I am China, and I’m sitting with my mother at the kitchen table. Shane is playing video games with my sisters upstairs.
Mom has a piece of paper and a pen in front of her.
She slides them to me.
“I’d rather just tell you,” I say.
“Then tell me.”
All that comes to me are poems about weathermen.
“Or write it down,” she says. “Your choice.”
“Your weatherman has more self-esteem than I do,” I say.
“Okay.”
“How to tell if your snowstorm was real,” I say.
“Okay.”
“Did you notice that I swallowed myself?” I ask.
Mom shifts in her seat. “It was hard not to notice.”
“Why didn’t you ask me back then?”
“Because stomachs can’t talk,” she says.
“I don’t want to call the police,” I say. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
“That’s not up to you and you know it,” she says. She is stiff in her seat now. The mention of police. The look on my face. “If this is about that asshole in the bush, then someone has to do something.”
“He’s a good guy,” I say.
“Kenneth? Shit. He’s a psycho.”
“He’s a sculptor. He’s eccentric. That’s all.”
“I have letters,” Mom says. “I know about Kenneth.”
“It’s not about Kenneth,” I say.
She pushes the paper toward me. She knows I communicate best on paper. Upstairs, there is loud yelling and laughter. Upstairs, my sisters are playing a game and they’re happy, like I want to be.
I write and talk at the same time. I write: Last summer I was dating Irenic Brown. I say, “The night before he broke up with me, he raped me.” I write: I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t do anything. I say, “He told me that no one would believe me anyway.”
Mom sits there looking at me. I’m not crying or even emotional. I’m like Stanzi—talking about biological facts. I’m like Gustav, building machines that can take us to invisible places. Mom finally says, “Irenic Brown?”
“Yes.”
“That little shit.”
“Yes.”
“That little piece-of-shit asshole.”
“Yes,” I say.
“What a little shit piece-of-shit asshole!” she says. She has angry tears. She is pacing now. She says, “He told you no one would believe you?”
“Yes.”
“I believe you,” she says.
“There’s more,” I say.
“Oh.” She sits down again.
“He bragged about it on Facebook. He took pictures.”
She stares at her hands and clenches her jaw. I know she wants to ask how many people saw it or how many people know or how many people could sit in a witness stand and say something about it. She says, “What a slimy piece-of-shit asshole.”
“Yes.”
“Oh, China,” she says. “You need help. You can’t do this alone. I don’t know what to do to make you feel better. I don’t know anything about this. I don’t even know who to call.”
“I’ve called them already.”
“Who?”
“Everyone I could call. Crisis lines, mostly.”
She moves her chair next to me. She sits and holds my hand.
I say, “Then I found this place online for victims. I met Shane.”
“Oh,” she says. And I see her compute that she has left her young daughters alone with him upstairs. And then I see her compute that she shouldn’t be computing that.
“It’s different for everyone,” she says. “Not better or worse.”
“He’s been through worse,” I say again. “Trust me.”
“I know who you can talk to,” she says. “Katie. From my group. She’s—uh—she’s had experience with this.”
“Your group?”
“My friends,” she says. “You know.”
“Your basement friends?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Probably not.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m going to get you into therapy,” she says. “I’ll ask Katie who I can trust.”
“Okay,” I say.
“We should call the police,” she says.
“Not now.”
“We should. It was only last summer. Other people…” She stammers on the N sound of know. “Know. Other people know.”
“Not now,” I say again.
“Shane can stay with us,” she says.
“Thanks.”
“I’m so sorry this happened. I don’t want to ask details, honey. I don’t. But I’m your mother. I have to ask some things.”
I want to ask her to write them down on the piece of paper, but I don’t want to answer any questions. What happened to me is something everybody knows and no one knows. It’s something everybody cares about but nobody cares about. It’s as common as cereal for breakfast. There are laws that say it’s illegal, but barely anyone goes to jail for it.
I say, “I have to go back and see Stanzi. Before you ask me anything, call the crisis center. The people there are nice. Or call your friend. Talk to her. Just let me go see Stanzi first.”
“Okay,” she says. “Can I hug you?”
“Sure.”
“Do you mind if I cry?” she asks, but she’s already crying. It doesn’t seem possible that I made the neighborhood dominatrix cry, but maybe it was about time she paid attention.