He studied me, but finally looked away. I wondered what he was thinking. It got too quiet then, and I started to realize this was it. He’d be leaving. Maybe I’d see him at the diner the next morning, but that wasn’t enough.
“When are you… going home?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could think them through.
Something flickered in his eyes. He looked down at his hands. “I’m supposed to leave on Sunday.”
My heart dropped. That was the one day I had time to spare. At least he wasn’t leaving tomorrow. But still, that was only two days away.
“I could stay longer,” he said, his voice low.
Warmth breezed through me, relaxing some of the tension in my chest. I ignored the voice that told me we were just prolonging the inevitable.“I get out early on Sundays.”
I heard the smile in his voice, “Do you want to do something Sunday night?”
“Yes.”
We smiled at each other.
“Okay.” His eyes looked over my face and hair, then he slowly trailed a finger along my hair line, making my heart flutter. It was so much more intimate here in my apartment. He sensed it too and dropped his hand, though he still looked over me with eyes that saw everything. Then he looked down, rubbing a thumb over his knuckles like he wanted to say something.
“What?” I asked, before I could think better of it. Maybe he wanted to bring up the whole truck incident again.
He looked up at me, trying to decide, and then finally said, “It’s nothing.”
The way he said it made me think it was more about him feeling nervous than worried about bringing up a difficult subject. I took a chance. “What is it?”
He took a deep breath. “Would it be too much to do something tonight? If you’re not busy?”
I smiled so big I wondered if it’d fall right off my face. He caught my expression and the relief that came into his eyes made me even happier. I leaned past him so I could look at the wall clock I had out there. It was almost four. Where had the time gone? I thought of the contents of my fridge. I’d have to run to the store, but I could afford to splurge for a decent meal. Nothing extraordinarily fancy, but I had a feeling I could make something Grant would like.
“I could make dinner. Could you come back around sevenish?”
His eyes sparkled at me. “Yeah.”
“Okay.”
We looked at each other, tickled to be where we were, excited that the day wasn’t over yet. He lowered his eyes first and stepped toward the door. I followed him. He opened the door and I took it from him, holding it open as I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His gaze fell to my mouth. He bent down, pressing his lips against mine. I kissed him back, bringing my hand up to his cheek to feel the stubble there because I could.
“I’ll see you later,” he said to me.
“See you soon,” I replied.
He turned to walk down the stairs. I gave him a wave before he disappeared around the corner. I shut the door, then leaned against it and slid down to the floor. The whole day hit me at once. This crazy urge in my chest made me want to do a little scream. I felt like a total idiot, but I didn’t really care. I took a deep breath, unable to erase the smile from my face. He’d be back. What time? Seven. Ish. Okay. I had to run to the store.
I sprang into action, going for my bag as I thought of what I’d need to do. I decided I’d go to the store, then get a shower when I got home since I’d have to bike there, then start cooking. Pierogies for dinner. I remembered my Grandma Ro making them all the time, though I’d been too young to learn it, and when I’d told Sam about them, he’d helped me recreate the recipe. It was one of my favorites. For Grant, I’d add bacon. And pork chops? That seemed right. Add some vegetables to throw in a pan and I’d be done. Oh, dessert. That’d have to be apple pie sundaes. I was betting that’d hit Grant the right way, too. I hopped into my room to change into some dry clothes, took my hair out to tame it, decided against it and threw it back up in a messy bun, and left my apartment. Stopping just as I got to my bike, I doubled back, tore up the stairs two at a time, went straight for my closet and took down a coffee pot from a hole in the wall right next to the floor. I counted out thirty dollars in small bills and tucked it into my bag. I was dipping into the emergency funds, but that was okay. Then I was off for real.
* * * *
I was really feeling good. I’d sang in the shower. Sang in the shower. Carole King. The first four songs of Tapestry. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done that. I did it all the time when I was myself. When I was Ana Marie. Sam would sometimes explode into the bathroom, his voice bursting with harmony to what I was singing, startling the hell out of me. I’d try to keep singing through my laughter. I don’t know why I’d stopped when I came here. I guess because it was something Rachel didn’t do. Now I thought about my day, what I needed to get done. I thought in tired but neat steps as my brain took its time waking up. When I was Ana, I was already well awake before I even hit the shower.
I’d sang through drying my hair, even though the hair dryer drowned out my voice, making it through another four songs of Tapestry. Drying my hair was such a pain and it felt like it took longer than usual, but I knew it was because I was nervous and excited. I tried to distract myself with the music as I worked, thinking about playing along on Grandma Ro’s piano as I sang. Then I’d stared at myself in the mirror, a towel wrapped around me, my hair shiny and curly, wondering what I should do with myself. I didn’t really wear makeup. I didn’t even have any anymore. I turned around to get a good look at my backside, seeing my rose tattoo peek out over the towel. I wondered if Grant liked tattoos.
I loved mine. It was darkly beautiful. I’d gotten it when I was fourteen. I’d met this guy Allen at one of Sam’s parties. He was an artist who painted beautifully, but wanted to break into tattooing. He’d announced to the room that he needed people to practice on and I enthusiastically volunteered, much to Sam’s horror. Sam hadn’t seen much of his stuff, but I had.
As soon as I volunteered, he got all into me, and started asking me questions, much to my delight. I had a crush on him. We couldn’t do it right then because he didn’t have his stuff, but we talked long into the night. I’d told Allen to give me a rose and put it somewhere I could hide it, but make it noticeable. He asked why I wanted a rose. I told him for my grandma. He pushed me even further, telling me to describe her, so I did. I told him all about her.
Two days later, he showed up and asked me to come with him. I went over to his house, Sam at my side. I’d taken my shirt off, covering my front with it, and then laid down on the floor. Allen went to work and it hurt, but not too bad. Sam had brought a camera and documented it all.
Finally, Allen gave me a mirror to show me the rose. I remember gasping. It was so damn beautiful. It was big, blood red, the petals ending in delicate, black wrinkled tips that faded into the bright red of the flower. It looked a little goth, but not over the top. It captured how I felt about my grandma perfectly. And it looked great against my pale complexion, the tips of the rose even matching my hair. I had given him a huge, teary-eyed hug, my shoulder burning raw as I did so. Sam had even admitted it was good, and I could tell he was being sincere. I knew he really liked it when I found the picture he’d taken close to the end of the process hanging in our room. The rose and the tool Allen used were in focus, but my bare back, along with my curls splayed out over the floor beyond my neck were blurry. It was a stunning picture. Sam went through a photography kick. He was really good at it, but he got bored after a while. He was good at everything he did.
Missing Sam extra hard that night, I decided to do my hair for him. I took two clumps in the front and twisted them, then joined them in the back. It held the hair back from my face and made a pretty halo around my head. I let the towel fall to the floor then and put on some sweet-smelling lotion that had been a Christmas present from Becky. It smelled heavenly, the scent light, and made my skin soft. I went to the closet and sele
cted a lacey white skirt Sam had gotten me and a pretty lavender T-shirt I’d scored at a resale shop. It fit me well and was my favorite color. Couldn’t get any better than that. I tossed the towel in the hamper, feeling girly.
I went out into the kitchen, taking stock of the time. I had plenty of it. I looked at the flowers on the table, black-eyed susans, my thoughts again turning to Sam. I tucked one in my hair, remembering how he used to put flowers in my hair when we hung out at the park. I wondered what Grant would think of me, looking like this, looking more like my old self. I was betting he was going to like it.
I got down to business then, turning on the radio. Pierogies were a bit on the high-maintenance side, and these ones were especially because I was adding in a lot of good stuff to make them extra tasty. I thought of Grant as I cooked, wondering how the night would go. I could imagine him here because he’d just left not too long ago, but sitting at the table and eating was another thing. We’d be having a date here. It felt a little weird. I knew part of that was because of Chad.
Chad used to come over about once or twice a week. I’d met him at the diner when I was almost sixteen. He was partly to blame for my perfection of thinking up sassy comebacks. I’d been able to deliver a line before, but I didn’t have as much sass. He was a football player, and I can’t remember when it started, but him and his friends would come in and order us right out of chicken fingers every Friday night. I still remember his attention latching onto me that first time, making me feel oddly self- conscious. He was arrogant and had a smart mouth, but all the girls swooned over him. He picked on me some, and I ignored it at first, not sure what I should do. I’d been at the diner for about six months, and I finally felt like I was getting the hang of things, though Pam still tried to put me in my place daily, making my life so stressful I could barely stand it. I was basically Debbie, except I had it a little more together by then.
One night, he’d given me a real zinger, those sharp brown eyes of his watching my face, and something in me snapped. I zinged him right back. I can’t remember what I said now, but I was afraid I’d hurt his feelings. Instead, his face had peeled back in a dark smile that matched his eyes. From then on, we warred back and forth. I’d literally spend time thinking about what I was going to say to him, preparing myself for Friday nights. I have to say, I actually enjoyed it, even though plenty of Chad’s zings were meant to subtly humiliate me. I liked the competition. And now I realized, I liked the mental stimulation.
At the end of football season, he’d surprised me one night by ambushing me as I came out of the bathroom. He must have snuck in through the back door, but he wasn’t supposed to be back there and it totally flustered me. Then there was the fact that I was supposed to be eighteen, whereas he was seventeen. He would be turning eighteen right around the same time I was supposed to be turning nineteen, but still.
He asked me out. I’d said no, insulted him, and tried to brush by him. He’d eased in front of me, looking hurt, and said something that tugged at my heart, making me feel guilty for lashing out. Somehow, he’d weaseled me into going to his last game to cheer him on, at the very least. So I did that, and there was this moment at the end where he made a touchdown. Everyone was cheering because he’d won the game. The whole time he’d pretty much ignored me, but at that moment, I saw it. He turned and looked right at me. That did something to me, seeing him look at me when everyone was looking at him. It caught my attention. I made out with him under the bleachers that night.
It was something that should have been exhilarating, but it wasn’t. I didn’t feel a thing. I was a sixteen-year-old girl, making out with an almost eighteen-year-old, who was the fantasy of every girl in his school. But I felt nothing. I worried about how I was kissing the whole time, if I was doing it right, if there was something I should have been doing or thinking to make it go better. It was pretty much like every other kiss or romantic encounter I’d had. And it wasn’t fun. I thought there was something wrong with me. It ended when Chad stuck his hand into my pants, fumbling and groping. I’d pulled away and scolded him. He gave me a particularly vicious line and I stalked away, legitimately hurt. I didn’t let him see it though. I went back home and was thankful I wasn’t going to see him again.
But he surprised me. He came back to the diner. He was quieter, but he watched me, making me feel that odd self-consciousness. Again, I didn’t let it show. But then he upped the ante. One Friday night, he showed up at my apartment. He asked if he could come in to apologize. Against my better judgment, I let him in. He told me he was sorry, and I believed him. He looked sincere enough. He sounded it. He saw my guitar then and asked me to play for him. I still remember how excited I got. The thought made me sick now. I’d played and sang. I remember the way he looked at me. Surprise. Adoration. We talked then and he told me about the music he liked and his friends at school. Soon, he was coming over on a regular basis and we talked. Again, I didn’t notice at the time, but we always talked about him. I opened my mouth to sing or reflect back on what he was saying; that was it. He would think over things I told him, weigh my insights and compliment them when he approved, but he never really asked about me or my life.
Eventually, things turned romantic again. I’d started to feel like we were friends, and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I blamed myself for not feeling anything. He was cute, he enjoyed my company, and so, I reasoned with myself, I must have been the problem. So I made out with him. That eventually went further, though I wasn’t comfortable with it. I kept stopping him when he tried to go all the way. He finally got pissed at me and told me I was being a tease. It made me angry the first time he said that. He was acting like I was taking something from him that was his, but then, when he left, I wondered if he was right. I had invited him in. I talked to him about things that were important to him. I made out with him like I was serious. He stayed away for two weeks, and I was so lonely without him. Before I came to Rayburne, I wasn’t used to being by myself. It was hard to get used to not having any friends. Then he came along and for a night or two, here or there, he filled some void. He was the only person I saw outside of work.
Not long after that, the first time happened. I remembered that time well, though many of the others blurred together. We were making out on the couch and his hand wandered up under my shirt. I had tensed up, wondering if I should stop him before things went any further. His hand had stayed there for a while and eventually my thoughts drifted back to whatever I was thinking about at the time: a song to play, planning the next day, whatever. Then he’d reached up my skirt. I didn’t want to go there, but I thought if I just got it over with, he’d go. We’d already talked, I’d already sang, this was the last thing he did. Normally it hurt. Whatever he did was rough and frantic. This time, his fingers had eased up to my skin and he’d gone slower. I felt a flicker of something. It was so… minuscule, but it was there. He picked up on that right away and it turned him on. He’d kissed me so hard it hurt, and he went back to his normal rough ways, but I was stunned enough that I didn’t stop him where I normally did. I finally yelled at him to stop when he pulled his pants down. He did as I said, but laid against me, half naked, staring at me.
“Am I hurting you?” he’d asked, his voice accusing, making me feel guilty.
“No,” I’d quickly responded.
“I love you, Rachel,” he’d said, staring right at me, waiting for me.
Surprised, I remember stammering out that I loved him, too, wondering why I was saying words I didn’t feel.
He took that as confirmation and in one swift movement, he had pulled my underwear aside and…
Well, that was that.
I remember being completely frozen, not able to move. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I couldn’t stop it. It’d already happened. He paused after a few seconds to put a condom on. It wasn’t long before he was done. He’d kissed me on the cheek then, told me I was beautiful and left.
After that, I was different. I felt unclean
. Like I’d been had and so there wasn’t anything left for me to protect. I felt like it didn’t matter anymore. I didn’t like sex, but I did it with him. Sometimes it felt mildly good, but not enough that I ever really wanted it. I just wanted it over with so I could go to bed. It wasn’t fireworks and screaming like in the movies. I didn’t know what an orgasm was, what it meant or felt like, but I knew I wasn’t having one. That feeling that something was wrong with me grew bigger.
But, the longer it went on, the more depressed I became. I wasn’t doing as well in the diner. I was having a harder time connecting with people. I didn’t like it when people touched me, even if they just accidentally brushed my arm. I started to dread his visits. I didn’t want him around anymore. I knew he was leaving soon, and that’s what I held onto. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, break things off with him and then have to see him around before he left. And he was still my only source of companionship outside of work. So I let it continue, even as things got worse and worse for me. That was a really shitty year in my life.
One month before he would be leaving for college, we got into a huge fight. I don’t remember what it was about anymore, but I’d yelled at him. Really yelled. There was no sarcastic remark, no subtle humiliation, I tore right into him. He’d stared at me for a minute. Stared me down was probably a more appropriate description, and then he’d simply walked over and tore my shirt off. He’d torn it clean off my body. I was so shocked I couldn’t move. He yanked off my bra, the rest of my clothes. And he raped me.
It hurt. Bad. And I could do nothing. I was completely paralyzed. Afterward, he’d pulled up his pants and left me lying there naked. I was numb, unable to process what had just happened. I wrapped myself in my quilt and curled up on the couch, lying awake all night, scared he would come back and do it again. Scared was the wrong word. I was terrified. Positively terrified. I couldn’t think of anything else. I couldn’t even figure out what to do. I couldn’t move. Every sound was him on the stairs. Every engine off in the distance was his car on the way.
Call Me Ana: A Novel Page 10
