Butterfly (10 page)

‘From my mum. She was an amazing
cook.’

‘Was?’

She looks up, and I see sorrow
in her eyes, but not the hard grief that’s acute. It’s faded around
the edges with time, but it doesn’t stop me wanting to pull her
into my arms and stroke her fiery hair. Feel her warmth against my
chest and take all that pain away.

‘She died of breast cancer when
I was thirteen.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I think about Mia
again and my stomach clenches, as if I’ve just been landed with a
prize-winning kick.

‘Dad left us when I was about
six months old, so it was always just me and Mum. After she died,
the only family I had left was Aunt Imogen, who owns this shop. She
wasn’t exactly what you’d call maternal, but she was saddled with a
sad, hormonal thirteen-year-old girl, and I don’t think she knew
how to cope with me. She’d never been married and never had kids,
and she made it pretty clear I was a big inconvenience to her.’

‘It must’ve been really
tough.’

She sighs. ‘It was. I knew
Imogen didn’t love me. I don’t think she even liked me, really. She
was only interested in her business and playing golf. Maybe that’s
why I wanted to believe so much that Theo loved me.’

Theo. The guy who did that to
her? The bastard?

‘I craved love and attention, I
suppose. So I put up with things that weren’t right, because I
didn’t really know what love was anymore. Does that make me sound
pathetic and desperate?’

‘It makes you sound human. Deep
down, we all want to be loved. Sometimes it’s easy to fool yourself
that a relationship is right, even when it’s wrong. And it’s
understandable you felt like that. You were trying to look for
affection somewhere.’

‘But that was obviously my
downfall. If I’d recognized him for what he was, it would never
have happened.’ She shakes her head. Tears glisten in her eyes. ‘As
soon as I was twenty-one, Imogen knew her obligations to me were
over, and she retired to Spain to play golf.’

‘Did she leave you this shop,
then?’

‘Kind of. While I was still at
school, I had to work here at weekends to pay for my keep. Then
when I left, I started here full time and learnt how to bake, using
Mum’s recipes. Now, I have to give Imogen half of the profits.’

‘While you do all the work?’

‘Yeah. That’s Imogen all over.
But still, I’m just grateful I wasn’t taken into care when Mum
died. And I have a job that pays for the roof over my head.’

It’s obvious she’s upset about
it all, but she’s not bitter.

‘I just…wanted to tell you that,
because I know how hard it is to lose someone.’ She looks at me as
if she’s surprised at how much she’s revealed. A sad smile flicks
across her face before disappearing again. She lifts her hand from
the tea towel she’s clutching, and for a minute I think she’s going
to touch my arm. Try to give me the same kind of comfort I want to
give her. But her fingers hover in the air for a fleeting moment
before they’re back on the tea towel.

I nod my agreement. Suddenly I’m
drowning in her green eyes and can’t think of anything to say
because nothing seems good enough, and I’m not very good at small
talk. Her gaze holds mine for a while, and I see understanding in
those depths. I feel closer to her than anyone since Mia and I’ve
only known her a few days. I fight back the uncontrollable impulse
to run my fingertips down her cheek and touch her soft skin.

What the hell’s going on with
me?

‘Do you want some hot
chocolate?’ I blurt out.

She smiles. ‘I’d love some.’ She
folds the tea towel, puts it on the counter, and changes the open
sign to closed.

We sit in the same positions as
last night, drinking in silence.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ I
say after a few sips. I’m trying to delay drinking it so I can stay
here with her.

‘Another ciabatta?’ She grins.
‘I was thinking maybe I could add some sandwiches and stuff to the
menu, but it seems like a lot of extra work.’

‘No, it’s not more food.’ I
pause. ‘How did you feel after talking to me yesterday?’

She bites her lip again. ‘OK, I
guess.’

‘And you know it’s not your
fault now?’

‘Knowing it and believing it are
two different things.’

‘Which is why I wanted to give
you these.’ I reach into my bag on the floor, pull out two books,
and slide them across the table.

She looks down at them, then
picks up the one on top and reads the title aloud. ‘
A Rape
Survivor’s Memoir
.’

‘I thought it would help. You
probably feel isolated at the moment and that no one understands
what you’re going through. But identifying with others who’ve been
though the same things will let you know you can get through this,
and there is life after rape. It makes the feelings less scary.
’

She glances up.

‘I’ve read it. It’s a courageous
book. Inspiring,’ I say. ‘I think reading it will help you
appreciate and respect yourself as a survivor.’

‘Thanks.’ She puts it down and
picks up the other book. There’s no title on this one, and the
pages are blank. She frowns. ‘There’s nothing in it.’

‘It’s a journal. Writing down
your feelings is a healthy way to express and release everything
that’s trapped inside. It’s amazing how much getting it out of your
head and onto paper can help. It can make you less scared of what’s
going on, and it reduces its power over you, helps to purge the
emotions you’ve been keeping locked inside. So far, you’ve been
trying to push what happened to the back of your mind, just wanting
to forget about it, am I right?’

She nods.

‘The thing is, you know yourself
now that doesn’t work, because everything you’re trying to run away
from is in your head. Trying to ignore or suppress your thoughts
and feelings just makes things worse. All the pain and anger
festers away inside. If you try to deal with the past, you can
start to look forward, instead of constantly looking back.’ I pause
to let her take that in. ‘The key to healing is acceptance.’

‘But isn’t accepting that it
happened the same as saying it’s OK?’

‘Not at all. You have to accept
what happened because you can’t change it, and you can’t erase it
from your mind, however much you want to. If you don’t identify
what happened, you can’t get over it. So acceptance leads to
awareness of why you feel a certain way, and eventually it makes
you less fearful. Then understanding and recovery will follow. If
you don’t face the feelings, you can’t deal with the grief. Don’t
be scared of your thoughts about the rape. They can’t hurt you now;
they’re just thoughts. Instead, you can try analyzing them. Know
them for what they are—a normal response to trauma. It validates
the pain and helps you understand why you feel scared, angry, or
sad. The more you understand your feelings, the more equipped you
are to start dealing with them. Then you can change your responses
to more positive ones and start to rebuild your life.’

She strokes the journal with her
finger.

‘It’s also a way to chart your
progress through your recovery. You don’t have to show it to
anyone.’

I don’t tell her it’s my
journal. The journal I should write in but can’t bear to add my
story to. As a counsellor, I know all the tools I can use to heal,
but I can’t seem to do the things I’m telling her to do. It’s
easier to help other people than it is to help myself.

So what does that make me?

19

GRACE

‘You don’t have to write in it
if you don’t want to,’ he says. ‘It’s just there in case you
do.’

I place both hands over the
journal, as if trying to gather courage from pages that aren’t even
filled yet.

‘And there’s something else you
can do, too. Instead of blaming yourself and knocking your
self-worth, say positive things to yourself everyday. Affirmations
that make you feel good.’

‘Like what?’

‘Anything that makes you think
in a different way. A way that doesn’t damage you anymore.’ He
pauses for a while. ‘Love helps the healing process.’

‘Love,’ I whisper. I’m never
going to find love. I don’t deserve it.

‘Self-love. Instead of saying
negative things to yourself, look in the mirror and just say, “I
love you”.’

What is he talking about? How
can anyone do that? I don’t know whether to laugh or balk at
that.

‘I’m serious,’ he says. ‘Just
try it and see what happens. Repeat it over and over again, along
with positive messages to yourself like “I am strong”, “I can get
through this”, “I am a survivor”. These are all things I’d suggest
for anyone who has counselling. The more you tell yourself good
things, the more you’ll believe them.’

I avoid his eyes and look at the
floor. ‘But it’s so much easier to believe the bad things.’

‘I know, but it doesn’t mean
they’re true. No one said counselling is easy. But you’ve taken the
first step. Let’s just deal with it bit by bit.’ He bends his head
down so I have no choice but to look at him. ‘I’m right here with
you.’

The look he gives me is so
serene and sincere that I start to believe it’s really possible to
get past this and move on. I don’t know him well, but it feels like
I’ve known him for years, and telling him things seems almost
natural. There’s no one else I’d rather have right here with
me.

‘OK, I’ll do it,’ I say. ‘I’ll
give it a try.’

He smiles with relief. ‘Good.
You’re more than what happened to you, Grace. You’re what you
choose to be.’ He scrapes his chair back and stands up. ‘I’d better
head off, then.’

I’m disappointed he’s going. I
thought we could talk longer, but part of me is eager to get home
and make a start on this stuff.

I rinse the mugs and leave them
in the sink, then turn off the lights and lock up as he waits
outside the door. He walks me round the side of the building and
we’re close, almost shoulder to shoulder, but it’s not scary. It’s
just…comfortable.

‘Night, Grace,’ he calls as I go
up the steps.

A strange kind of warmth floods
through me at the way he says my name. I unlock the door and wave
to him. I don’t move inside until I’ve watched him retreating
through the car park and out of sight.

When he’s gone, I’m cold for
some reason.

I put the books on the floor,
and because the sight of them distracts me, I check each lock only
three times. I want to read this woman’s book. I want to know if
what Ben says is true.

Can I get through this, too?

I root around in the freezer and
find a frozen lasagne ready meal. As it’s nuking in the microwave,
I sit at the kitchen table with a glass of cold white wine and open
the book. By the time I hear a ping, signalling my dinner’s ready,
I’ve read five pages and my cheeks are already wet with tears. The
author’s voice is raw and passionate and, yes, courageous, like Ben
said. I can already tell she’s a fighter, a survivor, and I want to
be like her.

I read until two a.m., expecting
her book to spark off a panic attack. Our stories are different,
but the journey is the same. Her brother’s friend—someone she’d
known for years and never felt threatened by in any way—raped her.
The biggest thing that resonates with me is exactly what Ben
said.

It’s not my fault.

She overcomes blame,
self-loathing, depression, post-traumatic stress. Because of what
happened to her, she turned to drugs as a way to blot it all out.
It’s not until she meets a fellow survivor who helps her that she
begins heal again.

I look at the journal and wonder
what my story will be from here. It takes a few moments in your
life for things to go so desperately wrong. How long does it take
to make it right again?

To live with it?

To fight back and win?

I’m holding two things in my
hands right now. Hell and hope. It’s up to me which one I choose to
follow.

I get in bed with the journal,
pick up a pen, and scrawl my first words.

My name is Grace, and I was
raped.

It’s been a year, and I’ve tried
to forget. Tried to bury everything, but it’s still always there,
waiting for me. Taunting me. It won’t let go of its stranglehold.
I’ve been drowning in a secret ocean of shame, barely able to kick
my legs anymore and stay afloat. Existing in a cold, dark place.
Isolated. Terrified. Numb, but at the same time hyperaware of every
thought, every feeling. Tormented.

I’ve been unable to trust
anything anymore—my judgement, my sanity, not even a locked door.
Nothing feels safe.

I kept the nightmare to myself
because I thought I could keep that night there, in the past.
Secured in a tiny segment of my brain, so I wouldn’t have to
remember. But it’s not in the past. It’s everywhere. In everything.
I thought keeping silent would make me feel safe from the shame
that people would see in me, but silence doesn’t make it go away,
either.

I can’t fool myself anymore,
though. Can’t hide behind the mask I’ve built. Can’t convince
myself I’m over it. Can’t stay silent, because I know I’m falling
apart. I owe it to myself and my survival to face it now. I’m
alive…but not living, and what kind of life is that?

And now I’ve been offered a life
raft from the ocean. I’m choosing hope now, because I’m tired of
being in hell.

It’s a start. Admitting it to
myself is enough for now. I put the journal and pen back on my
bedside table and turn off the light.

Only when I’m drifting off to
sleep do I realize it’s the first night I haven’t sat in front of
the door with a knife in my hand.

20

BEN

I walk into the building and say
hi to the receptionist. She already knows me by now; I’ve been
coming here since I moved to Cambridge. Every week without fail or
I’d be in serious shit.