This was who I was now, jumping at loud noises, choking over my own voice, not being able to take in more than a few sips of water.
It was as though I were made of glass that was so thin that even a tiny breeze could chip me.
Normal wasn’t just far.
It was impossible.
“No, Pearl,” he said, pulling me from my thoughts, “to a place that’s perfect for you.”
“My name is Marlene,” a woman said as she stepped into my room.
Ashe had already told me she was coming, so her presence wasn’t a surprise. Her frizzy, curly hair was like a halo around her head, and she took a seat on the other side of my bed, her chair a good distance away.
“I’m a therapist, specializing in sexual assault.” A category she was telling me I now fit under, causing me to process this new characteristic of mine. “I’ll be working with you today as well as outside the hospital when you continue outpatient therapy.”
Ashe’s fingers squeezed to get my attention. “I’m going to leave for an hour while the two of you talk. Are you okay with that?”
Every time I woke, no matter what time it was, he was there. Sometimes on his phone, sometimes looking at me. Sometimes asleep. He hadn’t left, not even once.
“Yes,” I answered.
He gave my fingers a little pulse. “I’m just going to the cafeteria to make some calls and grab something to eat. I’ll be back once you’re done.”
I nodded, watching him rise from his chair and move through the door.
“Pearl …” the therapist said.
My stare eventually found hers, the brown a color that was oddly soothing.
“You seem comfortable with having him here.”
The light from the window made me squint. I rested my arm across my forehead to shield some of it, immediately feeling guilty for denying myself the rays.
When my arm went back to the bed, I scrunched my lids again.
I didn’t want that.
But I didn’t want to be blinded by the sun either.
I didn’t know what the fuck I wanted.
“I …”
She slowly rose from her chair and went over to the blinds. “I’m just going to close them a tad—I can tell you’re struggling with the glare.” Once they were turned enough, my eyes getting a break from the beating, she returned to her seat. “The light is going to take some getting used to.”
I cleared my throat. “Everything is.”
She crossed her legs, lifting the pad from her lap and setting it back down, adjusting the pen at the same time. “I want this to be a space where you can talk freely and say absolutely anything. Share your emotions, fears, concerns—whatever comes to you. We’ll take our time, working through each one.”
“I haven’t spoken.” I coughed. The tightness like a chain that was never going to be unlocked. I took a drink of water. “He … wouldn’t let me.”
“There were no words shared at all?”
I swallowed, the burning so intense. “Some. Not many.”
“That’s a lot of trauma to hold in over a long period of time. Now that you have the opportunity to get it out and share, how does that make you feel?”
Her voice was soft, calming. Not the storm that used to unlock my door and stampede inside my prison or the high-pitched wailing on the other side of my wall.
“Overwhelmed.” I was gripping the top of the blanket, squeezing it into my palms. “Everything is so loud. Bright. And I’m so foggy, like … I’m floating.”
“Detached.”
I chewed on the word for a while. “Yes.” I rinsed my mouth with more water and added, “My brain is here”—I set down the cup, pointing to the spot next to me on the bed—“my body over there.” I aimed at Ashe’s empty chair.
“That’s very normal for what you experienced. Your brain allowed you to escape the terrifying situation you had been placed in. Now that you’re free, separating those moments from reality is going to be something we’ll work on.” She tucked a large chunk of curls behind her ear, most of them staying for only seconds before they sprang right back. “I would like to talk about your discharge plans. With it coming up soon, it’s one of the more pressing matters.”
“Gran,” I whispered, fighting the breathlessness in my chest. “My dream was always to return to her.”
“I know this is difficult.” Her eyes didn’t hold sympathy, but they told me she knew what I was referring to. “Would you like me to describe each of your options?” When I didn’t reply, she said, “Our goal is to have you in an environment where you feel the highest sense of security. That’s vital for your recovery.”
I glanced at the window, how the blinds created a shadow over the wall that looked like zebra stripes. There was a whiteboard next to it. If the date hadn’t been written at the top, I wouldn’t have known it was April.
“It’s spring,” I whispered, my tongue so dry that it didn’t want to work. “Ashe and I used to go to this coffee shop. We would order one of those.” I lifted my finger, pointing toward the paper cup that was on the table by my bed. “We’d sit outside and drink them.”
I heard her writing on her notepad—a noise that didn’t make me want to scream.
“Living with Ashe is an option—an invitation that’s open indefinitely. I know he’s told you that. He lives alone, and the bedroom would be yours.”
Spring.
The scent of rain.
The sound of the birds, how they would chirp outside his window when I was just waking up for class.
As I dug inside my head, the smell was so faint, the squawking so distant.
“Okay,” I said softly.
Her pen paused. “Pearl, is that your decision?”
He’d kept me safe from the moment he had come into my prison. I didn’t know what that meant, but it was a feeling I wasn’t ready to lose.
“I think so.”
When I turned toward her again, she was grinning.
“You’ve just climbed your first step. That’s a huge accomplishment—I hope you know that.”
I didn’t know why that made me want to cry.
But suddenly, tears were dripping from my eyes.
Sixty-Five
After
Ashe
After Pearl was released from the hospital, so many firsts followed. She had to relearn how to do everything again, like navigating a computer and using a washing machine and a TV remote. It wasn’t like watching a young child attempt things they had never tried. This was like learning Spanish in high school and not using it until you moved to Spain eleven years later.
While she was getting reacclimated, I was adjusting to her triggers—how the condo could never be dark, the sounds never loud, setting a schedule so she could feel the comfort in staying mentally busy. I took a month off from work and didn’t leave her side—bringing her to therapy every day, to get her hair cut, to the dentist, and to visit her attorney to help build the case against Ronald Little. Then, there was the media to deal with, the interviews that were offered, the television programs they wanted her to appear on, the magazines that wanted features.