The Truth Is a Theory Page 14

  “Now? You don’t want to sleep on it?”

  “No time like the present, right? And I’m feeling brave. Besides,” she smiled, “I know he won’t be home, so I can leave him a message.” She jumped up, spilling a little wine, and gave Megan a kiss as she passed her. “Thanks, Meg.”

  “Anytime,” Megan said, and she walked into her bedroom to peel off her skirt and put on jeans.

  ————

  Just jeans. Not jeans over tights with a camisole and a tee shirt and a sweater draped to her knees. Just one layer. Normal. Megan smiled.

  A year ago, in the weeks and months after… well, Megan still wasn’t sure how to label that dark night on the beach. And really, back then it didn’t matter because she didn’t want to think about it. She had banished it from her mind.

  Yet it was all she could think about.

  The bright balloons of graduation, moving to New York, finding a job, were all punctured by the dark dagger of that night. And the harder she tried to ignore it, the harder she tried to erase it from her consciousness, the more it assaulted her in sneaky, insidious ways.

  She had “daymares,” flashbacks so real that she could actually feel Mark’s weight on her, his heavy body grinding into her, crushing her into the sand. He attacked her at random times throughout the day—while shopping for groceries his ragged breath would graze her ear, during a business meeting his hips would hammer into her, lying awake in bed at night his voice would claw at her.

  She couldn’t sleep anymore; she kept a vigilant eye on every shadow and she startled with every hiss of the heater, every whoosh of the elevator out in the hall. Some nights, Allie—somehow sensing Megan’s wild eyes in the next room—would come in and wordlessly lie down next to her, a dozing safety blanket, while Megan stayed board-straight and clutched her quilt under her chin (she could feel his damp skin sliding over her…). Her only reprieve was when a siren would scream down the street, a brief lullaby for her restlessness, promising that help was nearby if she needed it.

  Daylight ushered in different hurdles; just getting out the door now took forever. Allie often brought her a steaming cup of coffee and pulled back her curtains, a not-so-subtle nudge that it was time to start her day.

  “Did you sleep?”

  Megan would shake her head, her disheveled hair swaying in one big tangle. Her body was so tired, she felt like she was wading through water (she could hear the crashing waves of the dark ocean…). But her mind was alert, wired, battle-ready. It felt like hadn’t closed her eyes in weeks.

  If it were physically possible, Megan would pull on every piece of clothing in her closet. As it was she wouldn’t leave the apartment without layering on underwear, tights, a long skirt; a bra, undershirt, two more shirts, and a blazer or a coat. It was never enough.

  One morning, Allie touched Megan softly on the shoulder. “Meg, it’s going to be 60 today.”

  “I know.” (She could feel her underwear being ripped down her legs…) She needed all these clothes. Her body felt loose-limbed and fluid, Gumby-like, as if there was no physical delineation to her, as if pieces of her were oozing out onto the concrete sidewalk and into the spaces around her as she made her way down the street. The layers were an attempt to physically contain herself from spilling out. She looked into her mirror. “It hides the bruises.”

  Allie stood behind Megan and looked at her friend’s reflection in the mirror—dark circles underneath exhausted, frantic eyes. She said softly, “You don’t have any bruises.”

  Megan just held Allie’s eyes for a minute. Allie finally looked down.

  ————

  After the initial weeks of trying to fight back against the army of ruthless images and sensations, Megan changed tactics. Maybe it would be better if she intentionally thought about it, talked about it.

  “It takes two to tango.” Megan said one night to the girls as they were eating ice cream and drinking wine. She tried to keep her voice steady, but it quavered and threatened to break.

  “What?” Zoe looked ready to slap her.

  “He didn’t have a gun. And I was drunk, that was my fault.”

  Zoe was red-faced. “Being drunk isn’t an invitation to be raped.”

  Megan cringed.

  “Sorry.” Then Zoe said more softly, “You said no.”

  “But I didn’t punch him.”

  Tess looked back and forth between Megan and Zoe and twisted a napkin in her hands. “Why do you want to make this your fault?”

  “He was inside me!” The wineglass in Megan’s hand trembled. She put it down.

  “Because he’s bigger than you, not because you invited him,” Zoe said gently.

  “I was attracted to him.”

  “That’s why it’s called—”

  “Okay hold on, I get it, I understand,” Allie said, leaning in. “Meg, you know what I think; but I get where you’re coming from.” She put her hand on Megan’s leg and said softly, “You’re an expert at beating yourself up.”

  Megan chewed on her fingernail. Lately she thought that if she had wrestled with him, scratched him, kicked him, it might be easier to define it as everyone else did, as rape. But she hadn’t hit him, she hadn’t stopped him; he had penetrated her. How could she explain that twisting that night into a drunken mistake—my mistake, and therefore my decision—helped her feel a little less powerless? At least for a minute or two.

  With her fingernail still in her mouth she said, “Maybe there was a reason I didn’t fight him off.”

  Allie looked straight at Megan. “Couldn’t fight him off you mean.” She squeezed Megan’s leg. “Just because I understand doesn’t mean I’m going to be quiet.”

  ————

  It was August; they had been living in New York for three months. “Come to the Dugout tonight, a group of us are going,” Allie said one morning as they were walking out the door to work.

  Megan didn’t answer. For a few weeks now, she had been worried that her friends’ concerned and sympathetic padding was wearing through at the knees. Zoe’s original protective rage—Allie had to talk Zoe down lest she lash out at Mark—had dissipated and Megan believed, had been replaced by a cool impatience. She could almost hear Zoe shout “Enough already! Get over it!” Tess would never shout, but Megan knew the idea that she had been overpowered chafed at Tess’s insecurity about her own social strength.

  Thank God Allie remained strong and true, although Megan believed that even Allie wanted her to move on, not because she was tired of listening or because she doubted her in any way, but because she simply wanted to see her friend happy. Even these good intentions carried a certain amount of pressure, however.

  “Please? You can’t stay in the apartment for the rest of your life. Come on, put your toe in. Just one drink.” Allie put her hand on Megan’s arm. “I won’t leave you alone.”

  Megan relented, and then cursed herself as she stood at the bar that night with Zoe. Allie was in the ladies room; Tess hadn’t arrived yet.

  “How are you doing?” Zoe said. “It’s pretty crowded, is that good or bad?”

  “It’s okay I guess.”

  “Aren’t you hot? Take off your jacket and stay awhile.”

  Megan half-smiled and pulled her coat tightly around her. “Not there yet.”

  Someone grabbed Zoe’s arm and started to drag her away. “Wait, stop!” Zoe shouted as the person continued to pull. She looked back over her shoulder. “Megan, you okay?”

  But Zoe was eaten by the crowd before Megan could answer. Megan’s eyes darted around the room—where was Allie?—then she turned into the bar and grabbed on.

  “I’m pretty sure the bar is nailed to the floor.” A hulking guy in a Giants jersey and a mouthful of white teeth leaned in.

  Megan nodded, but kept her eyes on the dark wood of the bar. She knew how ridiculous she looked, a
nd so she reached for her beer, but held fast to the bar with her other hand.

  “Do you want a drink?”

  “Got one, thanks.”

  His mouth closed over his teeth and he drifted away.

  “I actually think he was one of the good guys,” the bartender said with a smile. He had long dark hair, hair that was long enough for a ponytail, but was loose and tucked behind his ears. In another lifetime, Megan would have thought he was cute.

  The music howled; the air was humid and thick with the smell of sweat and perfume and beer breath; people pressed in and around her in a life-or-death push for a refill. Megan started to sweat under her jacket, her knees felt weak. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “I can’t tell anymore.”

  The bartender peered at Megan, then turned to the person on the barstool next to her. “Hey man, can you give this lady a seat?”

  “Sure.” He smiled as he stood up. “She can have anything she wants.”

  Megan shuddered. Was he joking or serious? She couldn’t focus. “Go to hell.”

  The guy recoiled as if he’d been slapped.

  “The seat’s enough, thanks.” The bartender said with a warning in his voice. The man sidled off. The bartender pointed to the stool and looked at Megan. “Sit. This one’s on me.”

  He put a beer down in front of her, and started pouring a drink for someone.

  “Can I ask you something?” Megan put her hand around her bottle; it was icy. She put her other hand around it too, clasping it like it was a marble pillar. She fought the urge to rub the cold glass over her forehead. “Did I just say something to that guy? Because lately, I think I’ve said something, and then I’m not sure.”

  “Oh you said something.”

  “And he heard me?”

  He looked up from the bottle he was holding. “Ah, yeah.”

  “How do you know?”

  The bartender peered at her. “Are you here with anyone?”

  Megan nodded. “Ladies room.”

  As soon as Allie came back, Megan stood up. “Okay, I put my toe in. Now get me out of here.”

  ————

  Work was the one place where Megan felt safe and whole, and she threw herself into even the most menial projects. Each morning it was the piles of paper and the deadlines that towed her out of bed and out of the apartment. The nightmares tried to creep in, but there wasn’t much space when she was buried in a project. And the buttoned-up atmosphere and predictable office hierarchy made her feel safe.

  It was work that helped her heal, work that carried her through the fall and winter and into the warmth of spring, work where she discovered she could think about that night without ripping open scabs and bleeding all over herself.

  And then, in the spring, she discovered there were weeks when she didn’t think about it at all, and that while there were scars, the scabs were gone.

  Chapter 6

  Journal Entry #6

  November 3, 2000

  The other day, Gillian was curled up on the couch in her routine I’ve-just-woken-up-so-don’t-talk-to-me funk, drinking in an early morning video like a strong cup of coffee, when she spit her thumb out of her mouth and exclaimed “Look Mommy, Anita’s a ghost!” I looked up from my own morning ritual, The New York Times, and glanced at the video de jour, 101 Dalmatians. Anita was dressed in white, gliding down the aisle towards her waiting groom. The dress and veil looked dreamy, princess-like, but I could see that without instruction as to what was going on—yes, maybe an overly accessorized ghost. I smiled at Gillian and explained that no, she’s not a ghost; she’s a bride.

  A bride. Is there any other word, one word, that has the power to evoke the full gamut of emotion (often all at the same time)? Love, hate, envy, regret, sorrow, panic, awe, hope… Girls spend years, sometimes decades, planning to be one; guys spend, well… time, trying to catch one (perhaps after years of trying to run from one). People who won’t pull over for a screaming ambulance brake to gawk at a white billowy dress in the park, guests who spend hours applying makeup weep it all away as the bride floats down the aisle. This fleeting title is one of the most esteemed and coveted, arguably more so than Birthday Girl, Olympian, Head of School, Congresswoman, CEO. Brides magazine has a larger readership than Business Week, Forbes, Fortune, or The Wall Street Journal.

  I tried to describe to my daughter the personal significance of my own wedding, now carefully wrapped in mental tissue paper and gilded with a golden glaze of genuine happiness. The details are easy, they’re engraved in my mind like the invitation that is framed on the shelf behind me. Gillian’s eyes danced as I talked, and as they did, it all came alive for me again too; I could hear the swish and rustle of the snow-white silk, smell the sweet perfume of the white peony bouquet, feel the rush of seeing Dana—handsome and smiling—in his elegant black tux.

  My voice tripped over the lump in my throat as I tried to describe the emotion of the day, of the ceremony in particular. Not surprising, as even now a few notes of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” on the radio renders me weightless, a thousand tiny quivers ferrying me out of my Suburban and back to my trembling march down the aisle, to the feeling that this is it, this is The Moment.

  Was it sad, Mommy? Gillian’s voice crackled with confusion and the red flag of worry that shoots up when a parent is upset. No, it was a wonderful, happy day, I told her as I remembered the tears inching down my face at the altar, the catch in Dana’s voice as he echoed back his vows, my friends sobbing in the pews. No, it wasn’t sad, I assured her as my voice wobbled.

  Why do people cry at weddings? Why aren’t we smiling, giggling, or even applauding as the bride waltzes down the aisle? Yet tears are a given. Some people well up at every ceremony, they expect it and pack tissues, like you pack an umbrella for impending rain. I’ve heard friends forecast, like meteorologists—I’m going to be a mess at this one—well in advance of the event.

  So what’s with the tears?

  Tears of joy? Tears of loss? Maybe the specific emotion isn’t important. Maybe it’s the intensity of what we’re feeling that evokes the tears, along with the permission to publicly feel it.

  For most of our lives, our deepest emotions are kept well hidden, only daring to peek out in private. In casual cotton or professional wool, uninhibited ecstasy or unmanageable grief makes other people uncomfortable, squeamish even, and causes them to back away, to run. But once in a while, at a wedding for instance (or a funeral), off-the-Richter-scale emotion is publicly sanctioned. Up on the altar, two partners stand up and profess their profound vulnerability. And it’s contagious. Down in the pews, our own throat-clogging mash of feeling, emotion that is usually filed down and polished for public consumption, is uncorked under the auspices and the camouflage of the moment, the mood, the magic. And suddenly, we aren’t just witnessing something rare; we’re experiencing it, feeling it ourselves. And no one’s backing away, no one is running. We’re sitting in a room full of people and a husband is squeezing his wife’s hand, a mother puts her arm around her daughter, a friend takes out two tissues and hands one to her left. And for one dazzling moment, the private, powerful feelings we guard in our hearts, in our souls, feelings we’ve tempered so that we don’t appear histrionic, are not anomalous. They are universal.

  And they well up and out of us.

  For a just moment. Until we wipe our eyes, put our hands in our pockets, slide our sunglasses on, and stride out into the bright sunshine.

  Weddings and funerals.

  As I think about it now, I never told Dana how lonely I was as things got quieter and more distant between us; I never told him how much I missed him. I showed him irritable, I showed him mad, but I never showed him lonely. I learned as a kid to never show that, to never show vulnerability. Because really, no one cared. So instead I slapped Dana in the face with my frustration, like a kid packing a knapsack and irascibly shouting
“I’m running away” while deep down pleading, “See how upset I am? Please hold me. Don’t let me go.”

  Weddings and funerals. And maybe goodbyes.

  June 1992

  Sudbury, MA

  Allie felt the warm sun spill into the room before she opened her eyes. She had tossed and turned all night, scrolling repeatedly through details, lists, and possible crises like a secretary after six cups of coffee. Her sheets were tangled and her pillow had been punched and plumped so many times it was amazing it had any poof left. When she finally did doze off, her body remained stiff, anxious, half-listening for the alarm. The minute the morning sun caressed her face, her eyes snapped open and she was wide awake.

  She took a minute to inhale the quaint room she had lived in for two days. Storybook New England, with its dark hardwood floors; white lace curtains waving in the breeze; and crisp blue and white checkered quilts that usually dressed the two twin beds, but were now heaped on an overstuffed, blue toile chair in the corner. Rooms like these always ignited yearning deep within her; she was a girl at a sleepover, wishing her room was this color, her den had this couch, her house was this attended to, this loved.

  She kicked the covers off her and jumped out of bed. Out the window the sky was light blue—promising turquoise with the still-climbing sun—and there were a few cotton-ball clouds meandering by, window shopping on the world below. A beautiful day, an ode to great things ahead for her and Dana. She wondered if the whole “it’s good luck if it rains on your wedding day” had been thought up by a frantic bridesmaid during a storm.

  Her green eyes snapped to her wedding dress. Still there. It was hanging on the outside of the closet door, pristine under the clear plastic, waiting for the moment when she would step into it and become a bride. It seemed to wink and whisper to her, a friend with a secret she was about to share. Allie itched to pull it on.

  Birds chirped in stereo outside the window and although she didn’t feel rested, she knew she must have fallen asleep at some point, otherwise she would’ve heard these loud and rather annoying songs earlier. She glanced at Megan, asleep in the next bed. The jubilee clearly hadn’t disturbed her, unless it was background music for her dream. Cinderella maybe, or The Birds. Allie smiled. She had an urge to poke her or shake her awake, but instead she rummaged for a shirt and shorts with a little more clatter and clomp than necessary. When Megan still didn’t stir, Allie gave up and went to find a cup of coffee downstairs in the inn’s sunny kitchen.