No Way Back (Mia's Way, #1) (8 page)

One week turns into two, three, four. It takes that long for my eyes to both work right, though there’s still faint bruising around one. The scrapes on my cheek and fingers are gone. My fingernails have grown back partially, and the bruises on my body are almost all gone. I can pee without pain and brush my hair over the stitches in my head.

In every way, I’m told I’m improving by the physician and the people in my house. Physically, maybe, but I can’t get
them
out of my head. They’re in my dreams and every dark corner of the house. I’ve never been afraid of the dark, but I’m terrified of nighttime now and of being alone. It still feels like the incident happened yesterday.

During one of my counseling sessions, I tell my distant cousin, Dr. Thompkins, all of this.

“Where
do
you feel safe?” he asks.

I hate the shrink. He might be the best, but he’s got the personality of my carpet. I look from the window to him. I gave up being sarcastic with him. I don’t think he gets humor of any kind.

“My closet,” I reply.

“What makes you feel safe about your closet?”

“It’s small. There’s nowhere for anyone to hide. The light lights up every inch.”

“How do you feel in the closet?”

“Safe,” I say and roll my eyes.

“When you start to feel the fear, can you imagine yourself in the closet?”

“I can just
go
to the closet.”

“Mia, part of what we’re trying to do is give you tools to deal with the anxiety you feel. If you can’t handle it, how can you go back to school? How can you leave the house?” he asks.

“I will when I feel better.”

“
Feeling better
takes active participation and understanding how to think differently about something that disturbs you,” he reminds me for the millionth time. “If you think you’ll ever stop remembering, or there’s a reset button, you need to listen to me when I tell you this isn’t the case.”

I know as much. I feel overwhelmed and rest my chin on my knee.

“What goes through your mind when I say that?” he asks.

“That I don’t believe you.”

He waits for me to say more. Ari texts me, and I look down.

Forgot to tell you. The protestor signs say something about Joan of Arc. Did your daddy insult a saint? LOL

I smile. Ari has been in and out the past few weeks, and Dr. Thompkins has stopped telling me not to text during our sessions.

“What does Ari say?” he asks.

“She said the protestors are mad at Daddy for something he said about Joan of Arc or something. Funny, he can even piss of a dead woman.”

“Does he … piss you off much?” he asks.

“All the time. He cares more about politics than anything else.”

“More than you?”

“Yeah. He didn’t even come to the hospital,” I say.

“You have a problem with him or the nature of his work?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Do you love your father?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“But you don’t love the politician.”

“Nope,” I say firmly.

“What was he doing the night you were in the hospital?”

“Trying to bribe some paper to keep them from publishing pics of me.”

“Do you think that’s his way of trying to take care of you?” Dr. Thompkins asks.

“It’s his way of saving face.”

“Mia, your expectations of how your father should show affection and the reality of how he does show affection are not on equal footing,” he says.

“He should’ve been there!”

“I am saying he shows affection the only way he knows how. Everyone has their own limitations.”

I look out the window again, tired of being told I’m wrong by everyone.

“Joan of Arc is you,” Dr. Thompkins says.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, those aren’t protestors. They’re supporters. Your supporters. Your speech is still drawing headlines. They’re comparing you to Joan of Arc, a brave woman who stood up when those around her didn’t believe her.”

“I’m not Joan of Arc,” I whisper. I lied about who hurt me. “I’m like, the anti-Joan.”

“Making a statement to the press took courage.”

“I did it because I wanted everyone to leave me alone. Didn’t she get burned at the stake?”

“She was martyred, yes.”

I shake my head. “I’m no martyr. I want to stay in the closet and to be left alone. Molly loves fans. I don’t.”

“You’re a public persona, more so now because of your speech,” he reminds me. “Your daddy is giving the two police officers who helped you public commendations. If you hadn’t mentioned them, it wouldn’t have happened. They’re being regarded as heroes.”

“They should be,” I say, unable to help the small bloom of pride. “They rescued me. They stayed with me at the hospital. They’re heroes.”

“Your daddy recognizing them is another way he’s trying to show his concern for you. It was important enough for you to mention them in your speech. It became important to him, too.”

“I guess.” I’m not convinced Daddy isn’t doing this for political reasons. But as I sit and think about it, I realize Daddy is probably missing meetings to commend them. It’s a few months before his reelection; he normally is in the office, traveling or in meetings for twenty hours a day until after he wins. Maybe Dr. Thompkins is right this time. Maybe Daddy is thanking them, because it’s important to me. “But I still don’t understand why he didn’t come to the hospital.”

Dr. Thompkins’ watch beeps twice, the sign our session is over. He folds his notebook.

“Think about taking the closet with you wherever you go and escaping to it when you feel anxious,” he says and stands. “We’ll pick up Tuesday.”

He leaves. I feel alone again, exposed. My eyes go to the Joan of Arc
supporters
then to my phone.

I hesitate then Google myself. The results on the first few pages are mainly television and news articles that ran my story. Pictures of my hospital stay are splattered all over the internet, along with the awful pics from my speech. I look horrendous: dazed, bruised, pale.

It doesn’t seem like a month has passed. I feel the same: guilty, terrified, confused. I’m not even sure where the past few weeks went. It’s been a haze of Dr. Thompkins, painkillers and bad dreams.

I keep searching and find blogs of the Joan of Arc crowds. I read a couple, surprised to find Dr. Thompkins was right. One site proclaims I’m the new face of violence against women while another says I’ll inspire other teens to come forward about their experiences.

They all say the same Dr. Thompkins said, that I’m brave. I close the browser and stare at my closet. I’m not brave. I’m a coward. I’m not willing to face Robert again in court. Especially since he has an alibi, and it’s nothing but me against him. Daddy is right. It would destroy our families and hurt his reelection. I want him to be proud of me for helping him. I don’t want to disappoint him.  

I do want the guilt and dreams to go away. I shouldn’t have been drinking. I shouldn’t have worn that dress. I shouldn’t have wanted to feel beautiful. Shea’s speech is right. It
is
my fault. I didn’t even have to be there that night, but I was.

I don’t know what to feel.

Two days later with no real sleep, I watch Daddy give commendations to Dom and Kiesha on the local news station. I’m sitting in my closet, watching the ten ‘o’clock news on my smart phone, which is showing clips of Daddy shaking hands and posing with the two. I smile to see them again and to see Daddy doing the right thing for once.

I recall Dom’s wheezy voice and brown eyes. He’s taller than I remember, as tall as Daddy, and muscular where Daddy is slender. Kiesha is the opposite: small and shapely with large eyes and a bright smile.

I close the browser on my smart phone and stretch out on the floor of my closet, where I’ve made a small nest. I doubt I’ll sleep but I’ll try.

Another week passes. Mom still isn’t home, and Daddy is too busy for me. My only companions are Ari and Dr. Thompkins, who visits three times a week. The supporters with signs stay outside my house. Seeing them helps me feel a little less alone. It’s like they’re there to stand guard or something. I’ve learned to take naps during the day to make up for missed sleep. I haven’t had to mess with Chris or Shea the whole week.

I stare in the mirror after I put on makeup. All outward signs of the incident are gone. But I’m still different. It’s my eyes. Or maybe, it’s something I can’t see, only feel. Whatever it is, I hate that part of me. I hate the part that jumps whenever I hear a door close and looks under the bed several times after dark to make sure
they
aren’t there. I know they aren’t, but I can’t stop the fear.

My phone vibrates, and I see there’s a message from Chris.

I’m sending the car. We have an appointment. Be ready in 15.

I roll my eyes at the message. I don’t want to go out, and it takes a lot more than fifteen minutes to get ready. Whatever this appointment is, I’m not going to go looking as bad as I feel.

I wash the make-up off my face and redo it and my hair. The bruises are gone, but I can’t help double checking to make sure they don’t suddenly reappear, like the dreams I keep hoping will go away for good. I take more care than I ever did before getting dressed. My first choice is a v-neck sweater.

As soon as I put it on, I take it off. I feel … dirty showing off my chest. Daddy always says a woman who dresses without respect to herself will end up in trouble. I know now that he’s right. I stare at myself for a long moment, wishing I’d never bought or worn that dress. Wishing I’d never gone to the party. Wishing I could just wear what I want without feeling so bad.

“Ms. Mia, the car is here for you,” Paul, the butler, calls through my door.

“I’m almost ready,” I reply.

It takes me another ten minutes to figure out what to wear. I still don’t feel comfortable when I emerge from one of my closets in designer jeans, booties and a loose, light, long-sleeve sweater, the kind suited more for fall evenings than the balmy days at the end of summer. I slip on earrings, give myself a once over and leave my safe place.

The house is quiet as I trot down the stairs and out the front door. I’m all alone in the world, except for one of Daddy’s chauffeurs, who waits by the open door. I get in and pull my phone free, ready to call for help if something bad happens. The windows are tinted, but I still feel exposed. I pull my knees to my chest and watch as we roll slowly to the front gate.

The supporters part, and I gawk at the signs as we pass.

We love you Mia!

Death penalty for rape

Joan of Arc.
This one had a picture of my battered face on it and an X drawn through a picture of some kind of pill. I’m not sure what this one means, unless they want to outlaw Rufis. It’s strange to see people in front of my house with positive messages. No one eggs the car or screams at it as we coast through the crowd. I twist to watch them out the rear window, smiling at the idea that there are people out there who don’t hate me for my Daddy’s politics. These people think I’m brave.

My smile fades. They’re totally wrong about me. I stare out the window, lost in my thoughts, until the car slows in front of a large building. I read the sign and freeze.

“I’m going to court?” I ask the driver.

“I’m not sure, Miss. Either there or the neighboring police station.”

I hadn’t noticed the police station next door and glance at it. My first thought is that I’m not dressed for court. My second, that I’m about to face Robert Connor. I start sweating. My hands shake, and I start to panic. I don’t get out. Chris appears from the doors at the top of the stairs and trots down to me, opening the car door.

“I don’t want to do this, Chris!” I say, inching away.

“You have to give them a statement about the fake ID.”

I blink. I’ve forgotten about the ID.

“That’s it?” I ask him.

“Yes.”

I blow out a breath and climb out of the car. He has his game face on. I can’t read him. I have no idea if he’s lying. Chris starts back into the building. I follow, arms crossed. We enter, and he leads me through quiet hallways lined with offices and conference rooms into a fancier part of the building. The offices get bigger, the hallway wider. My boots click on the marble floors in this part of the building.

He enters a room finally, and I hesitate. The room is crowded. There’s a judge in black robes at the head of the small, wooden table, a police officer with tons of stripes and medals, and a few other men and women in suits. I recognize two members of Chris’s team.

They all stare at me. I want to run. Chris motions to the fluffy chair beside him. I sit instead.

“The police would like to charge you for possession of a fraudulent ID and also identity theft. Apparently, the ID you had belonged to a woman named Julie Smith and was stolen,” Chris tells me.

I stare at him.

“Due to the circumstances surrounding the events of that night, the Office of the District Attorney and your attorney have come to an arrangement,” the judge says. He has a much kinder smile than I expect.