Page 12 of Saving Barrette

I swallow and lift my eyes to hers. I don’t know how to react.

The doctor goes on to explain that she was drugged, and though her wounds are nasty, nothing is life threatening. Her cheekbone was crushed by what they think is a rock given the jagged edge and dirt, and numerous cuts will require stitches. He stares at her, watching every reaction as if it’s another clue for him. “Do you know why you were brought in?”

She nods.

“Do you remember how you got here and who you were with?”

This time she answers with a shake of her head, no words.

I swallow before I speak, because I don’t know if my voice will shake, or if the words will crack and break the rest of the resolve I’m holding onto. “Was she raped?” My question comes out in a whisper, afraid she’ll hear me. She does, but there’s no reaction.

Deep concern is embedded in his features. Maybe because he thinks it’s me. “Her injuries indicate she was.” He presses his lips together and darts his eyes to Barrette. “We will need to perform a rape kit examination, if she agrees.”

I nod slowly, still staring down at the stark white floor with drops of her blood. I suck in a rush of air and lift my eyes to Barrette. I wait for her answer, but it doesn’t come.

There’s a noise, a bang in the distance where a surgical tray hits the ground with a ping. Barrette jumps at the noise. I notice her eyes aren’t focusing on anything. They’re moving around the room and then to me, searching for truth. Any truth. I know by the way she’s looking at me that she has no idea what this means.

Her life will never be the same again.

Mine won’t.

Have you ever had a cold and taken medicine for it to sleep? You know that groggy feeling you get when you wake up and you can’t remember how long you’ve slept, let alone where you are?

That’s how I feel. It’s as if I’m trapped in a fog and can’t seem to find my way through it to form a thought or words. Everything from the voices around me to the movements I make are excruciatingly slow.

Turning my head, I look around the room, trying to make sense of where I am. My head throbs with the motion, muscles seizing, blood rushing to my ears in a thumping rhythm. I squint at the onset of the pain, but it only makes it worse.

Raising my hand, I touch my face. It’s puffy and tender. One thing surfaces above everything else. Pain. It’s intense. So much so I fight to not cry out and scream.

Someone touches my hand, and though I don’t want anyone near me, I know that touch. There are three people in the room with me. A woman, a man, andhim.

My heart stumbles. My eyes lift to his. I don’t say anything. Asa.

I try to recall how and why I’m here. I flip through thoughts, but nothing comes. At least not right away.

I remember the smell of the rain, the dirt, and the way the wind felt hitting my face. I remember the pain, the plea to stop. The excruciating pain… I remember standing in the driveway with Asa, and the beer. And him leaving. But that’s where the memory ends for me.

Nothing before, nothing after.

The male doctor sits next to me. “Do you remember anything?”

I breathe out, but no words come with it. My chin shakes, a rush of emotion hitting me. Asa holds my hand and doesn’t say anything.

It’s the woman standing at the foot of my bed who whispers, “I want you to know you don’t have to tell us anything.” And then she continues with, “Your wounds are consistent with someone who has been sexually assaulted. We would like to talk to you about performing a sexual assault evidence collection kit….” Her words hang there, as if I’m supposed to jump at the chance to report it.

What exactly am I reporting? That I don’t remember being raped? That I got drunk and had no regard for those around me?

“What does it involve?” Asa asks, his words so broken, so damaged like my body. I can’t imagine what he saw, what he went through to get me here.

I know I should be concerned with myself, but in those moments as he holds my hand and comforts a stranger to him, I think to myself, what kind of homecoming is this for him? First his mom dies, and now he’s here, in a hospital comforting his childhood friend he hasn’t seen in years.

I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I don’t know what for. That I got myself in this position in the first place? That I drank and left myself vulnerable? I think I said no, but I don’t know for sure. Did I say it?

“The exam can take up to four hours, but in that time, you give us your best description of what you remember, then you undress and we survey your injuries and take photographs. We collect samples of DNA, take swabs of your genitalia, fingernail clippings, your clothing is taken to be examined and tested, and then we can treat you for your injuries, STDs, pregnancy, and then, you have a choice whether to report it, or wait. You don’t have to decide anything right now.”

I stare past the doctors, their words floating around me and they’re just that, words. They hold no meaning to me.

“We can start the process and you can tell us to stop at any time,” the woman says, as if they’re trying to convince me. She has a name, and I know she’s told me, maybe once or twice, but I can’t remember. Everything is still so foggy.

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