I've Got Sand In All the Wrong Places (10 page)

There's not a lot of knee room.

I'm only five-five, and I winced as my bloody knees knocked the partition on every turn.

Seriously, tall people, rethink a life of crime. It's very uncomfortable.

One of the officers turned around and said, “Now I know this is difficult, but I want you to look out the window and see if you see the guy who did this.”

I tried to look out the window, but it was streaked with rainwater. I pushed the button to lower it, and nothing happened. I jammed my finger in it a few more times.

Oh, duh,
I thought.
The back windows are locked.

To keep those criminal children from hurting themselves.

Rainwater aside, the main issue with finding the perp was that I hardly caught a glimpse of him. He came up behind me, knocked off my glasses, and pummeled my face in, so you know, not ideal eyewitness conditions. I told the officer as much.

“Just look for a guy holding your purse!”

My brain provided the amusing image of a thug strolling along with my fashionable tan handbag.

Reality has no such sense of humor.

After several fruitless tours around the surrounding blocks, we circled back to the street where it happened, so that I could try to give them an exact address of the crime site. And then I realized …

This happened right outside of the
Sex and the City
house—the brownstone HBO used for exteriors of Carrie Bradshaw's apartment!

As a fan, my emotions were mixed.

When Carrie was mugged in Season 3 of
SATC
, the criminal stole her shoes.

I was wearing cute shoes, and he didn't even notice.

We gave up on finding the guy and they drove me to the police station to “take my statement” or do whatever official crime-victim stuff they skip over on
Law & Order
.

As soon as we walked in, one of the policemen with me, Officer Green, piped up. “You know, you should cancel your credit cards.”

I was shivering, bleeding, and soaking wet—canceling my cards was low on my priority list. “Um, okay, but I don't have my phone or my account number or anything.”

He asked me what bank it was with and I told him.

Meanwhile, the other, Officer Moon, gave me a form to record everything that was stolen and its value. My hand was shaking so badly, I could barely hold the pen. He gently walked me through each question, holding a finger down on the line like an elementary-school teacher.

On the first item, I wrote “purse.” Next to that it read, “Model,” which my concussed brain failed to compute. I looked helplessly at Officer Moon.

“Brand,” Moon translated.

I nodded and wrote “Gucci.”

New item: Wallet. Model: Gucci.

Officer Green peered over my shoulder. “You're a Gucci girl, eh?”

“Yes, they were gifts,” I said. “Up until tonight, my life was very good.”

He chuckled and handed me his own cell phone. “I got your bank on the line. You just have to tell 'em your social and they can cancel the card.”

I thought it was so nice of him to call them for me. I hate customer-service trees almost as much as I hate getting mugged. I thanked him and gave the info to the representative.

Then I was introduced to two detectives who asked all the same questions the police had. The detectives were perfectly nice and professional, but the process of being asked the same questions several times, to someone who isn't used to it like me, inadvertently communicated skepticism. As a result, I felt I wasn't coming off as believable, so I became very concerned with accuracy.

For instance, when they asked me how many times I was hit, I had to clarify: “Well, I was kicked once for sure, and I think the rest were with his fists…”

“Yes, you were punched,” the detective interrupted. I didn't know how he was so sure of that, but he continued. “How many times?”

“Multiple times,” I answered, sounding like a nervous witness on the stand.

“Can you give me a number?”

“Between five and eight times? No more than ten.”

Looking back, I have no idea why I was so intent on making sure that I didn't overstate things. It was like I wanted to be fair to my attacker.

It was the least I could do if I was going to get him in trouble.

The detective finished his notes and added, “Oh, and one more thing. Don't cancel those credit cards for a couple days. They're usually where we get the best leads.”

I looked at Officer Green, like,
dude?
He avoided my gaze.

Finally the EMTs arrived. I was helped into the back of an ambulance where a paramedic took inventory of my injuries.

“Abrasions on legs, arms, foot, laceration on chin, contusions on neck and face. And you got choked, kicked”—he glanced at me—“punched.”

“He kicked me once, I think, and then punched? I'm not really sure, it was hard to tell.”

He glanced up at me. “Yeah, punched.”

Why does everyone keep saying that?

Then he spoke with less certainty. “And, um, were you … did the guy try anything, you know, um…?” He made a face.

“You mean, was I sexually assaulted?”

He nodded, looking embarrassed.

I didn't realize EMTs were so delicate. “No, nothing untoward.”

He laughed in relief. “Good, because that's a
whole
'nother
kit.
”

Despite my judging him just a little bit for not being able to say the word “rape” in a professional capacity, we became buds. He told me I should walk with a dog for protection. I told him I had one, but he could only kill you with cuteness. He said he had two Rhodesian ridgebacks, and I impressed him with my Westminster-nerd knowledge of the breed.

“So can you just clean me up, and I can go home?” I asked.

“You got clocked. Head trauma means you should really go to the hospital.”

I was more scared of going to the ER than of having a concussion. In seven years living here, I had carefully and intentionally avoided needing emergency care. I always imagined a New York City emergency room on a Saturday night would be a horror show of gunshot victims, cyclists struck by taxicabs, and mugged joggers.

It occurred to me that, basically, I was afraid of seeing
other
crime victims.

But I knew my mom would kill me if she heard I refused medical treatment, so I took my first ever ambulance ride to the urgent-care center three minutes away.

My cop friends met me at the hospital. I say friends genuinely, because when you're so supremely disconnected as I felt that night, any familiar face is your new best friend. I was happy to see them.

“Hey, what are you guys doing here?”

“If we leave you, technically the call is over, and we could get sent somewhere else. We want to make sure we can drive you home when you're done here.”

I was so touched, it was the closest I came to crying all night.

They continued to go above and beyond the call of kindness. Officer Moon let me use his personal phone to call my mom.

When her groggy voice came on the line, I spoke with robotic calm: “Hello, Mom, it's me. First off, I'm fine, and you know that I'm fine, because I'm calling you. Unfortunately, I'm calling you from the hospital, but remember, I'm fine. But I was mugged, not with a weapon, and now I'm here with police and hospital staff and I'm fine. Really.”

“I'm getting up and getting in the car,” she said.

“What, why? That's crazy, it's too late. Drive up tomorrow.”

That I thought for one minute that my mom would stay in bed after this call proves I was definitely concussed.

She later told me I sounded like a lawyer.

Before I settled in my room, I had to use the ladies' room. The bathroom mirror was the first time I got a look at myself.

I was stunned.

My head was misshapen. Swelling had puffed out my entire jawline and one eye. The length of my neck was purple, and the bottom of my chin split. My face was covered in cartoonish welts—fat, red knuckle marks across my forehead, temple, cheek, and mouth.

I should've been horrified, but I was actually pretty impressed with myself. I looked badass.

And no wonder everyone knew I had been punched. Above my eyebrow, there was a fist print so clearly embossed, if the punk had been wearing a class ring, you could've read the year.

Then again, maybe if he'd had a class ring, he wouldn't be beating the crap out of women to steal their purses.

The officers kept me company in my curtained-off “room.” Eventually the doctor cleaned up my wounds and bandaged the deep ones. She smeared bacitracin antibiotic ointment all over my face, like a boxing coach smearing Vaseline. She complimented my shoes, which only had a little blood on them.

I thought she was awesome.

But while my cop bros thought my lack of tears was superchill, the hospital staff thought I was in complete denial. My doctor didn't want to discharge me from the ER for my emotional well-being.

“Don't you have anyone to call?”

I tried to explain that I'm not a weird loner, I just don't have anyone's number memorized except my mom's.

The doctor urged me to sleep there the rest of the night until someone could come pick me up.

The ER wasn't quite as bad as I thought, but it was not exactly conducive to sleep. A sheet of fabric separated me from a chorus of unsettling human groans and mechanical beeps. Also, the entire back of my dress was soaked and gritty from grappling on the wet ground. Even my underwear was wet.

“We can get you into a hospital gown.”

Yes, because being naked would really improve this situation.

I told her I appreciated her concern, but “I really want to go home.”

“I just worry, that you're going to get home alone and totally freak out,” she said.

“I have a dog.” I thought of my sweet-faced Pip wiggling his furry body in greeting. “I feel safe in my home.”

It felt good to hear myself say it. It was true.

She gave in, and I was released not long after.

On the ride home, Officer Green let me ride shotgun in the patrol car and stuck his partner in the back. They made me laugh on the ride home, teasing each other about their weight. They both lamented the difficulty of finding healthy food when your shift runs all night. We all expressed a hatred of cardio.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like a crime victim and felt like their kid sister.

It was almost dawn when we pulled up to my apartment building. I started to thank them and say good-bye, but Officer Moon stopped me.

“You said you have a dog, right? Don't you have to walk him?”

I nodded.

“So get him, we'll walk him with you.”

I thought my heart might burst.

And that's how two New York City police officers ended up standing outside in the rain with me, waiting for my dog to choose a place to pee, just so that I would feel safe.

Back inside my apartment, alone, I did not freak out. I scooped up the dog, walked gingerly to my bed, and fell fast asleep.

Safe in the knowledge that while the city can be a scary place, the good guys still outnumber the bad.

 

It's Not About Me

Lisa

I just wanted to add a word or two about Francesca's assault, because I know that many of you moms must be wondering how I reacted, or how you would react, if you were in my position.

Specifically, if you were awakened by a telephone call at four thirty in the morning, and it's from your daughter. Her tone is tense but controlled, and she begins the conversation by saying:

“Mom, I'm at the hospital, but I'm okay.”

So how did I react?

I would say, well enough.

Or maybe, not terribly.

After all, I'm a rookie at my daughter being assaulted.

But I'm not a rookie of being a mother in an emergency situation, and I didn't burst into tears, freak out, or fuss. I stayed calm because truly I felt calm, if tense. I dressed quickly, let the dogs out to go to the bathroom, and got in the car to New York City, where I made it in only an hour and a half.

It's usually a two-hour-and-fifteen-minute drive.

But there was no traffic.

Or maybe I drove faster than I ever had in my life.

When Francesca opened the door to her apartment, I got the first full view of how bruised and battered she was, and you can imagine what I felt like, but the fact is, I kept it inside.

I hid my shock at how distorted her face looked.

I hid my outrage that this had happened to her.

I hid my fear that it could have been so much worse, that she could have been killed.

I hid my fury that someone could do this to her.

Instead, I gave her a massive hug and told her I loved her, which is something I do every single time I see her, so this was no different.

The thing I tried to remember was not to make it about me.

Because I know how smart and loving she is, and I could see that she was trying not to worry me.

And I didn't want her to have to worry about worrying me.

If that sounds like a confusing state of being, it is, but I bet every mother understands what I'm talking about. She had been through something I had no experience with, and I said to myself, give her the space to have her own reaction.

We went back and forth about whether she should go back to bed, and we did, but the detectives arrived early the next morning, and I listened to her tell them the details of the assault, hearing them for the first time.

She remained remarkably calm, even with the detectives.

So did I, hiding my horrified reaction.

Because she wasn't a kid anymore, she was my adult daughter and she was handling things beautifully, including her own emotions.

And I realized I just had to follow her lead and do what she wanted to do, whether that was getting her a new phone, or her glasses fixed, or even a replacement lipstick.