14
We drove most of the way in silence. I thought we were both afraid of saying the wrong thing and causing us to turn around and return to the campus. Despite my father’s assurances when he first enrolled me in Littlefield, I never truly believed that no one would discover my recent horror and Haylee’s involvement. Whenever anyone looked at me too long or whenever I saw people whispering behind my back, I braced myself for the inevitable questions and shock.
As soon as Troy and I drove off, I decided that if he asked me any questions, I would stick to the truth, despite where that truth might lead. Running from it did not make any of it disappear. It was always there, an undercurrent woven and streaming along under the thin crust of deceptions and half-truths. I was tired of being afraid, tired of anticipating someone approaching me and smiling like someone who had discovered something no one else knew, someone who enjoyed the sense of power over me, and someone who might even say, “I’ll keep your secret.” The implication would be clear. From now on, be afraid of me, and never contradict me. Never refuse a favor I ask, and glorify me with compliments.
“My father and his girlfriend are coming on Saturday to take me to see my sister’s doctor,” I said.
“Why?”
“According to what my father and the doctor believe, my sister has made great progress toward redemption. She, Dr. Alexander, wants to let her go home for Thanksgiving, when I will be there, of course. She wants to see if I will cooperate, accept it. She wants to explain it to me and, I’m sure, get me to believe that Haylee is sincere and I should try to mend what’s been broken between us.”
“That’s a lot to put on you, considering what you went through,” Troy said. “I can’t imagine any apology washing away the memories.” He made the turns and started us down the dark road that turned into gravel.
“Neither can I.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Listen to what she has to say. Maybe try.”
“So you still want to forgive your sister?”
“When someone has hurt you, you only give them more power when you remain vengeful and angry.”
“Who told you that?”
“My therapist,” I said.
“Maybe that’s why I’ve stayed away from them.”
He drove up the incline, stopped, and turned off the engine. It wasn’t as perfect a night sky as it had been the first time, but there still were enough flickering stars to make it special. The lights of buildings and homes twinkled, and we were high enough and distant enough to make it look like a toy world. Smoke from fireplaces looked limp, like chiffon scars drifting toward the heavens, and headlights of cars were pinpoints as they wove over the streets. It was easy to feel we were above the day-to-day conflicts and troubles that confronted us. We could be safe here; we could reveal our pain.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m wearing my emotional armor. Tell me why you would even need a therapist.”
He was quiet so long that I thought he was not going to answer. I remembered how my therapist would avoid pushing me to reveal my feelings and thoughts. When you’re ready was her favorite expression. It put more pressure on me. How would I really know when I was ready? She was the doctor; why wasn’t she the one to decide when I was ready?
But there did come a time when what was inside you had built up so strongly that it threatened to explode, to tear you apart until you were no good to anyone else and especially to yourself. It was just like steam. You did need some sort of release, and that did help you to feel better. In the end, despite our reluctance, we realized we all needed someone we could trust. Loneliness was far more painful and unbearable. For some, I saw the only solution was to invent imaginary friends, but ghosts were impossible to hug, and their kisses were nothing but a slight breeze, barely felt and never remembered.
“Five years ago, when my sister, Jo, was only seven, I was walking past her room. Her door was slightly open. My mother was on some shopping expedition with friends in Philadelphia,” he began.
His voice was thin, like the voice of someone fighting back the urge to cry. I said nothing. I didn’t move. I don’t think I even breathed.
“I heard my father talking and paused. As far as I knew, he was rarely in Jo’s room. Whenever my mother had a question about something for or about Jo—furniture, clothes, anything—his stock reply was always, ‘Women know more about girls. You decide.’
“What drew my attention was the way he was talking to her. He was speaking in a loud whisper, his voice so different that I almost didn’t recognize it and thought there was some stranger in the house. I inched up to the door and opened it just a little more to look in on them.”
Troy paused to lay his head back on the seat and take deep breaths. In the dim starlight, I could see some tears glistening at the edges of his eyes. I reached for his hand and held it. He sat forward again, but he didn’t look at me.
“She was naked on the bed. He was on his knees beside her and looking her over. His left hand was on her left leg and moving up slowly as he whispered to her, telling her she had to be aware of this part of her body and how, as she grew older, there would be more and more nice feelings to enjoy there as well as here, he said, touching her nipples. She wasn’t moving or crying or saying anything.
“His fingers moved up her leg, and he started to touch her, stroke her, and then leaned all the way down to kiss her there. I had just had some chocolate and a peach, and suddenly, it all wanted to come up my throat. I gagged as he started to turn toward the door. I ran down the hall, down the stairs, and out of the house. I just kept running until I was out of breath. The more I ran, the better I felt, and I kept from throwing up.
“But I collapsed on the grass, and without even knowing why, I started to cry. Then I lay down and remained crunched in a fetal position for hours, I think. My heart was pounding for so long I thought I would die right there on the grass.”
He lowered his head. I waited for a few moments. No one had to tell me how difficult that was for him to reveal. I was crying for him, too. He took another deep breath and looked up again, but not at me.
“I didn’t think he had seen me in the doorway, but I couldn’t be sure. I was afraid more than anything else. For a while, I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t look at him without thinking about it, though, and I thought he realized why. He couldn’t ask me, of course. He didn’t mention anything when he saw me right afterward, but there was a look in his eyes now when he saw me, and whenever he looked at me that way, I always turned away like I was the guilty one. I hated that feeling.
“Finally, one day when both our parents were out, I went to Jo’s room and sat on the floor with her. She had beautiful furniture in her room, but she also had this thick, fluffy pink rug and liked sitting on the floor while she read one of her books or listened to music on her earphones.
“I rarely went into her room to play something with her or talk to her. I was a macho guy who wanted to be like his macho father. No girlie stuff for me. Imagine how that image shattered. What I didn’t want to do was frighten her or make her cry. I was smart enough to speak casually, making it seem like I was only curious and not making her feel guilty or upset.
“ ‘Father doesn’t talk to me about myself,’ I began. ‘I have to learn everything from my friends or from books. Does he ever talk to you about yourself?’ I asked, making it seem like I was jealous. She nodded. ‘Well, when he talks to you, does he show you stuff, like touch you or something?’ She nodded again. ‘Did he do that more than once?’ I asked her, and she nodded. Then I held up my hands and started to show fingers to count how many times. She indicated it was seven. ‘Did you ever tell Mommy?’ She shook her head.
“ ‘Father says not to,’ she told me. ‘He says Mommy wants to be the one to tell me things about myself and would be mad at him for doing it. He made me promise not to tell her,’ she said.
“I nodded and then started to fiddle with her iPad and pretend that none of what she had told me was important. Of course, I felt like it was thundering in my head. He had done it multiple times and most likely wasn’t going to stop. Nevertheless, it still took me weeks to get up the courage to tell my mother. My father was on one of his international business trips at the time, which probably boosted my courage. Luckily, she hadn’t wanted to go with him.
“I went to her room. She was having one of her migraine headaches and was lying there with a warm wet cloth over her eyes and didn’t even hear me come in. She didn’t realize I was there until I sat on her bed. She looked up, surprised, of course. She realized from the look on my face, I guess, that this was no ordinary moment. I wasn’t there to ask to do something or invite someone over for the weekend.
“ ‘What?’ she demanded. Going to her while she was having a migraine wasn’t the smartest thing, but when the courage finally came to me, I wanted to do it quickly and get it finished. After I told it all practically in one breath, I thought the look on her face was more frightening than what I had seen my father doing. Without asking me anything or saying anything at all, she rose and went to Jo’s room. I went to mine and tried to do some homework. Finally, I just lay on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. In anticipation, my heart had been pounding the whole time, just as it had that day.
“Whatever Jo told her was enough to overpower her migraine. She came to me and told me never, never, ever to speak of what I had seen. She said she would handle it.
“Her way of handling it was to immediately enroll Jo in a private school where she would be sleeping. A friend of hers had placed her children there, and she and my mother were always arguing about where children would get the best education these days.
“I never knew exactly what she told my father when he returned, but life changed dramatically in our house. He never confronted me about it, but whenever he did look at me after she had spoken to him, he lowered his eyes first. The following semester, I was enrolled in a private junior high affiliated with Littlefield, and then when I was in senior high, I came here.”
“So he never said anything to you or you to him?” I asked.
“No. My mother preferred that we pretend it never happened. Embarrassment and losing face in the social world were always more important. My father spoiled me with gifts in a pathetic attempt to win back my respect for him.
“The funny thing about all this was that my mother wanted me out of the house, too. I think whenever she saw me, she recalled the day, the moment, I revealed it all to her. You know that old saying Don’t shoot the messenger? Sophocles in Antigone: ‘No one loves the messenger who brings bad news.’ Well, that was me. It’s like a stain my mother sees on my face, even to this day, I think. She knows that what I know will never be forgotten. I have nightmares about it. I used to wake up and run to the mirror to see if there was actually a stain there.
“Anyway, I didn’t need a therapist to tell me where my introversion and other complexes were born. Once, my mother toyed with the idea of my seeing one because of how much of a loner I became, but the humiliation I’m sure she imagined potentially coming from my revelations swallowed up that idea quickly. You’re on your own for a good reason, Matzner, I told myself. Get used to it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and hated saying it immediately, because it was something I hated anyone saying to me.
He nodded. “There are all sorts of ramifications from what I witnessed and knew. I’ve gotten so I hate my name, Matzner. Someday I’ll change it.” He sighed and sat back.
I looked down but kept my hand in his.
“You know what frightens me the most, Kaylee? Thinking I might be like my father. I was afraid to look at little girls, and that fear kind of expanded, I guess, to older girls.”
“You’re not going to be like him,” I said.
“And you know this how, Dr. Fitzgerald?”
“Instinct. I’ve looked into the face of ugliness. I know it too well now.”
“I bet. Well, sorry to have laid all that on you, especially you. You certainly don’t need someone like me around. You’ve got enough on your plate to stuff any hungry masochist.”
Finally, I could laugh.
He smiled, too. “Here we are, gazing at the indifferent universe, the two of us, the psychologically wounded.”
“But not beaten,” I said. What happened then came to me like a gust of desire. I leaned in to do what I had fled from before and kissed him very gently, very quickly, on the lips.
“Am I still a frog?” he asked.
“Not to me.”
He leaned toward me to kiss me again. Neither of us showed the least resistance. It can be different, I thought. With him especially, it can be different.
“You’re the first girl I’ve kissed like that since the eighth grade, and when I did it then, the static electricity frightened us both so we didn’t do it again.”
I laughed. “Shocking,” I said.
He reached out to touch my lips. “You’re so beautiful, Kaylee. You’re going to be fine.”
“So are you.”
“I never thought so until I met you,” he said. He glanced at his watch. “I don’t want to, but I think we’d better head back.”
“Okay, but we’re not heading back, Troy. We’re moving forward,” I said.
He liked that very much, and so did I.
We kissed one more time before he started the engine and turned around to drive back to Littlefield. This time, neither of us let a second of silence come between us. It was as if a dam had broken. He rattled off social plans we would follow after the Thanksgiving break. And then he asked me if I thought I might be up to going to his house on Friday night. After what he had told me, the thought of meeting his parents, especially his father, made me very nervous. He knew immediately why I was hesitating.
“Oh, my father’s not going to be there, and as it turns out, my mother has an event to attend as well. My father’s in New York City for a convention.”
“Just us, then?”
“Yes. My sister doesn’t come home until next Wednesday. The maids will be around but out of sight, I’m sure. I’ll order in some salads and pizza for us. It won’t be as good as Mario’s, but it will be fine.”
I was still hesitating.
“Am I moving too fast?”
“No,” I said, turning to him and smiling. “I’m moving too slowly.”
“Well, we’re a work in progress. No worries,” he said.
He drove to my dorm parking lot. After he stopped, I reached for his hand again.
“Thanks for trusting me, Troy. I wish I’d had the courage to trust you after we went out the first time.”
“It would have made me even more ashamed of deceiving you,” he said. He got out to open my door and then walked me to the dorm entrance. “I imagine your girlfriends are going to be slightly confused.”
“Their natural state,” I said.
He kissed me again. “Sweet dreams.”
“Might be the first time in a long time that I’ve had any,” I said.
“Me, too.”
He started for his car. I watched him for a moment and then entered the dorm. I had no doubt that if Haylee had heard his story or knew I had heard it, she would say Troy and I didn’t like each other as much as we pitied each other. Pathetic, she would add.
But maybe that was the old Haylee. Maybe all she had gone through—the drugs, the shock therapy, and the months of counseling—had changed her. Couldn’t I hope for that?
Next, you’ll hope there really is a Santa Claus, I told that part of myself that wanted sunshine and stars, smiles and laughter, and nights without nightmares.
Thanks to Terri Stone, who had come out of the cafeteria just as I walked away with Troy, everyone knew I had gone off with him. Marcy and Claudia were ready to pounce the moment I entered the room. I saw they were attempting to do homework but obviously waiting anxiously for my return.
Marcy practically leaped off the bed. “Where have you been? Where did you go?”
“For a ride,” I said casually, and took off my jacket. I picked up my books and started to thumb through the history text.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said. “Don’t think you’re going to leave us hanging.”
“Excuse me?”
“We both decided that since we saved you from being expelled, we deserved to know what happened and why you went for a ride with him now after having had a miserable enough time to want to take our drugs and then ignoring him as if he was Jack the Ripper. It’s only fair,” she whined.
In the time it took for me to walk from the entryway to Claudia’s and my room, I had begun to work on explanations. Telling them it was none of their business was out of the question. I’d lose their friendship very quickly, and I did like them. No one was perfect, least of all me, but I was far from ready to share the truth with anyone else. Weaving an answer they’d accept from half-truths was all I could manage right now. I’d been schooled by an expert in doing that: my sister.
“Despite how everyone sees him, I like Troy,” I began, and sat on my bed facing them. “Yes, he’s movie-star handsome, but when you get to know him, he’s very interesting and very funny, too.”
“When you get to know him,” Marcy said, raising her eyes to the ceiling. “So?”
“So what?”
“If that’s all true, why did you stop seeing him, and why did that drive you to take Ecstasy and avoid even looking at him the next day?”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“Oh, and taking too much Ecstasy before you go to sleep is not embarrassing?” Marcy said.
I looked at Claudia, who seemed even more interested now.
“I’m still a virgin,” I said.
Marcy flopped back onto Claudia’s bed as if I had just confessed to murder.
“I know I give the impression I’m not. Right, Claudia?”
Marcy looked at her. Claudia nodded.
“What information did you two share?” Marcy asked her.
Claudia shrugged. “That I didn’t enjoy it,” she said.
“Holy baked beans. You’re not a virgin? You never told me that. I feel like I’m just meeting you two. Anyway, what’s this have to do with Troy Matzner?”
“He had the same impression of me. I just wasn’t ready, and then I thought I was too hung up on it, too uptight, and even a little afraid of sex. I wasn’t any different in public school, and the more I thought about it, thought about how my friends back then thought about me, I was depressed about myself. I thought I would always have disappointing dates, and the word about me would spread here quickly, too. No one would ask me out.”
“Probably not,” Marcy said. “So? What happened tonight? Are you over your lily-white self-image?”
“We’ll see.”
“And sex?” She looked at Claudia and then at me. “Are you going to join the club?”
“Probably. I just want to feel like I’m ready. Troy’s more understanding, but we’ll see.”
Marcy looked at Claudia again and then back at me. “That’s it? That’s your whole story?”
I shrugged. “You think I’m wrong?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. Claudia?”
“It’s a personal decision. I don’t give my father credit for much, but he did say something very wise once.”
“What?” Marcy asked, grimacing.
“The more precious things we reduce to the ordinary, the less we become.”
“What? Oh, please, you two. I’m drowning in morality!” Marcy cried, reaching up as if she had to be saved.
“I’ve got to finish my homework,” I said. “Drown quietly, please.” I turned to my books, smiling to myself.
Now bored, Marcy left, and Claudia went to her homework as well. Even though it was small, it was another crisis passed. Was this the way I would spend the rest of my life, twisting and turning to avoid being known as a victim, to avoid pity rather than honest affection, and to hide what I really thought about myself in order to avoid days of tears and sorrow? Would my only real friends be those who, like Troy, had some emotional pain? Birds of a feather?
For the remainder of the week, Troy and I were together as much as we could be. My father called Thursday night to reconfirm our arrangements. I could hear the worry in his voice, worrying not only that I would back out but that it would backfire somehow on all of us, including Mother. Being with Troy more, talking about our lives, and really just getting to know each other better filled me with new optimism. My father heard it in my voice, and it boosted his hopes, I knew. Before the conversation ended, he told me more about Dana and some of the things they had done together, including trips to Philadelphia to see shows.
I bore down hard on my schoolwork the remainder of the week and tried very hard not to think about what was coming up with Dr. Alexander during Thanksgiving. I was very excited on Friday because of my date with Troy. To keep their confidence and win their trust, I revealed to Marcy and Claudia that I was going to Troy’s house.
“Tonight might be the night, then?” Marcy asked. Then she smirked and said, “Like you’ll tell us.”
“I might,” I said. “Or you might see it in my face.”
“If it’s that obvious, you’d better avoid Mrs. Rosewell,” Claudia said.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure she wouldn’t know what it was,” Marcy told her. Then she looked at me and grimaced as if she were going to cry.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“We’re just going to the movies,” she said, her romantic excitement deflating. “We don’t have a house to go to afterward like some people we know, especially that house.”
“Oh. I see. Beware of jealousy. It’s the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on,” I said, waving my finger at her.
“What?”
“Othello,” Claudia said. “We read it last week.”
“Oh, save me!” Marcy cried. “I’ll end up being an A student because of you two.”
The three of us laughed as we prepared for our dates in Claudia’s and my room.
“Maybe you can talk him into having a party at his house one night,” Marcy suggested.
“Maybe,” I said, even though I doubted that would ever happen. It was better to leave possibilities dangling.
I had done a little of that verbal fencing Troy had accused me of when we first began to speak to each other, but when I walked out to get into his car, I wondered myself if this would be the night. Was I capable of it? Could it bring anything to me besides the horrid visions of what had happened to me in that basement?
Two things occurred to me. First, I was thinking of it as if it were an experiment and not the result of a romantic evening during which we both felt so strongly about each other that it was simply a natural outcome.
And second, I wanted it to happen because it was another way in which I could defeat Haylee.
I wondered what was more important and what would win out in the end.