Damaged: A Violated Trust (Secrets) (21 page)

“It’s okay.”

“But I ruined it,” he says sadly. “I’m really sorry.”

“Really, it’s okay. Clay is totally reusable and very forgiving. If you ruin a pot during this stage, it’s no big deal.” I glance over to see Harris’s parents still standing there, looking like they want to kill me. “It’s after the pottery has been fired in the kiln that it hurts to mess with it.”

I point to my finished pots displayed nearby. “Now, if you dropped and broke one of those, I might not be too happy. That damage would be permanent and unfixable.” I throw the lump of clay into the slop bucket and smile at the boy. “But at this stage, I’ll just start over.” As I wedge a fresh piece of clay, I explain the process of removing the air bubbles and why this is so important.

“You mean it’d really explode in the kiln,” the curly haired boy asks, “like a
bomb
?”

I nod as I slam the ball of clay onto the wheel — bull’s-eye. “Yes, and the exploding pot wouldn’t be the only one ruined. It would probably damage all the other pottery sitting around it.” I glance back up at the woman. “Kind of like when someone does something bad, like breaking the law, and everyone around him ends up suffering because of it. It’s not fair, but that’s just how it goes.”

The woman blinks in surprise. But the next time I look up, the couple has moved past my station. Meanwhile the kids stay on, talking about everything from exploding bombs to the case of a neighbor’s stolen dog. I am grateful for their friendly company.

Toward the end of the event, Ms. Flores and Dad come over. “I told your dad I’d let you take a break,” she says to me. “So you can show him around a little. Sound good?”

I nod and wipe my hands on a rag. “My shoulders are starting to ache.” As I clean up, Dad and Ms. Flores chat congenially, almost like they’re old friends, and I realize how nice it is to see Dad with a woman who’s not only intelligent and good but also closer to his age. Not that I’m playing matchmaker, but it is reassuring.

I show Dad around and even introduce him to some of my friends like Zach and Poppie. Then as we’re getting a snack at the “coffeehouse,” I tell him about the couple I suspect was Harris’s parents and how they gave me the icy treatment.

“Are they still here?” Dad glances around as if he’d like to have a word with them.

“I don’t see them now.”

“Probably a good thing.”

All in all, the fall art fair turned out to be surprisingly fun. Despite the moment of discomfort with Harris’s parents, I enjoyed myself. And by the time Dad and I are driving home, I feel stronger. Maybe this battle will be won by baby steps — one at a time.

However, I’m learning that recovering from rape is a slow and unpredictable process. Later on, awakened in the middle of the night, I’m so shaken and frightened that hot tears stream down my cheeks and I feel sick to my stomach. I barely remember details of the nightmare — just the very real sensations of suffocation, pure fear, and complete desperation. But I know it was about the rape … and all I can do is pray, begging God to hold me in his arms and comfort me.

……….

Zach turns out to be right about a couple of things. For one, Ben Stiles does turn out be a fantastic quarterback. He joins the varsity team and continues leading them through a nearly perfect season and then on to state, where Mitchell takes third place. Already there is talk of college scholarship possibilities for Ben, and no one disputes the fact that he has far more athletic potential than Harris.

The other thing Zach was mostly right about is that everyone at school really has seemed to move on. Other than Emery and a few of her closest friends, no one is treating me much like poison now. Not that I have any desire to be around those kids anymore. I have my own circle of friends now — a combination of art and music kids — and a place where I can be myself.

Mrs. Evanston, true to her word, did locate a counselor from the women’s crisis center, and so far she’s helped with three group counseling sessions where I actually stepped up to the task and acted as the leader. Fortunately, Bonnie (the counselor) handles the tough stuff. I just organize things, make sure the girls know about it, and get snacks brought in. The first meeting only has three girls, including me, but to my surprise it’s a girl who wasn’t even raped by Harris who opens up.

“It was a neighbor boy who raped me,” Elise tells us with lowered eyes. “I was only thirteen when it happened. He was in high school and I couldn’t believe he was being so nice to me. And even though my mom told me not to spend time with him, I honestly believed he really liked me. I know now that it was dumb. He was just grooming me, telling me what he knew I wanted to hear … so he could get what he wanted.”

She takes in a deep breath. “He asked me to show him the playhouse in our backyard, and I stupidly took him out there.” She shudders. “And you know what happened after that.”

“Did you tell?” I ask her. “Was he arrested?”

She shakes her head no.

“You have to tell,” I urge her. “You can’t let him get away with that, Elise.”

She looks up with tearful brown eyes. “But it’s been more than two years.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Bonnie tells her. “You still need to report it. You might be able to prevent someone else’s victimization.”

“What happened after you were raped?” the other girl asks. “I mean, did it ever happen again?”’

“No way!” Elise’s eyes darken. “I would never let him … even if he wanted to. I hate him.”

Bonnie takes over, explaining the steps Elise needs to take. And she talks about the stages of grief that happen after an experience like that. Something about Elise’s vulnerability as she told her story helps us to chime in too, and by the end of the first session, Elise actually seems encouraged. We all hug and promise to come back next week.

Thanks to word-of-mouth “advertising,” our numbers double in our second meeting. And by our third meeting ten girls are present. The purpose of the meetings is to give girls a forum to talk and learn and form a kind of solidarity. And I’m surprised at how airing our stories makes everyone feel better. It’s like a load gets lifted from our shoulders.

Elise takes Bonnie’s advice by filing a police report. It takes about a month before a small group of girls complete police reports regarding Harris. According to the district attorney, the case against Harris is getting stronger all the time and, if all goes well, his trial is expected to be scheduled for after the new year.

I try not to think about that because I have to testify and I’m still not sure how I’m going to handle that. But having our group therapy sessions is making me stronger every time. And knowing that I won’t be the only one testifying is hugely reassuring. There truly is comfort in numbers.

Still, if I could just bury the whole thing without anyone else getting hurt and pretend that none of this ever happened to me, I gladly would. It’s not easy surviving something like that. Fortunately, I don’t think about it all the time. Sometimes I go a whole day without thinking about it. Then, sometimes, just when I think I’m doing better, I experience another horrible dream. I wake up sweating and shaking and frightened, and I am reminded — like a slap in the face — that it was real. All too real.

Occasionally something happens at school where I suddenly feel self-conscious and insecure and just plain negative about myself — as if I really am damaged beyond repair. But then I try to remember that God is able to fix me. At least that’s what I’m trying to believe. Sometimes it seems too good to be true.

...[CHAPTER 19].................

A
s it gets closer to Christmas, I am feeling much stronger, and I ask Dad if we can invite my brother to join us for the holidays.

“I’d love to have Sean come down here,” he tells me. “But Sean hasn’t been speaking to me.”

“What if I call him and ask?” I suggest.

“Great. And if you can talk him into coming, I’ll pay for his plane ticket.”

So after school I make the call. Naturally, my mom is the one who answers. As usual, she sounds grumpy … and pious. “My ladies’ group has been praying for you. They’re all very worried about your spiritual well-being, Haley. You and your father are in a dangerous place.”

For a moment I consider really shocking her by telling her about the rape, but it would probably just blow up in my face. Instead I tell her about how Dad and I are going to church now. “We really like it,” I say cheerfully. “It’s kind of like our old church, only bigger. And the youth group is really great. I’ve made some good friends.”

“Oh.” There is a long silence and I think maybe I’ve given her something to think about.

“Anyway, I wanted to talk to Sean. Is he around?”

“Of course he’s around. Where else would he be? All he does is watch violent movies and play video games.”

I want to question why she allows that in her house but don’t want to rock Sean’s unstable world too much. After a long wait, Sean comes to the phone. “Hey, Hay,” he says in a depressed tone.

“Hey, Sean. I miss you, bro!”

“Miss you too.” Still flat, depressed, broken.

“I’m really enjoying being down here with Dad. He’s really changed, Sean. In good ways, I mean. And we’d love it if you could come down and visit for a while during Christmas. Do you want to?”

“I don’t know.”

“You know Mom doesn’t really celebrate Christmas anymore,” I remind him. “So it’s not like you’ll be missing anything. And our church is going to have a cool service, and the music is really good.”

“I don’t know …” he says again.

“Please, Sean. Will you do it for me? I’d love to have at least part of our family together. And Dad will pay for your plane ticket.”

“A plane ticket?” For some reason this seems to pique his interest — like he knows Dad is serious about wanting him to visit.

“Yeah. And we’ll plan some fun things to do while you’re here. I don’t think you’ll be sorry.”

“Well, I guess I could go down there, just for a few days anyway.”

“Great!” Now we go over when he should fly down and how long he should stay, and I promise to get back to him. “I can’t wait to see you, Sean!”

“Yeah …” Flat voice again. “Me, too.”

By the end of the day, Dad’s booked Sean a flight and I e-mail the information to him. Then I spend a couple afternoons cleaning the condo, getting it ready for Sean. I even put up Christmas decorations, and Dad and I get a tree and do some Christmas shopping.

“I want this to be Sean’s best Christmas since getting home from Iraq,” I tell Dad. “It’s like he’s missed out on so much. Maybe it will make a difference to him.”

Dad smiles sadly. “Just don’t get your hopes up too high.”

“I won’t. Mostly I’ll just be glad to see him. Poor guy, he deserves a break from Mom.”

“I wish your mom could get a break too.” Dad shakes his head. “From herself anyway.”

……….

Sean arrives two days before Christmas, and he actually seems a tiny bit more like his old self as he tells us about the turbulence on the flight. Maybe the flight shook something into him. To celebrate Sean’s homecoming, Dad takes us out to dinner. I try not to cringe when I realize he’s taking us to the same steak-house where Harris took me — back in another lifetime. But Sean seems to appreciate it and orders a humongous steak, which he easily consumes.

“Looks like you’ve been building up an appetite,” Dad tells him.

Sean shrugs. “Mom doesn’t cook much anymore.”

There’s a long silence and I know we’re all thinking pretty much the same thing, but what can we say?

“Tonight we’re going to watch
It’s a Wonderful Life,”
I say just to get the conversation going again. “Remember how we used to love it?”

Sean shrugs again. “I guess.”

It’s pretty quiet on the way back, and I’m thankful we have an activity to do together tonight. When we get home, I make microwave popcorn and put out the plate of brownies I made yesterday, and to my relief, Sean seems almost happy to be with us — and to be here.

As we watch the movie, he loosens up some, and I can tell by his expression that he’s really getting into it. And when the scene comes up where George Bailey is about to jump off the bridge, Sean starts crying.

Dad grabs the remote and turns off the TV and we both turn to Sean. “Do you need to talk, son?” Dad asks softly.

Sean just shakes his head. “No one would understand.”

I’ve heard him say this same thing before … many times. But this time, I decide to challenge him and I actually stand up. “You know what? You might be surprised at what I would understand.”

Dad nods, leaning back as if to give me the floor.

“Really?” Sean’s tone is skeptical. “In your sixteen and a half years, living as a protected princess, you think you can relate to what I’ve been through?”

“Not completely, Sean. But you might be surprised to hear that I’m being treated for PTSD.”

He does look surprised. “What for? Did you get a bad grade in algebra?”

I take in a deep breath, then begin telling him about being raped. I don’t go into all the details but share just enough to get his attention.