Someone I Wanted to Be (28 page)

The Burger King guys were lighting a pipe. “What the hell,” the shorter one said.

The first thing they asked me was “What is your name?”

I sat in the little brightly lit room for hours. I listened to myself breathing and tried to breathe as quietly as possible. I listened to the clock ticking on the wall. I looked at the drawer handles and the counters and the computer and the clock and the file cabinets and the dingy blinds that covered the window. The buttons on the big square phone blinked and blinked. They made me look at pictures in a big book, but Kurt King wasn’t in it.

Kurt King almost ran over one of the Burger King guys. He was gone long before the cops came. The cop asked if “he’d done anything.” I said no. I didn’t have to go to the hospital. The police took pictures of bruises on my arm, the scrapes on my elbow and on the palms of my hands.

I felt strange sitting in that tiny, brightly lit room, like I was there and not there. I felt like I had left my life and then come back to it, and I was looking at it. I kept swallowing, and every time a door slammed somewhere inside the police station, my arms flew out.

A chubby, bald officer with gray shadows around his eyes talked to me for what felt like hours but was only fifteen minutes. He kept his eyes on the computer and typed. I saw when he left the computer screen open and went into the hall to talk to someone. He made a note about the “odor” of alcohol and described me as “an overweight fifteen-year-old female.”

The cop who had driven me to the station came to the door. Sergeant Romero. He filled the room like a giant. He was so blue and big and clunky with his belly and boots, his belt and gun, his hat just like on TV. His breathing sounded like a roar. The backs of his hands and fingers were covered with black hair.

He shook his head, two tiny shakes. “So, you knew this guy? You talked to him on the phone a number of times? How many times would you estimate?”

“I don’t know. Like twenty times. . . . He has my friend’s picture on his phone.”

“OK, we’ll check into it.”

When Sergeant Romero turned to go, he stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He didn’t look at me. “I have a girl just your age. I’ll be waiting out here until we find your mom.”

I could still feel his hand on my mouth. I had scrubbed my mouth with wet paper towels until it was red and raw, but I could smell it.

About three thirty a.m., there was a tiny knock on the door. The door slowly opened and there was Cindy. I’d never realized how small she was. Her hair was funky. She hung on to the door knob, swaying, like she was about to pass out. She smiled and said, “Hey, munchkin.”

She put her little arms around me, and we sat together in the little plastic chairs for a long time while she cried and hugged me and held my face in her hands and told me what it had been like for her when she found the messages and all the missed calls — she’d been visiting a friend’s apartment and had accidentally turned off her cell — and everything that had gone through her head while she was driving to the police station, and I listened and listened and soaked up the sound of her voice, the way she smelled like Chardonnay and perfume.

She ran her thumb back and forth above a bloody scrape full of dirt and gravel. “On the way home, we’ll pick up some hydrogen peroxide at the twenty-four-hour Walgreens,” she said with a tiny smile. She blinked her wet lashes.

“Sure, Mom,” I said, even though that stuff stung.

Cindy took sick days on Monday and Tuesday. I stayed in bed listening to Bruno Mars. She used a cookie sheet as a tray to bring me cereal and frozen French toast and teacups of orange juice and milk. She gave me Popsicles and graham crackers. I didn’t eat much. I was finally losing weight. Hooray.

I didn’t think or dream. I lay under the covers and let Bruno Mars trickle through my brain. I listened to the sound of my own breathing and watched the bars of afternoon light move across the green wall. I was trying to make sure that I was still alive, still me. I kept completely covered up in long sleeves, sweats, and socks. I had bruises on my arm, knees, the back of my thigh, even on my stomach and back. The bruises felt like Kurt King’s fingerprints, and I didn’t want to see them.

Tuesday afternoon, Cindy made me go for a checkup at the Aspen Community Clinic. We sat in the lobby paging through ancient fashion magazines. When the nurse called my name, Cindy stood up. “Mom, I’ll go alone.” She looked so small and worried as she sat back down. She picked up another magazine and stared at the cover.

The nurse led me down a hallway, then stopped to weigh me. I closed my eyes and didn’t ask what she’d written down.

She put me in a little room and handed me a cloth gown, but I said I was going to keep my clothes on. She made me take off my hoodie, though, and wrapped the blood-pressure cuff around my upper arm and tightened it, then slowly let out the air: 120 over 80. She left me alone. I pulled my hoodie back on, then looked around the room and named everything I could. Blood-pressure reader, hand sanitizer, eye chart, examination gloves, stethoscope, speculum (yuck), ear examiner — I needed to look that one up. . . .

There was a knock on the door, and Dr. Margaret Wallace walked in. “Hello, Leah. Come have a seat by the desk. Let’s have a talk before we look you over.”

She was about ten years older than Cindy. She had short hair streaked with gray, brown eyes, and bright blue bifocals on the tip of her nose. She wore a white coat that matched her hair. She was as large and graceful as a ship in the tiny room.

I sat in the chair facing her and pulled the sleeves of my hoodie down over my hands.

She looked at me over her glasses. “It’s good to see you, Leah. You mom wasn’t real clear about what happened. Can you tell me, Leah?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“OK, Leah. It’s your decision. You don’t have to go into details, but for medical reasons, I need to ask: Were you assaulted?”

“Somewhat.”

“I’m sorry. Do you have injuries? Do you have pain anywhere?”

“Not too bad. It’s just bruises and cuts.” I showed her my elbow, the Band-Aids on my hands.

“Were the police called? Did they take you to the hospital?”

“The police came, but I didn’t go to the hospital. The guy’s in custody.”

“Leah, I know this is hard. Our conversation is confidential. Again, for medical reasons, in case you need testing of any kind, I need to ask: Were you raped?”

“No. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

Dr. Wallace typed into the computer, then looked at me over her glasses. Her face was still and serious. She was silent for a minute or two.

She took her hands away from the computer keyboard. “Leah, I am so sorry this happened to you. How are things at home? Do you have good support? Do you have people you can talk to?”

“It’s all right. I have a couple of good friends.”

“Have you thought about counseling?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“It’s a good idea, Leah, after something this traumatic. But it’s your choice. Before you leave, I’ll give you a list of places you could go. Let’s get you up on the table and have a listen to your lungs and heart.”

She helped me get up on the table onto the paper sheet. I said, “Do you have kids?”

She said, “Two girls and a boy. I’m going to listen to your lungs. Take a deep breath.” She pressed the stethoscope against my chest and my back. “Another.” The stethoscope wasn’t cold — that’s a small but important detail most doctors forget. I knew she could see bruises, but she didn’t say anything. “Very clear. Excellent.”

She said, “I’m going to listen to your heart.” She pressed the stethoscope against my chest. She listened. “Good. Your heart sounds strong and regular.”

Dr. Wallace listened to my stomach, looked into my ears and eyes, then into my mouth and throat, and she checked the scrapes on my hands for infection and washed the cuts and put on antibacterial ointment and new bandages. She ran her thumb over a bruise on my arm.

She patted my knee. “You are a healthy, strong girl, Leah. I am very, very sorry about what happened to you. I’m glad you came. If you would like to come back, I would be happy to talk to you anytime. How’s school going?”

“Pretty good. I’m getting a B+ in chemistry. I want to be a doctor.”

She smiled. Her smile was huge.

Cindy went back to work on Wednesday. I checked the door ten times a day to make sure it was locked and kept a chair jammed under the doorknob. Cindy called every hour. When I heard laughter in the hallway or in front of the building, I froze. I taped my blue polka-dot curtains to the glass so there was no way to see in.

Wednesday afternoon, I got the notebook out from under my bed and started writing. The pen tore through the page to the paper underneath. Anita called that night. We just talked for a few minutes because Cindy was hovering at my door.

Thursday, Anita and Carl came over after school. Before they came, I took a shower and put on makeup. I heard the sharp, no-nonsense rap of Anita’s knuckles, checked through the peephole, then pulled away the chair and unlocked the door. There they were, shocking in their aliveness, in their Anita-ness and Carl-ness. I still felt safer covered up and was wearing socks, sweatpants, and a giant green sweatshirt.

Anita curled up next to me on the couch and held my hand. She had a small but very strong hand.

Carl lurked by the door. “Carl, sit down,” I said. “But first, could you lock the door?”

He dumped a thick folder on the coffee table. “That’s chemistry homework. We’re finishing up acids and bases. We have a test tomorrow, but Mrs. McCleary says you can take it on Tuesday. I can come over this weekend, if you want, and go over it with you. Next week we start gas laws.”

Carl sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the floor. He rocked a little. His hands gripped his knees.

“What should we watch?” said Anita. “I brought Red Vines.” She pulled a package out of her pocket and tossed it onto the table.

“Wait,” said Carl. He took a big breath and sat up straight. His gaze skated over my face, then stopped at my eyes. The skin under his eyes was shiny and wet.

Anita’s eyes were fierce and dark; she was chewing the inside of her cheek.

I said, “It’s OK, Carl. Let’s just watch a show.”

We sat cross-legged in a row on the lumpy couch and watched two talk shows in a row. I could relax; I felt as if my friends were guarding me. The first show was about people who believed their children’s autism had been caused by baby vaccines. The determined middle-aged parents sat next to their kids, who rocked and squirmed in brightly colored chairs. When the commercial came on, Carl covered his eyes with his hand and groaned. “Oh my God, this is so unscientific.”

The second show was about transgender people. The guest was an eighteen-year-old girl who happened to still have a penis because her family couldn’t afford the operation. She was wearing a low-cut shirt, a tight miniskirt, and heels so high I was scared for her — you can’t run in those shoes. She’d been named homecoming queen at her small-town high school, where she’d never been known as a boy.

They played video footage of the homecoming crowning. The girl held the bouquet in her elbow, touched her crown to make sure it was straight, and cried. Anita watched through her fingers. “Dude, that chick’s brave. If they’d found out, they would have lynched her.”