Mistrust (42 page)

My eyes blink open and I feel like death. My entire body vibrates with a dull ache, from my head right down to my toes. It feels like death’s hand has reached inside me, and squeezed the life out of my heart. Anguish and misery run deep through my blood.

Turning over I look around my room. Dad’s fallen asleep in the chair he dragged in here. His head is hanging to the side, and his legs are spread wide while his arms hang to his sides.

Abruptly, I throw the covers off and Dad springs awake, wiping his chin in case he’s drooled. “Sweetheart,” he says in a deep, grumbly voice. He blinks rapidly, yawns then scrubs his hand over his face. “How are you feeling?” He stands to stretch then sits again, focusing his attention on me.

“Like I’ve been dragged for ten miles by a fast train.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit up.

“You look like it,” Dad sympathetically says.

“I hate to say it, but so do you.” The corner of my mouth pulls up in a tiny smirk.

“Let’s go have breakfast.” Last thing I want to do is eat.

When I stand, Dad comes to me and hugs me, kissing me on the top of my head. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” I say.

“I’ll get your breakfast ready.”

Once I’ve finished in the bathroom, I drag my heavy limbs out to the kitchen, where Sam, Mom, and Dad are all talking quietly. The moment Sam sees me, she stands and envelops me in a hug. “I’m here for you, you know that, right?”

“I know. And if it wasn’t for you, I don’t think I could’ve survived this.”

Dad brings over a coffee for himself and an orange juice for me. “I’ll make some breakfast,” Mom says, coming over to hug me, then Sam.

It doesn’t take long for the conversation to turn to the events of last night. Once Mom places cereal, milk, toast and butter on the table, she comes to sit with the rest of us.

Nausea hits me.

“I have to ask you something, Dakota,” she says biting on her lip. I can see this is making her uncomfortable, but after everything they heard and saw last night, there’s nothing left they don’t know.

“Can I ask something first?”

“What is it?”

“The police didn’t ask about the underwear I was wearing that night.”

“We told them what you told us,” Dad responds. “They also said last night, if they need anything more from you, they’ll be in touch.”

“Okay.” I sip on my orange juice, although really, I’m not hungry or thirsty. “What did you want to ask, Mom?”

“Oh God, I don’t know how to ask this, but we need to know what we’re dealing with and how we’re going to handle the situation.” I frown and my mind immediately dreads whatever question she’s going to ask. “Have you had your period?”

My mind snaps.

Oh my God.
My heart shatters.

I look down to my glass of orange juice, broken and humiliated even further. “We need to know, Dakota so we can decide what the next step is
if
you are.” My hands go to my stomach, resting on it protectively. I don’t know what I’d do if I was faced with having to deal with yet another obstacle. I simply don’t know.

I shake my head. “I’ve had my period twice since that night,” I whisper while still looking at the inoffensive glass of orange juice. There’s a collective sigh around the table. I look up to find Mom weeping quietly, and Dad gives me a weak, broken smile. I can tell he’s trying to show me unwavering strength. But when you think your daughter could either have contracted a disease, or become pregnant as a result of an assault, I’m sure that’s enough to break even the mightiest of heroes.

“Okay,” Mom says, nodding her head. “Okay.”

Sam’s hand finds mine and she links our fingers, squeezing me. “Dad, why aren’t you at work?” I ask curiously.

“Because without this,” he makes a circular movement around the table, “My life is not worth living. My family is the most important thing in the world to me. Your welfare, all of yours, comes before work.”

“Dad, what if they fire you?” Sam asks with deep concern in her voice.

“I called my boss and told him I need some time off for my family. I’ve got some time up my sleeve, and I told him I need to take some of it.”

“Phew,” I breathe. “I’m sorry to make you use your leave, Dad.”

“Don’t be. I’m not.”

“I did some research last night and again early this morning. I’ve managed to get you an appointment with a counselor today. She’s a woman, her name is Tara, and she specializes in traumas like yours. I called her this morning, hoping to get her early and she said she had a cancellation late last night and can fit you in at four this afternoon.”

“Already? It’s too soon.” I don’t want to go. I don’t want to be on display and prodded by everyone. I already feel like I’m a caged animal, slowly creeping back and forth waiting for the door to open so I can run for freedom.

“It’s not too soon, Dakota. We need to get you help so we can all—especially you—start processing and dealing with it. Most importantly, you need to heal. This is the only way to move forward.”

“I don’t need it. You can all help me. I don’t need a damn shrink!” I protest angrily.

Mom takes a deep breath and looks me straight in the eyes. “Okay, I want to ask you something.”

“What is it?” I try and calm down.

“Remember with the last car we had and it broke down? It was that really hot day, I had groceries in the back and it wouldn’t start. We had to get it towed to the mechanic.”

“I remember that,” I say.

“Did Dad or I try to fix it?”

“Well, no. You don’t know anything about cars.”

“That’s right. We don’t know anything about cars, which is why we leave these things to people who’ve studied and do have the knowledge. It’s exactly the same with the counselor, Dakota. She’s studied, and knows how to help you move forward. All we can do . . .” Mom points to herself, Sam, and Dad, “ . . . is support you and be here for you when you need to cry, when you need to scream, and when you simply need us.”

I nod my head in understanding. When Mom breaks it down like that, she’s right. If I don’t get the proper help now, I may not be able to move on with my future. I might get stuck in the past, always full of resentment and hate that may end up ruining my life.

“I get it,” I say. “And I’ll go wherever you need me to go.”

Mom leans over and offers me her hand. Letting go of Sam, I reach across and take it. “We need to go to the doctor first, Dakota. And that appointment is at two.”

I turn to look at the clock and see it’s nearing midday. “Okay. I might go lie down for a while before we go. I’m feeling flat.”
Weak.

“Okay, darling. I’ll come wake you up in about an hour.”

I head into my room, and grab my phone from my table. Opening it up I see there are numerous messages and phone calls from Reece. They all have the same general theme of, ‘is everything okay?.’ Each message gets more desperate, and every voicemail has the same urgency as his messages.

I dial his number and he picks up on the fourth ring. “Dakota, are you okay?” he asks in a panic.

“Yeah,” I sigh as I lie back on my bed.

“What’s happened? Are you safe? Are you okay? Your dad looked really angry yesterday and I was calling because I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” My voice is flat and lifeless. “They know.”

I wait for Reece to take in what I said. It takes him an entire minute before he finally comprehends my comment. “Shit. How? What happened?”

“Someone at Dad’s work told him.” I have to be careful what I say, because the police are investigating it and I can’t say much in case I slip up and hinder the process. “Anyway, I can’t say much, but I’m safe, and I’m okay.”

“Well.” He clicks his tongue to the roof his mouth, and then grumbles something inaudible. “As long as you’re okay. Can I see you today?”

“I can’t today, Reece. I really don’t feel like I have the energy for company, and besides there are some things going on here.”

“What? Maybe I can help.”

“Trust me, if I could tell you, I would, but I can’t.”

“Dakota, please.”

“Don’t ask me to do something I can’t. I promise you, Reece, I’m okay and my family is looking after me. Maybe on the weekend you can come over if you still want to.”

“Of course I want to,” he replies with frustration in his voice.

“Can we talk tomorrow? Seriously my head is pounding and I need to have a rest before I go to my first appointment.”

“What’s the appointment for?”

Crap.
I don’t want to tell him. “Just a thing.”

Frustrated he mumbles more into the phone. “One day, will you tell me?”

“When I can, then yes. Of course I will.”

“Okay. Can you do me a favor?”

“What would you like?”

“I’m worried about you, Dakota. I know you said your parents are looking after you and of course I trust you, but can you message me later on? It makes me smile when I see your number, and it settles me down too.”

Aw, how damn sweet. “Sure, I’ll message you later.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” Looking up at my ceiling, I watch as the ceiling fan goes slowly around and around. I give myself over to the exhaustion clinging to my body. The blades of the fan make a soothing sound as they cut through the air. My eyes drift shut, and I fall asleep.

“You’ll feel a small sting and the needle will be in,” our Doctor says as he’s inserting the needle.

“I hate needles,” I say to Mom, who’s sitting beside me watching our doctor take blood.

“I don’t know of many people who enjoy them,” he says with a chuckle. “My daughter, she’s twenty-three, and still she hates them. But you’d never know, because she’s got tattoos everywhere. I once asked her why those needles are okay, but these aren’t. You know what she said, Dakota?”

“No,” I answer while breathing through this stupid blood test. “What did she say?”

“She said, at least with tattoo machines, they end up giving you something pretty on your skin. These needles do nothing to make you feel nice.”

“That can be argued. Because sometimes you need an antibiotic and the only way you can get it is through a needle, which in turn, eventually makes you feel nice . . . well normal.”

“You should have this argument with my daughter, Dakota. Right, I’m done. That didn’t hurt did it?”

I look over and he applies pressure with a cotton ball, and puts a Band-Aid over it. “That was painless.” I smile, rolling down the sleeve of my lightweight sweater.

“Now, about the HIV test. It’s slightly different to the tests for other sexually transmitted diseases. HIV has a longer incubation period, and it can take up to six months for it to show up in a test, which means you’ll need to be tested again in two months, then two months later, and again two months after that.”

“Six months?” I sigh. “Really? That long?”

“It’s a long process, and unfortunately there are no shortcuts. I suggest you refrain from any sexual activity.” I cringe and look away. “The blood system tries to fight any disease by making antibodies to it. The test looks for those antibodies and that process can take anywhere from two weeks to six months to get results. In the meantime, try to remain positive, Dakota.”

With the hand I’ve been dealt, I don’t know if I’m going to die an early death, or if I’m going to live to a ripe old age. He’s telling me to remain positive. How am I supposed to stay positive when I have to live the next six months worrying I may have a disease that could kill me?

”If I do have it, can I infect someone else?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer.

“The only way HIV can be spread is by the exchange of body fluids, most likely through sex. And Dakota, even if you do have HIV, the drugs these days are so much more advanced than what they were twenty years ago. People are living a lot longer and healthier.” I snarl at his word ‘healthier.’ “Trust me, we’ll get through this.”

I’ve got my head down, feeling self-pity and sorrow. I think I’m allowed to; this situation is horrendous. No one should ever go through this.

“Because the rape happened over two months ago, I won’t do a rape kit on you since all the evidence has been washed away now. But have you had any itching, or burning when you go to the bathroom?” I cringe when he says the ‘R’ word.

“No, nothing.”

“Any discharge or odor?”

“Nothing.”
Yuck.

“And you’ve done a pregnancy test?”

“No, but I’ve had my period twice since.”

“That’s great. We’ll still do the blood test to confirm you’re not.”

“But I’ve had my period,” I protest. “I can’t be pregnant. I’ve had it twice.”

“Usually, we’d say you’re fine and that’s okay. We’ll just make sure.”

“So I could be pregnant?” God help me, I can’t cope.

“Very unlikely. But there have been rare times where the woman will continue having a light period throughout her pregnancy.”

“You have to be kidding me. How long do I have to wait for those results?”

“I’ll get the results for the pregnancy test back tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I say with a deep sigh. “At least I’ll know something quickly.”