by Ford, Lizzy
“You set me up,” I accuse him at last. “I should say, you set me up again.”
Dom is quiet. I face him, shaking. He moves to stand beside me, leaning his hip against the railing, his arms crossed and gaze somewhere beyond the balcony.
“I did,” he admits.
“You said you’d be straight with me.”
“Well, Mia, you backed out,” he replies. “I’m stuck. I’ve got a job to do. You said you’d talk then changed your mind.”
His words crush me. I know he’s right. I hate how weak I am.
“They’ve hurt eight girls. The one in the hospital might not make it. Maybe that doesn’t matter to you, but it does to me.”
“How could you say that, Dom!” Fury replaces my fear. “You really think I don’t think about her all day long? I haven’t stopped praying for her since I found out what happened.”
“Praying isn’t gonna put the people who did this to her or you in jail.” Dom’s voice is much calmer than my own, but I can hear his frustration.
I push myself away from the railing and start towards the doors. I’m no better than Robert Connor – both of us destroyed the life of Number Eight. I pause to face Dom. “The next time you want to talk to me, go through my lawyer.”
“Mia …” Dom catches my arm and moves to face me. He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mia. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, you’re not. You said yourself you’re doing your job!” I meet his gaze defiantly.
There’s compassion in his dark eyes, and I remember too well he’s doing this because he doesn’t want anyone else to get hurt. Because he’s a better person than I am. My anger disappears as he holds my gaze, replaced by the sorrow of knowing I just can’t do it.
His touch on my arm is warm and light. This moment is more real than anything else I’ve been through this summer. A few minutes in silence, and I’m calm again. I don’t know how he affects me like he does. We’re standing so close, Dom’s body heat is all that keeps me from shivering.
“They know now you can identify him.” His voice is soft. “They’re gonna force you to come in.”
“Talk to my lawyer, Dom,” I reply with effort.
“You really want that? For me to talk to your lawyer instead of you?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
“I heard you. But is that what you really want?”
I’m not sure how he sees through me, and I definitely don’t know what to do about it. Just when I think I’ve made up my mind, I plunge into uncertainty again. I want so bad to walk away from him, for him to deal with Chris and never talk to me again. Dealing with Dom is too confusing. He makes me feel safe – and guilty. I wasn’t ready to give him up in the interview room; I’m still not ready. I hate myself for admiring him, for caring what he thinks about me.
“You don’t understand,” I manage.
“I’m listening.”
I don’t know what to say. How do I tell him I’m a coward? He knows by now. Why he doesn’t blame me for Number Eight is beyond me.
“You faced him, Mia,” Dom says when I’m silent. “You didn’t run away. He did.”
“I doubt that’s why you brought him here- to show me he’d run.”
“We set you up. But that doesn’t take away from the fact that you faced the man who raped you,” he replies. “You’re stronger than you think.”
I wipe my cheeks free of tears. His words make me nauseous. He’s like Ari; he believes in me. They should know better by now. I hate that I have to convince him I am the fuck-up my family believes me to be. I have to choose a side, and I’m too cowardly to pick the one he and Ari want me to.
“Talk to me.” Dom’s voice is softer.
“I can’t trust you,” I reply in a hoarse voice. “I can’t. I’ve been used or ignored or hushed up or hidden away my whole life because I’m not the person everyone else wants me to be. Like my daddy, like my mother, like my siblings - you wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t benefit your career somehow. You’re no different than they are, Dom. That hurts so much, because I want to trust you.”
“Mia –”
“And you’re completely wrong. I’m not strong. I’m a coward. I can’t do what you want me to, so stop trying to make me.” Shaking, I force myself to move away from his soothing touch and presence. “If you want me to go to court, talk to my lawyer. If you want to talk to me, even knowing I’m a fucking coward, you have my number.”
As I leave the balcony, I know I’ll never see or hear from him again. I may have seen Robert Connor tonight, but it’s admitting the truth to Dom that leaves me so upset, I’m sick. I don’t know where I’m going.
I find my way to the ladies room and throw up. Somehow, I manage not to get anything on my dress. I clean up and stare at myself in the mirror, not recognizing the pretty woman in the pretty dress with the eyes that look so sad.
I keep hoping this summer all goes away. Staring at my reflection, I can’t help finally admitting Dr. Thompkins is right about something. There is no reset button. There’s no happy ending. I won’t just wake up and be better one day. There’s no painkiller that can take away this kind of pain. I’m not even sure what hurts. It’s not physical. It’s … memories. Truth. Helplessness. Facing myself in the mirror of the women’s restroom and wishing I’d died the night I got raped.
But I didn’t die. I don’t understand why not.
With a deep breath, I decide to pretend like I’m Molly for the night. I can make it through a few more hours then go to my closet. At least there, I’ve got some peace.
I leave the bathroom and wander until I eventually find Daddy. I can’t bring myself to mingle, so I become his shadow and shake the hands of those he tells me to.
The rest of the night passes fast. I manage not to embarrass him when he introduces me to a bunch of men in suits. I wonder if this is what it’s like to be Molly, if she’s numb all the time, too. I don’t know how she can live like this. As the night progresses, I realize how right she is. I’m not cut out for this type of life.
I don’t see Robert or Dom again, and I ignore the DA when our paths cross. I listen to Daddy give a speech and stand beside him like the decoration I am. He talks about me and how he owes a debt of gratitude to those who saved me. He says a lot of pretty things; he always does.
Not to me, of course. I’m like the couch in the formal living area, not worthy of more than an occasional glance to make sure it’s still there.
We do an official photo shoot with the highest ranking members of the police departments, state and federal law enforcement officials and some politicians. I barely register the flashing cameras. I can’t be here mentally, because I know I’ll freak out.
So I stay numb until I get into the car to leave just before midnight. Then, I curl up in the backseat and sob. This time, it’s Fabio who carries me out of the car to my room. He leaves me on the bed. I stagger into my closet, turn on the light, and cry myself to sleep.
Chapter Four
The next morning, I show up on time for my service in the women’s center. I go straight to my cubical and start typing. It’s the Friday before school starts. I’m exhausted. My dreams were more vivid than before last night, and I keep going over the conversation with Dom.
It hurts so badly. I don’t know why.
I zone out as I type forms into the computer. The first break I take at work, I Google the latest rape victim. I’m hoping she gets better. Maybe she can identify the people who hurt us, so I don’t have to. Thinking such a thought makes me feel guiltier than I already do. There’s no update to her status this morning in the papers. Palms sweaty, I search for Robert Connor again. I thought he was supposed to be gone already, and I’m praying he didn’t change his mind and decide to stay in town.
He didn’t. I reread an article I saw the other day. He’s in and out of town until this weekend, when the season starts. I’m not sure how I missed that before. My phone vibrates in my palm.
Ar
e you ignoring me? Ari’s texted a dozen times already.
Finally, I answer her and tell her I’m at my community service. She sends me links to articles about the police ball. I open one and gaze at the official picture. Me and Daddy, a bunch of men in suits, and a few high ranking police officers.
I’m gazing at the camera, not smiling. My gaze is haunted, but I look beautiful. I have my mother’s firm chin, small nose and chiseled cheekbones. My skin isn’t porcelain like Molly’s, and I’m not perfectly slender like she is. I have golden skin and an hourglass shape, and it makes my blue eyes stand out. I don’t have Molly’s prissy beauty; I have Mom’s earthy beauty. When did I turn into that? I look like the blonde version of my beautiful mother.
You look awwwwwwwwesome! Ari texts.
I smile. I do look good. I also look … sad, like I’ve lost something I can’t replace.
“Mia, are you staying for the one o’clock?” Gianna calls as she passes through the office area.
“Yeah,” I say grudgingly.
“Great!” She smiles and continues towards the medical area.
I text Ari for a bit, do some more forms, then prepare myself for the one o’clock group counseling session. Dr. Thompkins will be waiting for me when I get home. I almost don’t want to go to this group thing, but I want to ask the other girls something I can’t ask anyone else.
It starts as awkwardly as before. We go around the room to reintroduce ourselves and add anything to our goals. Gianna reminds us of the question she asked last week about where we want to be in one to two years. I raise my hand.
“Yes, Mia?”
“Can I ask something kind of off the topic?”
“Sure.”
I shift in my chair as everyone looks at me. “I, um, just wanted to know if, um, anyone here went to the police or court or whatever about who … raped you.”
Gianna smiles in encouragement. The other girls are quiet. They glance around the room before one speaks.
“I didn’t.”
Another says, “I did. I went to court.” She looks down at her feet.
“How many of you went to the police?” Gianna asks. “If you feel comfortable sharing, just raise your hand.”
Six girls raise their hands.
“How many went to court?”
Three hands stay up. I want so bad to interrogate them about it. A silence falls, and I feel like crying again.
“It was bad,” one starts hesitantly. “I had to tell everyone what happened. In front of him. He was my older brother’s friend. My brother thought I was lying. Everyone thought I was lying, until we got to court.”
“What happened?” I whisper.
“He went to jail. The trial took weeks, though. I’m not sure I could do it again.”
“But he went to jail?”
“Yeah.” The girl gives a small smile. “I was a minor at the time. He got ten years.”
“Ten years?” I echo, surprised.
“Mine didn’t go that well,” another girl speaks up. “I didn’t report it and there was no rape kit. He got off.”
I look at the third girl, waiting for her to share. She looks uncomfortable, but finally speaks up.
“I reported it and had a rape kit. But he had a good lawyer. I was drinking. We were both minors. The jury found him not guilty because his lawyer did a good job of making me look like a whore.”
I’m not encouraged by what I’m hearing. In fact, I’m terrified.
“It doesn’t sound like it’s worth it,” I say as it goes quiet. I look at Gianna, willing her to tell me differently.
“I wish I’d done it,” another girl speaks up. “I would’ve taken that chance that it’d go badly. I mean, once he’s accused, it’s on his criminal record, isn’t it? So he wouldn’t have raped my cousin, too. It’s like, I just wanted to forget it happened and it’d go away.”
I’m surprised she’s thinking about it the same way I am.
“I think it’s important to focus on yourself first,” Gianna says slowly. “The decision should be one you can live with for the rest of your lives. My father was a police officer, and so are my brothers. My first inclination is to tell you to always report it, because I come from a law enforcement family. My family would support me if something happened. But I also know this is not the case for everyone. Even if you have your family’s support, the journey to trial and beyond is an emotional one that you must do alone. Everyone copes with trauma differently. If you don’t have a family to support you, then I think you should seek out someone who can help you move forward.”
“But shouldn’t it matter if not reporting leads to someone else being hurt?” I ask. “I mean, it’s my fault.”
“First, let me be clear. You are never responsible for the actions of someone who commits a criminal act such as rape. Your rape is not your fault. If he rapes someone else, it’s not your fault. He alone is responsible for his crime.” Gianna’s voice is firm. “Second, even if you do report the crime and intend to go to court, there’s no guarantee the criminal won’t do it again. Third, you must always look inward and decide for yourself what the best path is for you.”
“But it’s not right, letting someone else get hurt,” the second girl who talked about her trip to court says. “Even though he got off, at least I did it. I faced him in court, and I told the world what he did. I don’t know if it’ll help anyone else, but it might.”
“After I was called a whore by the system, I thought I’d be better off dead,” the third girl says. “They still think I’m a whore, but he did it again, and now he’s in jail. I wish I hadn’t gone to court, but I’m also glad someone else got him.”
“Let’s talk about ways to alleviate the stress of stepping forward,” Gianna says. “Anyone?”
“Um, my mom went with me to court every day.”
“The judge sent me to counseling.”
“The police were nice, and my lawyer told me up front it was going to be rough.”
“Ok, great,” Gianna says. “So having someone who supported you, having someone to talk to about it, and knowing as much as you could about the process. These are all excellent points. The process will never be easy, but there are ways to prepare yourselves.”
I agree and take mental notes. I can’t fathom experiences like these girls have had. I was drinking, and I was raped by someone with political connections as good as mine. His team of lawyers would be equal to Chris’s. It would be a circus.
I have every reason to walk away and one reason not to: my conscience. I don’t know what choice I can live with for the rest of my life. I’m not even sure what I’ll wear tomorrow.
The conversation turns to our futures. I half-listen, tormented again by my thoughts. The session is over soon, and I return home to find Dr. Thompkins waiting for me.
The back-to-back counseling sessions are brutal. I don’t tell Dr. Thompkins about seeing Robert Connor; it’s not a topic I can handle today. I talk to him about my group session and how discouraged it makes me to know there are so many girls who are hurt like I was.
When I return to my room, I call Daddy’s financial manager, who manages all the family’s funds. I ask him to increase my donation to the charity that helps fund women’s centers in DC. I really can’t think of any other way to help the girls in my session. They seem as lost as I am, but I can at least try to help the centers hire more people like Gianna to help us.
It’s Friday. Mom calls to say she’ll really, really be home in two days, and Molly reminds me about brunch the next morning. Ari’s going out of town for the last weekend before school. Reminded of the start of my senior year, I occupy myself by trying on my school uniforms.
The house is quiet. I leave my room and roam around. Chris and Joseph are in the study. Daddy must be pleased with my performance the night before, because Shea doesn’t hunt me down to criticize me.
With Ari on a plane to Colorado, there’s no one to talk to. I keep checking my phone, telling myself it’s Ar
i I want to hear from. But it’s not. I’m waiting to hear from Dom. By the time I go to bed, I realize I got what I wanted. I convinced him I’m the fuck up my family thinks I am.
I hurt again, and I’m too nervous about tomorrow to sleep.
I tell Molly my decision about the abortion at brunch. She studies me for a moment, then says,
“Okay. I’ll arrange it. By the way, Mia, if you plan on attending my wedding, you need to learn to eat properly.”
Surprised, I look up at Molly’s words. “You’re inviting me?”
“You are my sister.”
I try not to smile, even more surprised she’s stopped calling me her half-sister. We’re seated in our corner of the Victorian house that hosts a Saturday brunch. The table is covered with delicate china and a slew of silverware I ignore. She’s never been happy about my eating habits. I use a fork for everything, even to spread butter on flaky croissants.
“You’ll be one of my bridesmaids,” Molly adds. “The maid-of-honor is Emmitt’s sister. You’ll be second in the bridal line.”
“Wow. Okay,” I say. “I don’t even know when you’re getting married.”
“Really, Mia?” Molly raises an eyebrow in delicate offense.
I raise mine, mocking her. I’ve always found her uber-proper expressions funny.
“It’s in December. You have an appointment here to be fitted for your dress.” She removes a crisp appointment card from her purse and hands it to me. It’s for next Saturday.
“Thanks,” I say. I want to ask if I can bring Ari to the wedding, but suspect the answer ahead of time.
“Now, onto business.”
I look up at Molly’s quieter tone.
“Didn’t I tell you to refuse all engagements Daddy tries to drag you to?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“You looked good. But don’t do it again, if you want any hope of making the world forget about you.”
“I won’t,” I mumble. I definitely learned that lesson.
