We made it to the bathroom just in time. I held her hair as she hugged the toilet. The stink was like this black oily cloud, bad enough that I held my breath and concentrated on keeping what little I‘d eaten where it was. When she was down to spitting, I ran cold water over a washcloth and sponged off her face and neck. The first three buttons of her blouse were gone and her stockings were ripped and there were scratches on her neck.
―I‘m really drunk,‖ she said, stating the obvious. Her words were all mushy. She struggled to focus on my face, but her eyes kept clicking from side to side like ball bearings. She sagged against the tub, her mouth slack, her breath fruity and sick.
―Did you come with someone? What‘s your name?‖ I had to ask a couple times.
When she finally got the sentences out, I said, ―Okay, I‘m going to get your husband. Just stay here. Don‘t move, all right?‖ Like she was in any shape to go anywhere.
Her husband was a surgical nurse, she‘d said. Once outside, I scanned faces and asked around until a doctor‘s wife pointed me in the right direction. After pulling the guy aside and explaining, I led him back to the house. Dr. Kirby tried catching my eye, but I only glanced once and then didn‘t look back.
Between her husband and me, we got her on her feet and downstairs. At the front door, the husband looked over his shoulder. ―We had a wonderful time,‖ he said, which was completely weird. His face was so saturated with shame, I wanted to tell him everything would be okay. But I kept quiet, watching at they staggered down the rumba line of cars snaking along the drive.
The cold air settled my stomach. There was no moon and too much light pollution from the McMansion, but I could make out some stars. I didn‘t want to go back inside that house. But if I didn‘t belong there, where could I go? I had this sudden, wild urge to steal my parents‘ car and go north, to Lake Superior or Canada. Of course, I didn‘t do any such thing.
But boy, Bob, I should‘ve.
c
Instead, I went back to clean up the mess. Maybe halfway up the stairs, it occurred to me that I‘d have to do Matt‘s room, too. The idea of stripping his sheets made my scars bunch. They would never be clean enough. Burning them would be better.
Right about then, I began to float. A familiar numbness dripped through my veins, and my head felt hollow as a helium balloon. Slipstream, only I wasn‘t running—or maybe, metaphorically speaking, I was.
Still floaty, I cleaned: Comet on the sink, Clorox toilet cleaner in the bowl, about half a can of Lysol to get rid of the stink. I splashed water into the tub even though it wasn‘t dirty. I scrubbed, hard, and thought about nothing at all.
So that probably explains why I never heard him.
d
One minute I was sloshing blue water down the tub drain and the next, I felt someone watching. I looked over my shoulder.
―Hi, sweetpea.‖ Dr. Kirby was big enough that he blocked the door. ―I thought, maybe, we should talk.‖
22: a
I said nothing. I didn‘t move. My skin tightened over my skull.
Dr. Kirby slid into the bathroom. ―I know what it looked like, but we‘re all adults here, right? You‘re old enough to understand how things work?‖ He spread his hands and that‘s when I saw Ben Franklin‘s face pinched between the first two fingers of his right hand. He took another step as I stood and then he was reaching, leading with the money, ready to tuck a hundred bucks into the breast pocket of my blouse. ―I know you know how to keep your mouth shut.‖
―I . . .‖ I swallowed against the lump in my throat. ―I don‘t want your money, Dr.
Kirby.‖
He froze, his hand hovering like a tarantula over my left breast—the one I‘d nicked with the kissing knife. He was watching my eyes, maybe trying to figure out if I was going to scream, which I wasn‘t. He said, awkwardly, ―Think of it as an early Christmas gift.
What teenager doesn‘t need a little extra cash?‖
I shook my head. ―I don‘t need anything, Dr. Kirby. I‘m fine.‖
―Oh, come on,‖ and then, somehow, he was even closer, easing the money into my pocket, fingers grazing my breast, a slow stupid smile spreading over his lips. ―We used to be friends, remember? I know how to be gentle,‖ he said. His breath was rank, and then I was against the wall and he was leaning in, his hands reaching up to cup and squeeze.
―No,‖ I said. ―Don‘t, Dr. Kirby,‖ I said.
But he didn‘t stop. First one hand and then the other and then he was pressing me against the wall, his slobbery mouth on my neck and then mashed against mine, his fat tongue worming between my clamped lips to lick my teeth....
Oh God, Bob. Did I do more? Sock him in the jaw? Stomp on his instep? Kick him in the groin and then drive my knee into his chin as he doubled over in agony? Bite off his tongue? Did I even scream?
No. I didn‘t. I could lie and say I did. No one but me and Dr. Kirby would ever know. But that‘s not what happened. I don‘t know if you‘ll get it, Bob, but think of that cold slap of shock the first time a parent spanks you or gets dead drunk or stammers an explanation to a cop about why he ran a red light—and you‘ll understand. Those are betrayals, moments when that thin membrane separating your life as a child from the real world tears just a little bit more. The first couple of times, you put a Band-Aid over the rip and the tear knits together. Sometimes there‘s a scar, but maybe not, and you go on. You try to pretend that the worst betrayals—when you discover your parents don‘t love each other, say—have healed. But, eventually, the cuts are too deep and the membrane shreds and that curtain can never be drawn again. Maybe that‘s when you grow up.
This was Dr. Kirby, my godfather. Our friend.
So I didn‘t fight. I did say no and I began to cry. All that should‘ve been enough—hell, the thing should never have begun—but it wasn‘t. Dr. Kirby fumbled at my blouse, jammed his knee between my legs and levered them apart. A button from my blouse popped then another and another, and I pushed at his shoulders and said no Dr.
Kirby no no no—
― Hey! ‖
Dr. Kirby started.
Eyes streaming, I looked past his shoulder—and then I simply wanted to die.
Because—of course—it was Mr. Anderson.
23: a
Dr. Kirby jumped back as if my skin was acid. ―Oh, hey,‖ he said.
―What‘s going on here?‖ Mr. Anderson‘s eyes flicked from Dr. Kirby to me and then dropped to the floor and my buttons scattered there like tiny white Tiddlywinks. His face changed, shifting from shock to comprehension to black fury.