a losing battle (free at last Book 2) Page 5

  When I see men like Shane, my boss, and Jean, my colleague at the studio, who is an ex-fighter and holds kickboxing classes at the center—and Carter, too—who are loving, who don’t see women as slaves, who don’t think they have the right to own a woman’s body or make decisions about it as they please, I wonder what’s wrong with those “neomasculine” freaks. If I was a man, I’d be appalled by the idea that I’m not capable of controlling myself, that I’m forced to succumb to animal instinct.

  I chew on my pencil, wondering whether my approach to this speech is too theoretical. Maybe I have to name some examples to get more of a human twist on the story, to show them that it’s not just theory. That women have to live with the results of rape culture on a daily basis. I think about all the girls and women I have seen in this office, who have cried, who have been scared out of their wits, felt embarrassed, believed they had done something wrong. I need to talk about their stories. Anonymously, of course. But I need to put a face on this.

  Three days later, the patron of the event—the governor’s wife—introduces me to a packed house. I’m trembling. Sheila gives me a nod, wishing me luck. I walk up the stairs, stand at the podium, and wait for the applause to subside. I look at my notecards to say my first sentence.

  But I can’t.

  It doesn’t feel right. The campaign needs a face, but it shouldn’t be anonymous.

  I see a stool by the side of the stage, drag it over to the middle, and sit half on it. I look at my cards. There’s absolute silence around me.

  I hold up the cards and say, “I’ve got a great speech here containing many arguments, facts, and figures to convince you to support our cause.” I throw the cards up in the air, so they fall down around me like giant confetti. “But I’m not going to give that speech.” I look for Carey’s and Carter’s faces in the crowd. They’re about to experience the shock of their lives.

  I take a deep breath. “I was fifteen when my father raped me for the first time.”

  A horrified murmur erupts in the room. I can see the shock in Carey’s eyes, and Carter’s, too. I look at Shane, and he smiles proudly. He wants me to be brave, not just for others, but for myself, too, to free myself from the prison of my past, leave it behind and finally be able to face the future.

  “One night, he came to my room. My older sister had died a few weeks earlier, and obviously, he had abused her first. After her death, he directed his sick desire at his other daughter.” For a moment, I close my eyes. “At first, he just touched me, but soon, that wasn’t enough. The night he first…”

  I pause. I take a breath, fighting down tears. I can do this. I can tell the story and be the face we need to make our campaign emotional enough to attract sponsors

  I start again. “The night he first…penetrated me, I wanted to die. I couldn’t understand how this person who was supposed to love me unconditionally could do this to me.” A small tear runs down my cheek. “I begged him to stop, but he just kept going. He didn’t listen to me, not when I asked him to stop, not when I begged him to. He was only interested in himself. Not in me.”

  It is utterly silent in the room. You could hear a pin drop. I look over at Carey and see tears in his eyes, while Carter only looks speechless.

  “After he was finished, I lay in bed crying. I wondered what I had done wrong. Nobody’s daddy should behave like that, but mine did, so it must have been my fault. I must have been bad, maybe I hadn’t been listening to what I was told. I must have done something to provoke him. I must have done something wrong, otherwise my daddy would have loved me and never would have tortured me like that.”

  I look to the side of the stage, where I see Sheila and Jean looking at me full of worry. They know it’s hard for me to talk about this.

  “My mom was no help. She never got over my sister’s death and blamed me for it. She beat me up every single day. But always in ways that nobody could notice. I never put up a fight.” Again, I close my eyes for a moment, before I find the inner strength to say, “I never put up a fight because I believed her. I thought it was my fault my sister had died. I had let her drown. I hadn’t saved her. I had killed her. My mom beating me up only seemed fair. And the fact that my dad raped me was my own fault, too. So I put up with it.”

  Looking around the room, I don’t see anyone unaffected by my speech. And that is a good thing. We need people to feel moral outrage in order to make things better.

  “One day,” I go on, “I read the sentence: We are the heroes of our own story. Back then, I didn’t know it was Mary McCarthy who had written it, but her words immediately took root inside me. This sentence expressed so much that I wanted for my own life. The most important lesson in it for me was that only I could help myself. Nobody else would do it for me. So I ran away. The police picked me up, and I told them what had happened. My father got ten years, and my mother was released on probation, but that’s not the important part of my story. Fact is, here was a man who believed he could do with me whatever he wanted. Who had no respect for my own wishes. In his mind, I had no rights.”

  I stand to recite a few facts from the speech I’d prepared. “He was my father. The person who was supposed to protect me. Many girls and women suffer the same fate. Many rapists are brothers, friends, and neighbors. In forty-nine percent of cases with girls under twelve.” I step aside, kneading my fingers, trying not to let the nervous habit show. “Forty-four percent of victims are under eighteen years old. This is almost half of all reported cases, and you all know the real figures are much higher. What do children do to deserve this? What do they do to provoke men? What do they do to ask for this?” I look around the room. “Nothing. Because there is nothing they could do that would deserve this. There is nothing that could justify a man becoming a rapist.”

  I let my words sink in. “Rapists claim that women are the ones to blame, often for dressing in a manner they deem too sexy. In our society, it seems to be okay to blame the victim. But imagine for a second that she is not just some nameless woman. Imagine she is your mother, your friend, your sister, or your daughter. Imagine that girl or woman you love is the victim we are talking about. Are you going to tell her she deserved this?” I stand upright and take a deep breath. “In the United States, a woman or a girl is raped every two minutes. One in six women will become the victim of rape or attempted rape during her lifetime.”

  Again, I look at the faces of my adopted family at Free at Last, and this time I see pride there. Pride that I’ve finally become the hero of my own story.

  “We do not deserve this. We did not provoke this. And we certainly did not ask for this! It is not our fault. But in order to help us, in order to protect us, we need your help. We need to educate people and show them that a healthy sexuality can only be consensual. It is not enough to tell women to be careful. We need to create awareness in our society, awareness that forcing people to have sex is inherently wrong. But we cannot do this alone. We need help from all men and women. From all human beings. Only if we work together can we protect our girls and women. Please help us.”

  As my final words subside, people start clapping. As I stand in the lights on the stage, I see the first guests rise. More people follow suit. I look over at Carter and Carey, who are both clapping loudly, and in their faces, I can see anger about my fate, sadness about what happened to me, and also their love for me.

  I see something move to my left. My breath catches.

  It’s Hunter. He’s standing so only I can see him. And I see the same thing in his eyes that I saw in Carter’s: anger, sadness, and love. But I also see something else: pride. He’s proud of me. For stepping up for myself. For standing here to claim for others what I have claimed for myself. He’s proud of me for not breaking down but turning my weakness into a strength.

  He smiles, clapping along with everybody else before turning around abruptly and leaving.

  In that moment, I can feel in my bones what Shane said. To Carter, I am just one love. To Hunter, I’m the lo
ve of his life. Which is why he’s here today even though, tomorrow, the next phase of his training begins. He still had to support me tonight. I don’t even think he knew I’d be giving this big speech—he was just here to show me I can always count on him, here and everywhere else.

  My heart contracts. I never thought this kind of unconditional love actually existed. For the very first time, I wonder whether I’m trying to make do with crumbs when I could have a cake. Don’t I deserve that kind of love? If not with Hunter, then with someone else? Is what I have with Carter truly enough?

  I can tell Carter wants to talk to me, but as soon as I get off the stage, Carey is there to wrap his arms around me. And in spite of being a teenage boy who tries to look cool at all times, he’s not afraid to show me now just how torn up inside he is.

  “Don’t you worry about me,” I tell him quietly. “I’m fine. I’m great.”

  “God, Mac, the stuff you went through… I’m so sorry. And to think how I treated you in the beginning… Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

  I rub up and down his arm. “It’s all right. Really. Don’t worry. Whatever happened back then, it’s now that matters. And now you and I are family. It’s all forgiven and forgotten.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I love you.”

  He smiles at me. And I can’t help thinking: he and his brother really are incredibly handsome boys. Carey is as tall as Hunter now, and still drop-dead gorgeous. The girls are all over him, but he’s stuck with Katie so far. I’m not willing to make any predictions on how long he’s going to be able to resist the pull of other women, but right now he’s still in love.

  After Carey releases me, I spend some time talking to a few sponsors, explaining our ideas and goals. Carey doesn’t leave my side even for a second, like he’d going to personally make sure nothing bad happens to me ever again.

  It’s only when we get home that Carter says, “We need to talk.” He looks at Carey and adds, “Alone.”

  Carey raises both hands. “All right, all right.” He kisses me on the cheek before disappearing upstairs.

  When we’re alone, Carter turns to me. “Why have you never told me?”

  The man doesn’t pussyfoot around.

  “It all happened so long ago,” I say. “I didn’t think it was important.”

  “You didn’t think it was important?” He shakes his head. “Sweetie…I had no idea. I feel like I don’t even know you.” He sits down on the couch, slouching.

  God, I didn’t want to burden him with this. I never wanted that.

  “Carter—”

  “It’s such a huge part of your story, and you’ve been hiding it from me… To be honest, I don’t know what to make of that.”

  “I wasn’t hiding it,” I protest.

  “Fine, but you omitted it. And that doesn’t change the fact that I thought we were telling each other everything. That we were being honest with each other.”

  “We are.”

  He shakes his head. “No, we’re not. Sometimes I wonder whether this is still a meaningful relationship. Whether it still makes sense.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, licking my dry lips.

  He shrugs. “I have no idea. But I’m a little speechless over what I heard today.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

  “You should have.”

  I bite my lip, wondering what I can do to make him feel better. To show him I love him. A lot. Really. But I can’t think of anything.

  Except…

  “I love you.”

  “I know.”

  And for the first time, he doesn’t say it back.

  “Good night,” I say quietly.

  He nods and makes himself comfortable on the couch before turning on the TV. I don’t know what else to say, so I slowly walk upstairs.

  In the bathroom, I get changed and take off my makeup. Then I sit on the edge of the bathtub. And that’s when I realize I’m lonely. Incredibly lonely. I’ve got Carey, sure, but for how much longer? God, can I really be in a relationship and still be lonely? If so, how good is the relationship, really?

  The next day, the doorbell rings, and when I answer the door, a stranger hands me a pink daisy and a card.

  I go to the kitchen to put the flower in a vase and rip open the envelope.

  Dear Mac,

  I am incredibly proud of you. I know how difficult it must have been for you to tell your story, but you did an amazing job. I’m so proud of you for being such a strong woman. And proud of how you’re always standing up for others. I hope I can make you proud too one day…

  Yours,

  Hunter

  A tear rolls down my cheek. My heart flutters excitedly. Again and again, I find myself realizing that Hunter has a very emotional side. A quality his Dad seems to lack. Hunter must get that warmth from his mother. I still think Carter made a mistake, that he didn’t want to help their mom get better, but the two boys have really been flourishing since their split from their mother. I don’t think they miss her. At least, if they do, they’ve never told me.

  Should I ask Carey about it?

  Again, I look at the card…

  Hunter… Hmm.

  Once again, I find myself wondering if there’s a way to get us all out of this without breaking hearts left, right, and center. But I don’t see how. I’m definitely breaking Hunter’s heart. And Carter is not immune to heartbreak, either. But I don’t want to hurt either of them…

  Especially not Hunter…

  A quiet voice inside me says, Don’t do it then.

  “What’s that?” Carter asks.

  I freeze. Only one thing goes through my mind: Carter must not see this card!

  I feel my cheeks growing hot. He would completely misunderstand the situation!

  “Who would send you a single flower?” he asks. “Hmm?”

  A young soldier…

  “Uh, it’s from a client at Free at Last,” I say, hoping he’ll stop quizzing me.

  The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him, but he gets distracted by the mail I left on the table. He sorts through it, stopping at an envelope he opens.

  “Goddamnit!” he calls out.

  “What?”

  He hits the table hard with his palm. “That boy is driving me insane!”

  “What boy?” I ask, even though I think I know.

  “Hunter, of course. Who else?”

  “What did he do?”

  Carter hands me the letter. I skim through it but then have to read it again slowly to fully grasp its meaning.

  Hunter rejected his trust fund?

  “You lied to me,” Carter says suddenly.

  “What?” I say, looking up.

  He’s holding the card in his hands. Hunter’s card.

  “Why?” he asks. His voice has never sounded so cold.

  “I-I’m sorry,” I stutter. “I didn’t want to make things worse between you. Please. I’m s-so sorry.”

  “How could you lie to me? After we just talked about being honest with each other! Why? Are you in love with him?”

  A tear rolls down my cheek. “No, no! I love you!”

  But for the first time, I feel a tinge of doubt as I say it.

  How can love last through so much distrust and doubt? The simple answer is: it can’t. It’s impossible. Whatever love there may have been, it would wilt and perish in such an environment. Every day a little more.

  Every hour, every minute, every second, I can feel my love for Carter wane.

  I love him. I do. I still do. Which only goes to show how much I loved him in the beginning. I was so in love with this man. Our relationship was real. I know that. He loved me, too. But maybe it’s just like Shane said—we were only ever one love for each other.

  I want to stop this, this falling out of love, but I have no idea how. I want to turn back time, but I don’t know how to do that, either. And what point in time would I want to go back to, anyway? A time when I was happy? All my recent happy
moments include Carey and Hunter. Carter barely features in them.

  How can you stop falling out of love? How can you stop the unstoppable train that keeps rolling toward the end of the tracks? I can see it coming. It’s going to derail, and there’s going to be a big wreck. The question is: who’s going to be eaten up by the fireball, and who’s going to make it out alive?

  “I don’t believe you anymore,” he says. “My gut was right. You are in love with my son.”

  “No, no!” I cry, even though I’m not sure I’m telling the truth anymore. I’m not sure my feelings for Hunter haven’t grown a tiny bit stronger…

  “How could you?”

  “I’m sorry!” I sob.

  “I really don’t know what to say anymore… I… I need to go.”

  “No, please, Carter, don’t go. I love you.”

  He stops in front of the stairs. “But maybe not enough…”

  He runs upstairs, and I sink onto the sofa, sobbing. Turns out it’s me left incinerating in the fireball.

  7

  Hunter

  Between the different parts of training, we get time off. I meet up with Carey sometimes, but not very often. I promised Mac I wouldn’t call her, and I assume that includes not visiting her, either. Though I did kind of break that rule just a tad. Maybe I’ve just gotten grumpy, like a bitter old man. After all, how long can you be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back without getting depressed and frustrated? We said goodbye to each other over a year ago now, and I can count the times we’ve seen each other since then on one hand. Actually, it’s just two fingers.

  I don’t want to sound like a pussy, but I long for her every day. Every day. When I see other Marines walking off with their girls, I want that, too. Not with just any girl—with Mac.

  Not having sex isn’t exactly making things easier… It really isn’t. Hell, how did I ever come up with that stupid idea anyway? And yet…