Thirty Sunsets (18 page)

Her eyes are sparkling.

“I wouldn’t say it’s the most auspicious way to begin a marriage,” she continues, “but eighteen years and counting … that’s something, right? I mean, we must be doing something right.”

We both jump as we hear pounding on the front door, followed by a low mumble of voices.

Mom and I lock eyes, seeming to mourn the fact that the bubble we’ve created is about to burst.

We start to walk toward my door, but Mom pulls me back. “I know this is hard,” she says, “but we’ve got to stop him.”

I open my mouth to protest again, but she’s already moving past me, opening the bedroom door to join the others in the foyer.

Before I join them, I take one last look around my room. Is this really the same room I woke up in twelve hours ago? I feel like I’ve lived five lifetimes since then.

I take a deep breath and walk into the foyer.

twenty-six

“Ma’am.”

Two officers, a man and a woman, nod toward me but avert their eyes. Why can’t they look at me?
I
haven’t done anything wrong.

“Forrest, this is Officer Thompson and Officer Hull,” Dad says, waving in their direction. The man’s eyes are still averted, but the woman is sneaking sympathetic glances at me. Have I contracted leprosy in the past half hour?

The man’s walkie-talkie beeps and he exchanges a few words with a colleague.

“Ma’am,” the female officer asks, “do you mind if I dab a cotton swab on your lip? The part that’s bleeding?”

Bleeding. I’m bleeding?

“Sure,” I say numbly, but then unexpectedly flinch as she approaches me. Why am I flinching? I’ve never flinched before when someone walked toward me. Will I be flinching the rest of my life?

The officer halts abruptly, apologetically, then eases slowly closer, her eyes soft and kind. She hesitates a second, then touches the swab to my mouth and drops it into a baggie.

The male officer clears his throat. “Do you have any injuries other than the ones we can see? The cut on your lip and the bruises on your arm?”

My arms are bruised? Oh.

My head swims as I try to process the question, then I shake my head.

The female officer asks, “Mind if I get some pictures?”

“Um … ”

Mom and Dad physically steady me as she retrieves a camera from her pocket, taking close-ups of my arms. I glance at them and notice the angry purple welts forming where Scott’s fingers dug into my flesh. I shiver.

Next, the officer photographs my bottom lip, the outside first, then shots of the inside as I pull it down for the lens. Only now do I realize that I taste blood. My mouth suddenly feels foreign to me—puffy and alien and ugly and shocking. How dare that asshole make my own body feel repulsive to me.

The officers exchange glances and the man says, “May I ask you to step into the other room and change your clothes? As carefully as possible, please. Then put them into this bag.”

He hands the bag to Mom and says to her, “If you note any injuries on your daughter other than the ones we can see, please let us know immediately. We’ll take her to an emergency room, where she can be checked thoroughly in total privacy.”

“I’m fine,” I snap, wondering how it’s possible to be “checked thoroughly” by a stranger, any stranger, in “total privacy.” I know these police officers are just doing their job, but I feel like a lab specimen. Will my body ever feel like my own again?

“And why do you need my clothes?” I ask.

“Evidence,” the officer explains softly.

“What evidence?” I ask, then start looking at my clothes more closely. “He didn’t rip them or anything, did he?”

“No, ma’am,” he says. “But DNA, hair … you’d be surprised how much evidence a perp leaves behind.”

A perp? DNA? What parallel universe have I stumbled into?

Mom guides me back into my bedroom and closes the door behind us, then gently lifts my shirt over my head. I hand her my shorts and panties, too dazed to feel modest. She drops them all into the bag, then helps me into fresh underwear and a robe.

We walk back out. Dad and the officers have settled into seats in the family room, Dad on the couch. He jumps up when he sees me, then guides Mom and me to sit beside him.

“Ma’am, I need to record this conversation, if that’s okay,” the male officer says. I nod, and he asks, “Can you give me a description of the man who attacked you?”

My hands fumble. “Um … ” I mutter a few words: “young,” “tanned,” “sandy-blond hair” …

“Eye color?” he asks.

I dunno … gray? Brown? Blue? “I’ve only seen him, like, four times,” I say, pressing a nail against my mouth, then yanking it away as I feel my bottom lip sting.

The officer pulls out his walkie-talkie and relays the information to his colleague, who I presume is combing the beach right now in search of a guy who fits the description of probably five-hundred other guys within a ten-mile radius.

“What’s the point?” I groan. “Surely he’s long gone by now.”

The officer puts the walkie-talkie back on his belt loop. “You say his name is Scott?”

I nod. “That’s what he told me. I don’t know his last name. He told me he’s been staying with his aunt this summer in her beach house … that he just finished painting her bathroom or something … ”

Suspicion flickers in the officer’s eyes.

“That should help narrow him down,” Dad says.

The officer shrugs. “Lots of locals hang out on the beach and tell girls they’re staying in one of the beach houses … trying to impress them, I guess. I know the people on this street pretty well, and I don’t know of any who have a nephew staying with them this summer … ”

“You wouldn’t necessarily know that,” Mom counters.

He nods. “Yes, ma’am. But lots of folks keep us posted about their guests, especially guests staying a long while, so that we’ll know who to look out for. Of course, we’ll look into it.”

“Why?” I mutter. “What’s the point? It’ll just be his word against mine.”

“The point is to get a rapist off the streets,” Dad says.

I start crying, and Dad wraps me in his arms. “It’s okay, sweetie … it’s okay … ”

But nothing feels okay. I wonder if anything will ever feel okay again.

twenty-seven

Mom hands me a cup of tea.

“Careful,” she says as I take it. “It’s hot.”

I sip it as Dad smooths my hair. We’ve been sitting on the couch since the officers left. How long has that been? Five minutes? Fifteen? An hour? I truly have no idea.

Mom closes the curtains with brisk efficiency. I don’t think those curtains have ever been closed before; who blocks a view of the ocean? But I’m grateful for the gesture. Any extra layer of protection, any way to minimize my exposure to the world, feels insanely comforting. Will I ever be able to enjoy looking out a window again, even with an ocean for a backdrop?
Damn
Scott for making the world suddenly seem so sinister.

“I’m so sorry this happened to you,” Dad says.

I turn toward him and squeeze his hand to steady my shaking. “I never want to see him again. I don’t want to have to talk about this with anybody. True, I wouldn’t want another girl to go through this, but how many other girls would be as stupid as … ”

“
You’re not stupid
,” Dad insists. “He’s an animal, and he deserves to—”

“He won’t get caught anyway,” I say in a flat voice. “‘Sandy-blond hair.’” I snort, disgusted at myself, then quip, “Anything else I can do for you, Officer?”

“But you’d be able to identify him in a lineup,” Dad says.

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. “I just want to pretend it never happened.”

Mom sits beside me and pats my hand. “Things don’t work that way,” she says.

Dad rubs my hair some more. “I’m so sorry all of this has hit you at once,” he says. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

Then he sniffles.

Oh my god. My dad is crying. I think I can handle anything in the world except this.

I put my tea on the coffee table and wrap my arms around his neck. “Don’t cry, Daddy.”

Mom rubs my back while he and I weep into each other’s necks for a few moments, our hiccupped breaths pulsing lightly against each other’s chests.

When I pull away, we lock tearstained eyes and I say, “I’m sorry I was such a brat when you were trying to tell me about … about how you and Mom got together. Mom explained it, and I just want you to know … you’re my hero.”

Dad manages a weak smile. “Are you kidding? My family is the best thing that ever happened to me. I’m no hero. I hit the jackpot.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t understand … ”

“It’s okay, honey, it’s okay. I’m glad your mom was the one to fill in the gaps. That’s the way it should have been.”

Dad hugs me again, and Mom wraps her arms around both of us.

I’ve never loved them so much in my life.

twenty-eight

“Let’s get one thing straight.”

Mom, Dad, and I glance anxiously at the foyer. In the two hours that have passed since Brian ferried Olivia and her psycho mom out of the house, the planet has flipped off its axis. They just don’t know it yet.

Brian doesn’t even have time to shut the door before the lunatic lady is railing at us again, hand on hip.

“Nobody’s arranging any bait-and-switch adoption with my grandchild,” Olivia’s mother says, spitting out every word.

Mom squeezes her eyes shut. We get up from the couch and join them in the foyer.

“I’ve
told
you that,” Olivia groans. “Brian’s mother wasn’t trying to do anything sneaky or underhanded. She was just exploring our options—”

“I’ll tell you your
options
,” her mother says.

“—and once she realized we wouldn’t even consider adoption,” Olivia continues, gritting her teeth, “the case was closed. This is a non-issue, Mom.”

“It didn’t sound like a non-issue when you were sobbing to me on the phone yesterday!”

Olivia tosses a hand in the air. “Have you listened to a word I said?”

“I’m not interested in
your
words, I’m interested in
her
actions!” her mother says, flinging a dagger-like finger in Mom’s direction. Then she faces Mom, her eyes ablaze, as she whips a lock of long blonde hair off her shoulder. “You may call all the shots in
your
family, but you don’t call them in
mine
!”

Olivia shakes her head miserably, fighting back tears. “Am I in your family now, Mom?”

The woman spins on a heel and faces her daughter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Olivia struggles to look at her, but her eyes fall short. “I never felt like I was in your family.”

“Oh,
please
.”

Dad holds up his palm. “Look. It’s getting late. Nobody is putting anybody’s baby up for adoption. Brian and Olivia made it clear that they want to raise their child, and, of course, the choice is theirs.
Theirs alone.
There’s no point in rehashing a discussion that’s already been settled.”

“I don’t trust her,” Olivia’s mother says, pointing at Mom again. “She’ll do something behind our backs, just like she concocted this adoption thing behind our backs. She thinks she can walk all over my daughter. She thinks I’m some trailer trash she doesn’t have to deal with. Well, guess what:
you’re dealing with me
whether you like it or not!”

Mom’s patient but contemptuous expression makes it pretty clear she actually
doesn’t
like it but is grudgingly resigned to the fact.

“And since it
is
getting late,” Dad says, stubbornly picking up where he left off, “I suggest we all get a good night’s sleep and continue this discussion in the morning, when we’re all feeling calmer.”

“I drove six hours to get here,” Olivia’s mother whines.

“You can spend the night with us,” Brian says, ignoring Mom’s ensuing flash of indignation. He looks at me. “Forrest, would you mind sleeping on the couch?”

Mom puts her arm around me and presses me close before I can respond. “Forrest is sleeping with
me
tonight,” she informs the group.

Dad nods gamely. “So I guess
I’m
sleeping on the couch.”

“I can, Dad,” Brian offers. “You can have my bed.”

Olivia pipes up weakly, “No, my mom can sleep in a—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mom mutters. “Let’s all just go to bed.”

Brian nods, then gives me a double take. “What’s wrong with
you
?” he asks.