Chapter 27 #3
He gives me a quick kiss on the lips and leaves. I have to figure something out. I can’t call the cops, Brandon is as likely to get shot as Devin.
Pacing in front of the fireplace, I dial the only person I can think of calling right now. It rings four times before it’s answered.
“Are you all right?” my mother asks, her voice sounding strangely choked.
“I’m fine,” I tell her, “but Brandon just left to confront Devin. He has a gun. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared Devin will shoot him.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“Five minutes, maybe. Do you think you can call Devin, maybe, get him to stay away from the house?”
“One sec.”
I wait for what seems like an eternity for her to unmute the call.
“I was able to contact someone who can help. They’re headed there now.”
“It’s not the police, is it?”
“No.”
“Is it Anton?”
“How much did Brandon tell you?”
“He told me what’s on the tape and what happened to Dad.”
“How are you dealing with that?” she asks gently.
“The fact that Devin killed Dad? It’s awful.”
“It is awful,” she says, “but I meant what happened to you.”
“Can you be more specific?
“What did Brandon tell you was on the tapes?”
“I—“ My brain is moving at light speed. Brandon said the tapes documented Devin’s sexual assault of his mother. So why was my mom asking about what happened to me?
“I’m on the tapes, aren’t I?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
I’m too overwhelmed to reply. My stomach falls and an ache spreads from my belly out through my whole body.
I sit down, unable to stay on my feet. I think my mother is still speaking, but I’m trying to wrap my head around what I just learned.
My memories of my life with Devin flash before my eyes.
Every hug every touch, every time I sat on his lap looks different now.
“When?” I ask.
“Are you sure you want to know?”
“Did it happen after we moved in with him?”
“No,” she says. “It was before…before he and I started dating.”
“But you started dating when I was thirteen. What are you telling me?”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”
For a few seconds, I sit there stunned. My mind reels as I try to process the revelation.
Memories long buried begin to surface, hazy impressions of feeling disconnected from my own body and choking.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images away, but they persist, flickering like a horror film behind my eyelids.
“How old?”
My mother hesitates before answering, her voice filled with shame. “You were eight when it started. Not long before your father died.”
“Those nightmares I used to have. I told you they started before Dad died, but you didn’t believe me.
I remember meeting Devin at my father’s funeral, how familiar he seemed, but also the strange squirmy feeling I used to get around him, like my subconscious was telling me to keep my distance from him.
But my mother had assured me he was kind and for years I only saw him every few months at a party or when he dropped by to check on us.
He listened to my rambling stories, he brought me gifts.
He bought me off with cupcakes and the bare minimum of the fatherly attention I craved.
The fatherly attention he had robbed me of when he had my father killed.
Rage bubbles up inside me, feeling like heartburn. It’s followed by a wave of nausea.
“Why didn’t you stop him?” I demand. “How could you not know?”
“Deja, I’m so sorry, I never thought he’d hurt a child, and we were his closest friends. Whatever he did, he was never less than a gentleman with me.”
“What do you mean, whatever he did? What did he do? I know you’re not just talking about Lindsey.”
“His fraternity had their charter revoked during their sophomore year. Devin said girls would get very drunk and do things with him and some of the frat brothers and then claim later they didn’t remember and hadn’t consented.
He said the allegations were false, but they got shut down anyway.
I’m not sure, but I think it was one of the reasons David transferred out.
Being black, people probably just assumed he was one of the perpetrators.
I had no reason to think that they weren’t telling the truth. ”
“Not even when they roofied Lindsey? You are so full of shit. I heard the way you laughed at Lindsey on that tape; you enjoyed seeing her humiliated. You knew they were probably rapists, but you married both of them. I can’t even wrap my head around this, Mom.
How could the two of you sit in church every week knowing what kind of people you are. ”
“I didn’t—,” she says, but I cut her off. I don’t want to hear any more of this bullshit.
“You fucking did. If you had an iota of decency, I wouldn’t have been…
” I choke on the words. I can’t say it out loud and I know I’ll never watch the videos.
I hate the horrible void where my memories of the abuse should be, but I think I’m also grateful for it.
The shadowy memories I have are bad enough. I don’t think I could handle more.
I hang up on her, and when she calls back, I ignore it.