Chapter Thirty-two
I examine my reflection in the mirror, hoping there’s evidence that my mother hit me, but there’s none. There is a little scrape on my cheek from where I fell against the side table, but even that little abrasion is gone after I wash my face, exfoliated off by the washcloth.
While Noah checks his bags at the airport, Mom lectures that even though this test was negative, and even if the one I will be taking at the clinic is negative, I’ll need to take another in three or four weeks, just to be sure.
When Noah’s first flight of the day takes off for Chicago, I’m sitting in my mother’s car, headed toward a women’s clinic over two hours away.
I stare out the window, barely seeing the small towns or noticing the miles of corn and soybean fields. Every once in a while, I blink, but that’s the only change to the view.
Occasionally, Mom interrupts the news radio drone to name a new restriction she’s been inspired to add to her list of ways to cripple my social life.
No phone. No computer. No car keys. Mom vows to do whatever it takes to make sure I have no means of contacting, or of being contacted by, Noah Spencer.
Not that it matters, of course. Noah and I agreed. No contact for two years.
Eight, nine. Eight-seventeen.
“When we get home, I’m going to call the school,” Mom says, “to see if I can put specific restrictions in place for your computer usage there.”
I don’t care.
“I know you don’t understand this now, but I’m doing this for your good. For your protection. Your future,” she says. Adding, “God willing, you’re not pregnant, of course,” under her breath.
“The test was negative.” And I’m a virgin, which makes the whole pregnancy thing a non-issue, not that she cares.
“Yes, but you were together last night. It takes what? Two, three weeks for a positive test? Besides, you can’t always trust those things you buy at the pharmacy.”
Then why did she bother?
I tune out. I’m well beyond the need to argue. My heart is thirty thousand feet up and several hundred miles away. Each moment takes it—and Noah, who’s holding it—further from my reach. Why should I care about computer restrictions at school or having to pee on another stick or whatever?
At the clinic, my mother waits in the lobby, as instructed by the staff. I sit in the doctor’s private office, fully clothed, for a “chat.” It’s supposed to be a “safe place” for me to divulge the truth about my sexual history.
I answer the doctor’s embarrassing questions with shakes of my head. Negative. Negative. Negative. When required, I use words, but as few as possible, and most of them consisting of the letters ‘N’ and ‘O.’
After the Q&A session with the doctor, I’m directed to an examination room. A nurse explains how to fasten the gown and steps out while I disrobe.
Five minutes later, the doctor returns. She asks the same questions, only phrased differently, as if my answers might have changed now that I’m without the armor of my clothing to protect me.
The doctor calls for the nurse and explains the state-mandated protocol for the examination. They’re just doing their job, I remind myself as I place my feet, as directed, in the stirrups. They’re just doing what my mother told them to do. Just like everyone else.
I stare at the ceiling tiles, trying to find faces in the texture—a vain attempt to separate myself from what’s happening beneath the sheet draped over my knees. I wish I’d worn shoes that require socks, instead of flip flops. If I had, at least a small part of me would still be hidden.
Tears leak from the corners of my eyes, but I make no move to acknowledge them or wipe them away. I try to distance myself from the violation of this unnecessary examination.
I dress. Endure the discussion of birth control options by concentrating my thoughts on the illusory map in my head, plotting where Noah might be, moment by moment, and picturing the ocean he’ll soon fly over, the landmarks he might view from the air, flying into London.
Big Ben. Buckingham Palace. That huge Ferris wheel thing . . . What’s it called, the London Eye? Yes, that’s it. I wonder if he’ll be able to see the West End theatre district from the air.
The doctor is nice enough, I guess.
She does agree, at my request, to share her findings with my mother. Sort of.
“Your daughter has expressed that she is not sexually active. After my interview with her, and from the condition of tissues I observed during the exam, I am inclined to accept that assertion.”
That’s as much as she can say, she tells me, as it is virtually impossible to prove a girl’s virginity, considering today’s active lifestyles.
My mom only nods. She thanks the doctor for her time but says nothing to me that would indicate she’s accepted my innocence as truth.
Because that would prove she’s a monster?
I don’t care. I am numb. An empty shell of flesh. My heart is safer outside my body, on its way to London, where no one can touch it.
After the appointment, Mom makes a quick call and arranges to meet Gretchen for lunch. After lunch, the three of us go to the mall to do some back-to-school shopping.
Shopping.
Mom goes to the counter to pay for a deep pile of stuff she’s buying us at Forever 21. Gretchen grabs my arm. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You’re walking around like a soulless zombie, and Mom’s acting like she’s on a triple dose of happy pills.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She stares at me, pursing her lips. Her mouth drops open. “Oh! Geez, I’m sorry. Noah left, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. This morning.”
“You’re sad, and she’s thrilled. Makes sense.”
“I guess.”
“Well, there’s no better cure for a broken heart than making Mom’s credit card melt.” Gretchen links her elbow through mine. “For whatever reason, she’s feeling generous today. We might as well fill our closets while the card is hot!”
We hit all of my favorite stores and Gretchen’s. When my level of enthusiasm doesn’t lead to a dressing room, Gretchen leads me there, sometimes even yanks me there.
“Faith.” Gretchen pulls me into a dressing room. Again. This time, she comes in with me. “Seriously, kid. Are you okay? What aren’t you telling me?”
I swallow. I want to spill my guts, but I can’t. She won’t believe me.
I don’t blame her. If I hadn’t lived it, I might not believe me either.
Sure, we both know Mom can be moody. Temperamental. Kind of vindictive sometimes. But she hit me. She said horrible, vile things. She made me go that clinic and . . .
I meet my sister’s eyes. Concern lines her brow. There’s compassion there, too.
What if Gretchen did believe me? Could she . . . help?
“Why are you shaking your head?”
I stop. “Sorry.” If I tell Gretchen what Mom did to me, and if she believes it, she will absolutely say something to Mom. Maybe even make a scene, right here in this store.
And I’ll be the one to pay for it later, at home.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her frown deepens. “I want to respect that, Faith. But the way you’ve been acting today? It’s not like you.”
“I’ll be fine. Really.” Every detail is on the tip of my tongue, begging me to let it out, but . . . what’s the point? It’s not worth the effort.
I’m on my own.
“Okay.” She sighs. “But if you change your mind . . . I’m here.”
I have to swallow again. “Thanks.”
We go to a few more stores. I try on the things she and Mom tell me to.
I nod or shrug my acceptance of the purchases.
But viewing the excursion through a fog of humiliation, a haze of shock, and an overwhelming sense of loss, I don’t truly notice the excess of our shopping trip until we’re home, unloading the bags from the trunk.
Hollister, Abercrombie, Old Navy, Dillards, Scheels, Forever 21, Sephora . . .
Bag after bag after bag . . . It’s ridiculous.
Wait. Scheels? The sporting goods store?
I don’t even remember darkening the door, but I must have, because I have the Under Armour and Adidas to prove it.
In fact, this one shopping trip has added enough clothes, shoes, and accessories to my closet that I could probably outfit myself and five of my friends and still have clothes left over.
I stare into my closet, remembering what my sister said earlier in the day. Is this evidence that Mom feels some sort of guilt?
Maybe.
I don’t need this much stuff. I don’t want this stuff. Yes, I will enter the eleventh grade in style, but for reasons that make me sick.
School starts two weeks later.
I’m nominated for Student Council again, and without putting an ounce of effort into my campaign, I score enough votes to be named Junior Class Vice President. I know it’ll look good on my college applications, but I can’t make myself care. All I think about is Noah.
What is his flat like? Has he made friends? Of course he’s made friends. He’s Noah. Does he like his classes? Has he been to see a show on the West End yet?
In October, I take a calculus test without bothering to study for it. When I receive the test back, a harsh red C- mars the white page, startling me back into my life.
I’ll be filling out college applications soon, and every single grade counts toward my dream.
My escape.
If I’m going to get into a good college, if I’m going to get away from this place, I have to wake up and work for it.
Broadway. First, a good college with a great Musical Theatre program and then Broadway.
And in the meantime . . . Eight, nine. Eight-seventeen.
Noah.
Someday, Noah.
I dive into my studies and do piles of extra credit to ensure the 4.0 G.P.A. my parents expect—and my dreams require.
I’m cast as Lili in KHS’s fall production of Carnival! and get great reviews—if you count local comments and a review in a 3000 paper circulation hometown newspaper.
When the Leopold Community Theatre announces try-outs for Guys and Dolls in November, I have every intention of auditioning.
But when the appointed day comes, I sit outside the Opera House in my car, sobbing.
I can’t do it. The memory of seeing Noah Spencer cast as Nathan Detroit on the KHS stage is too vivid, and the memory of sharing that particular Leopold stage with him is still too fresh.
I drive back home without ever having left my car.
Jenna tries to be there for me, but she’s varsity everything now, and the few weekends we do hang out are becoming increasingly awkward. We’re drifting apart, but neither of us wants to admit it out loud.
Winter rolls in, and Jenna’s basketball schedule collides with my speech and dance team rehearsal schedules in the usual way, but it’s different somehow.
I feel more alone than ever.
I ask permission to go to the Wednesday night youth group at Fellowship Community. I figure with Noah gone, what’s the problem? My request is denied. Mom does, however, buy me a personal Bible study guide on the subject of obedience.
Go figure.
I expect to hate it. I don’t. In fact, I learn a lot, and it helps me better understand some of the things Noah was conflicted about when we were “not-really-dating” dating.
Clearly, Mom didn’t read it before purchasing.
She was trying to make a point and likely assumed I’d never crack it open.
But I did. And I’m glad, because God used her arrogance to slip past her, to reach me.
Still, I’m lonely.
But I’m holding on.