Chapter Twenty-two Bianca
Chapter Twenty-two
Bianca
Bianca squeezed Mila’s hand as they attended their meeting via phone with the Victims’ Resource Center.
“We’re just going to talk,” Bianca said. “You don’t have to commit to anything today.”
Mila nodded, but her shoulders were tight, her jaw locked. She kept her eyes on the hardwood floors of the beach house.
“Hi, Mila,” a woman said softly as she joined them on the phone. “I’m Kathleen.”
Mila looked up at Bianca, then spoke into the phone. “Hi.”
The woman’s voice was calm. “I’m one of the advocates here at the Victims’ Resource Center in Los Angeles County,” Kathleen said. “Would you like to talk with me for a bit?”
“Yes,” Mila said softly, just above a whisper.
“I understand your mom is on the line as well. Would you like for her to stay on?”
Mila looked at Bianca, then replied to Kathleen. “Yes, I want her to stay on the line.”
“You attend UCLA, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened the night you were violated, Mila?” said Kathleen. “Did it take place on or off campus?”
Finally, Mila spoke. “It was off campus. I was at a party with my friend Keisha—a frat party.”
“And what happened at the party? Were you drinking or using drugs?”
Mila looked at Bianca, then cautiously answered, “We were drinking. I left my cup to go dance. When I came back, someone had to have spiked it with something, because I don’t remember anything after that,” Mila said. “I didn’t want to believe it, but I was tested, and I really was raped.”
Kathleen’s voice was steady. “I’m so sorry, Mila. You didn’t deserve that. I’m glad you are willing to talk about it.”
Mila’s hands trembled slightly in her lap. “I don’t know who it was. I don’t even remember how I got in that room.”
“That’s more common than you’d think,” Kathleen said. “Memory loss can happen when drugs are involved, or trauma. But we can still take steps without you having all the details. You don’t have to remember everything for us to help you.”
Mila glanced at Bianca, then turned her attention back to the phone. “What steps?”
“Well,” Kathleen began, “the first is to make sure you feel safe—emotionally and physically. Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then, if you’re open to it, we can help you file a report, even if it’s delayed. We can walk you through a forensic interview with professionals trained to work with survivors. No pressure. Just support.”
Mila swallowed hard. “But what if it doesn’t lead anywhere?”
Kathleen nodded. “It might not. But sometimes even just telling your story—getting it out—is a kind of justice. And in some cases, others may come forward. Maybe you’re not the only one.”
Bianca reached over and rested a hand on Mila’s back.
Mila took a deep breath. “Okay. I want to try. I don’t want to carry this anymore.”
Kathleen’s voice seemed to smile. “That’s a beginning, Mila. A brave one.”
Later that night the house was still. The television was off, and no music was playing.
The only sounds that could be heard were the rhythms of the ceiling fan and the splash of the ocean against the shore outside.
Bianca sat in the armchair by the window, her legs curled under her, flipping slowly through a magazine she wasn’t reading.
Mila walked into the room, barefoot, wrapped in a bathrobe.
“You okay?” Bianca asked, closing the magazine.
Mila didn’t answer right away. She sat on the couch, pulling her knees up, hugging them close.
I didn’t think it would be that hard,” she said quietly. “Just talking to someone.”
Bianca nodded slowly. “You did something incredibly brave today.”
“It felt like I was saying it out loud for the first time. Like really saying it. Not just whispering it in my head.”
Bianca stood and crossed the room. She sat beside Mila and gently pulled her close, their bodies angled into each other.
Mila rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. “Kathleen said it helps. Putting words to it.”
“She’s right,” Bianca said softly. “I know it doesn’t fix everything, but it’s a start.”
“I still feel … broken.”
Bianca swallowed hard. Pain shot through her chest. “You’re not broken, Mila. You’re grieving. You’re hurting. But you’re still whole.”
Mila closed her eyes. “I was so afraid to tell anyone, to … tell you.”
“I was so afraid I’d already lost you.” Bianca brushed a hand gently over her daughter’s hair. She had removed the toboggan and the scarf. “But today … I saw you. I really saw you.”
Mila didn’t speak for a long while. Then, in a voice so soft it barely reached the air, she whispered, “I don’t want to be angry at you anymore, Mom. Don’t want to blame you for Dad leaving, not anymore.”
Bianca was silent. Guilt sat in her chest. She could barely speak but managed to murmur, “I don’t want to give you reasons to be angry.”
They sat there until the silence turned warm again—until Mila’s breathing slowed and her shoulders relaxed, her body leaning fully into the comfort she hadn’t allowed herself in years.
And for a change, Bianca didn’t try to fix anything. She knew she would have to tell Mila the truth—someday, about Gerard—but not today. Not when her daughter was giving her grace, as unwarranted as it may have been. She needed it.