She told me the worst story I’d ever heard.
About the men and why they were actually there. About her father, who had never worked on a piece of wood his entire life. About how he introduced her to drugs for the first time when she was eleven, and forced her into intimacy far younger than that. How she’d been routinely traded for drugs, money, and promise.
I wanted her to stop. The pain in my chest had grown so intense, I briefly wondered if I was having a heart attack at the ripe young age of eighteen. Then I realized this must be what a broken heart feels like. My t-shirt was the only thing I had to wipe the mess off my face. To my pain, she continued, pushing the words out over her stifled sobs.
She explained how her father had turned to her for income in the last months as their financial situation worsened. The “clients” were coming more regularly, which explained why she’d missed so many of our meetings. Gracie told me how her father had threatened, manipulated, and made various spiritual appeals to keep her silent. Her voice shook as she confessed how terrified she was even now to be telling me.
An hour and a half later, her story came to a close. She dropped herself onto the other side of the stump. Back flush against mine. We sat back to back for a while, grief hanging over us like a fog.
Controlling my breathing was difficult. The desire to kill and retaliate against such evil wreaked havoc on my spirit. A big part of me died in that moment: my innocence. My silly, naïve notion that all was mostly right in the world spun down the drain in the matter of ninety minutes. Suddenly, nothing was right in the world. I didn’t know it was possible to hurt so bad.
My voice was taut with emotion. “Gracie, can I look at you now?”
“No.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“You should.”
“Why? None of this is your fault.”
Gracie fell silent at that statement. How could she believe it was her fault? Then I wondered about the power of manipulation. As far as I knew, I’d never had someone try and guilt trip me into doing something. So, I didn’t know what it felt like. She’d been hearing some of the same lies since she was so little. Maybe she believed them.
“It’s not your fault. You haven’t done anything wrong. Even if you had, I still wouldn’t hate you.” She’d made me swear not to turn, so I was doing my best to keep my word. “I love you, Gracie, and that’s never gonna change. Promise.”
When her shoulders shook against my back, the agreement flew out the window. My arms came around her, and all the pain she’d been carrying, trying her best to hide from me, came out like a raging storm. She sobbed into my shoulder and beat on my chest. The sobbing escalated into screaming, and she heaved a big stone into the river, yelling obscenities. She was angry. And she had every reason to be.
With hot tears streaking down her face, she ripped off her pants and shirt. Just when I thought the worst was over, she pointed out the physical evidence of her abuse. Past scars and marks and a fresh bruise the shape of a hand on her hip.
Someone had manhandled her. Many, many times.
It was my turn to throw up.
How had I not known? It was then I realized the only times she’d ever been naked near me, it was dark. Guilt settled deep into my core.
I couldn’t find my voice to say the words. “Have I—Gracie, I’m so sorry”—my voice broke—“have I ever hurt you?”
“No, Pat. Shh. Don’t think like that.”
“If I had known—”
“I know,” Gracie interrupted. “I should’ve told you sooner. I’m sorry I didn’t.” Her green eyes were misty, but gorgeous. The color of moss. “I was afraid if I told you all this, you’d start loving me like I was broken. I didn’t want that because you’re the only person who has ever made me feel whole. Made me feel like somebody worth actually loving.”
We melted together in the hammock. Weeping and crying. Holding each other and scared out of our minds.
Witnessing her tempest of agony was the worst moment of my life. Every moment after pales in comparison. A black hole inside my chest, inside my spirit, opened for the first time. A burden that would never wane took up residence there.
When emotional exhaustion overcame us, we discussed options. In my mind, the most sensible thing to do was go to the police. Report her father and the mayor. Vehement refusal snarled her face and lips. Her father had “clients on the inside” she said. We had to get Gracie away from him, but the threats she’d received could fill a book. And from everything I’d learned about the man that day, I figured he was probably good on his word.
We agreed running was the only way.
* * *
The next night, I flipped off my headlights and rolled to a stop at the end of Gracie’s street. She would sneak out like she always did, but this time the strap of a heavy duffle would press against her chest, slowing her down. So she’d take a short cut, running diagonal through the field to meet me at the stop sign at 1:00 a.m. I hid the Buick behind a patch of trees and underbrush at the end of her road and waited for her to emerge.
I turned off the car, my eyes scanning the dark field ahead. Her frame, bouncing through the high grass, would appear at any moment. I strained to see. The long grass swayed, and I could hear the crickets and frogs even through the sealed windows of my car. 1:02 a.m. I tapped my thighs and whispered, “Come on, where are you?”
Out in the boonies, things like streetlights are seen as intrusive. No one wants a big ol’ light ruining their view of the night sky. And the night sky was a sight to behold there. But I didn’t look up. My eyes studied every potential movement in the field, the dim moon and stars my only aid.
