“This feels good,” Ms. Janie said a few hours into our work. “This feels right.”
And I thought I was beginning to feel what Ms. Janie felt, not because I was saying goodbye to Beth, but because I felt the guilt start melting away. A promise of healing.
***
I sat on the front porch Saturday morning drinking coffee. Mom had since gone back to California and asked if I wanted to join her. It was a tempting thought, running away from everything here, but my partial scholarship to NC State and a very pushy Gretchen who would join me as my roommate there, kept me from getting on the plane.
The rape stories eventually faded from the spotlight, and I discovered that I was starting to heal. My body—that resilient, God-breathed creation—felt healthy and strong again. My nightmares about the attack became less frequent. I actually woke up happy this morning. I felt a tiny glowing inside my chest. I thought it was hope sitting like a little ball of energy or a fully charged battery pushing me forward. I even thought I was ready to forgive the past, to start over entirely, but one bit of lingering pain kept me from forgiving everyone.
I took another sip of my coffee and watched two moving trucks rumble down the street towards the neighborhood entrance. I glimpsed a familiar car being towed behind one truck. It was Ryan’s, and my heartbeat sped up. I jumped from my seat, dropping the paper cup, and sprinted to the mailbox, straining hard to see anyone in the vehicles. I couldn’t, and I panicked.
Instinctively I ran to his house and banged on the door. No answer. I peered inside through a front window and saw the bare rooms that were once nicely furnished with couches and chairs, pictures and tables. My heart sank, and I walked back to my house.
I reached for my cell phone sitting on the porch railing and pulled up Ryan’s number. My finger hovered over the green receiver icon, and I kept it there until my screen went black. I turned the screen on and hovered over the call icon again. And again I hesitated until the screen when black. I tried once more, my finger millimeters from touching that icon, millimeters from making the connection that could change everything. But I opted to close out the screen instead and wiped the tears from my phone, lying to myself that I’d made the right decision when it was only the fear holding me back.
Twenty-Two
Three years later . . .
“And I’m really proud of your progress, Brooke,” Dr. Merryweather said over the phone.
“Thanks, Doc,” I replied, swiveling in my computer chair. I was alone in my shared apartment with Leslie, my new roommate since transferring to UNC and moving to Chapel Hill.
“Oh, Brooke. I hate when you call me that. It’s so flippant, like you’re not taking any of this seriously,” Dr. Merryweather said.
I giggled and flipped open my laptop.
The doctor ignored me and continued. “Are you dating anyone?”
I tensed a little, and I swear she could feel it through the phone.
“I don’t have time for boys,” I said lightly.
“Yes you do.”
I thought for a moment. “Well, there are none here I like.”
“On the entire UNC campus, there are no boys you like?” Dr. Merryweather asked.
I didn’t answer her but spun myself slowly in my chair.
“Is there someone at another school you like instead?” the doctor prodded.
I didn’t even know if he was in school, so I couldn’t answer that question anyway. Plus, even if I did, I’m sure Dr. Merryweather would drill me about unhealthy attachments or emotional damage or something like that.
“Brooke? There’s nothing wrong with being in love with Ryan.”
I could feel my face draining of all its color.
“There isn’t?”
“No, there isn’t. And I think that you think you’re not allowed to have feelings for him because his picture showed up on TV with those other boys,” the doctor said.
This wasn’t the first time she explained it to me. She’d been doing it for three years. But I guess I still wasn’t convinced, or I was scared. Perhaps both.
“He’s not those other boys, Brooke. And deep down you know it. That’s why you’re still in love with him and want to be with him. You just think it’ll discredit you as a true victim to date a boy who knew about a rape and didn’t report it.”
“Won’t it?”
“No.”
I expelled the breath I didn’t know I was holding at the sound of that simple word.
“You must forgive him, Brooke. If not for him, then for you,” Dr. Merryweather said. “But I suspect that you want to forgive him for the both of you because you love him.”
I didn’t even think about it. I just said it. “I do love him.”
“I know. I’ve known it for three years,” the doctor replied.