Now That You Mention It
Page 29

“Help!” I screamed, that weakest, saddest word, and he kicked me in the ribs, and Holy Mother, his shoes were still on. Pain blossomed in red, spreading through my whole torso. I couldn’t breathe—little squeaks jerked in and out of me.
One part of my brain gave calm instructions; another whimpered in terror. You’re okay, you’re still here.
Oh, Jesus, Jesus, help me.
The wind is knocked out of you. You’re okay. Maybe a broken rib.
Please, please, please. What do I—What do I do?
You’re going into shock. Stay calm. Stay calm.
The man looked down at me, huge as he towered over me.
He was going to rape me. Kill me, maybe, and the terror won. My brain went white and silent. All I could see was him and how he was going to ruin me.
He looked down at me, a face so ironically banal and forgettable. Voldemort, Harry Potter’s nemesis with his evil face and missing nose—at least you could remember that guy.
In the past when I’d considered this situation—because every woman does, every woman sees herself both raped and murdered and also kicking the living shit out of her attacker—I imagined being that fast-thinking warrior who punched in the throat, kneed in the balls, knocked him out cold, the asshole who had dared to try to violate me, and I’d add another kick for good measure. I’d be triumphant, a hero, a role model for women everywhere.
But now that it was happening, all I wanted was not to die.
My mother would fight. She would win. Lily would, too. No one would dare hurt Lily.
My lungs suddenly worked again, and I sucked in a deep breath, rolled away from him, scrambled to my feet and swung, fist clenched, as hard as I could, catching his head. My fist went instantly numb.
It wasn’t a good hit. He punched me back, calmly almost, full fist, square in the face, and my head snapped back, my eyes streaming tears, my nose filling with blood. I fell, tried to kick him, and he leaned over and yanked my hair, wrenching my neck.
I screamed, louder this time, but it was April, and April in Boston can be as cold as winter. The apartment’s windows were new and snug and shut tight against the cold snap that was supposed to end tomorrow, it was supposed to be in the sixties tomorrow, typical New England. The walls made from brick. Bobby had made a joke about it two nights ago after some very athletic sex. “Good thing the neighbors can’t hear,” he had said afterward, hugging me close.
I had closed the blinds not ten minutes ago. No one would see me being assaulted. No one would see a woman struggling not to be killed. I thought of the Common, so beautiful in the spring, the statue of Paul Revere, the tulips. Of the little brick restaurant where Bobby and I had dinner the other night. Of how it still felt, walking into the hospital in my white coat.
Tonight I was going to die.
Concentrate, Nora. Stay alive. Stay here.
It was my mother’s voice.
The man pulled me to my feet by my hair. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, and I almost laughed, because my face was swelling already. I tried to punch him again, in the throat this time, but my head was woozy, and he caught my fist and slapped my burning, aching cheek. I screamed again—no, I whimpered, and the weak sound broke my own heart.
I wasn’t going to win, be triumphant, have the cops tell me I was amazing. No one would know how hard I tried.
Try, anyway.
The man, whose name I would never learn, just watched me. I punched once more, arms weak, hitting him on the side of the neck rather than the Adam’s apple, because my arm flopped a little at the last second. He slapped me on the side of the head, making my ear ring and my head loll.
“Just do what I say. If you do, I’ll leave. If you fight, I’ll kill you.”
I imagined that he’d kill me anyway, but maybe something miraculous would happen, maybe the Ambersons in 3F would need me to watch Chanelle, the baby, and they’d knock on the door. Maybe I could buy some time.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Nora,” I whispered. I shouldn’t have said that. I should’ve made something up.
“Take off your clothes, Nora.”
With hands that shook uncontrollably, I unbuttoned my shirt. Unzipped my skirt and stepped out of it as tears slid off my chin. Off with the bra. Don’t think about it, don’t think about being naked. Off with the panties.
“Get on the bed. On your back.”
I obeyed, legs shaking, teeth chattering. “You don’t have to do this,” I said. “Please. Don’t do this. You’re not a bad person.”
He unzipped his jeans and stuck his hand inside, locking eyes with me.
I started to pray. Please, let me live. Please, let me live.
The man started pacing, fondling himself, muttering about what he was going to do to me. He ordered me to tell him I wanted him to hurt me, to rape me, to do all sorts of obscene, unspeakable things.
I said the words.
Apparently, they weren’t enough. He couldn’t get it up.
A tiny seed of hope poked through the black tar of my fear.
“Maybe we should take a break,” I said, and he backhanded me so hard my head slammed to the left. Shock protected me for all of a second, and then my whole face was on fire. I tasted blood, and one of my teeth was loose, maybe.
He shoved his hand back in his pants, muttering horrible words, calling me names. Whore. Slut. Worse.
Think, I commanded. Think of something. I should throw up, but lunch was so long ago, my food was way down in my intestinal track, probably in the descending colon by now. Could I pee? Make him disgusted? I tried. Nothing came.
Think.
Bobby and I had watched The Martian last weekend, cuddled up on the couch. What about that, right? Matt Damon, adorable son of Boston, had been stranded on Mars all alone. He wasn’t terrified all the time, though he had very good reason to be.
I don’t think Matt Damon is going to help here, said the calm part of my brain. Also, that’s a work of fiction.
So not helpful, unless I was trying to make water from hydrazine.
My terrorist kept pacing. He punched himself in the head, and for some reason, that scared me more than the hand in the pants.
I found myself going numb. The pain throbbed, but it was more distant now. There was too much. I was sinking into the mattress. I wanted to go to sleep. It was possible I had a concussion.
Here’s the thing about abject terror—you can’t stay there. Well, maybe you can. If you’re a mother, for example, and your child is the one at risk. And yes, I was abjectly terrified. There was an intruder in my house, and he had beaten me and was trying to maintain an erection long enough to rape me and possibly kill me afterward, and believe me, that was as terrifying as it gets. But here I was, wondering why Matt Damon was so damn appealing.
This morning seemed so long ago. A different life when I had gotten dressed, back when I cared about looking the part of a successful doctor. I loved that white blouse. It was a silk-cotton blend. If blood got on it, would it come out?
Think, Nora. Focus.
I tried to map the man’s face. He looked like any ordinary white Bostonian male—not that tall, not that fit, scrawny but with a beer belly, pasty complexion, a few pimples, crooked bottom teeth. Brown hair. Blue eyes.
He looked so normal.
“Stop staring!” he said, coming at me with his fist. I curled into the fetal position, to protect myself, but he pounded me on the ribs, and it hurt, God, it hurt, the pain reverberating everywhere, a fierce, fiery throb.