“Was your father aware of the abuse?”
“He probably suspected,” my voice is almost as low as his. “But we were pretty good at hiding it from him. And he was so rarely here, mostly just to sleep, that it was probably pretty easy for him to ignore.”
“And do you feel the abuse increased over time?”
“It was pretty consistent after the first couple of years when she learned just how much she could get away with. But in the last year, yeah, it was getting much worse.
“I think after Thanksgiving, she knew she’d crossed a line. She lay off for a while, until I came home from Florida.”
“Were there ever any hospital visits?”
“Sure, a few. But never so many there might be suspicion, and none at all for the past few years. I think the only reason she ever took me before was because she knew I would get a prescription for pain pills. Of course, I was never allowed to take the pills.”
When I finish speaking, Rufus is leaning back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. He’s silent, and in that silence I dare to glance at Henry. His face is pale, lips pulled tight. His eyes are staring straight ahead.
Finally, Rufus sighs and leans forward, pulling a folder out of his briefcase. I sit back down next to the icy, still Henry.
“I will be typing your statement up and presenting it to the prosecution,” he says as he opens the folder on the table between us. “I will also be providing these photos, which were taken of you at the hospital.”
He slides the folder across the table, turning it to face me as he does so. I look down and see a photo of something puffy and purple. I’m confused, then I look closer and realize it’s me. I pass through picture after picture of myself, sickened and shocked at how I unrecognizable I had been. By the time I’d woken up from the coma, and been able to get up and near a mirror, most of the swelling had gone down and the bruises had begun to fade to a softer purple, ringed with yellow and green.
There are photos of me lying in the bed after I had been bandaged, with the monitors and tubes attached to me. I look like a movie version of someone who has been in a horrible accident, where the make-up artist has gone a little overboard in the dramatics.
I glance at Henry again and see that he’s looking away from the table, refusing to look at the photos. With horror, I realize that he had actually seen me like this.
“Do we have to show these in public?” I ask softly, despondently.
“It’s our best support of the self-defense theory. No one can look at these and not know you were in a fight for your life.” A single tear rolls down my cheek, and I absently push it away. Rufus clears his throat. “Kate, this is your life we’re fighting for now. I had been told there was some previous abuse…” he clears his throat again and I get the distinct feeling he’s fighting some emotion of his own. “But after what you’ve told me, well, it’s criminal the way you’ve been treated. This is one of the worst cases of abuse I have dealt with. You are the victim here, and we need to make the judge see that.”
He looks uncomfortable, shifting in his chair. “I need to ask you a question that needs an honest answer, Kate.”
I nod.
“Are you absolutely certain there has never been any abuse from your father?”
I think about the one time he had hit me, and about how he turned his abuse on my mother. I had seen her from time to time with her own black eye or puffy lip. I think about his footsteps outside my door and how I now sleep with a chair wedged under my door handle. Then I think about what might happen if he were arrested for the one time he did hit me: would that spark his anger, which he would then turn on me, now that she was no longer here for him to take his frustration out on? I don’t know for sure, but I do know that I don’t want to find out.
“No,” I say. “Never.”
Henry relaxes fractionally next to me and I realize he had been stiff with tension, waiting for my answer.
“Okay, just one more thing. Did you, with any forethought or intent, plan to kill your mother that night?”
“Of course not!” I explode, upset that he would even ask such a thing.
He holds up a hand, “Okay, I know you didn’t. But you will probably be asked that very question.” He reaches across the table and gathers the photos and folder back to himself, stuffing them back in the briefcase.
“All right, that’s it then. I will let you know when to expect your trial.” He passes a card across the table to me. “My office and cell phone numbers are on there. Call me at anytime if you have questions, concerns, or just have something else you need to tell me.”
I look down at the card which is printed on expensive looking cardstock, with raised gold lettering, and I wondered how a public defender can afford such a luxury. He stands and shakes my hand—oddly formal after what I’ve just shared with him. He also shakes Henry’s, then leaves.
As soon as he’s gone, there’s a stiff silence between Henry and me.
“How was school?” I finally ask—anything to break the strange spell.
He doesn’t answer, just turns to me and opens his arms. I gladly go into them, though I‘m surprised by the gesture. He just holds me, rubbing his hands lightly up and down my back in between tight, reassuring squeezes.
“I had no idea,” he finally says.
“I know. No one did.”
“Why did you keep it a secret?” he asks, tortured, “Why didn’t you ask for help?”
I shake my head. “It’s complicated. I was young when it all started, and I didn’t know where to turn for help. I didn’t have any friends, no adults who I trusted enough. By the time I thought to ask for help, I was embarrassed that I had let it go on so long. And I thought that she must have a good reason for it, that there must be something really wrong with me, or bad about me, to make her hate me so much.”
Henry’s arms tighten.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sincerity in every line of his body and ringing in his voice. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that alone. I’m sorry for everything you are going through now. But I promise you one thing.” He leans back, taking my face between his hands and gazing intently into my eyes. “You will never be alone again.”
Chapter Twenty-One
My trial date has been set for the end of May—just before graduation—which means I have more time to recover, but it also means I have to pretend to live again, to act as if I have a life that will continue past May.
I’m suffering from some pretty severe headaches, which I’m told will eventually ease, but it makes school work difficult. So for now I’m still excused from both attending school and from the bulk of my schoolwork. I remember not so long ago when I would have given almost anything to have been excused from school, now I would give almost the same to be able to go to school.
I miss my morning rides with Henry, sitting next to him at lunch and in photography. He still comes over as soon as school is over, only now we go to his house until ten or eleven each night when he’ll then take me back home.
I dread home, because my father has returned to his old patterns, staying out drinking half the night and I worry that he’ll be there when Henry drops me off. I haven’t told him about the drinking and don’t want him to witness it.
For my birthday Emma’s planned a party, inviting my father to come to the Jamison’s house for dinner. He comes, eyes bloodshot and haggard looking, but sober. He even brings me a gift. I realize sadly that it’s the first birthday gift I’ve received from him since my swing set so many years before.
Emma and I talked a few days earlier about how it helps her during times of stress to write things down, and so Emma and Dr. Jamison give me a journal and pen set for my birthday. Amy gives me a framed picture of me with the whole Jamison clan taken in Florida. Christine gives me one of her books—those are her most prized possessions.
Claire is nearly leaping out of her seat as I open her present, which she made me save until last
(except for Henry who, once again, is making me wait until we’re alone later). By the size and weight of the box I know it’s clothing, but when I open it, I’m stunned.
In the box lays a white dress made of the silkiest material I’ve ever felt. I pull it out and see that it’s a dress--a gown really. The bodice is sleeveless, an intricately weaved pattern of the material covered with a sheer overlay of silver material that falls down the back of the dress, forming a sort of cape. The skirt flares out from the waist, again covered with the sheer material.
“Claire, it’s beautiful,” I tell her.
“It’s for you to wear to prom,” she says with a wide smile.
“Prom?” I look at her. She’s beaming, and I don’t have the heart to tell her that there is no way I’m going to prom. So I just hug her, telling her I love it, which I really do.
“You can try it on for me later, when you don’t have your cast on anymore. Also, when Henry isn’t around. I don’t want him to see you in it before the big night.”
I don’t answer, just try to smile at her. I must look odd because Henry cocks his head questioningly at me, but doesn’t say anything.
Emma brings out a cake that she made, and that the three girls helped her decorate. It’s three tiers tall and she let each girl decorate a layer. The bottom layer is clearly Claire, very bright and covered with intricate swirls and flowers in pink and purple.
Amy took the middle layer and in her own quiet style had only put a few decorations—beauty in simplicity.
Christine did the top layer, which is mounded with all colors of frosting, messy and colorful, with one large candle sticking out the top.
It’s the most beautiful cake I’ve ever seen.
They sing to me—another first for as long as I can remember—then we eat cake and homemade ice cream. My father leaves soon after that. As soon as the mess is cleaned up, Emma makes sure everyone has an errand or task which takes them to some other part of the house, leaving Henry and I alone. There’s a fire blazing in the fireplace, and Henry pulls their oversized bean bag up in front of it so we can sit there together.
“You want your gift?” he teases.
“This is my gift, being here alone with you,” I tell him.
“That’s thanks to my mom, though.”
“I know. I’ll have to thank her for that.”
Henry digs into his pocket and pulls out a small box. The last small box he gave me had been my necklace at Christmas, which I wear always. So I’m excited to open it and see what he gives me now.
My heart stops when I see what’s inside.
“I know this isn’t very romantic,” he tells me with a grin, “and it isn’t how I would really like to do it, but…” he shrugs, turning so he’s facing me.
“I love you, Kate. I know we’re really young, but I know I want to spend my life with you. I don’t want to waste any time. I want to be with you every day, to wake up next to you every morning. I want to marry you, Kate.”
I looked from his face to the ring nestled in the box. It’s simple; a square cut solitaire with a plain silver band. It’s perfect.
I look back at him, see the hope in his eyes.
“Henry…. We’re too young, still in high school.”
“I know that, Kate. I know what people will think of us getting married right out of high school, but I don’t care. I’m not ever going to want anyone else; only you.”
“Henry, I can’t. We can’t. There’s so much—”
He cuts me off, pressing his mouth to mine.
“Don’t say no,” he whispers against my mouth. “Say maybe. Please.”
But I’m shaking my head. Henry’s going away to college. As much as I hate the thought of that, dread it with horror and trepidation, I’ve known it all along. That’s his destiny.
I’m realistic about his future which means at least eight to twelve years of school—or more—to obtain his dream of becoming a doctor, and that isn’t going to happen if he’s saddled with a wife, especially a wife who comes with my kind of baggage. Not to mention that realistically I might be in prison soon.
“I can’t,” my heart is breaking, the hated tears coming again.
“You can,” he counters. “We can. You love me, right?”
I touch his face, “You know I do.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Henry, your life’s path was laid out long before I came along. It would be wrong for it to change just because of me.”
“Nothing will change. Except to be better, because I’m better when I’m with you.”
“Henry, I—”
“Maybe,” he interrupts me. “All I’m asking for is a maybe. Say you’ll think about it; give me a chance to convince you.”
I know the fair thing, the right thing, is to say no, to end it right here before I can hurt him further. There isn’t even a remote possibility of a future between us. I’m also aware that Henry is a care-taker, and that this is nothing more than his way of trying to protect me.
However, I’m weak and can’t imagine trying to get through the next few months alone, without him at my side. I’m selfish enough that I’ll keep him for that long, that for every second I can I’ll hold on to him, be with him. I imagine the wrenching pain of being without him, feel sick at the thought of it, and so I’ll put it off as long as I can, even at the cost of leading him along, of being dishonest.
“Okay, maybe,” I say, crushing guilt consuming me at the look of happiness on his face, knowing my only true answer can be no. I push the box back into his hand. “But you have to keep this.”
“You don’t want to wear my ring?” he asks while looking down at the box, hurt in his voice.
If only he knew just how much I wanted to.
“Henry, there’s so much going on right now. It just seems like one more complication—explaining a ring. Can’t it just be our secret?”
He nods, but then looks at me teasingly.
“I kinda wanted you to wear it, so everyone would know you were mine.”
I smile weakly, “Who wouldn’t know that? They’d have to be completely blind to not know that.”
He puts the box back into his pocket.
“What am I supposed to give you for your birthday then?” he asks, sulky. My heart is twisting violently in my chest, but I push the feeling away with practice born of years of hiding reality.
“I can think of something,” I say lightly, pulling his face to mine, hiding the hurt behind my love for Henry.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I continue with my physical therapy twice a week, which Emma usually drives me to. I got my driver’s license when I was sixteen and had taken drivers education through school, but as I have not driven since getting my license, I’m not sure I even remember how. Henry offers to leave his car with me so I can drive myself after I get my cast off, but I don’t want to tell him I probably no longer know how to drive, so I just tell him I don’t want to use his car.
The school administration has decided that based on my recovery period and my upcoming trial that I can have special tutoring, followed by taking tests to determine my eligibility to graduate with the rest of my classmates. No one says out loud what we’re all thinking—that I might be in jail by the time graduation comes around and won’t be attending graduation at all.
Senior prom is looming and Henry tries to convince me to go. He can’t understand that I’ve had nightmares about those kinds of school functions for the last several years.
I made the mistake of attending one dance in middle school. It was toward the beginning of my seventh grade year, when the torture by my classmates led by Jessica had just begun and so was still in the less brutal stages. It was chaperoned by some of the faculty and a few parents, and yet Jessica still managed to make it a horrific day for me.
I had pilfered enough money from my parents to buy me a “new” outfit at the secondhand store. I purchased a really cute pair of white Capri’s and a pink cashmere swe
ater. I spent some extra time doing my hair in curls and had even snuck into my mom’s room to use a little of her makeup.
Jessica obviously spent some time thinking about how to humiliate me and set me up. She convinced Brad Johnson, one of the cutest, most popular kids in the school to help her out, as well as some of the other kids—both boys and girls. I’d had a little crush on Brad, as did ninety percent of the girls who went to school there. Not only was he cute, he was an eighth grader. Of course, Jessica was the prettiest girl in school, so I’m sure it didn’t take much to enlist Brad’s help.
The dance was going pretty well, lots of kids dancing. I, of course, was sitting by myself on the bleachers in the over-heated, sweat filled gym. I wanted to dance but didn’t have the guts to ask anyone, or to dance by myself as many of the girls did. Then Brad came up to me.
He asked me to dance and I felt a surge of joy; Brad Johnson picked me. For a minute I felt a sense of justice—this would show Jessica and all those other girls. I followed him out to the crowded dance floor. It was a fast song and there were kids all over the place, bumping into one another, so it didn’t occur to me to think there was anything unusual going on.
Brad grinned over my shoulder on occasion and I was stupid enough to think he was proud to be dancing with me, that he was smiling at his friends. But soon I became aware of laughter behind me, and then people pointing and whispering behind their hands to one another, the laughter spreading and getting louder. I looked behind me and didn’t see anything that was funny.
Then I saw Mrs. Cowan, the gym coach, hurrying my way. She pulled me away from Brad, and walked me quickly toward the doors that lead to the locker room. I pulled back, asking her where she was taking me. I hadn’t done anything wrong, had I?
“Let’s go into the dressing room and we’ll talk there,” she told me urgently. I looked behind me and saw everyone now laughing and pointing my way. I saw Brad, arm around Jessica, also laughing—and Jessica smiling at me like the Cheshire cat. Once in the girls dressing area, Mrs. Cowan continued to lead me toward the restroom.