Twelve

When I arrive home from the wine bar, I dump my purse on the table and step out of my shoes on my way toward my bed. I collapse on top of my quilt, burying my face in the pillows. Merely remembering that night with Anthony has left me exhausted. My stomach clenches as if I were seasick, and I don’t even have the will to get out of my clothes.

Okay. Doreen said that the next time I became overwhelmed about this, I should note down my reactions. Everything I felt, everything I thought. Then we could unpack it all later, in a session, while she’s with me.

I push myself up on one elbow to search for my iPad. Like I thought, it’s beside the bed. When I slide the bar across to wake the tablet up, I see that I have a new e-mail—and it’s from Jonah.

Just wanted to say that I’m glad we worked things out tonight. Looking forward to next time. —J

Next time. The next time I let Jonah pretend to rape me, and I get off on it.

It took me a while to realize how thoroughly Anthony had screwed with my head. After the rape, I stopped masturbating. Completely. I didn’t want to think about guys’ bodies when the only one I’d ever seen aroused was my rapist. When I started having sex with my senior-year boyfriend, Derek, I flashed back to that night—every single time. It was like Anthony was back on top of me, inside me, turning me from a person into a body.

But my boyfriend was a good guy. He had no idea what was wrong with me, why I didn’t seem to enjoy sex as much as he did. So he did his best. Went down on me, fingered me, took me in every position he knew and a couple I think he invented. Plenty of men never become as generous in bed as Derek was at seventeen; his wife must count herself lucky.

Bit by bit, my body woke up to the pleasure of touch. But every single time, I was thinking of Anthony too. Night by night, stroke by stroke, arousal and my rape were woven together. My mind turned the opposites into partners. I couldn’t peel them apart any longer.

When Derek finally got me off, I was remembering a hand clamped over my mouth so I couldn’t scream. And that orgasm—my first in three years—felt so goddamned good that I didn’t care how sick my fantasy was. I only wanted it to happen again.

If Derek thought it was weird, the way I asked him to hold my hands down or pull my hair, he never said anything. Like most teenage guys, he was just thrilled I was finally into it. Even though I felt guilty every time I touched myself while fantasizing about being forced, I didn’t stop. The only way I held myself in check was refusing to let myself think about Anthony anymore. Instead I came up with new scenarios, new kinds of violence—whether brutal or deceptive, as vicious as being bound and gagged or as commonplace as having a guy take advantage of me while I’m too drunk to fight him. The fantasies became more elaborate, just as I was learning how to bring myself off and how to teach a guy to take care of me.

And so here I am, twenty-five years old, only able to come when I think about being raped.

Believe it or not, I’m not the only one. Based on what Doreen has told me, and some psych books I’ve read, other victims sometimes find themselves having rape fantasies too. No, that’s not the usual reaction. But it’s not unheard of. Maybe that should make me feel better. It doesn’t.

At least now I’ve accepted this about myself—my need to dive into this darkness, to claim my most secret and forbidden desires. And I’ve found the man who’ll go there with me.

Already I know that I’ll feel the sting of Chloe’s anger, and the weight of those old memories, until I’m with Jonah again. Then I’ll be in a place where none of it can touch me—every pain, every memory, everything that holds me back. Jonah can take me there.

•   •   •

“God, I miss coffee,” Shay says, staring at my venti mochaccino with sorrowful puppy-dog eyes.

“Some pregnant women drink caffeine,” I say as we claim the last available table in the campus coffee place. “I’m sure I’ve seen them do it.”

But Shay shakes her head. “I had some spotting early on. It turned out not to be a big deal, but after that, Dr. Campbell said to knock off the caffeine completely. Doctor’s orders.”

“Look on the bright side. It’s only another nine weeks.”

Shay’s face lights up, with a kind of glow that has nothing to do with old wives’ tales about pregnancy and everything to do with happiness. “Before Christmas. I can’t wait for baby’s first Christmas.”

“We’ll all be spoiling him or her rotten,” I promise. Shay and Arturo have refused to learn the sex of the baby; they say they want to be surprised. Personally, I’d think you’d be on such an emotional roller coaster that day that the “surprise” would get totally buried, but it’s their call.

The two of us make an odd pair, I guess. I’m dressed up for a departmental meeting this afternoon—pencil skirt, silky caramel-colored blouse, and heels—while Shay is wearing some vibrantly patterned 1970s pregnancy smock she must have thrifted and has added a few blue streaks to her burgundy-colored hair. But she wanted to meet up on our mutual free hour, and . . . well, since Chloe’s message, I’ve tried to avoid having too much downtime. All I do with it is brood.

A happier idea occurs to me. “Hey, we need to have a baby shower soon, don’t we?”

For some reason, that wipes the smile from Shay’s face. “Yeah. Guess so.”

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just—” Shay bites her lower lip. She’s curved both of her hands around her bottle of water, looking at that instead of at me. “My whole family’s back in Perth, and they’re not exactly thrilled about this—”

Their daughter went off to school in America and informed them via Skype that she was marrying a man they’d never met, no older than her, and having his baby. As much as I love Arturo, and as much as I believe in his relationship with Shay, I can see why the Gillespies took it badly.

“—so I thought it would be my family here who would throw the shower.” She’s staring down at our table, forlorn, completely unlike her usual bubbly self. “I thought it would be Carmen. But she hasn’t said a word.”

“I’m sure it just slipped her mind.” Actually I’m not sure of that at all, but saying so won’t help. “She’s been buried with her classwork.”

“You know she doesn’t like me.”

“She does!” Not liking Shay would be the same as not liking oxygen. It’s impossible. “She’s just worried about Arturo settling down so young, especially before you guys have finished your degrees.”

“We can do it. If I didn’t believe that, I would never have gone on with—” Shay can’t finish the sentence. She already loves that baby too much to even say the words.

“I believe in you too. Carmen’s just a little harder to convince. She’s a numbers person, remember? They don’t like soft squishy feelings. They like facts.” I lean forward, hoping I’m getting through to Shay. “Even if Carmen has her doubts, she’s with you all the way. You know that, right?”

Shay nods, but I can tell she’s not convinced. Seeing her like this is like watching a dandelion wilt.

So I promise, “I’ll throw the baby shower, because I count as family too. Don’t even try to argue.”

“I wouldn’t.” Her smile starts to return. “Yeah, you count.”

“Carmen will pitch in too. Wait and see.”

“Hope you’re right. You’d just think—” Shay pauses, then says, “You’d think Carmen would be more excited about becoming an aunt. Weren’t you thrilled when you found out Libby was on the way?”

Libby, whom I haven’t seen since last Easter. Libby, who begged me to braid her long golden hair. I slid daisies into the plaits, and she thought that was the most magical, beautiful thing ever.

“My emotions were complicated, actually.” I only say this because I know Shay realizes that I keep my distance from my family, and she doesn’t snoop into the reasons why. “But I love her more than anybody else on earth.”

I love Libby that much, and I never see her.

Shay and I have to get back to our respective departments, so I down the last of my mochaccino. She’s back to her usual bouncy self, while I have to struggle to keep smiling. As soon as we part, I let my face fall. The world around me seems to blur. I’m trapped inside my own thoughts, and my own regrets.

In my mind, I hear Libby singing on that voice mail I’ve saved. Happy birthday, Aunt Vivi—

Tears blur my vision. Undergrads swarm around me, a sea of ponytails and backpacks and laughter, but I feel alone. I push my way blindly through the crowd until I hear, “Vivienne?”

It’s Jonah.

Amid the brilliantly colored T-shirts and jackets of the students around us, Jonah stands alone, stark in a crisp white shirt and dark jeans. He’s the only one who stands still, the only one who’s looking at me. The only one who knows who I am. Although he doesn’t come any closer, his gray eyes search mine. I know Jonah didn’t call my name just to say hello. He said it because he can see I’m upset.

I attempt a smile, badly. “Coffee’s that way,” I say, pointing to the Starbucks that must be his destination. “Talk to you later.”

Jonah nods. I turn away from him to head toward the Department of Fine Arts. It takes about seven minutes to walk the distance. Seven minutes is how long I have to pull myself together. When I walk into the meeting, I have to be calm. Assured. Confident. Anyone but myself.

The department meeting goes well.

Like I said, by now I’m pretty good at faking it.

•   •   •

Nighttime.

Originally I’d planned to go get sushi with Carmen and some of her friends from the math department, but I text her to beg off. Worst headache ever, I type out, lying without guilt. She wouldn’t really understand, anyway.

As much as I love Carmen, as close to her as I am, I’ve never told her about the rape. I never told Geordie, either, or Derek, or any of my other boyfriends. The one time I told people I love the truth about what Anthony did to me—that didn’t end well.

I’m too tense and distracted to grade student essays. For a while I try to watch movies on Netflix, but none of them can hold my attention. Finally I take my frustrations out on the housework. Soon my little house smells like Comet and lemon Joy. With yellow rubber gloves on my hands, I scrub every dish, both sinks, the toilet, the tub, and even the grout between the tiles. By the time I’m done, this place will be spotless.

Just as I lean up to wipe sweat from my forehead with one arm, my phone rings. Generic ringtone. I strip off the rubber gloves as I go to answer. Probably it’s one of the other TAs, but if this is another election robocall, I swear, I will not be held responsible for my actions. “Hello?”

A pause follows. Then: “Hi, Vivienne.”

It’s the last person I expected to hear from tonight.

It’s Jonah.