Peyton

I pushed the door open and met the receptionist’s gaze. After scanning the lobby and finding it empty, I proceeded to walk toward her. With each step, my legs felt heavier, a little less capable.

Eventually, I made it to her work station. She looked up at me and smiled. I smiled in return.

“Hi. I uhhm. I need to talk to someone.”

“Are you looking for anyone in particular?”

“Uhhm. I mean. No. Well, kind of. Someone who. Someone who has. I’d really like it if. Do you have any women?”

She looked caring. Understanding. And confused.

“Are you a victim?”

My lip began to quiver. I clutched my purse and nodded. “Uh huh.”

She lifted her hand and reached toward me. “I’ll get you one of our counselors, and if needed, an EMDR therapist.”

I took her hand in mine. I wanted to tell her thank you, but lately it seemed wanting to speak and actually speaking were two totally different things.

Either her hand was shaking or mine was, but together, we stood there and shook like it was the right thing to do.

“What’s your name, beautiful?” she asked.

“I’m Peyton,” I said. “Peyton Price.”

“I’m Candace,” she said. “I’m a survivor. It’s going to get better, okay?”

I chewed on my lip and nodded my head.

A woman walked through the door beside Candace’s desk. She was older than I expected, probably sixty by my guess. She was dressed in a navy pants suit, and was an attractive woman, but I had little desire to talk to someone that had no idea about what I was going through. I wanted to talk to Candace, she was a survivor. I was done being a victim. I wanted to be a survivor.

“Peyton,” Candace said. “This is Elizabeth. She’ll take you back where you can talk in private, okay.”

“The woman smiled a genuine smile. “Peyton?”

I nodded.

“Hi, I’m Elizabeth. I’m one of the center’s counselors, and I’m a survivor,” she said.

I felt a little bit better. “Hi, I’m. I’m uhhm. I’m Peyton. Peyton Price.”

She extended her hand. I glanced at it, and eventually took her hand in mine.

“Come on back, Peyton,” she said. “Who does your hair?”

I reached for my head, and pressed my hair to my scalp. It seemed like an odd question. “My hair?”

“The highlights look wonderful. And I just love the cut. I need to go somewhere new. Mine always looks awful,” she said with a laugh.

“Uhhm. The highlights are natural. I spend a lot of time in the sun. I surf. And, thank you. I get it cut at Crystals in Old Town.”

I followed her through the door and down a long corridor.

“Crystals?” she asked. “I’ll have to give them a try. Who’s your stylist?”

“Beth.”

“I’ll remember that.”

She walked through a doorway and into an office. “Have a seat.”

The office wasn’t like a normal office; it was more like a lounge. I glanced around, sat on an overstuffed chair, and she sat beside me on the edge of a loveseat.

“We have a little different approach here at SDTT. How’d you find out about us?”

I looked around the room. “Google.”

“Isn’t the internet a wonderful tool?”

I nodded. “Uh huh.”

“If I told you I knew how you were feeling would you believe me?”

“Uhhm. Like really believe you?”

She laughed. “Yes.”

“Probably not.”

“I see. Well…” She adjusted herself on the cushion, crossed her legs, and fixed her eyes on mine.

It was the first time I had really noticed her eyes, but they were a lot like Navarro’s. A memorizing blue, and definitely not easy to look away from.

“I was seventeen. My husband was twenty-one, and he was at work. We married much younger back then. We’d been married for two years at the time.”

I was shocked. “You got married when you were fifteen?”

“I sure did. He was in the military, and we married immediately after he completed his basic training.”

“Wow.”

She smiled. “I wanted to be the perfect housewife. I had his dinner ready every night when he got home from work. We lived off-base in a small house – just a one bedroom. We were renting it for $250 a month.”

I laughed. “Those days are long gone.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” she said. “Would you like something to drink?”

Her voice was soothing, and I enjoyed listening to her tell her story. Although she was considerably younger, she reminded me of my grandmother, which I found comforting. “No. I’m good for now.”

She smiled, rested her hands in her lap, and continued. “So, one day, I had dinner in the oven, and was waiting for my husband to come home. A man knocked at the door, and I answered. Back then, people walked from door to door selling things. Door to door salesmen, that’s what they called them. We didn’t have the internet, or cell phones, for that matter.”

I grinned at the thought of living back in the day, and not having all of the distractions of the modern world. Life would be so much different, for sure.

“He was selling vacuum cleaners. I wanted to tell him we couldn’t afford one, but to be really honest, I was interested in seeing what it was capable of. A Kirby. That’s what they called it. Nothing, he said, could get my house cleaner than a Kirby. I had almost an hour to spare before my husband was to get home, so I agreed to see his demonstration.”

“Was it as good as he said?”

She shook her head. “We never got that far. He closed the door, locked it, and then he raped me.”

My heart sank. I had no idea that’s where she was headed with her story. “I’m so sorry.”

She smiled a faint but genuine smile and continued. “I felt guilty. For letting him in, you know. I felt responsible, because I was wearing the skirt that my husband liked so much, and though if I had chosen a pants suit, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.”

She didn’t seem upset at all talking about it, but I felt terribly sorry for her nonetheless. To think of someone doing something like that to an unsuspecting housewife was horrible. I stared back at her, at a complete loss for words.

“Mood swings, fits of anger, anxiety, and periods of having less than zero self-esteem followed. It lasted for years. We were trying to have a child at the time, so, I told my husband I needed to go to the doctor. I went that day and got help. I talked to someone like me, a counselor. And, here I am. I’ve spent my entire life helping people like you and me.”

“Thank you. For everything.”

“So, if I told you now that I knew how you were feeling, would you believe me?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Are you ready to talk, Peyton?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “I am.”