Page 37 of Don't Speak

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Thirteen Years Old

I should tell them. This is my chance, but I’m scared.

I don’t want people knowing the details of the horrors I’ve had to live through.

I don’t want people to look at me differently or judge me.

I definitely don’t want people’s pity. But I’m so tired.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live with him anymore.

I was invited to go to a church retreat a few hours south along the beach.

It’s been nice to get away and be with people I consider family.

I’ve grown close to the people I go to church with.

I never took myself as the religious type.

I didn’t grow up going to church, but my mother also didn’t hesitate when I told her I wanted to start going with Andrea, my best friend.

Since I was out of the house guaranteed every Wednesday and Sunday, with a few other days sprinkled in, I took it.

Any excuse, really. But I have enjoyed it.

The people have been nice. They feel… normal.

There aren’t a lot of us here, about fifteen or so. We’re currently all seated in one of the hotel rooms together, and our group leader has asked us to share anything that has been troubling us or anything we want to get off our chests. It’s like he knows…

A few of my friends share fairly mundane troubles, such as failing classes, not making the sports team, having to quit gymnastics because of an injury, etc.

Nothing that warrants any sort of serious discussion.

We all offer our sympathies, reading a few verses about trusting God that everything will be okay every once in a while, but then it’s my turn to speak.

“I have something to share,” I tell the group, my heart rate increasing at the fact that it’s too late to take it back.

My palms start sweating, and I fight back the lump forming in my throat.

I immediately feel like the walls are closing in on me, threatening to suffocate me at any moment, but I push through.

“My… my stepdad. He’s been making me… do things…” I choke out. I’ve immediately captured the attention of the adults in the room, and my peers are intently staring at me. I feel like my heart is going to explode.

Sensing something deeper, one of the counselors walks up to me and says, “Here, Nikki. Come outside and talk to me.”

I do, getting up from the couch and walking with him to the front door.

Once we’re outside, the other counselors resume their discussions, keeping the group occupied.

He leads me to the railing overlooking the beach.

I feel a sense of peace at this moment, the beach being my only sense of home in my life.

My grandparents live in a beach house, and growing up, I was always over there during the summer.

It was my one escape. But that sense of peace quickly fades when he asks, “Do you want to talk more about what you just said? What kinds of things has he been making you do?”

Tears start to well in my eyes. I feel a mix of emotions that I’m not sure how to control right now as they all bubble up simultaneously, threatening to crash over the walls I’ve built up for so long.

I don’t let anyone in. The last time I told someone, she made me sit on my abuser’s lap while we discussed my abuse.

The mountain that formed around my heart solidified in that moment, making it impossible for me to trust anyone.

But I’ve opened a door I can’t just disappear back into, so I have to keep going.

I think it’s time I face this fear. I can’t live like this anymore.

If it’s not now, then when? These people have been like my family for the last few years.

I feel like I should be able to trust them, right? They’ll believe me, won’t they?

“He’s been doing things to me… sexual things…,” I trail off before continuing, “and he’s been making me do the same things… to him…”

He remains calm and collected, not really giving me any ounce of emotion other than being someone to talk to. Then, he asks, “Does your mom know?”

I nod. They don’t know my mother. She doesn’t attend church with me, never has. They don’t know my stepdad either for the same reason. I look up at him, scared to see the pity in his eyes. I don’t, though. All I see is concern. For me. Something I’m not used to anymore.

“How long has this been going on for?” he asks me.

“Since I was seven,” I whisper, fighting back the tears I know will come when I’m alone. Crying is weakness. I can’t show weakness.

“Thank you for telling me,” he says before adding, “Do you mind if I talk to the other counselors about what we discussed? I promise none of the children will know.”

“Yeah. That would be fine,” I respond, and then he escorts me to one of the female counselors so that I may be alone for the moment.

I’m glad because I don’t think I could walk back into that room and have all of their eyes on me.

I hate attention. Attention makes me feel seen.

I don’t want to feel seen right now. In fact, I wish I could crawl into a ball and take it all back.

Because now? Well, now there are so many unknowns left up in the air. And I really don’t like the unknown.

We are almost back to the church from our trip.

It was a long drive, but it went well. I got to sit next to my crush on the bus, the son of one of the counselors, and he let me listen to his iPod.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget his kindness.

A few had asked me to explain more, but he didn’t.

He respected my privacy and provided me with quiet comfort. I needed that.

Just as we’re pulling into the church, my heart sinks.

There is a police cruiser waiting in the parking lot, and I immediately know it’s for me.

That suffocating feeling is back because now reality is hitting me.

Does my mom know? Is she here, too? Am I going with the cop?

Is she going to jail? Is HE going to jail?

Nausea roils in my stomach, and I ask the counselor to pull the car over early.

I bolt from the vehicle, running to the nearest tree and emptying the contents of my stomach.

One of the female counselors comes to check on me, but I assure her I am fine.

“What is this?” I ask, pointing to the cop car.

“We had to report it, Nikki. We couldn’t just let you go back home after what you told us. The officer just has some questions,” she says, as though answering those will be an easy task.

The officer exits her cruiser, and we slowly walk toward each other. The rest of the group has begun being picked up by parents, which only adds to my anxiety. Great. Now all of the parents are going to think I did something terrible and required police presence.

“Hi, Nikki. My name is Officer Anderson. May I speak with you for a moment? Your mother is waiting inside.”

My heart sinks, and nausea threatens to overwhelm me again.

I don’t know how my mom is going to be when I go in there, and that scares me more than anything.

I nod, though, and follow her inside. As soon as we are through the door and into the pastor’s office, I notice my mother sitting in the chair in the corner, and she looks at me.

I’m not met with the rage I thought I’d see in her eyes, but rather guilt. She looks… sorry.

The next several hours drag on. At times, I found myself dissociating. I don’t do well when people overload me with a ton of information, and I am mentally drained by the amount of questions I’ve been asked.

The only thing I’ve been able to gather is that my stepfather was asked to leave our home during the duration of the investigation.

He is not allowed to speak to me or have any contact with me whatsoever.

I am supposed to go downtown for a formal interview, where I will then take a polygraph test. I guess the only good news I got today was that he wasn’t allowed to be home when we got there.

I hate the idea of having to talk to more strangers about my trauma.

Once the officer is done, my mother and I head home. She’s quiet most of the time, as am I, both of us equally not having any clue what to say at this moment. Just when I thought we’d be riding in silence during the whole trip, she says two words I thought I’d never hear.

“I’m sorry.”

I look at her, really look at her. The look on her face and the tone of her voice make me feel like she is being sincere. I see tears well in her own eyes, solidifying the thought that maybe she means it.

And for the first time in three years, I feel like I have my mom back. That maybe I can forgive her.

I feel hopeful.