My arm was out of its sling, but my shoulder was still sore.
“What’s the matter with Melissa?” Nick asked, as I was showing her one of my all-time favorite Nirvana CDs from Kiss The Stone in Italy. Her jeans had one black and one red leg.
“What do you mean?” I asked in a carefully neutral tone. I knew what she meant. After the initial shock of my injury wore off, Melissa returned to being distant and uncommunicative.
“She’s got a lot on her mind,” I said. “But look at this.” I held the KTS CD Saturday Night Sonic Attack in front of her face. “Soundboard Nirvana from a 1990 concert in Lincoln, Nebraska.” The cover was a picture of Kurt Cobain, bathed in orange light, playing a Fender Mustang and standing in front of an angel mannequin. It was taken during the later In Utero tour, and it looked like Kurt had wings as he stomped his sneaker on an effects pedal.
“I’m serious, mate. And stop waving that bloody CD at me.” Nick held up her hands.
“I told you. She’s preoccupied with an art project.” Since she was working on her paintings depicting rape, I thought that was really, almost, true. “Just be patient with her. Now listen.” I put on the Nirvana CD to distract her. “It has a killer version of ‘Here She Comes Now’ by the Velvet Underground and an intense ‘Love Buzz’ with extra-static guitar. You wouldn’t think a show in Lincoln, Nebraska, would turn out to be one of the great ones, but it has an electric, brain-crushing version of ‘Polly.’ He goes up an octave and screams out the final verse. It’s the most intense thing I’ve ever heard in my life, man.”
I could tell Nick wasn’t satisfied, and I felt like she was gearing up for a confrontation with Melissa that I wasn’t sure I should try to stop. We went out and got some Indian for tea. Melissa came down wearing the most beautiful Clash T-shirt I’d ever seen. It was a picture of the Post Office Tower hanging over terraces and the words “LONDON CALLING” in yellow and orange. When she wore it, I just wanted to hold her.
Nick opened up the sweating, steaming food cartons, and I got out plates. Melissa pulled a sweatshirt over her head and sat down, absorbed in her own thoughts. There wasn’t much conversation. Nick shot me meaningful glares across the table. I tried to signal with my own expressions that I was not in control of the situation.
Finally Nick said, “Alright. I give up. Melissa, what the fuck is going on with you? What the hell is the matter?”
“Oh, Nick,” Melissa snapped, exasperated, “for God’s sake, I was raped. Happy now?” She gasped, shocked by what she had just blurted out.
“What?” Nick froze then looked from her to me. “You what? You were raped? Oh my God.”
“It didn’t happen now, for fuck’s sake,” Melissa said, trying to sound casual. “It happened after Jake left for Canada.”
“What? What are you saying?” Nick looked ill, like she’d been punched in the stomach, all the air gone out of her. My own eyes were wide with amazement, and I couldn’t utter a single syllable. Melissa didn’t move. Into the silence, we heard Nick say in a small voice, “Oh, God. Oh my God, no. Melissa, I’m so sorry. Why did you not tell us?”
“I don’t know.” Melissa’s voice was resigned. “Jake had gone. You’d broken up with Emilia. I thought you had enough on your plate.”
“Enough on my plate?” Nick stared at Melissa incredulously.
“I didn’t want you to know.”
“I would do anything for you.”
“I didn’t want anyone to know. I wanted to forget it ever happened.”
Nick said, “You must have hated me, crapping on about—”
“Don’t,” Melissa interjected.
“A rape that wasn’t really a rape.”
“Let’s not do this, shall we?” Melissa replied sharply. “There isn’t a hierarchy of suffering or of ways to be raped. This isn’t a contest. I should have told you so you would’ve known I understood. That I knew how scared you were and how bad it made you feel.”
“What happened?” Nick asked quietly.
“Paul raped me.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus. I want to kill him.”
“Me too,” Melissa and I both said.
“I can’t believe Jake didn’t come back.”
“Jake doesn’t know,” Melissa said. “And please don’t tell her. But I wanted you to know because it’s been doing my head in a bit and I didn’t want you to take it personally.”
“I’m so sorry.” Nick looked like she desperately wanted to hug her.
“It’s alright.” Melissa smiled, and I could see she was trying not to cry. “I need to get some air.” She pushed back her chair and rose abruptly.
“Melissa—” I got up to stop her.
“Please, just let me alone. Please.” She met my eyes. “I need some time by myself. Please don’t come after me.” She rushed out without a coat.
I yelled from the front door, “You’ll catch your death!” It was raining and windy outside.
“I cannot be arsed!” she called from up the road.
I didn’t know if I should go after her or respect her wishes. Nick knelt on the settee and looked out the front window. I turned out the sitting room lights to see outside more clearly.
“There’s no sign of her,” I said frantically. I paced between the window and the front door. “I shouldn’t have let her go.”
“What were you supposed to do, hold her down? She’s an adult.” Nick flopped down heavily on the sofa. “Christ, I can’t believe Paul raped her.” She rested her face in her hands. “I just feel gutted. I can’t believe I didn’t know. That seriously is the worst thing I ever heard.”
I waited twenty minutes. Then I couldn’t stand it any longer. “I’m taking her coat and going out looking for her. I’ll not have her freeze to death.”
We walked up the hill then went in separate directions. Nick said she was going to check in the King William IV, a gay pub. I stuck my head inside the Horse and Groom, but Melissa wasn’t in there nursing a pint. I ran toward the Heath in a panic, not knowing how I was going to find her. My green, leopard-print sneakers with the bondage straps splashed through heaps of fallen rain that seemed like so many tiny, abandoned silver shields and arrows left by a fleeing army. At least that’s how I pictured it.
I saw a figure up ahead, blurry in the rain. “Melissa? Is that you?” As I came closer, I saw that it was. “Are you mad?” I flung her coat at her, and she put it on. The rain buttered my hair flat against my head, and I wiped water from my eyes. “Oh, Melissa.” I put my hands on her face. She bent down and kissed me. I was surprised because I thought she’d be pissed off at me for coming after her. I threw my arms around her in spite of my achy shoulder. I licked the rain off her neck, and we kissed. Her mouth was warm, but she shivered. Her bright-red hooded sweatshirt that said “Joe Strummer 1952–2002” and had a picture of Joe Strummer in black against a black star was soaked completely through. “Come home,” I said. And I sang to her from the song “Morning Rain” by the Mancunian band I Am Kloot, “‘I’m the morning rain. / It’s me again, / I won’t go away.’”