Returning Injury (15 page)

Leslie talked about the roles of women on TV and in movies, commercials and cartoons. She had seen too many coaches call men a bunch of girls or women as an insult. Is it an insult to be female? She was tired of romantic movies being called chick flicks or women’s literature being called chick lit. Would it ever be okay to call men’s literature dude lit? These messages demean and degrade women.

Leslie documented herself making phone calls and writing letters to the media, advertisers and organizations, sometimes boycotting their event or product, sometimes simply expressing disappointment in their company. Every time she learned about unequal pay for women, she made a point to make a phone call or write a letter. Leslie was becoming the Michael Moore of documentaries about women’s issues. Rebecca thought Leslie was giving everybody something to think about.

Rebecca hadn’t talked to Leslie for a few months, but she would call her as soon as she had a plan. First, she’d check with Angie to find out if she liked the idea of teaming up with other women. Leslie and Angie would make a great team, she thought.

Rebecca took a few notes on the main players she wanted to pitch, finished her espresso and then went to the kitchen to put her cup in the sink. Glancing out the window above the sink, she only saw her distorted reflection. “That’s about right,” Rebecca said out loud, feeling distorted because of her lingering fear of Roy stalking her.

Rebecca admired how Leslie was able to stand up and confront men and issues that she didn’t think were right. Too many times Rebecca hadn’t spoken up and had only a few recollections of when she had. One of them was at a Miami football game.

She and Jack had arrived early to the game so they decided to grab a couple hotdogs and sit at one of the picnic benches in the food court. When Rebecca overheard some men who were all wearing wedding rings talking about chipping in and getting a friend an escort for his birthday, she was pissed. But Jack was oblivious to what was going on.

One man, loud and obnoxious, talked about his experiences and didn’t care who heard him. Rebecca, sitting right next to him, had heard all she could take. “Excuse me. What you are talking about is offensive. There are families and children here who don’t want to hear about your shortcomings.”

He laughed at her, but the other men heard her loud and clear and their postures and conversation changed. The man who Rebecca had spoken to turned toward her and said, “Well, maybe you shouldn’t be eavesdropping in other people’s conversations.”

“Sir, I’m sitting right next to you, and you are quite loud.”

“Stupid bitch,” he said under his breath and turned away from her. Their exchange was over.

Jack had finished his hotdog, and Rebecca had lost her appetite so she was ready to go, too. The group of men was also leaving. Jack asked her, “What was that all about? Were you talking to those guys?”

“Yes, honey, I was. One of them called me a stupid bitch.”

“What! Where are they?” Jack stuck out his chest, clenched his fists and acted like he was going to go and kick some ass.

Rebecca started laughing. “Very funny, Jack. You timed that perfectly. They’re gone,” she said still laughing. “But thank you for puffing up for me.”

“Let’s find them!”

“No, it’s fine. I handled it.”

“If you see them, point them out. I have a few words for them,” he said jokingly, wanting to appear like a tough guy.

Rebecca threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. She felt like the luckiest women in the world to have such a great man. She believed that he knew she could take care of herself; and that alone gave her strength. But then, of course, every other football or basketball game they went to, Jack would say, “Try not to fight with anybody today, okay?”

“Okay, I’ll try. But you got my back, right?”

“Of course. Remember last time?” He’d nod his head as if saying, “You don’t need to worry about a thing; I’m here for you.”

She smiled thinking about another time she spoke up. She was in a public library sitting at a table with a few other adults. At the table
next to them sat two teenage girls and a teenage boy. The boy was trying to act like a big shot, swearing and calling some other girls bitches. Rebecca looked over at them and said, “Hey!” looking the boy straight in the eyes. “That’s enough!”

He was about to mouth off, but a man sitting at Rebecca’s table stopped him with a second and louder, “That’s enough!” Rebecca wondered if he would have said something if she hadn’t started it.

There again, if women lead, men will follow. Maybe women should take on the role of Morality Police. She giggled.

Rebecca had recently seen in the news the actress Marlee Matlin confessing that she had been sexually abused at age eleven and had suffered domestic abuse. She wrote her name in her notes. Rebecca also wrote down Jane Velez-Mitchell, who had been speaking out about addiction and the war against women, and Mackenzie Phillips, who was speaking out about incest. She wrote down Rihanna, too.

If Angie agreed to team up with other women, Rebecca would pitch full-segment ideas to Primetime, 20/20 and Dateline. She already had plans to pitch Angie alone as an expert on Nancy Grace and Issues with Jane Velez-Mitchell. Angie could cover everything from missing and exploited children to women who are missing, abducted, raped or murdered.

While working on Angie’s plan, Rebecca also started preparing for a trip to New York for a media conference where she would have the opportunity to pitch editors and producers of everything from radio, television, magazines and newspapers. Although there were about three hundred different producers, each PR rep had time to pitch to no more than fifty or so, depending on how quickly you moved
around or how quickly you were rejected. Rebecca had been to the conference when she was first starting out on her own, and she was looking forward to attending the event again.

Knowing her subject matter was always a tough sale, Rebecca had to be creative. Her first trip to New York had exposed her lack of experience and naivety. Most wanted funny, happy, uplifting stories about how to make money or how to stay young and attractive. Rebecca was rejected repeatedly, but she made great contacts and many new friends. She couldn’t wait to get back; she was ready this time, and her focus would be Angie. Because of famous women speaking out about their own experiences with violence, sexual assault and addiction, Rebecca knew she could get her foot in the door. She wrote down a few pitch ideas. She had big plans for Angie.

In her stack of mail was a book called
Grandmother’s Way: Lessons in Love and Life for Young Women
from a potential new client. It was cute. She randomly read through some of the pages and loved the simple style of the book. Each page had an insightful one liner:

Don’t do drugs.

Keep good friends.

If you break the law, admit it, accept your consequences and learn from the experience.

Hold out for sex. It makes you a stronger, better person.

Keep your personal space organized, clean and safe.

Don’t sleep with married men.

Sometimes making a decision is the best decision… so you can move on with your life.

Your family may be your best friends.

Finish school and keep learning.

Tell the truth.

If you drink, make sure you are safe.

Always trust a person’s actions more than you trust their words.

Find a job you love so it doesn’t feel like work.

Save sex for somebody who respects you.

Be happy if you have one or two close friends.

Follow rules and laws; it builds character.

Enjoy yourself when you’re alone.

Listen to your parents; they may not always be right but always listen.

If you fight with a cop, the cop can hurt you.

Find your purpose for being on this earth.

After paging through the book, Rebecca thought it would make a perfect gift for girls and young women. The book covered everything important in a young woman’s life. Rebecca turned to her computer to find out more about this author. The author had written one other book called
Profound Things Women Say
, which Rebecca was able to view from the author’s website. It had the same style, very simple one-liners:

God is good to me. I have a warm bed at night. (from a homeless woman in a shelter)

He put his arm around me like a grandfather, then he grabbed my tit. (from a woman working at a restaurant)

Friend 1: I can name tons of things you do for him. Tell me three things he does for you.

Friend 2: (Silence)

Friend 1: Come on, just three.

Friend 2: I don’t want to talk about this. (two friends talking)

He sent me a dozen red roses but only because we were fighting. He never sends them when we’re getting along. (from a woman talking on her cell phone)

They actually gave me the training I needed to do a good job. (from a woman working in an office)

Learn to laugh at yourself. (from a woman going through chemotherapy)

I’m just asking for some help. These are your kids, too. (from a mother to her ex-husband)

The book was thought-provoking, but not as cute or saleable. It was late and Rebecca was tired. She would finish going through her mail in the morning. She and Lily headed for bed.

She had a restless night. Lily kept barking and Rebecca kept hearing strange noises all night. She didn’t know if it was howling coyotes, the thunderstorm or the wind, but the noises and thoughts of work kept her awake. So at three-eighteen, Rebecca got up and went downstairs to make coffee.

At the last step, she slipped and fell, landing hard on the stairs on her back and butt. She had fallen back on her right arm trying to catch herself, so she gently moved her arm and wrist checking to make sure she wasn’t seriously hurt. She wasn’t.

When she stood up, she realized that she had slipped in water. There was water on the bottom step. Lily couldn’t have done it because she was locked in the bedroom with her all night, and she was still in bed. When she put her hand on the railing, she noticed that the railing was slightly wet as well. “What is going on?” she said, turning on lights and looking up, but seeing nothing that appeared to be leaking. She headed to the kitchen to grab some paper towels.

She was happy she hadn’t hurt herself. She had fallen hard, but maybe that extra cushion on her rear had come in handy after all. Rubbing her butt, she started the coffee maker, then went back to wipe up the water. When she bent over, the room started spinning. The scent of Polo was strong, the scent of Roy’s cologne. She rushed to the alarm to make sure it was set; it was. She ran to the phone to make sure it had the dial tone; it had. “Okay.” She held onto the phone as she rushed around checking all the doors and windows; everything was secure. She ran back up the stairs and Lily joined Rebecca as she rushed around checking the other doors and windows. Everything was locked and the alarm was armed. It had to be her imagination, Rebecca thought, and she started to relax.

She poured herself a cup of coffee, and the telephone rang. Rebecca assumed it was Jack, then realized it would be around two-thirty his time, so there was no way he would call her that early. She answered the phone and the line went dead. Rebecca filled with fear and again started thinking about Roy. She rushed to the living room and closed all the blinds. She checked the alarm again to make sure it was set and saw the red light was on. The alarm was armed. She took a few deep breaths then calmed down by reminding herself that people dial wrong numbers sometimes. That’s what it was, a wrong number. But she couldn’t get over the fact that as soon as she was up with the lights on, the phone rang. Maybe it was a coincidence.

Rebecca sat down on the couch and started to cry. She felt like she was going crazy. The only other time she felt she was insane was when Roy was stalking her. She remembered coming home and finding one of her blinds open. She never opened that blind because
she never used that window. Yet she would convince herself that she had opened it or that her cat must have played with the string and somehow opened the blind. Or she would come home to discover that a light was on even though she remembered turning it off before she left for work. She also thought that her journal had been moved around but never in her wildest dreams did she think that somebody would be stalking her or going into her apartment and going through her things. It was easier to believe she was going crazy.

Rebecca was scared. “What can I do? What can I do?” She didn’t care anymore if she looked or sounded paranoid. She was going to make that call to Victim Services and Roy’s parole officer. She needed some answers. “Okay, when their offices open, I’m calling!” she vowed. Then she decided to see what she could find out on her own, so she headed to her office and Googled “Roy Smythson”.