think that might be it?”
Anxious. Social Anxiety. Grace had issues with that, so it wouldn’t be hard to assume I could have it too. Hope filled me at the thought that perhaps I could finish my studies at home. “Yes, that’s it, I think.”
“I’m sorry,” he said compassionately. “Have you distanced yourself from anything you usually love doing? Any hobbies?”
“I haven’t painted in a while . . .” I admitted, not even realizing until then that my passion for it had fallen away. I had no desire to do it anymore. “I do still want to ride my horse though.”
“Horses are great therapy for a lot of different things. You have a relationship with your horse that is safe and comforting, because he can never judge you for your faults. I completely understand.”
I nodded, hanging my head to look at my hands in my lap.
“I’ll let your mom know I’m prescribing something for your anxiety. I need you to fill out this questionnaire for me, alright? It’ll give me a better idea of the proper treatment to prescribe.”
He handed me another clipboard with a form that had a long list of questions. At the top was a rating system. Within that list was a question that caused me to lock up for several minutes after his departure: Do you feel that you are a guilty person who deserves to be punished?
Was this all my fault?
I heard Dr. Fletcher speaking to my mom in the hallway outside. “I think she’s depressed,” he told her. “I’m not sure to what degree yet, but she’s taking a test now. I also think she’s struggling with social anxiety.”
“So what is the plan?” Mom asked after a moment of silence.
“When she’s finished with her test, I’ll know what direction to take. I recommend she try the medication for a couple weeks before you decide what might be better for her health.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean she might do better in a smaller group setting, or even studying on her own.”
I could hear my mother’s frustrated sigh, but in that sigh, I also heard acceptance.
Half an hour later, Mom was given a white slip with some scribbles on it and I was told to keep my chin up. The ride to the pharmacy and then to our home was awkward and confining. Mom asked me things like, “When did this start?” and “Why didn’t you say something?”
But my answer was simple and I only said it once: “I just wasn’t ready to admit I was feeling this way.”
Thankfully it satisfied her, but I could sense disappointment. I was her strong one. I was the one who never let anything get me down. I was the one who never needed help with my studies, and certainly never with keeping my path straight. But what she didn’t know was that all of that was just a mirror image of her: appearances to keep things tightly knit together. I had always secretly felt out of control. But at least I had always had the open sky to correct my course when the wind became too strong.
Now I didn’t know where I belonged.
Now
ELIJAH PULLS ME into his chest, both of us breathless. My body hums with relief; my heart thrashes wildly. I smile as I rest my face in the crook of his neck, feeling his pulse pounding under my hand and against my lips when I kiss him there. “I love you,” I whisper, feeling his arms tighten around me.
“I love you,” he responds, catching his breath. He turns onto his side so that my head is on his bicep, and he stares at me with eyes the color of a stormy ocean. His hand rests on my cheek as he places a lingering kiss on my lips. “How are you feeling?”
“Spent,” I laugh, but I know that’s not what he means. The serious look in his eyes affirms that. I lay my hand over his. “I’m alright. I have you and Addison. You both helped me get through this week.”
He kisses my forehead, trailing the backs of his fingers down my arm. “As always, anything you need . . . I’m here.”
“I know,” I smile, glancing to where my red scarf lays on the dresser on the other side of the room. But I can’t think of that now. All I want to think about is the man in my arms and the sleeping infant in the next room of this little bed and breakfast as the waves crash outside.
I SQUEEZED THE REMAINING water out of my hair with a towel as I stood naked before my bedroom’s floor-length mirror. I examined a few bruises on my legs and one on my shoulder from where Tyler pinned me down with his elbow. They were yellow and purple and seemed to be fading. I touched them lightly and saw in my mind’s eye the entire thing from start to finish, thankful that this time I didn’t fall apart.
But nightmares followed me to bed that night just like before. Only this time, I didn’t wake up from them. They plagued me from the moment I fell asleep until a sound outside jolted me back to life.
I lunged upright in bed, heaving for breath. Sweat trickled down my face and neck. The room was too dark; it was suffocating me. I reached for my lamp but it wouldn’t turn on, so I darted across the room to flip on the light. The power was out. The tree outside crashed against my window with a gust of angry wind. I raked air into my lungs, pressing my back against the wall as I sank to my knees. I couldn’t even remember what I had dreamt. I only knew what I felt.
My body shook with each sob, my bare legs hugged tightly to my chest. This all just needed to end. I felt like I was losing my sanity more with each passing hour.
“May?” Mom called through my door. “I brought you a lantern.”
I got to my feet and reached for the door to open it. She stood on the other side with two lanterns in hand, their light making the space between us glow. I took one of them and cursed my shaking hand.
“Are you alright?” she asked. “It’s just a storm.”
“I’m fine,” I lied. “It just scared me is all.”
“It was certainly a rude awakening. Your father and Grace are on the couch downstairs. Do you want to join us?”
Tears unexpectedly flooded my eyes again and I stepped forward, clinging to my mom in a way I hadn’t done since I was a child. She stiffly patted my back. “You really were scared, weren’t you?” she soothed in the best manner she knew how.
If only you knew. “Yes.” I shook as I pulled away. She put her arm around me and guided me downstairs and into the living room where Dad and Grace were sitting together under a blanket.
“There’s my other girl,” Dad grinned. “Come here, Dewdrop.”
Dad’s nickname for me always brought back memories of when he would lie with me on the couch to watch cartoons on Saturday mornings when I was little. He only used it rarely now.
I sat down on the other side of him and he put the blanket over my lap. Mom went to the fireplace and turned the dial a bit to help the flames grow. She then sat on the other side of our sectional, using her own blanket to cover herself up.
“Do you girls remember the storm that blew through about five years ago? I was actually concerned for our house with that one,” Dad recalled. “I watched the news last night. This one just sounds mean, but it’s really not so bad.”
“I just hope the roof is still intact when it passes,” Mom sighed.
I rested my head on Dad’s shoulder and let out a long breath. The flames danced when the wind blasted down the chimney again. Something about this moment was comforting; I couldn’t remember the last time our whole family had sat together in the same room for more than thirty minutes at dinnertime, let alone under blankets on the couch. I closed my eyes and listened to the rain.
“Who wants to play Monopoly?” Dad suggested.
I opened my eyes in time to see Mom roll hers. Board games. I didn’t think I could ever think of them the same way again. I lifted my head and looked at Dad. I could see in his eyes he was actually excited about the idea.
“I’ll play,” I said softly, but not for me. For him.
And until sunrise, that is precisely what we did.
Eight
I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING, realizing that for the first time I actually felt like going to the stable. I found that Dad had already left with Grace, so I took my own car. I welcomed the time alone anyway. At least I didn’t feel like crying anymore.
My phone dinged as I was rolling up to a stop light. A text from Danika flashed on the screen.
Danika: Are you still mad at me?
I locked my phone and tossed it into my purse where I wouldn’t see it again. When it continued to alert me of incoming messages, I turned up the radio to drown it out. I looked around the green forest canopying the winding road. Facets of sunlight broke through now and then and glistened in the misty air like floating diamonds. But I couldn’t even appreciate the beauty of this familiar road like I so often did, because in my mind’s eye, I was seeing something else entirely.
I still didn’t know what to do. I was scared to tell anybody; not because I feared that Tyler would threaten my life, but because for some strange reason, I still felt like I was at least somewhat at fault. Maybe I didn’t fight hard enough. Maybe that wasn’t Tyler at all, and the drugs had their way with him. But I recalled the way he looked at me for a fraction of a second when I told him that his life couldn’t have been all that bad. For some reason, that look haunted me almost as much as the rest of it.
And would anyone even believe me? Would anyone take the dumb girl from the party’s word over his? Tyler had more love from a wider array of people than me. Everybody knew his name. He was always praised for his academics and beloved by most groups at our school. Hardly anyone could pick me out in a crowd if asked to.
Time. That was what I needed. I just needed to make sense of this; to put the pieces together.
Was it normal to be this ashamed of myself? Was it normal not to be seething with hatred for him? It wasn’t as though we had a friendship prior, or any semblance of one, but for some reason, I didn’t hate him for what he did.
Or maybe I just didn’t hate him yet.
* * *
GRACE WAS POSTING in the saddle as her horse trotted around the arena with perfect form. I watched her as I parked my car in the designated spot for the stable’s boarders, noticing that Dad was standing in the middle and videotaping her on his phone with his own horse’s reins in hand. Grace smiled at me when she passed by the rail again. Honestly? I think she only ever smiled when she was on a horse.
I walked around to the other side of my car and opened the door to retrieve my boots, slipping out of my sneakers to put them on. After tucking my jeans inside of them, I made my way into the barn.
The smell soothed me. I went to the rack of halters and picked up the one that said Cash across the leather-covered noseband, and slung it over my shoulder as I approached my horse’s stall. He was nose-deep in his grain bucket. “Morning,” I smirked, lifting the latch on his door. It slid open with ease and I stepped inside. He raised his head and watched me with enormous brown eyes, his jaws still working to chew his mouthful.
His black coat was glossy and clean, aside from a dusting of wood shavings on his back from rolling in his stall. And even though he didn’t really need it, I planned on giving him a bath. “Let’s go,” I said, slipping the halter over his face. I led him into the breezeway, his shoes clip-clopping across the cement as we headed to the wash rack outside. After looping his rope around the metal piping, I went inside to get the necessary supplies.
Shampoo. Conditioner. Coat polisher. Hoof polish. Rubber bands. Brushes. I put all of it into a bucket and ventured back outside, seeing my dad riding toward me.
“Not going to ride?” he asked.
“Not today,” I answered, setting the bucket down. Cash was half asleep as he waited for me. “Just wanted to groom him.”
“He’s already clean,” he chuckled. The sun glinted off his glossy boots and spurs; his pristine saddle and bridle. “Come on. Grace would love to ride with you.”
“I know, but I would rather just relax this time.”
“Alright,” he said, shaking his head as he rode past me into the barn.
I watched him disappear from view and exhaled a slow breath while I turned the water on. The hose expanded all the way to the end, stopped by the spray nozzle attached there. I picked it up and turn
ed the dial, squeezing the lever to release a strong mist. I started with Cash’s feet and his eyes opened, but he didn’t fidget.
“Feel good?” I sighed, working upward toward his legs and then his body. I sprayed over his rump and back, moving up to his neck, saturating his long, wavy mane, and did the same on the other side. A flash of light reflected on a windshield as another car pulled into the lot. I didn’t recognize it. A man emerged sporting a baseball cap, faded jeans, and a blue t-shirt. He jogged toward the barn and nodded to me in passing, saying, “Good morning!”
A new boarder, perhaps? He couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, but I didn’t see his face all that well. “Morning,” I acknowledged, even though he was already inside the barn. I laid the hose down and squirted a line of shampoo down Cash’s back, all the way from his ears to his tail. Then I picked up a rubber curry and started to lather him in small circles.
The same man emerged on the bare back of a tall, chestnut-colored horse, using only a halter and lead rope. He rode toward me and stopped, observing what I was doing. “My horse has been here for a while, but I haven’t been able to come here often,” he said. “I’m Alex.”
I looked up at him, shielding my eyes from the sun with my dripping forearm. He looked younger than twenty-five. Maybe twenty. His eyes matched his shirt; bright blue, like a tropical ocean. They sparkled warmly. “May,” I said quietly. I didn’t really feel like talking. “Are you from around here?”
“Portland, actually. I just moved to Newport.”
I squinted, but not from the sun. My little hometown was beautiful and appealing, but it didn’t have nearly as much to offer as the big city. “What’s in Newport that isn’t in Portland?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound rude.
“My family’s bookstore,” he explained politely. “My grandfather recently passed and I inherited it.” He leaned down a bit as if he were going to confide in me. “Though, to be honest, I have no idea where to even begin. I was in school to study music.”
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