No Way Back (Mia's Way, #1) Read online

  It starts awkward as before. We all go around the room to reintroduce ourselves and add anything to our goals. Gianna reminds us of the question she asked us to think about last week, the one I’m still trying to figure out about where I want to be in one to two years. I raise my hand.

  “Yes, Mia?”

  “Can I ask something kind of off the topic?”

  “Sure.”

  I shift in my chair as everyone looks at me. “I, um, just wanted to know if, um, anyone here went to the police or court or whatever about who … raped you.”

  Gianna smiles in encouragement. The other girls are quiet. They glance around the room before one speaks.

  “I didn’t.”

  Another says, “I did. I went to court.” She looks down at her feet.

  “How many of you went to the police?” Gianna asks. “If you feel comfortable sharing, just raise your hand.”

  Six girls raise their hands.

  “How many went to court?”

  Three hands stay up. I want so bad to interrogate them about it. A silence falls, and I feel like crying again.

  “It was bad,” one starts hesitantly. “I had to tell everyone what happened. In front of him. He was my older brother’s friend. My brother thought I was lying. Everyone thought I was lying, until we got to court.”

  “What happened?” I whisper.

  “He went to jail. The trial took weeks, though. I’m not sure I could do it again.”

  “But he went to jail?”

  “Yeah.” The girl gives a small smile. “I was a minor at the time. He got ten years.”

  “Ten years?” I echo, surprised.

  “Mine didn’t go that well,” another girl speaks up. “I didn’t report it and there was no rape kit. He got off.”

  I look at the third girl, waiting for her to share. She looks uncomfortable but finally speaks up.

  “I reported it and had a rape kit. But he had a good lawyer. I was drinking. We were both minors. The jury found him not guilty because his lawyer did a good job making me look like a whore.”

  I’m not encouraged by what I’m hearing. In fact, I’m terrified.

  “It doesn’t sound like it’s worth it,” I say as it goes quiet. I look at Gianna, willing her to tell me differently.

  “I wish I’d done it,” another girl speaks up. “I would’ve taken that chance that it’d go badly. I mean, once he’s accused, it’s on his criminal record, isn’t it? So he wouldn’t have raped my cousin, too. It’s like, I just wanted to forget it happened and it’d go away.”

  I’m surprised she’s thinking about it the same way I am.

  “I think it’s important to focus on yourself first,” Gianna says slowly. “The decision should be one you can live with for the rest of your lives. My father was a police officer, and so are my brothers. My first inclination is to tell you to always report it, because I come from a law enforcement family. My family would support me if something happened. But I also know this is not the case for everyone. Even if you have your family’s support, the journey to trial and beyond is a very stressful, emotional one that you must do alone. Everyone copes with trauma differently. If you don’t have a family to support you, then I think you should seek out someone who can help you move forward.”

  “But shouldn’t it matter if not reporting leads to someone else being hurt?” I ask. “I mean, it’s my fault.”

  “First, let me be clear. You are never responsible for the actions of someone who commits a criminal act such as rape. Your rape is not your fault. If he rapes someone else, it’s not your fault. He alone is responsible for his crime.” Gianna’s voice is firm. “Second, even if you do report the crime and intend to go to court, there’s no guarantee the criminal won’t do it again. Third, you must always look inward and decide for yourself what the best path is for you.”

  “But it’s not right, letting someone else get hurt,” the second girl who talked about her trip to court says. “Even though he got off, at least I did it. I faced him in court, and I told the world what he did. I don’t know if it’ll help anyone else, but it might.”

  “After I was called a whore by the system, I thought I’d be better off dead,” the third girl says. “They still think I’m a whore, but he did it again, and now he’s in jail. I wish I hadn’t gone to court, but I’m also glad someone else got him.”

  “Let’s talk about ways to alleviate the stress of stepping forward,” Gianna says. “Anyone?”

  “Um, my mom went with me to court every day.”

  “The judge sent me to counseling.”

  “The police were nice, and my lawyer told me up front it was going to be rough.”

  “Ok, great,” Gianna says. “So having someone who supported you, having someone to talk to about it, and knowing as much as you could about the process. These are all excellent points. The process will never be easy, but there are ways to prepare yourselves.”

  I agree and take mental notes. I can’t fathom experiences like these girls have had. I was drinking, and I was raped by someone with political connections as good as mine. His team of lawyers would be equal to Chris’s. It would be a circus.

  I have every reason to walk away and one reason not to: my conscience. I don’t know what choice I can live with for the rest of my life. I’m not even sure what I’ll wear tomorrow.

  The conversation turns to our futures. I half-listen, tormented again by my thoughts. The session is over soon, and I return home to find shrink number two waiting for me.

  The counseling sessions back-to-back are brutal. I don’t tell Dr. Thompkins about seeing Robert Connor; it’s not a topic I can handle today. I talk to him about my group session and how discouraged it makes me to know there are so many girls who are hurt like I was.

  When I return to my room, I call Daddy’s financial manager, who manages all the family’s funds. I ask him to increase my donation to the charity that helps fund women’s centers in DC. I really can’t think of any other way to help the girls in my session. They seem as lost as I am, but I can at least try to help the centers hire more people like Gianna to help us.

  It’s Friday. Mom calls to say she’ll really, really be home in two days, and Molly reminds me about brunch the next morning. Ari’s going out of town for the last weekend before school. Reminded of the start of my senior year, I occupy myself by trying on my school uniforms.

  The house is quiet. I leave my room and roam around. Chris and Joseph are in the study. Daddy must be pleased with my performance the night before, because Shea doesn’t hunt me down to criticize me.

  With Ari on a plane to Colorado, there’s no one to talk to. I keep checking my phone, telling myself it’s Ari I want to hear from. But it’s not. I’m waiting to hear from Dom. By the time I go to bed, I realize I got what I wanted. I convinced him I’m the fuck up my family thinks I am.

  I hurt again, and I’m too nervous about tomorrow to sleep.

  I tell Molly my decision about the abortion at brunch. She studies me for a moment, then says,

  “Okay. I’ll arrange it. By the way, Mia, if you plan on attending my wedding, you need to learn to eat properly.”

  Surprised, I look up at Molly’s words. “You’re inviting me?”

  “You are my sister.”

  I try not to smile, even more surprised she’s stopped calling me her half-sister. We’re seated in our corner of the Victorian house that hosts a Saturday brunch. The table is covered with delicate china and a slew of silverware I ignore. She’s never been happy about my eating habits. I use a fork for everything, even spreading butter on flaky croissants.

  “You’ll be one of my bridesmaids,” Molly adds. “The maid-of-honor is Emmitt’s sister. You’ll be second in the bridal line.”

  “Wow. Okay,” I say. “I don’t even know when you’re getting married.”

  “Really, Mia?” Molly raises an eyebrow in delicate offense.

  I raise mine, mocking her. I’ve always found her uber-proper expr
essions funny.

  “It’s in December. You have an appointment here to be fitted for your dress.” She removes a crisp appointment card from her purse and hands it to me. It’s for next Saturday.

  “Thanks,” I say. I want to ask if I can bring Ari to the wedding but suspect the answer ahead of time.

  “Now, onto business.”

  I look up at Molly’s quieter tone.

  “Didn’t I tell you to refuse all engagements Daddy tries to drag you to?” she asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “You looked good. But don’t do it again, if you want any hope of making the world forget about you.”

  “I won’t,” I mumble. I definitely learned that lesson.

  “Next weekend, when you go to have your dress fitted. In the adjacent building is an office discreetly known to provide … services to clientele like us. They ask no questions and take no advance appointments. They don’t even take full names, though it’s not hard to figure out who we are, if they want to. There’s a pedestrian bridge connecting the two buildings. I’ll text you the phone number and room number,” Molly says. “Are you certain, Mia?”

  “This is for …” I point to my stomach. My heartbeat picks up.

  She nods.

  “Yeah. I’m scared, though.”

  “So was I. If Daddy found out …” Molly shakes her head.

  “Wait, is this the only reason why you invited me to your wedding?” I ask, frowning.

  “Let’s just say, it’s a good cover.”

  I shouldn’t feel crushed. I should know better than to think she’d invite me solely because we’re related, when she could replace me with the daughter of another politician.

  “It’s the game, remember?” she says, reading my face. “I don’t have to do this. I wouldn’t for anyone else.”

  “I understand.” And I do. Dr. Thompkins would say she’s helping me the only way she knows how. Molly has limitations, too. “Thank you, Molly.”

  She raises an eyebrow again, this time in surprise.

  “I know you’re helping me,” I say, reinforcing what I know instead of what I feel. She’s right; she doesn’t have to help me.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She gives me a hard look, as if she thinks I’m being as insincere as she can be. I sip my herbal tea and say nothing. I check my phone. No text messages, even from Ari.

  It’s gonna be a long weekend.

  We chitchat for a little while longer. I’m growing to like Molly while learning just how much I can’t trust her. I don’t exactly know how to juggle those two.

  When I return home, Chris ambushes me when I walk in the door after brunch.

  “Study,” he orders.

  I roll my eyes and follow him. He sits down. There’s paperwork of some sort on the table, and I suck in a breath, terrified what Dom said has come true. They’re gonna force me to go to court and face Robert Connor.

  “I’m doing your biweekly status report for the judge,” Chris says, motioning to the forms as he sits down. “So far, everyone is satisfied with your progress. I’m pleased to see you’re attending the Friday group sessions, too.”

  “Yeah. They’re fun.”

  He glances up at the sarcasm in my voice.

  I sit down across from him, waiting for bad news. He’s always got bad news.

  “With school starting, we have to adjust your hours at the women’s shelter,” he starts. “Tuesday and Thursday evenings, six to eight, and four hours on Saturdays and Sundays. It’ll give you time for cheer practice.”

  Cheer practice. I’ve forgotten all about school activities. I probably missed the sign-ups, unless Ari remembered.

  “Molly said you’re going to be a bridesmaid. While surprised, I guess you two have had a thaw.”

  “If that’s what you call it,” I reply. “She’s still a cold bitch in my book.” I don’t tell him I actually respect for owning up to what she is.

  “She says you have a fitting next weekend?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you sure?” Chris is looking at me closely. He steeples his fingers and taps the tips together.

  He can’t know why else I’m going to the bridesmaid appointment, can he? I’m beginning to wish someone would give me a guide to figure out the politics in my own family.

  “Um, yeah. Is that it?” I ask, irritated.

  “One more thing,” he says, considering. “School starts Tuesday. Instead of going to the shelter Monday, you’re spending a few hours at the hospital.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Be ready and at the car at eight.”

  “Okay.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, but he’s still looking at me funny. I assume he’s done and stand. I make a face and walk out to my room.

  Still no texts from Ari. God, I miss her!

  Chapter Fifteen

  Monday morning, I trudge into the hospital, following an orderly or nurse or someone in scrubs through the hallways. I hate the way a hospital smells. Being in one after my last visit makes my skin crawl. I cross my arms, not wanting to touch anything.

  I can’t wait to leave and tell Ari how awful this place is. She lands this afternoon, enough time for us to talk about our weekends and decide where to meet up at school the next day. I need to ask her about cheer practice, too.

  I’m thinking hard about tomorrow to distract myself from my surroundings when I see another familiar face in zoo-animals scrubs.

  “Hey, Mia!” Robin smiles.

  “Hi, Robin,” I say, smiling back. I don’t remember a lot about my hospital stay, but I remember her smile and the zoo animals.

  “I hear you’re spending an hour or two here with me today. Let me show you around the pediatric ward.”

  I trail her as she shows me the nursing stations, long term rooms, intensive care area, bathrooms … basically everything. The floor is quiet for being the kids’ ward. I stop when we walk by a room that feels too familiar and look inside. It’s dark.

  I flip on the lights. My instinct is correct. This was my room. It’s empty now, the pristine white bed waiting for the next patient to come in. Weirded out, I back into the hallway. I’m struck by another thought and pull out my phone, Googling the latest rape victim.

  “Come on. I’ll suit you up. I have an easy duty for you,” Robin calls from down the hall.

  I wave to show I heard and walk slowly, absorbed with my online hunt. With mixed feelings, I see the latest rape victim is here. I look around then recall she’s not a minor. She won’t be on this floor.

  I join Robin in the clean room. She’s putting on plastic booties and a robe over her scrubs. I watch her place a hair net over her head and wash her hands before the gloves.

  “Wash your hands first, then put on all that gear.” She points to another set of over clothes.

  I obey and suit up, not liking the feel of plastic against my skin at all. It feels cheap. Robin waits with a smile then opens the door opposite the entrance. I walk into the room beyond and stop.

  Chris knows about the abortion. There’s no such thing as freaky coincidences that find me standing in a place like this! He’s too smart; I have no idea how he figures this stuff out, and I hate him for it. What is he doing? Trying to change my mind?

  I’m surrounded by newborn babies. Some are fussy. Most are sleeping. They’re arranged in neat rows of fifteen. A lot of them are wearing pink or blue hats while the others have maneuvered out of the hats.

  “At the far end are bottles in a warmer. All you need to do is walk around, check the charts, and feed the ones whose charts say it’s time.” Robin’s voice is quiet, so as not to wake the babies. She shows me a chart marked with a bottle and the time.

  “He’s sleeping,” I say, peering into the first crib.

  “It’s ok. Wake him up. He might complain, but it’s only until he figures out its time to eat.”

  I don’t think I can do this. Robin is smiling still. I feel like I owe her after the time she spent wi
th me when I was on this floor. Hands trembling, I approach the warmer on the opposite side of the room and return with a bottle.

  “Just put it to his mouth. If he doesn’t wake up at that, just nudge him gently.”

  I watch her place her hand on the boy’s chest and rub. The baby wakes up. His face skews, until he realizes the bottle is there. His tiny mouth opens, and he starts to drink.

  “You’ll have to stand here for a few minutes. Let him eat until he seems full. Hold the bottle. They aren’t old enough to hold it themselves yet.”

  I carefully take her place. I breathe deeply to keep the nausea and tunnel vision away.

  “If you need anything, call me on the intercom,” Robin says, indicating the speaker in the side of the wall by the door. “If you don’t feel comfortable, don’t pick them up. If you do, go ahead. Alicia will follow and burp them.”

  “Okay,” I say. Alicia is a tiny black lady in the back, already holding one baby.

  Robin leaves me. I want to scream. I’m scared and perfectly still, afraid of disturbing the drinking baby. He looks so tiny, so frail. His face is wrinkly and his chubby hands waving around. Should I feel something other than terror?

  I lightly touch his hand and can’t believe how soft his skin is. His eyes are dark brown-blue. I’m not sure what color they should be, but the mixed color is pretty. I can’t believe something like this little boy is growing in me. It doesn’t seem possible. It doesn’t seem real. But it is real. In nine months, I could be holding my own little boy. Or girl. My gaze goes to the girl in the next crib over.

  They’re so helpless, so small.

  I’m starting to panic. I focus on the baby’s round face and taking deep breaths. I can’t think about Chris right now. I can’t think about being pregnant. Instead, I concentrate hard on the task at hand.

  I survive the natal ward. By the time it’s noon and time for me to go, I’ve fed fifteen babies. I strip mechanically, struggling to maintain the thin layer of control I have over myself. I even manage to smile at Robin as I walk off of the pediatric floor. Safe in an elevator, I slump. My body shakes, and I feel sick.