Chapter 31
31
SUMMER BEFORE COLLEGE
CHE AND JULI INVITED THEM. Well, they invited their own friends, many of whom have children, and they brought their kids with them.
At first, I’m excited. As the youngest of a family of adults, I never get to hang out with kids. Never get to squeeze their puffy cheeks or hear the sound of their laughter. Caleb is the only one of us with children so far, and he never brings them around.
But tonight…
The kids are tiny and adorable. They run about in tiny Converse and tiny baseball caps, or tiny sundresses and bare feet, or with no clothes at all, saggy white-grey diapers shaking joyfully behind. Manuel knows several of them by name. We chase them in circles around the backyard. We scoop them up and twirl them around, falling to the ground and laughing at the grass stains on our knees.
One child takes a special liking to me—a three-year-old named Clara. She has soft blond curls and bright blue eyes. She looks like a cherub, like the winged angel babies I saw flying across enormous paintings when Wendy dragged us to museums in Europe during our Treks of Chaos. Her arms are round and squeezable. Her face eternally curious. She follows me around the party, clinging to my hand like a lifeboat. I love her immediately.
That’s when I hear it. When the forgotten whisper stirs at the back of my mind.
Oh, you love her, do you?
No.
I stumble midrun. Let go of Clara’s hand.
No. You can’t be here right now.
And you can’t love a child you just met. That’s wrong. That’s disgusting.
“No-pants dance party!” Clara squeals, reaching for her sundress.
I try to snatch at her arms. “Clara, n—”
But it’s too late.
She rips off her dress. I look away, terrified, before I can see any exposed part of her body. Somewhere on the other side of the party, her parents spy her naked body and laugh.
Please, I try to beg the Worries. Please, don’t do it.
It’s too late , they whisper. You think you can escape this? Check your body. Look at the child, then check your body to see the truth.
Check my body? As in, check for the pulse?
Yes.
Fine, I think. But you’re wrong. I’m not going to feel anything. I’m not a pe—
I feel a pulse.
I look at Clara, and I check my body, and I feel a pulse.
Of course I do.
My breath drags heavily in and out of my chest. Please, no , I think. No, no, no.
But it’s too late. Far too late.
I’m already running.
—
I TEAR OUT OF THE backyard and sprint up the stairs to the Valdecasases’ office. Toggle the mouse to turn on the computer. Type in their password: manuel01 . Open the browser. Type, symptoms of pedophilia . Recognize that I’m an eighteen-year-old girl googling whether or not she’s a pedophile. Try to stop myself from clicking on any of the results. Click on the first one I see, an article from Psychology Today .
Symptoms of Pedophilia
People have had repeated, intense sexually arousing fantasies, urges, or behaviors involving a child or children (usually aged 13 years or under).
People feel greatly distressed or become less able to function well (at work, in their family, or in interactions with friends), or they have acted on their urges.
People are aged 16 years old or older and are 5 or more years older than the child who is the object of the fantasies or behaviors. (An exception is an older adolescent who has an ongoing relationship with a 12- or 13-year-old.)
I scroll frantically through the article. Read every bullet point twice. Does this one apply to me? Does this one?
In almost every case, the answer is no. But then I remember that one pulse I felt when looking at Clara, and I lose all certainty that the answer really is no, and I circle back around, combing my memories for further evidence in one direction or another. Sure , I argue to no one, I’ve never acted on pedophilic urges before, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Right? Right? I click back and move on to the next article. I do this a half dozen times. Maybe more. As I read, light pulses at the edge of my vision. I barely blink. I feel the distinct sensation of falling.
Okay , I reason with myself. Calm down. Calm down. Let’s think this through. Say you are a pedophile. What happens then?
Well, I realize straightaway, I would have no option other than to kill myself. I mean, what’s the alternative? Continue living with the knowledge that I secretly want to have sex with a child? Or the opposite—turn myself in to the authorities before I can hurt anyone? Admit to the foulness within me? Become the most hated of all forms of humanity, the cellmate despised even by murderers and thieves?
No. That’s not an option. Of course that’s not an option. My only choice is to live in limbo. To fear the worst in myself. To hate myself and never tell a soul, not even Dr.Droopy. What could he do, anyway? How could he possibly save me?
I need to get out of here. I’m disgusting. How can I be with Manuel now? How can I even live with myself ?
And then, I hear the voice again—
Remember when Henry’s face popped into your mind while you were kissing Manuel?
Of course I do. One does not simply forget the reawakening of something you thought was gone forever.
You thought we were gone forever.
You thought you were rid of us.
You’ll never be rid of us, Eliot.
We’re part of you.
We live inside your mind. Everywhere you go, you bring us with you.
Everywhere you go, so do we.
I close out the articles. I sprint out of the office, back down the stairs, out the front door, and into my car. I do not text Manuel goodbye. I do not deserve to text him goodbye. I do not deserve anything.
I drive home. I drive fast, like I’m being chased. I lock myself in my bedroom.
I inhale and exhale. I try to forget what just happened.
I saw a naked child, felt a pulse down there , a string of frantic Google searches, a spiral, a spiral, a vicious spiral into a place I never wanted to go.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Pedophile.
Disgusting.
Evil.
My phone dings, presumably with a text from Manuel.
Pedophile.
Disgusting.
Evil.
My parents are already asleep. Tomorrow, they’ll get up late and go to church. They’ll stay all morning. Mom likes to attend the post-service social and soak up the attention of the other pseudo-religious attendees. I imagine for a moment what it would be like to go with them. Mom would be thrilled. I can already imagine the way her face would light up. How her cheeks would balloon, her eyes widen, the same eyes she gave to me, to all of us. To Henry, once. Could I go with them? Absolutely. But I won’t. I can’t.
And besides—it’s not like I believe in God, anyway.
—
MANUEL CALLS ME THIRTY TIMES that night. I ignore every one.