Precise (20 page)

S
ometime during February, I stumble across my diary from last year. Most of the dates blur—1 January, 3 January, 11 February—until one date snags my attention. 17 March. It’s Paul’s anniversary in a month’s time.

Cold burns scald my spine as I hold the page open in my diary. My neck is stiff when I roll it, so I get up to feed the goldfish that are gawping at their reflections in the glass.

Ella wanted a fluffy thing like Roxy for our home. I wanted the company, too. A dog may be nice but buying goldfish was the subtle pre-test to see if Ella was ready.

So far, they haven’t missed a single day of being fed. And I haven’t contributed to feeding them since the first day we picked them up, so it’s all her. She’s dedicated, far more than I expected for a seven-year-old.

Today, however, I need to do something to get me out of the diary, and this is it. Only, I can’t remember how much to feed them. I pinch the fish flakes and sprinkle them over the water. They stick to the surface like falling snowflakes. Then their weight pulls them under, and the fish start gobbling.

Oh, God, I have overfed them
, is my thought. The flakes cover half of the tank—surely that’s more than the pet shop lady recommended? Fast forward a second and I’m fingering the fish tank, thinking that someone watching would think I’ve lost it, cupping the water, perhaps trying to strangle the fish.

I should stick to the diary. Paul died of natural causes, remember? I couldn’t help him.
Don’t avoid
.

I slow my breathing and tell myself I’m fine, to calm. As my mind and nerves unwind, a distant shot of me forms. Like I am now, my hands scavenging only I’m not paddling through a fish tank. I reached for a bottle in an esky and guzzled an alcoholic drink.

This looks like me at . . . Tim’s party. But I haven’t read through any of the winter months in last year’s diary yet.

Even if I did, I know I didn’t write this down.

July/August was when I wrote about my repressions, every issue. I have no reason for recollection problems now like I had during the worst of my PTSD.

I race back to the table and start flicking. I find an entry from
that
day, when I went to the park with Ella. I re-read my comment.

Remembered something else from the park, from that night. Ella swinging on the monkey bars reminded me of Cooper. Something weird happened.

I recall Ella looping her hands over every other bar, the same as Cooper.

He grabbed my waist and kissed me. I’m glad to say that I didn’t dwell on that memory. Ella and I played for . . .

I cut myself off the rest of that sentence. I don’t care for the swings or feeding the ducks. It sort of pales in comparison to this new recollection.

At the time, trying to get perspective on what I imagined was there—Paul, the voices, the burning in my throat, chlorine—and what was only imagined (all of them) was like trying to separate an egg white into two clean halves.

Back then, when I let nightmares take over me, the frequency of triggers and flashbacks multiplied. Memories like the recollection at the park were too messy to divide, so I started afresh. I threw away the stiff elastic band to start with a stretchy one.

Wiping all the bad and starting anew had been what I needed. Back then.

Seven months after the party, I have enough space to assess my memory like the distance an editor has to a new manuscript.

I press my knuckles to my temples and whisper silent curses. How could I have been so silly? What other memories didn’t I recall? No, it wasn’t my fault. I was taking things one at a time, not overloading myself because my mind and nerves couldn’t take it any longer.

Sighing and pressing down my dress, another memory comes at me. I’m in my navy blue dress.

Shocked, I step away from the table. My dress catches on a table corner, highlighting my lacy underwear.

Dress pushed up. Underwear. Embarrassment.

A man’s hand.

This memory was waiting for the right triggers: blue dress, bare thigh, embarrassed, and a
functioning
memory. Maybe this sequence is a completed jigsaw puzzle: the key to what I need.

Okay, facts. I woke up with what I now remember as Marco’s brown sweater. However, the night starts and ends with Cooper Lucefic. The stares, the winks, the comments. Inevitably, the touching.

And . . . Brent warned me. Something like how Cooper could be “a bit much” and “causing trouble”. My knuckles contract, but anger pooling in me still escapes in a growl from my mouth. Why are these triggers coming back like this? Why can’t they, say, come once and whole?

And . . . Marco tried to warn me away from Cooper too.

I cover my gaping mouth with my hand. I can’t go back now. It’s clear I’ve been thinking my rapist was the wrong guy all this time.

Flashes from a conversation Marco and I had come to me. He was reserved, shy. He was like that in the park, too, always keeping a distance, careful with what he said to me. I remember the kindness of him wanting me to stay warm when he gave me his sweater, not my imagining that he wanted to “get in” with me. In these snippets, he’s fidgeting, mumbling.

Did I fictionalize his “evil” persona? Such an easy excuse to justify the blame. No matter how hard I flick through the memory snippets, Marco doesn’t pop up after the park.

Because.

Cooper called me. That’s why I remember meeting him under the monkey bars. Marco only wanted to chat. I blew him off.

The memory fades and a pressure connects me to the table. I’ve been swimming in my thoughts, forgetting that my dress is still caught. I lift the corner of the dress from the table. It comes away free. My hand brushes the inside of my thigh as I do this.

Yes!
A flash. I . . . no.

No,
no
.

Cooper’s hand was on my waist, his lips behind my ear and one leg wrapped around mine.

Bile rises in my throat, threatening to make me sick.

The scenery was swaying. My mind was gluggy and so in this memory, I couldn’t focus on what was around me. But my ears filtered party noises, so we must be back somewhere at Tim’s.

As I touch the hemming along the bottom of my dress, I remember it in Cooper’s fist, coiled with passion. His other hand was between my legs. It was so high I flinched, even though my other responses were slower by half.

I pick up my phone from the table and flip through contacts. I slow at the letter B and select Brent’s details. Before I call him, I double-check the evidence; I don’t want to accuse someone of raping me if I’m going to make myself look like a fool.

But how
foolish
of me not to see the clues earlier: the way Cooper scanned me over the moment I stepped in. It felt like he was spying on me.

His hands all over me.

The way he kept leaning in, even when I moved away.

Lowest of all, he tried to mask his evidence by drugging me.

He
drugged
me
.

I breathe in, hold my breath for a count and exhale. Repeat the process.

Cooper liked to get high, but in any case, I wouldn’t have accepted him all over me. It makes me flinch again thinking of where he shoved his fingers.

Those two men! In Tim’s backyard. They wanted something from Cooper. Were they his drug dealers? They’re little clues, but enough for me to see the possibility of Cooper’s power. The strength of his anger when he wanted to have me and I refused to give myself over.

I’m remembering more of the night, but still I can’t remember the time between Cooper pressed up against me on the brick wall and me in the bed with the memory of the actual rape, then between that time and waking.

With my phone in my hand, I have enough to coax more out of Brent. Then I could know the truth. Then I
could
damn Cooper.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Brent, I was wondering if you were free tonight to catch up? We could go for a coffee, maybe.”

“Oh, uh . . . sorry, Kates. I can’t. Just remembered I’m busy. Promised to see the bro.”

“Wasn’t Liam away for the budget planning trip until tomorrow afternoon?”

“Right, my bad. I’ve got so much going on right now.”

“Tonight then?” I scowl at myself for being too direct. Whatever happened to taking it easy? And what was I thinking, ringing him up randomly when we haven’t spoken in months?

“Sure, tonight,” he says.

I
pull the ends of my flimsy cardigan in tight, tensing as my chest quivers in the breeze. I guess the warm weather ended when the summer season passed.

“
Would you like to take a seat inside?” a second waiter asks me. This time I accept the offer, deciding it doesn’t matter if I meet Brent in or out of the café. What
does
matter is the difference between shivering until I turn purple, or snuggling into my cardigan, embracing the heat inside. I sit on the other side of the glass wall where the warmer air eases my muscles.

“Thanks, my friend shouldn’t be too long,” I tell the teenager who taps his pen against his notepad.

The next five minutes pass slowly, the seconds dragging along at half their usual speed. It’s funny how much has changed in eight months. I have a long way to go until my PTSD won’t affect me at all, but I don’t mind the rowdy children across the café, and the kissing couple? Good luck to them. Young love.

It’s weird how Liam and I are closer than Brent and I. Especially considering how at one stage Liam was the “other” brother.

At the time, I was ten. It was the first time I attempted kissing a boy. I lingered awkwardly and met Brent’s squishy, wet tongue before pulling back my own blushed cheeks. Fearless me even said, “That was
not
like in the movies.”

A year later, I tried the kissing thing again, but with Liam. My second attempt at tongue canoodling didn’t improve. However, I had seen one movie,
Dirty Dancing
, which I tried to imitate. I wasn’t able to hear any sounds of the movie with the volume muted, but I preferred that to an embarrassing smack. I learned two lessons: I had to slip my tongue in sideways (or so my tiny mind thought) and I should close my eyes before puckering up for the smooch.

It didn’t work. Luckily, Liam was younger than Brent and this made making an utter fool of myself slightly less embarrassing. Liam and I parted tight-lipped and pink-cheeked. We made a pact that day; we would remain best friends forever.

Some things didn’t change much, like my first kiss’s inefficiency to deal with time, and so I wait, wedged against the misty glass to see if I can spot the moment Brent’s shoulders swagger from the darkness.

Minutes later, I recognize them. There’s that carefree way he wears them high. As his pint-sized body grows larger, my eyes fall to the folder in front of me and I flip over the black cover. I hope he hasn’t seen me staring.

The menu is a clipboard thing. The list inside ranges from desserts to drinks and small entrees.

Someone clears his throat. I look up and hear the synonymous screech as Brent pulls out the wooden chair from the spot opposite me.

“Hi.” Brent dips his head

“How are you?”

“Not bad. Couldn’t find my keys, you know?” he says, jiggling his keychain in the air. “I can’t believe they were inside my pocket the whole time.” He shakes his head in an embarrassed way. “So sorry.”

“No problem. I was inside most of the time anyway,” I tell him, not wanting to evoke any guilt.

“Sorry, you’re a gem.”

“How’s your café going?”

I expect Brent to smile, relax, open up. Instead, he shuffles on his seat and mumbles something about foreclosure. I think it was a couple of months ago.

“I can’t believe how long it’s been since we’ve spoken,” I say, hoping the subject change averts any other awkward disasters.

“Oh yeah . . . better late than never. How are things . . . Ella?”

This feels like a kick to my gut. It’s all wrong. Brent is moving on too fast. I’ll miss the boat if I don’t set this anchor ASAP.

“Same ol’, really. Ella is keeping me busy, but other than that, not much has changed since Tim’s party.”
Reel in the topic before it slithers away
. Maybe next time, I’ll work on my dialogue sounding natural.

“Speaking of Tim’s party, you did a runner on me, Kates. You were as good as gone by the end of the night. I hope my friends didn’t scare you too much.” He winks on the last note, a lingering twinkle in his eyes.

Please. Please know something
.

I eye off the lanky teen who struts to us. He has an annoying habit. Each time he walks over to a table, he flicks his head and his smooth, purple crop swishes away from his groomed brows. I tighten my fingers, and try not to imagine slapping him. I’m not angry at him.

Don’t come now, little boy
. Why do waiters have to come at the most inconvenient times? He withdraws the notepad from his black apron as he approaches us.

“A few more minutes, thanks,” I say before he arrives.

He nods enthusiastically, still pushing for the sale. “Can I bring you any drinks, starters?”

“We’re still thinking,” Brent says, smiling.

The teen sets off to the kitchen. Why wouldn’t he listen to
me
?

“As I was about to say,” I start but pause, waiting for Brent to return his attention, “I didn’t do a runner, but I can’t say your friends scared me off because I don’t remember much.”

“Me too. Actually, I think it was the same with the rest of the gang. Don’t worry, they wouldn’t have hated you . . . too much. They were pissed at me, though, for passing out at the park. Go figure: they swap my cigarette for a joint when I was too tired to notice, ditch me and then
they
were pissed.”

I let out a pitiful laugh. It’s strange, this feeling of pretending to joke about a friend of his of whom he clearly has no idea what is capable of.

“I think I remember spending a bit of time with your friend Cooper . . . ” I say, trailing off to let Brent fill in the blanks.

He agrees, saying we spent some time together. “Yeah that’s him, knows how to work the girls,” he says.

“Sorry?”

“Chick magnet, knows how to get who he wants.”

“Sounds familiar.”

“He liked you.”

“Really? Did anything happen?” My heart beats harder, so hard that maybe it could pop out of my mouth.

“You’d know more than I would, Kates. I struggle to remember that far back.”

“If you remember anything, it’s important I know.”

He scrunches his face. “You’re looking too far into this. What’s gotten into you anyway?”

“Nothing. What happened?”

“Nothing. Nada. Zilch. It was a regular party filled with too much booze and cold pizza and random chats with people I’ll never see again.”

The restlessness inside me feels like a disobedient child who won’t hold still. The child squirms to leap out and knock Brent over the forehead. I’m losing my grip.

“Did I speak with any strangers?”

“No. Just the boys and Dina.”

Brent is lazed over the back of the chair. He has an arm flopped on the table. The child inside fidgets and squirms. This isn’t right. He should know more. He should just know more. With one thrust, the child almost escapes my control. “Cooper, did something happen there, maybe?”

“What’s this about? You’re scaring me.”

I lose it; the child escapes. The words begin pouring out of my mouth. “Did he try to touch me, slip me something to loosen my hold?”

Brent’s mouth gapes. “What do you remember? Let me help.”

I try out my breathing exercises but it’s like trying to breathe something solid.

“That fucking monster: he did it. I swear to God he did.” I grit my teeth though spit flies out of my mouth anyway. I look down at my fist to find it grips a fork, and wince away from the pain under my ribcage where it had been pressed. A knife drops to the floor.

A mother points her finger at her daughter and tells her off for staring.

“Whoa!” Brent leans over the table to enter whispering distance. “Who did what?”

I force myself to hold my breath, whilst wiggling out my shoulders.

Innocence: remember the deal.

I explain my theory to him: being drugged by Cooper, how I only remember selected snapshots, how I woke up bruised and battered (and barely clothed), had pain throbbing from every inch of my body and ended up in Tim and Dina’s bedroom.

Brent looks through me as if his eyes are frozen over. There seems to be no life beyond them. I stop talking, but he doesn’t move.

As if it’s possible, my shoulders sag even lower from realization. Brent just discovered what really happened to me the night I supposedly
did a runner
.

I sink back in my seat until the bones of my spine curve against the back. It’s not the reaction I’d wanted. My hope for “insider information” sails away with me still watching on the pier.

“Kates . . . I’m so sorry. That’s terrible. I don’t know who did it. I didn’t so much as sniff out a rat.”

“They’re your best friends, Brent. You have to know something. You’ve already mentioned that I didn’t speak to any strangers,” I say, pleading, shoulders hunched over the empty table in front of me.

“It’s not that. He didn’t do it. I know none of my mates could be capable of something like that. I only knew half of the other guests. None of us knew them all.”

“I’m not sure on that. The slimy creep keeps popping up in my memory, either holding or touching me. He’s the only one I remember being that close to. And in everything that I’ve managed to remember, I didn’t speak to other men.”

“You’ve been busy telling me you don’t remember much—”

I cross my arms. “I know I’m onto something. It all adds up.”

“I know you think you’ve found your guy, but trust me,” Brent says, “I’ve known those guys for too long. Tim has since married and is totally devoted to Dina, Marco is so quiet he wouldn’t hurt a fly and Cooper likes his fun, but he’s grown up, living with his mom and three other sisters; he adores females, respects them. You are looking at the wrong bunch of people.”

I must look like I’ve lost the last dollar to my name. I feel empty, and my face is probably stiff from anger, anger that my only lead has slipped from me, anger that no one is able to understand what I know. I’m alone on this one—not even the police are useful in this case.

A hungover woman, me, complains she was raped but can’t remember what the assailant looked like or what really happened. It’s just a rotten feeling. It just felt different to waking up after a hangover or from taking sleeping pills.

I have shit all.

“It makes me sick to think that something like . . . ” Brent says, starting. I wait but he can’t seem to continue as much as I can’t bear hearing it. The tension has winded us.

After a moment, Brent tells our waiter we’re ready to order.