Mistrust (41 page)

“They can be, if it makes you more comfortable. We’ve already talked, and they’ve said they’ll do whatever you need them to. But how about we talk for now, maybe you can tell me what happened, and if it’s okay with you, we’ll record it so we don’t forget anything. Is that okay, Dakota?” Andrea is so gentle and sweet. She’s not talking
at
me, or trying to force me to say anything at all. She’s simply waiting for me to open up to them.

“I can do that.”

She takes a small recorder out of her pocket and shows it to me. I squint at the old thing. “I know, it’s dark ages old. But it’s still accurate.”

“In TV shows I’ve seen, the police usually make the person go to the police station, and they sit in a room while the interview gets recorded.”

“We can do that, but in these types of cases, we try to make things as comfortable for the victim as possible. Under stress, you may forget something and in our experience, we’ve found having the support of your family works best.”

“What type of detectives are you?”

“There’s a whole team of us who specialize in trauma victims.”

“Trauma?” I question.

“We look into a lot of situations similar to yours.”

“Oh,” I answer. My shoulders tighten and I begin to think how many situations there are similar to mine. My mind goes to the statistics they were giving us at school. Forty-four percent of girls under the age of eighteen are sexually assaulted. I shiver. That number is so high it’s nothing short of horrible.

“I’m going to start the recorder and we can begin. Okay?” Tracey asks. She presses a button on the recorder, places it between us, and smiles. “What we have to do is identify you. Your name, age, what school you go to, things like that before we continue with the events of that night. Is that okay with you?” I nod my head. “You need to speak, so we can get it all on this.” She taps the recorder.

“Oh, sorry. Okay.”

Andrea and Tracey both ask me questions, and they have an incredibly soothing quality about them. They ask me questions in their simplest form, without trying to trick me or make me stumble.

They’re very easy to talk to, and they don’t trivialize anything I tell them. They’re listening to me, and I’m overcome by the most amazing feeling of validation.

“Can you tell me what you did with the dress you were wearing?”

I shudder and slump over, curling in on myself. “I hid it,” I say.

“Where did you hide it?” Andrea asks.

“I was waiting to put it in the trash, but it’s in my closet, in a box right at the back.”

Andrea and Tracey both smile at me. “Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, can you come in here please?” Tracey calls. Mom and Dad appear in the hallway, Dad with his arm around Mom, and Mom still clutching a tissue. “Is it okay with you if I go to Dakota’s room with her and one of you please? Dakota’s kept the dress she wore that night.”

I look between them all, trying to understand what she wants. “Do you want the dress?” I ask.

“Yes, we do.”

“I can go get it.” I stand and start heading to my room.

“Dakota, we need to be in there with you, just to make sure we handle this right. But we need your parents’ permission, and we need them to witness what happens.”

“Oh,” I respond.

“Of course, please.” Dad sweeps his hand out, indicating the direction of my room.

Dad, Tracey, and I all go into my room, where I uncover the box and start to open it. “We’ll wait until we get back in the family room.” Tracey smiles. I hand her the box, but she shakes her head at me.

I find it strange, but we all head back out, me carrying the box. Andrea is standing beside the coffee table, pulling gloves on. “Come over here, Dakota.” She points beside her. I go to her, with the box still in my hands.

“Before you open it, tell us what you’ve put in the box.” She points to the box but keeps her intense gaze on me.

“My prom dress.”

“Did you wash it before you put it in here?”

“No. I took it off when I got home and shoved it in there. It makes me sick even thinking about it and how it looked.”

“Okay, can you put the box on the coffee table, and open it up please?” I do as they ask, and then place the lid on the table. Tracey picks up the recorder, describing every detail of the dress, from its color to how it looks. When she finishes describing the dress, she looks at Andrea who takes the dress out of the box and lifts it so it’s completely visible.

“Oh God,” I mumble, horrified at the state of it. I feel two sets of hands on me; Mom to my right, Dad to my left. Both of them embrace me while they watch what I’m seeing.

The dress is ripped, torn, with grass and blood stains on it. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” Mom whispers. “I should’ve been there for you.”

I shake my head at her. My emotions are colliding inside me. Sickness, shame, disgust . . . everything is dancing off each other.

Tracey describes everything on the dress. Every tear, every stain, every discoloration. Andrea turns the dress inside out and there are huge patches of dried blood. “Oh God.” I bury my head in my hands, unable to look at or listen to anything else they’ll point out.

Suddenly my heart tugs in one direction, my stomach roils in another and all the contents of my stomach are on their way up. “I can’t.” I grab my mouth to stop the vomit coming out and run for the toilet.

Barely making it, I flip the lid and lose everything I had in my stomach. Numerous sets of footsteps follow me in. Mom and Dad are both apologizing as they fall to their knees beside me. They grab me, sheltering me while crying.

Dad keeps repeating the same words, “We’re so sorry.”

I pull back, and look at my parents. Dad’s a strong man, but even he’s broken by the state of my dress and what it means.

“I can’t imagine how difficult this has been for you. How much you’ve had to hide. I’m so sorry, Dakota. I wish I’d been there for you that night. No fucker would’ve put his hands on you. Done
that
to you.” He points toward the family room, indicating my dress.

“We’ll get through this, as a family. We’ll get through it.” Mom’s now the strong one and Dad’s a mess.

It takes a lot for my Dad to cry. The dress was the final straw to break his strong personality.

We stand together and once I’ve washed my mouth and brushed my teeth, we all head back out to the police officers. The dress is back in the box, and the box itself is sealed with yellow tape proclaiming ’EVIDENCE.’

“Are you okay, Dakota?” Andrea asks as she approaches me and rubs my back.

“I am.” I smile weakly at her, although the tears are on the verge of falling.

“As you can see, I’ve placed the dress back in the box and sealed it. We need to take it to run DNA tests on it. We also need DNA from you. There are a number of ways we can do that. A blood test, or a few strands of hair. But with consent from you and your parents, we’d like to do one right now called a buccal smear.”

“What’s that?” I ask, now I’m even more nervous than before. It sounds so invasive.

“It’s a small cotton swab, and we use it to collect a sample of cells from the inside of your cheek. All you need to do is open your mouth, and we do the rest. It doesn’t hurt; it’s completely pain-free,” Andrea says.

“Here’s the swab,” Tracey says, holding up something that looks like an extra-long Q-tip.

“If you want to do this, we’re okay with it,” Dad says, looking to Mom who nods her head in agreement.

“Okay.”

“Come sit beside me, Dakota,” Tracey says. She takes another pair of latex gloves out, and once they’re snugly fitted she takes one of those swab things out. Andrea has another bag, and is writing my name and date of birth on it. Nervously, my eyes flicker between them, trying to watch them both at the same time.

“What I’m doing is putting all your information on it, so it doesn’t get mixed up when it gets to the lab,” Andrea says.

“Okay.”

“Now if you can turn this way for me, and open your mouth as wide as you can, I’ll swab the inside of your cheek.” I follow her instructions and before I know it, it’s over. “See, that wasn’t scary, was it?” I shake my head.

”Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, could you take a seat please.”

Mom and Dad sit beside me, one on either side.

“Have you been sexually active since that night?” Andrea asks me.

“What? No. I . . . yuck. Oh my God,
no way.
” I shudder.

“You’ll need to get a blood test, to make sure you’re clean and safe.”

Clean and safe? What the hell?
“Huh?” My brows draw together and my mouth drops open. “What does that mean?” There’s a stillness inside my mind. It’s blank and calm, no thoughts processing. “Huh?” I say again.

“Dakota, you need make sure you don’t have a sexually transmitted disease,” Andrea says as gently as she can to not to freak me out.

But freaking out is exactly what’s happening. “Sexually transmitted disease?” I repeat. “Like AIDS?”

“Any type of disease,” she says, trying to get me to look beyond the terrifying fact I may have AIDS.

“I might have AIDS,” I say slowly, my breath matching my words. “Fuck,” I whisper, stunned by the enormity of everything into uttering that curse while sitting between my parents.

“It’s routine, and you should get yourself checked to make sure you’re all clear. If nothing else, for your own piece of mind.” Andrea places her hand on my thigh and gives me a comforting squeeze.

The next while is spent with me in a state of non-comprehension. I can hear them talking, they’re discussing what’s going to happen next and what we should do. Dad tells them about the pictures on social media, how the son of his work colleague was added to a group and he recognized me from a company picnic we’d both attended. He’d shown his dad, who in turn showed my dad.

I can barely think about anything beyond the possibility of me having a sexually transmitted disease. My entire future hangs in the balance of a blood test.

The calm inside me slowly recedes, hot lava replacing the control I had. He took my virginity, ripping it away before I could give it to someone of my choosing, and experience that special moment for myself. Now he continues to humiliate me by sharing personal photos that were taken when I was unconscious on social media. And today, I learn I may have a life sentence with a deadly disease.

My anger is starting to reach a boiling point. Inside me, something snaps. I want to shout, scream, yell at whoever did this. I want to kill them, to have them hurt as much as they’ve hurt me.

Abruptly I stand and head out the back door toward our pool. I fall to my knees and tear at my hair. Pain flares through me, making me feel alive. But I don’t want to be alive. I want to die. I ball my hands into fists and start punching my leg, my other arm, anywhere I can so I stop breathing.

“Dakota!” Dad yells to me.

Hot tears fall down my cheeks. I can barely breathe while I continue to beat myself. I can’t handle this, the pressure the humiliation, all of it.

“Dakota!” Dad’s arms are around me as he pulls me up to stand and crushes me to his body. “Stop, stop,” he whispers in my ear.

I fight him with whatever I can, my legs are kicking and I’m doing anything to cause physical pain, I need to make myself hurt. “I’m not worthy,” I cry as Dad tries to hold my arms down. “I’m not worth anything.”

“Stop it, darling, please stop.” He kisses my cheek and holds me to him.

My tears don’t stop, but I’m losing all my energy. I collapse against Dad and he holds me solidly. “Let me go,” I cry in the smallest of voices.

“Never, darling. Never.” In a split second he spins me around, and nestles my head to his chest. My tears don’t stop. They have no cut-off mechanism.
Will I ever stop crying?
Dad kisses my forehead and weaves a hand up to cradle the back of my head. He holds me firm, letting me use his strength.

“Will the pain ever stop?” I ask.

Dad’s arms are like a vise, not letting me go. “One day it will,” his voice sounds strangled, like he’s crying.

We stay out in the garden for a long time. Finally, I give up. A massive ache pounds inside my head. There’s a stabbing pain behind my eyes, while at the base of my skull, a pulsing, splitting throb jabs away insistently.

“I’m tired,” I whisper. Tired of everything.

Dad picks me up, swinging my legs over his arms and carries me into my room. He places me on the bed, tucks me in and kisses my cheek. My eyes close on their own. My brain turns off. And my body rejects this horrible thing called life.

“Shhh, I’ll take care of you. I’ll take care of you real good.”

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” I yell as I sit up in bed, kicking the blankets off me.

“Dakota?” Dad turns on the lamp and sits up in his chair. He looks at me and jumps up, rubbing his eyes, and comes straight to me.

“What’s happening?” I ask, looking around the slightly illuminated room, dazed and confused.

“You were having a nightmare.” He hugs me, and soothes my hair while gently kissing my forehead.

“What are you doing in here?”

“It’s best I stay with you, especially tonight, when you’ve relived everything and your emotions are so high. I need to make sure you’re okay, sweetheart.”

“You don’t have to stay, Dad. I’ll be okay.”

I feel him smile against my forehead. “I know you’ll be okay, but I want to.”

My head’s still spinning and thumping away. “My head hurts,” I say as my eyes close and I relax against Dad.

“Go to sleep, I’ll be here all night.”

My eyes close. A warm black curtain shrouds me, whispering a soft lullaby, and encouraging me to let go and sleep.

I do, welcoming the void with open arms.