Page 23 of Perfect Assumption
I just wish the world at large would let the past die. But like Becks said, in today’s age of social media, nothing ever does. And so the assumptions about me go on.
It isn’t me screeching on street corners reminding people about the night they spiked my drink with GHB. It isn’t me who persistently proclaims year after year Michael and Stephen dragged me up to Stephen’s room and were in the process of…of…when their pledge chairman, Jorge, ordered them into the hall, leaving me exposed on the bed.
It was the media—then and now—who swooped in on wings like Hermes to raise me up before sentencing me to hell like Tartarus.
The world would never have known the details of my pain, my shame, if not for them. And despite my impassioned testimony, “John Smith” and “Brian Jones” were exonerated. They submitted hair and blood samples, but of course, there were none. After all, they hadn’t got around tothat.
But I was exposed. I was left there. I was the one touched without consent.
And no one at my university cared.
I stood in a room with my head held high, enduring a lecture about underage drinking from my former university elders with “esteemed” classmates looking on. I was told, “The burden of proof lies on you, Ms. Fahey. Not on the men you are accusing,” and was reminded, “There has to have been proof of unwillingness.”
And due to the infernal media waiting like locusts outside, my departure from that recitation from hell was well-documented. I just kept walking through the circus despite the intruding questions being flung at me from all directions. For me, there was no going back—not to school, not to the carefree way I lived before. All of that was lost in one night, with a few sips of alcohol.
And knowing that it started with a bad decision reinforced by my peers was hard enough. Knowing I did the right thing and I’d never recover took everything inside me to just to keep moving.
It took me hours to get home that day instead of the mere minutes it took me today. But I did then exactly what I do right now. What I do every day no matter the hour. I race up the stairs to my bedroom and begin stripping out of my clothes. Flinging them aside, I race for the shower so I can scrub away the filthy stares and assumptions.
“I thought it’d be easier over time. When is it finally going to let me go?” I feel the salt of my tears mingle with the shower water as I turn my face into the spray.
And since silence reins, I assume I have my answer.
Never.
* * *
Wrappedin my flannel pajamas and a long robe, I head downstairs to find Flower. Not finding the overweight snob in the front sitting room, I pad into the kitchen. Then I roll my eyes at the sight before me.
“I should have tried here first. You do realize your food comes out of a can?”
A grumpymrumphis the only response I get from the cat sprawled across my kitchen stove.
Knowing from past experience that if I try to move her before she’s ready, she’ll claw me bloody, I leave her while I sort out fresh food and water. “Grandma spoiled you rotten, you ridiculous feline.”
Gratefully, she jumps down before performing some maneuver that demonstrates despite her age, she’s still agile. She begins to lick herself, uncaring that we’re in the kitchen. “Really? How about hygiene, Flower?” I’m already reaching for the wipes to scrub down my stovetop so I can heat up a can of soup when my cell rings.
Flower hisses. She’s been like this ever since I got my grandmother a cell phone. I’ve tried different ringers, I’ve tried silent. The damn cat must just feel the electrical energy of the phone and hate it. I’d swear if I didn’t have a waterproof model, she’d have enjoyed batting it into the sink. Repeatedly.
“Deal with it. It’s a phone. Not everyone who calls on it is evil.”
Flower obviously disagrees as she prepares to launch herself back up to the counter to attack. I snatch up the phone and glance at the display. Quickly I answer, not only to avoid sanitizing my counter but to not make her wait. “Hi, Carys. Is something wrong?”
“I just wanted to say thank you for being concerned about me earlier today. It was appreciated, Angie. I know I didn’t show it at the time, but I hope you know I appreciate the gesture. And not just as your boss. I care about you.”
I brace my hips against the cabinet and close my eyes. A smile curves my lips as I recall the warmth in the ostentatious New York living space and homemade lasagne. “I’m not certain you have any idea what it means to know all of you support me. It’s certainly not something I ever expected when I applied for a job so long ago.”
“I’d love to go back in time—being who I am—and tear apart the people who hurt you. One by one. Slowly.”
I manage to bark out a laugh through the tightening of my throat. “And you saying that is exactly why I’ll never leave, Carys. Once again, your guiding principles are everything I’ll ever need.” Carys’s business was built on the principles of her parents’ marriage: love, loyalty, and friendship. And no one who works or becomes a client of the firm doesn’t become a recipient of those tenets.
“There’s no dollar value that could fix what my heart has endured. But the time I spend at LLF makes an inroad to it.”
Carys is grumbling about not being able to give me a hug and wanting to have me over more often. I interrupt her. “Thank you, Carys. You and David mean a lot to me as well.”
“Fair enough. You know, Angie, when I had to step back from my life to raise my brother, I lost a number of my friends. I know it’s not the same thing,” she hurries on to say. “But I appreciate the loneliness a person can feel when they’re at home. And a can of soup seems like the easiest thing to have for dinner.”
Gaping, I lift up the can I was just about to open before there’s a thud on the counter. “Flower, get down!” I hiss.
