Chapter 3

Claire’s turn:

’It was the best of times, it was the worst of times... ‘ Too bad Dickens already used it, but it fits, if in a slightly different way than it was originally intended, so I’ll borrow it.

It seemed like a normal day, just one of a string of featureless twenty-four-hour periods where I went to school, then to the library before coming back home. Five days a week from just after Labor Day to just after Memorial Day. When I got home, Mom had already left. I had left over spaghetti for supper, then went to my room to read before going to bed. Exciting life, huh?

The day in question didn’t get exciting until after I’d been asleep for a while. It was after 11 pm when I woke to someone putting his hand over my mouth! I tried to fight, to pull his hand off, but that wasn’t going to happen. At 5’11” I might have been tall for a girl, but I wasn’t much of an athlete. The guy with his hand over my mouth looked taller than me and also to be made of solid muscle. Critiquing his physique wasn’t my primary concern at the time, of course, but he was naked, so it was an easy judgment to make. I suppose it’s fortunate that he wasn’t hung like a porn star, or it would’ve hurt worse than it did. As it was, I was damned glad I’d taken care of my hymen myself a couple of years earlier.

I was crying my eyes out, curled in a ball, when my mother came in my room naked and flipped on the light.

“What’s all the noise about?” she yelled.

It took me a minute to get it together enough to answer. When I did, I said, “Call the police! The guy that was just here, he ... he raped me! It hurts!”

“Oh, quit whining. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“What!? No, call the police! We need to report it.”

“Fuck that!” she screamed. “You know we can’t have cops around here.”

By the time I’d thought of my phone it was too late, she’d already grabbed it, then she locked it away.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but sadly, experience comes first. Looking back on it, I could see so many things I could have done differently. At that moment, though, I was numb, both because of the rape and her reaction. I suppose I might have been drifting into shock, I don’t know for sure. All I know is that instead of doing something clever or useful, I did just what my mother told me to do. A lamb to the slaughter.

She used some sort of nasty douche on me that stung like fire. When I complained, she just told me to shut up and take it. Then she kept me home for a couple of days until my period started, and she was sure there wasn’t any evidence. Finally, she gave me back my phone and told me to never tell anyone, for any reason. Never.

I’ve never been particularly timid, but for whatever reason, I just went along with the program for a week or more. That’s when the real me poked her head up out of the fog I’d been living in and realized just how badly my mother had fucked me over. There was no hard evidence that anything had happened. Forget trying to get justice for the rape, all I could think to do at that point was to get revenge on my mother for sweeping it under the rug.

Despite how I felt, I tried to act like nothing had changed. I pretended to forget about the rape and the cover-up, but all the time I was looking for some way to get back at her. It took more than a month, but my chance for revenge finally came. After the woman I knew was her dealer stopped by, I wedged my bedroom door and called 911, telling them that my mother had drugs in the house, and I was barricaded in my bedroom.

When the police arrived, there was a lot of shouting and threats were thrown around. When they tried to open my bedroom door, it was still wedged. I told them I was the one who called it in and I was coming out.

I was questioned by a surly officer of probably forty. When I told him about the rape that started the whole mess, he just said that without evidence there was nothing he could do about it so he didn’t give a damn. Right about then, I started to get a bad feeling about things — that is to say a worse feeling about things, since they already sucked.

It was well after midnight when someone from CPS showed up and took me to a shelter.

A woman at the shelter asked, “Do you have any other relatives who might take you in, Claire?”

“I don’t know anything about my father, and Mom never mentioned any brothers or sisters,” I said. “Every once in a while she mentioned her parents, though. I think they live here in Washington, but I don’t know where and I don’t remember them.”

“Okay, let’s see what we can find out. We’re used to working from not much, though, so if they’re out there, we’ll find them for you.”

I was dozing when she came back and said that they’d found my grandparents, and they were coming down right away to pick me up.

I didn’t remember my grandparents at all. I just knew that Mom hadn’t wanted me to contact them. I was pinning my hope on the idea that someone she disapproved of was likely better than her. Again, I wasn’t too rational, but it worked out in the end.

When the older couple walked into the office, the lady from CPS told me, “Claire, these are your grandparents, William and Theresa Lewis. They’ve agreed to take over custody of you, so you don’t end up in a foster home.”

“Grandpa? Grandma? Is it really you?” I asked.

“Yes, Claire, I’m your grandfather and this is your grandmother. It’s hard to believe that you’re our granddaughter — the last time we saw you, you were only four and a lot shorter.”

Time for emotional overload. I launched myself into his arms and began bawling. It was probably a good thing, as it eased the pressure I was feeling, but all I knew then was that it felt like everything hit me at once.

They got me out to their car and into the back seat, with Grandma beside me. She held my hand and petted my hair while Grandpa drove. I started to tell them what happened and Grandma shushed me, saying to wait and tell them in the morning, that some things should only be discussed in the light of day. I almost smiled, hearing echoes of Tom Bombadil’s advice to a group of lost hobbits. She told me to try to rest on the drive.

The next thing I remembered was waking up when the car stopped at a four-way intersection that turned out to be less than a mile from their home. Once inside, they showed me my room, a room with its own bathroom even, and told me we’d talk more in the morning but that they were glad I was safe with them. I didn’t even try to look for something to wear to bed, just stripped to my panties and crawled in. Lights out.

I didn’t wake up the next morning until almost nine. When I did get up, I felt more rested, though still edgy. I found my clothes in bags by the foot of the bed and dug out some clean ones for the day before taking a long, hot shower. The shower left me feeling better, but still overwhelmed. After getting dressed, I found my way to the living room, where Grandpa was apparently waiting for me.

“Oh, Claire, honey. I’m so sorry that we haven’t been part of your life before,” he said.

When he hugged me, I returned it almost fiercely. I wanted to hold on to him and never let go, to have an anchor in the real world. Shortly, I felt another hand on my shoulder and I leaned my head down on it, willing it to stay as well.

“Claire, sweetie, we’re not going anywhere,” Grandma said from behind me. “You’re safe here. Let us get some breakfast on the table, then, after we eat, we can talk more about things. Okay?”

Part of me didn’t want to let her go, wanted to keep that hand trapped there. Then my stomach growled, and we shared a little laugh. I let them go and soon there were sounds of cooking coming from the kitchen. A few minutes later, I smelled bacon and my stomach went into overdrive. By the time we got to the table, I was ready to eat the pig that had provided the bacon, whole. I’d heard talk of comfort food before — burgers, meatloaf, spaghetti and macaroni and cheese were all named popular comfort foods by one person or another. After that morning, I’ll always consider bacon and eggs the ultimate comfort food.

Once we were done and all seated in the living room, Grandma said, “Okay, Claire, honey. Now you can tell us as much or as little as you want. We’re not going to judge you, we just want to know what’s going on so we can help you.”

I took a deep breath and said, “The short story is that a bit over a month ago I was raped, in my bedroom, and Mom covered it up. Yesterday she scored some drugs so I called the police.”

I found that when I described it like that, in simple, bare-bones sentences, it didn’t hurt quite as badly. At least it didn’t hurt me as badly. Grandma and Grandpa looked devastated.

Grandpa glanced at the clock and said, “It’s a little early still, but we’ll call later today to get you in to see a counselor. Hopefully, they can help you come to terms with what’s been done to you. Make no mistake about it, this was done to you — you aren’t to blame for any of it. In the meantime, this is your home, and we’ll do our best to be both good grandparents and good parents to you.”

I closed my eyes and took a couple more deep breaths. “Thank you. That means the world to me right now.” Opening my eyes, I looked at Grandma and said, “Uh, I’ve got a question that’s bothered me for a while. As far back as I can remember, Mom wasn’t much into being a mother. Do you know why she even had me rather than getting an abortion?”

Grandma turned her head away, a pained look on her face. After shaking her head a little, she quietly said, “Sally loved you, Claire. It may be hard to believe now, but she did.”

After wiping her eyes she went on, “She was a bit wild when she was in school and I don’t think she knows who your father was, but when the counselor at school mentioned the possibility of an abortion she ran out of his office. She was five months along when she graduated. That summer, she got more hours at her previously after-school job at the theater downtown, and they agreed to keep her on after you were born.”

“Sally seemed to settle down after you were born,” Grandpa said. “One of us always watched you while she was at work, and she always came straight home when her shift was done. She told us she liked the job, and they were happy with her, so she stayed on, living here at home and not even dating much.

“Then one day, when you were four, it all changed. We don’t know what happened, but she stayed out all night and the next morning she was almost a different person.” He started to cry then, and Grandma wrapped him up in a hug before I joined in.

After a few minutes, Grandpa seemed to get it under control, but Grandma was the one who picked up the story. “She left for Tacoma the next week. We’ve never understood what happened to her that night, but I think she took you with her because part of her still loved you, even with the changes. She wouldn’t let us near, though, so we haven’t been part of your life since.”

For the rest of the day, either Grandma or Grandpa was nearby wherever I was, hugging me or just reaching out to touch me. It was amazing. I tried to be supportive of them, as well, since they were so obviously hurting. That night, I slept better than I had since before the rape.