conversations, stop mid-sentence, hide in bathroom stalls and cry. Fear to leave your living room; watch The Accused , watch Sybil and pick a personality. Cut your hair and dye it; waste yourself. Look at the floor, cross your legs, learn to carry flashlights and Mace. Read about yourself in the newspaper. Watch yourself disappear.
Asked what life was like after her attack, she told everyone she remembered two things. The first was something she said in a phone call she made to an older friend.
“Now,” she told her friend, “I know what it feels like to be a woman.”
The second thing she remembers occurred the day after. It was five in the morning and the sun was coming up. She sat smoking a cigarette on her rear porch, watching a dump truck empty the receptacles in the back of the building through her one good eye. The other was swollen shut, bruised, bloodshot. She’d been chewing on the good side of her lip, the side not punched into submission, thinking, I’ve never been so old. She was twenty-four.
She put out her cigarette and called school. She told the receptionist she wouldn’t be coming in because she’d been raped. She asked the receptionist if she’d need a doctor’s note to confirm. She didn’t wait for an answer; she hung up.
Before the rape everything was the same. It was autumn and some of the leaves were still green. She had just started graduate school. She had a sister and a mother. She weighed 125 pounds. Her hair was longish and dark. She walked her dog alone every day after class. She loved the woods and climbed its trees. She sang too loudly to the car radio. She liked to eat strawberry squares and she wanted to be a writer.
Chapter 5
We played airplane with Mike. He was strong enough that when he swung us around he could hold one of us in each of his hands; our four arms and legs glided through the air. Our two screams of glee shot out down the hallway.
Mom started dating Mike soon after we moved from Dad’s house. She fell in love with him quickly and fully. Mike was a marine; he’d just finished boot camp. He was a bodybuilder in his spare time and liked to make health shakes in our kitchen: wheat germ, peanut butter, and vitamin powder. He stood over six feet tall and muscles bulged in his arms. His hair was shaved into a Mohawk; he flexed his arms in our hallway mirror, then pulled the hawk into tufts that stood straight up.
Mike let us wrestle in the house and gave us candy. Dad didn’t come to bother Mom when Mike was over, so Mike stayed often. But he played less with us the longer their courtship continued, and he grew stern.
At a dinner of cube steak and shelled peas, I flung a spoon of food at Mike. I watched the peas roll down his face and smiled in pride of my aim. “Gotcha!” I said.
“Children should be seen and not heard,” Mike said and picked up my plate. He placed the remainder of my dinner in the living room. “You’ll eat here until you learn to eat like an adult.”
We weren’t allowed to talk at dinner unless asked a question, and we weren’t allowed to speak a word on car rides. Our voices distracted Mike from driving. If we made a peep at dinner or on a drive, he’d shake his finger and say, “Children shouldn’t speak unless spoken to.”
On one of the rare mornings when Mike wasn’t home, as we ate our breakfast, Mom asked Cara and me, “So what do you think of him?”
“He’s pretty okay,” Cara said.
My eyes said, I hate everything. Mike included.
* * *
We listen to the “Stray Cat Strut” with Dad on his weekends. We eat chocolate for breakfast and watch Dad play with his food. He spits out mashed potatoes, making a worm on his plate. He takes two peas and makes eyes for the potato worm. We laugh. The worm is watching us. Dad tells us how fun it is to be with him.
Dad dials Mom on the telephone
“Tell her how much you love me,” he says.
“Mom, I love Dad.” I am wearing his white undershirt.
“Tell her
Asked what life was like after her attack, she told everyone she remembered two things. The first was something she said in a phone call she made to an older friend.
“Now,” she told her friend, “I know what it feels like to be a woman.”
The second thing she remembers occurred the day after. It was five in the morning and the sun was coming up. She sat smoking a cigarette on her rear porch, watching a dump truck empty the receptacles in the back of the building through her one good eye. The other was swollen shut, bruised, bloodshot. She’d been chewing on the good side of her lip, the side not punched into submission, thinking, I’ve never been so old. She was twenty-four.
She put out her cigarette and called school. She told the receptionist she wouldn’t be coming in because she’d been raped. She asked the receptionist if she’d need a doctor’s note to confirm. She didn’t wait for an answer; she hung up.
Before the rape everything was the same. It was autumn and some of the leaves were still green. She had just started graduate school. She had a sister and a mother. She weighed 125 pounds. Her hair was longish and dark. She walked her dog alone every day after class. She loved the woods and climbed its trees. She sang too loudly to the car radio. She liked to eat strawberry squares and she wanted to be a writer.
Chapter 5
We played airplane with Mike. He was strong enough that when he swung us around he could hold one of us in each of his hands; our four arms and legs glided through the air. Our two screams of glee shot out down the hallway.
Mom started dating Mike soon after we moved from Dad’s house. She fell in love with him quickly and fully. Mike was a marine; he’d just finished boot camp. He was a bodybuilder in his spare time and liked to make health shakes in our kitchen: wheat germ, peanut butter, and vitamin powder. He stood over six feet tall and muscles bulged in his arms. His hair was shaved into a Mohawk; he flexed his arms in our hallway mirror, then pulled the hawk into tufts that stood straight up.
Mike let us wrestle in the house and gave us candy. Dad didn’t come to bother Mom when Mike was over, so Mike stayed often. But he played less with us the longer their courtship continued, and he grew stern.
At a dinner of cube steak and shelled peas, I flung a spoon of food at Mike. I watched the peas roll down his face and smiled in pride of my aim. “Gotcha!” I said.
“Children should be seen and not heard,” Mike said and picked up my plate. He placed the remainder of my dinner in the living room. “You’ll eat here until you learn to eat like an adult.”
We weren’t allowed to talk at dinner unless asked a question, and we weren’t allowed to speak a word on car rides. Our voices distracted Mike from driving. If we made a peep at dinner or on a drive, he’d shake his finger and say, “Children shouldn’t speak unless spoken to.”
On one of the rare mornings when Mike wasn’t home, as we ate our breakfast, Mom asked Cara and me, “So what do you think of him?”
“He’s pretty okay,” Cara said.
My eyes said, I hate everything. Mike included.
* * *
We listen to the “Stray Cat Strut” with Dad on his weekends. We eat chocolate for breakfast and watch Dad play with his food. He spits out mashed potatoes, making a worm on his plate. He takes two peas and makes eyes for the potato worm. We laugh. The worm is watching us. Dad tells us how fun it is to be with him.
Dad dials Mom on the telephone
“Tell her how much you love me,” he says.
“Mom, I love Dad.” I am wearing his white undershirt.
“Tell her
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