State of Grace (16 page)

Roger held up his hand for me to stop. “Who's Don Juan?”

“Sorry.” I held out my glass for more wine. Roger raised his eyebrows and poured about an inch into the glass. It wasn't enough and I continued to hold the glass out for more. Finally, he sighed and poured another inch into the glass. Satisfied, I continued with the story. “Don Wan was this homeless guy. He had all these tattoos and he used to draw these pictures. One day we broke into this old abandoned house. We didn't know he was staying there and we found these creepy drawings with his stuff. Of naked girls
masturbating. A couple of them looked like Grace. Natalie was the only one who saw them, but she told me about it later. I was scared to tell my mom because we weren't supposed to be in the house. I was selfish, I didn't want to get in trouble.”

“Natalie sent an anonymous note to the police, but they didn't arrest him or anything.” I used my free hand to make air quotes. “‘Drawings don't count.'”

Roger held up his hand. I paused. “Who is Natalie?”

“Natalie is—was—my best friend. Her dad was a sheriff.”

“Ah,” Roger nodded. “I've never heard you talk about her.”

“She's still in Edenbridge,” I said. “Her mother has cancer. She quit school to take care of her. Anyway,” I rushed on, pretending I hadn't noticed his hurt expression, “Natalie said he was one of the main suspects in Grace's murder. I guess they questioned him, but he had an alibi, his wife or girlfriend—I forget which she was. But then he just disappeared.”

“What do you mean?”

“He just got on his motorcycle one night and left town.” I frowned. “I still think he did it, though.” I swung my head drunkenly back and forth. “If only we had done . . . something.”

Roger was silent for several seconds and when I finally looked up, his expression was a mixture of surprise and incredulity, as if I were a stranger. “Rebecca, you know this wasn't your fault, don't you?” He raised his eyebrows and waited for my response. When I didn't reply, he sighed. “Have you considered talking to someone about this? A professional counselor? I think you have this out of perspective.”

“Therapy is for people who are too weak to just pull themselves up and get on with life,” I spat, suddenly, unaccountably angry.

“Please tell me you don't really believe that,” Roger said. “Therapy doesn't mean you're weak. It's not weak to talk about your feelings—to get help working through what happened. Jesus, Rebecca.”

“You don't understand, Roger,” I said angrily.

His response was equally angry. “Maybe that's because you never open up. The entire time we've known each other and this is the first time you've shared anything! What the fuck?”

I laughed bitterly, gulped down my wine, and extended my glass for more.

“Seriously,” Roger said as he filled both of our glasses. “You're so closed off. And I guess I always knew it, but not to this extent. You had this crazy life-altering event and you don't mention it until we're drunk, two years after we met.”

“Roger, please drop it. It's just one of those things I don't like to talk about.”

“Yeah. Clearly.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” I slurred. “Don't get mad. I haven't told anyone. No one.”

He stared. “How can you keep all that inside? I don't understand.”

“Not a lot to understand, Roger,” I said, waving the hand that held my glass. Red wine sloshed onto the carpet. “There's too much to just let some of it out. So I let none of it out.”

Roger grimaced at the mess I'd made and reached out to grab my hand.

“I think that's enough wine for you. And I think you're going to be staying here tonight. I'll even give you the bed.”

I smiled sloppily, no longer angry.

“You're my best friend in the whole world, Roger,” I said. “But listen—listen to me. Listen.”

“I'm listening.”

“You can't tell anyone about what I told you. You can't. I don't want people to think I'm crazy. I'm tired of being the one who found the dead girl. I'm tired of that, you know?”

“I won't tell.” He tried to pull me to my feet. “Now, come on, let's get you to bed.”

“I let her down, Roger,” I continued as he led me down the hall to his bedroom. “I let her down when she needed me. She died because I didn't tell what I knew. I was too selfish. My fault . . . it's my fault.”

The last thing I remember of that night was lying on Roger's bed, the room spinning, and thinking that I deserved to feel this bad. It was part of my punishment for doing nothing.

We never again really talked about Grace or the voice in my
head. Occasionally, Roger would try to bring the subject up, but after several failed attempts he stopped asking. I knew he had questions, and there was a part of me that wanted to answer. But something inside me recognized that it was dangerous to let those thoughts and emotions out. In retrospect, maybe I should have.

Chapter 14

The night we got the call about Adelle, Roger was at our apartment for our Friday night get-together. As an added bonus, we had all agreed that this night, Roger was going to cut my hair. True to his promise, he was slowly but surely updating my style. My hair, he believed, was the final issue to be addressed and he had decided that after dinner, he and Adelle were going to work together to give me a new style.

We were sitting in the living room waiting for Adelle to arrive. I was seated on the hand-me-down couch Adelle's parents had given her and Roger was lounging in the oversized beanbag that came directly to the apartment from my dorm room. We were drinking margaritas.

“So, tell me what you're thinking,” I said and touched my ponytail.

He grinned and shook his head. “Nope, it's a surprise.” He heaved himself awkwardly up from the beanbag.

“Come on, tell me,” I begged.

“No.” He picked up his glass and raised it in my direction. “Want another?” He headed toward the kitchen.

“Not yet,” I said as I licked the rock salt off the rim of the glass. “But don't have too much because you're not touching my hair if you're anything less than sober.”

His response was made unintelligible by the clink of ice cubes being dropped into his glass. I glanced at the clock on the mantle. Adelle was habitually late, but rarely more than fifteen minutes. She was now more than thirty-five minutes late. And there had been no telephone call, which was uncharacteristic.

“Hey, Roger,” I yelled, “what time does the clock in there say?”

“It's . . . 7:35.”

“Maybe we should call Adelle,” I said as he came back into the room. “She usually calls if she's running late.”

Grace's voice murmured in my head, the words unintelligible.

“Let's give her another fifteen minutes,” Roger said. “Maybe she got hung up at work or she is over at Thomas's.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

Thomas was Adelle's new boyfriend. We hadn't met him, but from her accounts, he was “fine” even though he was a “corn-fed white boy.” They had met as College Democrats. He was the exact opposite of the kind of guy we'd have expected Adelle to date.

“He's the type of guy that would freak my family
out
,” she said. “But he's also very forward-thinking. He understands what I want to do. You know he wants to go teach in inner-city schools? He volunteers for Social Justice Now! He's living the change he wants to see.”

Just as we were about to start calling around in search of Adelle, the phone rang. I hurried to answer it. The voice was deep and masculine. “May I speak to Rebecca Holloway?”

“This is she,” I said.

“Hello, ma'am. This is Sergeant William Cosgrove from the university police department and I'm calling on behalf of Adelle Jackson. She was involved in an assault tonight and she asked that we call you.”

I stared at the answering machine. The red Power and Ready lights glowed like two menacing eyes.

“Adelle?” I said stupidly. “She assaulted someone?”

“No, ma'am,” Sgt. Cosgrove said. “She was assaulted. While walking on campus. She was taken to the county hospital. She asked that we call you.”

“Is she all right?”

There was a pause before Cosgrove answered. “I'm sorry, I can't answer that question directly. But what I can tell you is that she would probably like to see a friendly face. She asked that you come to the hospital.”

“Of course,” I said. “What do we do when we get there? Do we
ask for her or for you or . . .?”

“Go to the front desk and tell them who you are and who you're there to see. She'll probably be in one of the triage rooms.”

I thanked him and stood for a moment after he had hung up, receiver still pressed to my ear. The all too familiar knot in the pit of my stomach clenched. It was happening all over again, I thought. A friend attacked. Would it have happened if she hadn't been on her way to see me? I felt the familiar sting of guilt—and something else. A prickling on the back of my neck. A soft murmur that I knew, without a doubt, was Grace. I closed my eyes and tried to will her away, but her whispers, still indistinct, became louder. So intent was I on Grace, I didn't hear Roger come up behind me.

“Rebecca?” The voice was real. And outside my head. I spun around and brandished the phone receiver like a weapon.

“Whoa, sorry.” He held his hands out in front of him. “Didn't mean to scare you. I just wanted to check and see—” He caught sight of my face. “Geez, you're white as a ghost. What happened? Are you okay? What's going on?”

“It's Adelle,” I said tonelessly and hung up the receiver. “She was walking through campus on her way here and was attacked. I don't know any more except that they took her to the emergency room and she asked them to call. We need to go down there.”

Roger looked shocked. He reached into his pocket for his keys. “Of course. I'll drive.”

As we drove to the hospital, we talked about what could have happened to Adelle. Eventually, though, we fell silent, neither of us knowing what to say. Once at the hospital, we identified ourselves at the check-in desk, and were then directed to a small, cramped waiting room. We were told that we would be allowed to see her as soon as the doctors had finished their initial examination. More than an hour passed before we were summoned.

“Rebecca Holloway?”

I looked up to see a roundish woman in her mid-forties standing
in the doorway. She wore faded pink scrubs and held a blue file folder in one hand and a pen in the other.

“Rebecca Holloway,” she said again, this time louder.

I raised my hand and stood. “I'm Rebecca.” Roger stood as well and then, as if on cue, we both began to walk toward the woman. Her eyes skipped from me to Roger and then back to me.

“I'm Sara, the admitting nurse, and I have been asked to take you back to Adelle Jackson.” She looked from me to Roger and smiled kindly. “Given the circumstances, I think maybe you'll need to wait here.”

Roger raised his eyebrows.

“She has asked only for Rebecca.” Sara said. “I think it's best to let them talk and then determine if she wants you to come back.” She turned back to me. “If you'll follow me.”

I looked at Roger, who smiled and gently squeezed my arm. “Come back and let me know what's going on as soon as you can. And give her a hug for me.”

I nodded and followed Sara down the hallway toward the treatment rooms. I was unprepared for the sight that greeted me. Adelle sat on the bed farthest from the door. Her usual bravado had been replaced with a silent, withdrawn stoicism. Her face was swollen and misshapen; one eye was swollen shut, her lower lip was split.

“Oh my god, Adelle,” I said as I rushed into the room. “Are you okay? What happened?”

She shook her head without answering. I tried to hug her, but she pushed me away.

“Not now,” she said shortly. “I don't want to be touched.”

I stepped back, unused to being the one offering physical contact and being rejected. We sat in silence for several seconds before she began to speak, her words thick and bruised. “He came out of nowhere. He came up from behind and dragged me into the bushes. He had a knife.”

I felt my throat drop into my stomach. My heart fluttered in my chest and I felt my body flush. A man. A knife. A rape?

“Adelle, what did he do to you?” My voice was tight and pitched much lower than usual.

“He hit me. Twice. And he told me that if I made a sound, he would kill me.”

I stood, dumbfounded, not sure what to do or say. I felt sick.

“Did he . . .?” I hesitated to ask the question, both because I didn't want to hurt her more by making her answer and also because I wasn't sure I wanted to know. She nodded, her eyes closed.

I again reached out to touch her. She recoiled and I drew my hand back to my side.

“Were you able to describe him to the police?” I asked. “I mean, did you see his face?”

“He was white, muscular, dark hair,” she said. “That's all I saw. It was dark and after he hit me the first couple of times, I just . . . kept my eyes closed.”

I didn't know what to say.

“I'm so sorry, Adelle,” I whispered. “We'll catch him. I promise you we'll find the guy who did this.”

Adelle winced as she shifted on the hospital gurney.

“They want to do a rape kit,” she said numbly. “I don't know if I can stand having them down there right now. I just want to take a hot shower and make this all go away.”

I stood helplessly as she began to sob.

“Adelle,” I said softly, “Tell me what you need. Tell me what to do.”

“Don't leave me.” Her voice became panicked. “I can't be alone.”

I felt her fear, her vulnerability.

“It's okay,” I said. “I'm not going anywhere. I promise. And when we're done here, we'll go home. I'll make sure no one bothers you.”

She sniffed and used the wadded mass of tissues clutched in her hand to daub the tears. She winced as she touched the tender flesh of her swollen eye. Bruises were already beginning to appear.

“Adelle, Roger's here, too. He's out in the waiting room. Do you want to see him or should I tell him to go home?”

She stared into space, not answering.

“Adelle,” I said gently. “I need to tell him if he should stay or go.”

“I can't be around him now,” she said dully. “I don't want anyone to see me like this.”

“Okay.” I turned toward the door. Let me just go tell him not to wait, all right? I'll be right back.”

She nodded and then reached out to grab my arm. “Don't tell him what happened. Just tell him I got beat up. Don't tell him about the other part.”

I gently touched the hand that still gripped my arm. She flinched at the contact and pulled it away.

“I promise,” I said softly. “I won't tell anyone. I'll be right back, okay?”

She didn't respond, so I turned and walked back down to the waiting room. Roger stood up as I stepped into the room. “How is she?” he asked. “What happened?”

“She was walking through campus and some guy grabbed her from behind, dragged her into the bushes behind the arts building, and beat her up.”

His eyes grew wide. “Oh my god. Is she okay?”

“Bruised,” I said. “And scared. She's going to be here for a while, I think. They have to fix her up and then the police are going to have to take a report, so maybe you should go home.”

Roger frowned and shook his head. “I couldn't do that. Besides, how will you get home?”

I considered telling him the truth. Perhaps if he understood what had really happened, he would understand why Adelle didn't want a man—even a gay man—around her. “We can either call a cab or have the police take us back to the house. She's really emotional right now.”

He searched my face and seemed, finally, to understand the situation.

“Oh,” he said softly. “I'll be home the rest of the night if you guys need a ride or . . . anything. Okay?”

“Yes,” I said, and then after a pause, “Thank you.”

The wait for the doctors, the nurses, and the police to do what they needed seemed to take forever. The same questions were asked, the same information was written down, and after a while the faces began to blur. Adelle endured it all. She answered the questions in a dull monotone, all evidence of her usual spirit, gone. Finally, the doctors had bandaged her external wounds, the police had taken information for the initial report, and the evidence for the rape kit had been collected. Now, we sat with the female detective who would be handling the case.

“I'm Judy Sanchez,” she said. “I'm a detective and I'll be handling the investigation. How are you doing? Hanging in there?”

Adelle nodded numbly. Detective Sanchez's expression was compassionate and she waited several seconds before flipping open her notepad and uncapping her pen. In bold, blue ink, she jotted down the date and time.

“I know you've been asked all sorts of questions and you've given a statement,” she said. “But I need you to go through it one more time. I know you're tired and it probably feels like you're having to relive it over and over, but the sooner we can get moving on this, the better chance we have of finding the guy who did this.” Detective Sanchez looked over at me and smiled kindly. “Would you mind giving us a few minutes?”

“Sure,” I said and stood to leave.

“Can she stay?” Adelle asked quickly. “I don't want her to go.”

I looked at the detective, who nodded. “Of course. So, if you could just tell me what happened. No detail is too small.”

“It was about seven o'clock,” Adelle said after a long pause. She gestured at me sitting in the corner. “I was going home for dinner and I was running late. I had been at my boyfriend's dorm and one thing had led to another. So, I was rushing. I took a shortcut through the sculpture garden and was coming up the back side of the library when someone grabbed me from behind. There are all those bushes and trees back there and he . . .” She shook her head.

Detective Sanchez leaned forward, nodding encouragingly, and waited for her to continue.

“I shouldn't have taken the shortcut,” Adelle said finally. “I just figured it was so close to the library and there were people around the front of the building. I just thought that it would be okay. I figured it was no big deal.”

Her words again trailed off.

“He came out of nowhere,” she said softly, almost to herself. “He came up from behind and he grabbed me in a sort of chokehold. He had a knife. His arms were like steel. They were so strong and I couldn't get away. I wanted to scream, but he put his other hand over my mouth. And he whispered in my ear. He told me if I fought him, if I screamed, he would kill me. He said he would slash my throat and then rape me while I bled out. He used those words, ‘bled out.'” She looked at Detective Sanchez plaintively. “I didn't have a choice. It wasn't my fault.”