Chapter 5
5
As soon as I got home that night, I grabbed my laptop to research Jane Doe’s tattoo. I’d felt vaguely guilty the entire day with the shirtless photo on my phone. But now my unease switched to anticipation. With a quick Google search I found a free, ads-laden site called Shapefinder. As directed by the site, I drew the symbol on a piece of paper, then took a picture and uploaded it. I clicked FIND SHAPE , as weirdly excited as a kid holding a wrapped present. What—of everything in the world—was within it?
But the top result was a letdown: NO HITS.
I let out my breath. Really? Nowhere in the vast universe of the internet?
Below the result were the words: DID YOU MEAN? and a row of symbols. I clicked on the first one, which showed a spiral within a box.
Symbol for Nehebkau, one of the original Egyptian gods who took the form of a snake. Nehebkau’s name means “to unite.” He was thought to yoke the ka (double or spirit) with the physical body. Before creation he lived in the waters of Nun with other primordial gods.
Okay. So Jane Doe’s tattoo was somewhat similar to a hieroglyph. Which made sense. I’d seen various hipsters in Brooklyn with ankh necklaces; at a yoga class I’d listened to a teacher explain the goddess Isis. Maybe this was the new wave in (cue eye roll) white girl spiritual chic?
Jane Doe’s blank eyes shone like headlights, cutting a path through my mind. The feeling returned, more strongly than ever, that I knew her. And that the answer was right there, if only I could unlock it. The symbol hadn’t shaken anything loose, specifically, but a surety spread through my chest. For some reason, it felt right for Jane Doe to have this tattoo. But why?
My phone pinged. Hey! Dom had written cheerfully, as if we hadn’t been avoiding each other. Here’s a 10% code for Amelia’s cuz’s moving co!
“Wow,” I said out loud. “Thanks so much.” But there was no point in sharing my hurt. And to be fair, Dom had found the apartment originally. I opened Facebook Marketplace to keep searching. I had new message notifications; a few were apartment-related, but my eyes went immediately to the message from Melissa Bellmont, paired with a friend request.
My body went still, my breath waiting in my lungs, as I clicked.
Hi Thea! I’m co-heading the committee for the 20-year OSLS 8th grade reunion. Can you believe it’s been 20 years???? I know we’ve fallen out of touch, and you live in New Yawk now, but if you’re interested in being on the mailing list, LMK, I don’t think I have your current email. Here’s the FB page for the reunion . If you can’t make it, I’d still love to see you sometime, LMK if you’re ever back here in town. XOXO M
With a sick, sliding feeling in my gut, I clicked on the link. The Facebook page featured a scanned photo of twenty-three eighth graders in front of a playground. Some of the boys were casually hanging out on top of the monkey bars. My eyes went immediately to Adam, his dark curls tousled by the breeze. He was flanked by Scott and Mike, who were always there to laugh hysterically at his insults. Then I scanned for the blurry, unsmiling girl standing next to the slide. There she was: her shoulders curved in, her frizzy red bangs covering her face. My younger self. Melissa’s arm slung around her shoulders. This must’ve been taken before Melissa had moved into the cool group. At least in the beginning, she’d protected me. She’d had no idea what had happened, or rather—at the time this picture was taken—would happen.
20 YEAR REUNION!!!!! We can’t believe it’s been 2 decades either!!! If you missed the 5, 10, or 15th year reunion, NOW is the time to return to the community that made you who you are today!!!! Tickets include a full night of swanky fun: dinner, drinks, and dancing. Contact Pam Felcher or Melissa Bellmont with any questions.
Special guests include: Mrs. Hobbs, Principal Duffy, and Pastor John—
I slammed the screen down.
I sat there for a moment, mind swirling, then threw the computer on the couch and went to the bathroom. I washed my hands, staring at myself in the mirror.
“You’re fine,” I told my reflection. I looked dazed, my freckles standing out more than usual against my pale skin. My eyes were ringed by blue circles, despite the concealer I’d spackled on. I hadn’t been sleeping well since the breakup.
In the kitchen, I pulled out the vodka. This called for a drink. Multiple drinks. The message from Melissa had opened the floodgates, and even as I took my giant gimlet back to the couch and turned on the TV, I couldn’t help but feel like I was back there, where I’d been frozen in time, at thirteen.
A year ago, Mom had gone on a Marie Kondo binge and had mailed me my old papers, drawings, and diaries. I’d tossed most of the assignments and art, but hadn’t been able to get rid of the diaries. Especially the one from eighth grade, with the grinning cartoon cat face on the front. Instead, I’d shoved them as far back in the closet as they’d go.
But it wasn’t that simple. Even though I could keep the memories locked away most of the time, there was one situation where they’d undoubtedly resurface:
If I wanted to have an orgasm.
It felt particularly cruel that everything that had happened with Pastor John and Adam that year would become what my sexuality would grow around, like a pearl forming around a rough grain of sand. Last year on a Reddit deep dive, I’d found the term “trauma-informed kink,” which seemed related, but not totally accurate. After all, it wasn’t like I enjoyed what I had to do, to revisit, in my mind. It was just necessary for me to get off.
I’d never told anyone, imagining the horror that would spread over their face. I hadn’t even told my previous therapist Cynthia, the shame just too sharp. But with Ryan, I thought it’d be different. After all, he was a social worker, too, and the most understanding and sensitive man I’d ever dated. I’d felt at first a tug and then an urgent need to open up to him, to show him this part of me that felt so embarrassing and ugly.
After he asked me to be exclusive, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I spilled one night while we were cuddling in sweaty sheets postsex. Ryan was the first man I’d been able to have sex with completely sober, something that would’ve blown my mind in my twenties. I’d never felt this safe and loved before.
“Can I tell you something?” I asked. “Something I’ve never told anyone?”
“Of course.” His eyes widened with anticipation.
So I told him. I watched his eyes go from sleepy to alert to, finally, pissed off.
And then, when I finished, he slipped out of bed and started putting his clothes on.
“What are you doing?” I asked, my voice caught in my throat.
He paused to look at me, his lips pressed in a line behind his beard. “I’m not sure what to say, Thea. Other than that makes me feel extremely uncomfortable. I’m not cool with it.”
“Well, I’m not either.” I wanted to melt quietly into the bed but forced myself to sit up. “I thought… I wanted to tell you because it’s something I struggle with. I don’t enjoy it. I hate it, actually.”
“Okay. Well, what are you doing about it? Are you working on it in therapy?”
“I told you—Cynthia moved away.”
“That was like a year ago. Why haven’t you gotten another therapist?”
“I’ve just been busy.” I looked down. “With work.” The truth was that when Cynthia had left so quickly—announcing her two-week departure after years of working together, years in which she’d helped me survive COVID alone in a tiny studio in Queens—I’d felt completely blindsided and burned. I couldn’t even imagine starting all over again, trying to trust someone who might end up dropping me in the same way.
And I knew it was hopeless, anyway. I’d tried many times to have an orgasm without dipping back into the memory—but it just didn’t work. It was like trying to unlock a door without the key.
Ryan clapped the back of his jeans to check for his wallet, and I forced myself to continue. “Maybe I’m not explaining it right. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I mean, what do you expect? You’re using my body like a sex doll.” He raised his hands. “Not that there’s anything wrong with sex dolls. But I’m not okay being used in that way.”
“That’s not what it’s like,” I protested, but Ryan was already striding out of the room.
I sat there stunned, listening to him gathering his things. By the time I pulled my discarded dress over my head and went out into the living room, the door was slamming shut behind him.
If only Dom had been there that night. Maybe I would’ve told her what had happened. Maybe she would’ve responded more kindly than Ryan had.
But instead I drank a bottle of wine, cried, and passed out in bed.
The next head-splitting morning I was still mortified but trying to figure out what to text him to make this okay. Maybe I could pretend it had been a joke? But then my phone dinged.
I’m sorry. I can’t do this.
I wrote back immediately: Can we talk?
No response.
Ever.
I’d texted Cynthia that night, saying I know she’d moved away but I really needed to talk to her. She, too, had failed to respond. I’d waited for a day, two days. I couldn’t believe that this woman I’d spilled my guts to, someone whose kindness and wisdom had made me want to become a social worker myself, would just ignore me.
But she did.
And so finally, I decided there was only one way forward. I might be irrevocably sexually broken, yes, but other people didn’t need to know.
I would just not make the mistake of telling anyone ever again.