Unleaving

by Melissa Ostrom

  Linnie slouched against the door. Her smile was sweet. If she was drunk and high, she hid it well. “Thanks for getting me.”

  Maggie barely nodded. She was pissed.

  Linnie swept a knuckle against the fog blooming on the window. In a musing way, she murmured, “Don’t know why I went to Jimmy’s in the first place. He’s an idiot, and so are his friends. Everyone got plastered, then someone broke a window. I took off. Kind of thought I’d be hanging out at Caleb’s for the night. I’m glad I didn’t have to do that. Caleb’s cool, but…” She drew a circle on the window. “I’ve asked him for favors before. I hated to ask him for another.”

  Maggie flicked on the defroster. Warmth sprang into her eyes and grazed her forehead. She adjusted the air to a cooler temperature. She was hot enough.

  Linnie dragged herself upright, raised a limp hand. “Don’t head down Redman. Kyle lives a bit farther off the Ridge.” The hand fell to her lap. “His car was impounded.” Her mouth curled. “Hopefully, Kyle wasn’t, too.”

  Maggie shook her head.

  “What?”

  She managed a tight shrug.

  Linnie turned to gaze out the passenger window. She folded her hands against her stomach.

  They drove in silence for a while. Streetlights swept into the truck, a silvered caress over Linnie’s fair hair, a stroke down her arm. Maggie wrapped her fingers more tightly around the steering wheel and tried to concentrate on the empty black road, but she kept thinking about where she’d found Linnie in the basement, lounging between two guys in a half-finished room, doing shots and laughing, the door closed, not a single other girl present.

  How little Linnie cared for her safety. How little she seemed to care for Sam and Kate and Thomas and Wren, the people who loved her, who wanted to help her. How freely she dumped on other people.

  “You don’t take good care of yourself.” She pressed her lips together, surprised she’d said that aloud.

  Linnie didn’t respond immediately. When she did, her tone had lost its lightness. “I take care of myself just how I want to.”

  “Hanging out wherever, getting trashed with whoever.” Frustration edged Maggie’s exhalation, revved it to a growl. “You make yourself vulnerable. You could get hurt.”

  Linnie laughed once. “You could get hurt, you could get molested, you could get raped.” She clucked. To her window, she continued softly, “Passive voice, Mrs. Michaels called it. It’s a problem. Don’t you hear how it’s a problem, Margaret? You, of all people? Dropping the subject? Erasing the perpetrator? Acting like it’s up to you to be on your toes, practicing the buddy system, looking over your shoulder, mastering kung fu in your free time, dressing right, smiling”—she thrust out a warning hand—“but not too much, having fun”—she held out the other hand, doubling the halt—“but not too much, and running your mixed drinks to the lab to have them tested for drug contamination. One false move, and boom, you get nailed”—she shook her head—“but by whom? Fucking passive voice. Somebody’s doing this shit.”

  Maggie pressed two fingers to her temple. “That’s just how it is.” Not fair. But true.

  “Well, I’m sick of it. It’s creepy, acting like a girl drinking too much is setting herself up to be raped. What does that have to do with anything? Maybe she shouldn’t drink so much because booze is bad for her. Maybe she shouldn’t drink so much because she could get addicted.” She tapped the window with a knuckle, then admitted quietly, “Maybe she shouldn’t drink so much because drinking’s a stupid way to escape what’s wrong with her life.” She gave her head another shake and sat up, rallying. “But to say, ‘Don’t drink too much, or you’ll get raped’? She doesn’t get raped because she overindulged or underdressed or forgot to bring along a bodyguard. She gets raped because some asshole raped her.”

  Maggie licked her lips. They were dry. Linnie wasn’t saying anything she hadn’t thought about a thousand times before. But it was disconcerting, hearing someone else speak her thoughts. No, not just that. Also hearing someone talk openly about … rape.

  I know something similar happened to you, I know something similar happened to you, I know something similar happened to you. Rape was the something-similar-that-happened-to-you. Unutterable. Taboo. Secrecy hid rape, and it wasn’t right, just as it wasn’t right that people didn’t mention the aggressor when they talked about sexual assault. So, yeah, Maggie understood what Linnie was saying. And Maggie understood that her own silence and shame were problematic. She hadn’t earned the shame. She didn’t deserve it. It was the reaction that played into the hands of people who wanted to spread the blame around, who wanted to know what the victim wore and how much she drank. It made her angry with herself—ashamed of her shame. She thought about this and swallowed a perverse impulse to laugh. Oh God, too many layers of shame.

  “… sexist bullshit,” Linnie was saying. “I wouldn’t warn Sam, ‘Button up your shirt, buddy, and stop pounding the shots, before you get raped.’” She harrumphed, crossed her arms, and fell silent.

  Maggie braked at the Redman and Ridge intersection and struggled to organize her chaotic thoughts. When the light changed, she stepped hard on the gas. After a moment, she felt calmer, more clearheaded. “It’s not like I disagree,” she said quietly. “I don’t at all. But hating the double standard doesn’t make it disappear.”

  “Ha.” Linnie sagged and closed her eyes. She looked abruptly deflated. Defeated. “You’ll never make it disappear,” she said. “The world has stupid rules.”

  “We need to change them.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Well, I want to change them.” She did. Or at least, she had. Coming forward last spring was proof of that.

  Linnie grunted a laugh.

  Maggie frowned. “Anyway, ignoring reality isn’t a smart way to go about changing it. You shouldn’t ignore it, either. Someone could have hurt you tonight.”

  Linnie opened her eyes. “At Caleb’s? Not at Caleb’s. Those guys are decent.”

  Maggie gave her a skeptical glance. “You sure about that?”

  “I refuse to believe every guy is just waiting for a chance to pounce. That’s a myth, too.”

  A myth. But then, Maggie had never expected Matt Dawson to do what he had done.

  “Your head’s stuck in Carlton.”

  She flared her hands against the wheel. What Linnie said was true. That didn’t mean Maggie liked hearing it.

  “Those guys are friends. And that was hardly some frat party. They served a unicorn cake.” She smiled a little. “I mean, come on. A unicorn.”

  Still. “You should…” Act more responsible. “Be careful. What happened to me could happen to you.”

  “It wouldn’t.”

  “It could.”

  “No, Maggie. It really couldn’t.” She drew up her knees and hugged them to her chest. “I’m not you. I spent the second half of my childhood in foster homes, the first half with a really bad mom and a really mean dad. You don’t think I know how you feel? The difference is how your story unfolds. You’re a familiar character, the protagonist we can all pity and like. You were drinking but not drunk. You fought and left marks. You had sufficient medical proof. And no history of partying or reckless behavior. I bet you didn’t sleep around.” She searched Maggie’s face. Her mouth quirked. “See? A good student, a good girl, a hometown girl. Check, check, check. And afterward, so obviously hurt, so outraged.” She shrugged. “I’m not trying to minimize what happened. It was terrible. And it’s awesome how you tackled it head-on. But for a lot of girls, it’s not like that. It wasn’t for me. A bipolar dropout with an ugly history, an addiction or two, and a record, for good measure? I don’t qualify for justice. You, though…” She breathed a thin laugh. “Shy of those assholes jumping out from behind bushes and wearing ski masks, you painted a convincing picture, a classic picture. Nearly a dictionary example.”

  The steering wheel was slick under her hands. “Not for everyone.”

  �
��The cops, you mean?”

  “And others. People convinced the whole thing was a lie. Maybe a misunderstanding.”

  “Or an accident. ‘Whoops. Didn’t mean to put that there.’” She shook her head, disgusted. “Well, at least the college handled it.” She sighed. After a lull: “No one ever handled anything for me.”

  Not true. Every single day Maggie saw people handling Linnie’s problems. “Sam tries.”

  “Sam wishes I were someone I’m not, someone like his mom. He wants to save me.”

  “What do you expect when you call him for help?”

  She conceded with a throaty sound. “But for the record, I only called him after trying Ashlyn, Jess, and Allie.”

  “He thinks you want him to save you—that you’re testing him, putting yourself in dangerous situations, then waiting to see if he’ll rescue you.”

  She smiled. “My whole life is dangerous.”

  “You upset him. That upset Kate.”

  Linnie looked away sharply. “I’m sorry about that, but why did he get worked up with Kate standing right there? He could have taken my call in a separate room. He could have just said, ‘Not available. Got to go,’ and hung up instead of lecturing me. I didn’t ask him to rail in front of Kate. He should have known better.”

  He should have. Maggie had listened to his side of the conversation and thought the same. But why was Sam stuck parenting Kate alone? If there was ever a kid who could use two parents, it was Kate. That little kid could use, like, a dozen parents. “I don’t get how you can criticize Sam’s parenting. At least he’s…”

  “Parenting?”

  “All I’m saying is, there’s such a thing as personal responsibility. Why don’t you—”

  “Go get a job? Pursue a career? With my nonexistent college diploma? With my nonexistent high school diploma? With my nonexistent car and money? With the nonexistent support of a nonexistent family?”

  “Now who’s the dictionary example? I’d look for you under E for excuses. You have support. If you don’t want it from Sam, you could get it from his dad or even my aunt. Why don’t you see a therapist?”

  “Please. Their drugs aren’t any different from mine.” She made a face. “And look who’s talking. Why don’t you?”

  “I’m trying to…” What was she trying to do? Hide? Disappear? Erase what had happened? Erase herself? She cleared her throat. “I’m trying to get better on my own.”

  “And how’s that working out for you?”

  Maggie bristled. “At least I’m trying. You don’t look like you’re trying.” Don’t you want to be a better person? Don’t you want to get your GED, find a job, fight your addictions, whatever they are, and overcome your past? Don’t you want to be a good parent, instead of a crappy one like your own apparently were? Don’t you care about your daughter, how you’re scaring and neglecting her? Maggie struggled to contain these questions, all of them judgments. Linnie wasn’t easy to like. But she wasn’t easy to hate, either. And Linnie was dealing with years of troubles, probably with the kinds of abuse Maggie couldn’t even begin to fathom. What right did she have to judge? She finally just asked, “Don’t you want to get a life?”

  “That’s it. That is it precisely.” Linnie fell back against the seat and closed her eyes again. “I’m not sure.”

  10

  THE NEXT MORNING, when Wren asked what happened the previous night, Maggie just said, “Linnie was stranded. I tracked her down and gave her a lift to her boyfriend’s.” She didn’t want to get into her conversation with Linnie. And she really didn’t want to discuss her near-breakdown.

  “That girl…” Wren picked up her coffee cup. “She’s heading straight for disaster.”

  “Yeah, well, I think that’s her plan.”

  “Oh, man, I could tell you some Linnie stories. Like when she got pregnant … it couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”

  “She was a junior in high school, right?” Maggie winced at the thought. Weird that Linnie was only a few years older than her.

  “Not only that. Muriel—Sam’s mom—had just died.” The aunt set her mug on the table, arranged it, as if she were positioning it for a photograph. “Linnie was in rough shape.” She smiled grimly. “Rougher than usual. Drugs, depression, alcohol, cutting. In no position to become a mother. And she knew it. But Sam—he cried and begged…” She shrugged. “Thomas sided with Sam. He didn’t come right out and admit it, but it was pretty obvious, the way he was offering tons of support to help them raise the child.”

  Wren sat up and took a sip of her coffee before continuing, “Linnie pulled her shit together as well as she could during the pregnancy, then fell apart again afterward.” She heaved a sigh. “So they kept Kate. And we all love her, including Linnie.” The aunt must have seen some doubt in Maggie’s face, because she said curtly, “I’m telling you, Margaret, Linnie loves that little girl. Taking off is just her messed-up way of protecting her kid, shielding Kate from herself, from the sight of her problems.” She ran her hands over the surface of the table. “I’m not dredging up this drama to gossip. And I’m not giving Linnie a free pass. But I—I guess I want you to understand her a bit better. It’s not like she dropped the ball after Kate was born. The ball was already dropped. Sam and Thomas knew this, but they bullied and guilted her into doing what they wanted. I get that they were grieving and hurting and missing Muriel. I get that. But still. What they did … frankly, it pisses me off.”

  * * *

  The end of October passed quietly, the days drifting by like the leaves sashaying to the ground, silent and slow.

  Even Maggie’s brain—usually so quick to find triggers that could hurl her back to last spring—gave her a freaking break. If there were Linnie crises or Kate tantrums, Maggie didn’t hear about them. In fact, she didn’t hear much of anything from anyone. One Sunday morning, without coming right out and disinviting Maggie from the studio, the aunt made it clear she needed her workplace to herself. “Hope you’re okay with pizza and subs this week. And you’ll probably be eating them by yourself. I have got to finish my last piece. The show’s in the beginning of December.” She looked harried and gloomy but pinned on a weak smile to tease, “We’ll get you in the studio for your next therapy session as soon as I wrap up the firings.”

  So Maggie was on her own. She read. She cleaned. She walked along the beach. She poked around the strip of woods and stood for a long time staring at a single oak in a stand of maples, wondering why the tree kept its copper leaves. And for some reason—maybe because of the episode at the party, which, however scary, she’d managed to survive, or maybe because of Linnie, who lingered in Maggie’s thoughts (sometimes like a sad cautionary tale and sometimes like a frank feminist)—by Friday night, she felt steady enough to tackle the Jane Cannon situation.

  It’d been days since she even picked up her phone. In the loft, she checked her missed calls first. Almost all of them were from her parents. Maggie grimaced, remembering her most recent conversation with her mother. “It doesn’t make sense that I can only reach you on Wren’s landline, Mags,” her mom had said. “You do have a cell, you know.” Maggie had mumbled something about forgetting to turn it on, an excuse Mom had rejected with a sigh.

  Maggie checked her texts to procrastinate a little longer. She had only a few of those. Mail, however: a ton. Feeling shaky but determined, she began to work her way through the emails, not opening them, but registering the subject headings and deleting as she went. Almost right away, however, she found a message from Jane Cannon—a new one.

  This time, Maggie wasn’t surprised.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through her mouth. In the windows over the bed, the night sky bloomed. The moon was the thinnest crescent, as slight as a nail clipping. The loft was dark, except for the glow from the phone.

  She tapped the screen.

  Jane Cannon

  To: Margaret Arioli

  Just me

  October 28 at 10:53 PM


  I hate it here. I’m frightened all the time. I wake up from nightmares every night. I want to believe it wasn’t a big deal, and I tell myself to get over it, but I can’t. I just can’t. And if I can’t forget it, how do I live with it?

  “Oh, Jane,” Maggie whispered. She didn’t know how a person lived with it. She couldn’t figure that out for anyone, least of all herself.

  She reread the message and, with a trembling hand, put down her phone. Then, swearing under her breath, she immediately picked it up again. Heart pounding, she hit REPLY.

  Hi, Jane. I apologize for not writing back sooner. I’ve been avoiding my phone.

  I’m really sorry about what happened to you. It’s good that you contacted me.

  She stalled, suddenly overwhelmed, stuck in sadness, sympathy, futility, dread. How to proceed? How to help?

  She wrote back haltingly, composing a paragraph, then changing her mind and getting rid of the whole thing, adding some more words, and deleting half of them. In the end, she invited Jane to email again or call, gave her the cell’s number, and urged her to contact the Title IX officer. She told her there were good people at CC who’d support her (and thought about Dean McGrath and Susan Brown, who’d been at least a little more helpful and sensitive to Maggie than the police had been). She also encouraged her to make an appointment with one of the therapists and advocates at Safest Place, Carlton’s crisis center.

  Maggie scanned what she’d written, then added the half truth,

  I wish I would have used the center last year and talked with a counselor instead of trying to handle the situation without professional support.

  Finally, at the end of the message, she wrote,

  You’re not alone, Jane.

  Maggie’s first thought Saturday morning: I did it!

  She rolled toward the edge of the bed and snatched her phone off the floor. Jane hadn’t replied yet, but that was okay. The worst part—for Maggie—was over. She’d finally written back to someone who needed her and hadn’t once broken down while doing it.