I DREAM ABOUT CLARA ABBEY, which I haven’t done in years. She’s still eleven in my dream, swinging by her ankles from the monkey bars at recess. It’s not graceful, not the way she does it. She loves to be up high, but she’s grown faster than the rest of us have. She’s tall and not sure where the ends of her arms and legs are. I can twist myself around the bars, flipping and contorting like a trapeze artist, but Clara can only hang. She never learns how to deal with her height. She’ll be hanging there forever.
“So will you,” she tells me. Her voice is strained and her face is red from being upside down. “They’ll talk about both of us forever, now. It won’t matter what else you do.”
“No,” I tell her. “I won’t let it. I won’t let them.”
“You can’t control it,” she says. “You can’t control the other cars. You just have to keep driving and hope for the best.”
“Who are we talking about?” I ask. “You or me?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “We’re the same now. Two more numbers on the scorecard.”
I flip over the bar next to her, and for a moment we hang beside each other. The bell rings, and the playground starts to empty. The real Clara would have pushed herself off the bars and landed heavily on the ground as soon as the bell sounded. This one doesn’t move. She’s stuck on the monkey bars because some moron drove drunk on Christmas Day. I start to push off, heading for the ground, but I get stuck halfway around.
“No!” I shout at the empty yard. The door shuts. Everyone has moved on and left us behind. “NO!”
And then Polly is shaking me, and I am awake.
“Nightmare?” She hands me the water and I take a sip.
“Kind of,” I say. “More disturbing than scary.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“No,” I say. “What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven o’clock,” she says, glancing at her watch. “And it’s Sunday, if you were curious.”
“I had figured that out myself, actually.” I’m not trying to be funny, but I’m in serious laugh-or-cry mode right now. “On account of the sunlight streaming through the windows.”
Polly shrugs, but does me the courtesy of smiling a little bit. Yesterday evening passed in a blur of painful cramping from the emergency contraceptives, and I cried so much that I had a headache. They didn’t sedate me, for which I’m glad, so I hadn’t expected to sleep that long.
My parents aren’t getting in until Monday evening, so Caledon put most of our equipment on the bus and is going to drive Polly and me back to Palermo in the van herself. My parents must be absolutely miserable. Being on a plane is bad enough.
There’s a knock on the door, and Polly looks to me for a moment to make sure I’m ready for people. I nod.
“Come in,” she says.
It’s Officer Plummer again. This time she’s in uniform, her hair all secured under her hat. She does not look like someone I would want to mess with. When she comes through the door, she takes her hat off and tucks it under her arm. I wonder if there are rules for that, or if she’s just hot.
“Sorry to disturb you again,” she says.
“It’s okay,” I say. It isn’t, but it’s not like I can get very much more disturbed.
Officer Plummer swallows. I know instantly that she’s been practicing all day the speech she’s about to give me. Probably in the car. Probably in the elevator. Probably in her head right now. And it never gets any better. I do my best not to panic, which is harder than it used to be.
“Miss Winters,” she says, apparently deciding that formality will make whatever this is easier, hopefully for both of us. “As you know, the physical evidence on you was compromised by your time in the lake.”
She makes it sound like I went swimming. I wonder what the criminal charge for “dropping an unconscious person in the lake” is.
“Therefore, it was decided that no samples were to be collected from the male campers and staff at Camp Manitouwabing.” I know that already, but it still feels hopeless. Part of me is glad: No samples means no charges, no trial, no thinking about this once I go home. Part of me, the part that sounds like Polly, is fighting mad.
“However,” she continues. “Should the results of your pregnancy test be positive, and should you wish to share that with the Ontario Provincial Police, we will have reason to take those samples, and run the tests when the pregnancy has . . .” Her professionalism fails her and she deflates. “I’m really sorry, Miss Winters,” she says, shoulders rounding forward. “You deserve much better than this.”
“Honestly, the fact that this isn’t old hat to you makes me feel like there’s some hope left,” I tell her. It’s a slight exaggeration, but it costs me nothing. I like to know that I can still give. “We don’t have that result yet.”
“Do you still have my card?” Plummer asks.
“Maybe,” I say. “Though it might have gotten a bit crumpled yesterday.” I’d lost track of holding it after everyone left and Polly got back into bed with me. I think at one point, one of us might have tried to use it for Kleenex.
“I’ll leave another,” she says, and fishes it out of the pocket next to her gun. She puts it on the table. “Call me if you decide to move ahead with the investigation.”
I nod again, and even though she has been nothing but helpful, I suddenly want her to leave as fast as possible. She takes a few more seconds to ask Polly if we need anything, but Caledon has already gone shopping for us, and then Officer Plummer goes. When we’re alone, pretending privacy even though the doorway to the hall is open, I take several deep breaths.
“Well?” Polly asks when I have regained control of myself.
“I don’t know,” I tell her. I think about my dream, about Clara telling me that I’ll complete the card. Is that my subconscious way of telling me that I will be the class pregnancy? Is it the drugs and the emotional cocktail burning through my system?
“Don’t you want to catch him?” Polly asks.
“Yes,” I say. “But think about what that means.”
It hangs between us for about five seconds before Polly’s eyes widen and she realizes what she’s accidentally wished for.
“I didn’t mean . . . ,” she starts, and then stops.
“I know,” I tell her. “I know exactly what you meant. And I do want him caught. I just can’t think about it until I have to.”
“You know that either way, any way, I’m with you, right?” she says.
“I do,” I tell her. “And believe me, I will probably take full advantage of that.”
“I just . . . I feel so bad that I didn’t notice,” she says. “I was right beside you.”
“He was very smart about it,” I say. She flinches. I’m past flinching. “I mean, if I’d stayed with you, we would have thought I was tired, and Amy would have taken me back to the cabin. He waited until I left the group, and I was only going to the garbage cans.”
“I still feel terrible,” she says. “And Amy feels awful. She had a full-on panic attack after the ambulance took you away. I couldn’t stay, because Caledon was leaving to follow in the van. Mallory was with her, though.”
“Have you heard anything from them?” I ask. It is much easier to talk about other people’s trauma, even though I realize on some level that it is connected to mine.
“You can’t have your phone on in the hospital,” she tells me. “And I’ve only left to go to the bathroom.”
“You’re the best, ever,” I tell her. I don’t tell her that enough.
“I know,” she says in her smug voice. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes, though.
There’s another knock, and then a candy striper comes in with our lunch. Technically, they should only be feeding me, but part of the way the hospital staff is showing how bad they feel for me is by feeding Polly too.
“You slept through breakfast,” she says, setting down the trays. They smell unappetizing, and yet I am weirdly hungry. “So I came here first when the lunches were ready.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. I don’t know her name, even though she brought food yesterday too. She’s not wearing a name tag, and she doesn’t introduce herself, just leaves us to our food.
Polly takes the cover off her tray and grimaces.
“And we thought camp food was bad!” I say. She hands me the button that will put my bed up into sitting position. I can get out of bed whenever I want to, and I realize that I have to go to the bathroom. They’ve changed my sheets twice, but there’s still blood on the padding when I get up. Polly doesn’t even hesitate before picking it up, rolling it into a ball, and replacing it while I head for the washroom. It makes me teary again, and I promise myself that I will spend the rest of my life making this up to her. I am careful in the bathroom, determined not to fall or have a breakdown. What I really want is a shower and real clothes, but that will have to wait.
“Do you think it’s weird that I can laugh and joke?” I ask when I come back into the main room. I assume there is a lot of therapy in my future, but I’d like to have some things sorted out before I start.
“No,” she says. “It’s how people cope. I mean, I don’t think you should do it forever, but it’s okay for now.”
—
The only gynecologist at Parry Sound Regional Hospital is male. I was unconscious the first time he examined me, and since then the hospital has been scrupulous in ensuring that the only people who come through my door are female. When he comes into my room, it is distressing how relieved we all are when I fail to completely panic.
“Hermione,” he says. “I’m Dr. Shark. How are you feeling?”
I haven’t had time to get sick of people asking me that yet. I imagine I will. Fortunately, I know that when he asks, he means medically and not emotionally.
“I’m still bleeding, but the cramps have stopped,” I say.
“Good, good.” He nods. “Are you up to talking about a pregnancy test?”
I am really glad that Officer Plummer reminded me of it first. I can think of it as being legal, not personal, and that helps me cope.
“Yes,” I say. “I mean, I’ll do my best.”
“You are doing very well.” I wonder if he says this just because I’m not screaming and crying and climbing the walls. He clears his throat. “Emergency contraceptives only prevent pregnancy if fertilization has not already occurred, do you understand that?”
“Yes.” Now it’s my turn to nod. “It means that if I was already pregnant, I’d stay pregnant.”
“Yes,” he continues. “So there is a possibility that conception already took place before you could take the medication, in which case a pregnancy test would be positive.”
“When can I take the test?” I ask.
“I would recommend waiting six to seven days,” he says. “Two weeks, for the best chance at accurate results.
I deflate a little bit, but I don’t think he notices. Two whole weeks. It seems like hell. But there is no way I am taking a test that might be wrong. I only want to do this once.
“I have to start school on Tuesday,” I tell him. Maybe my parents will let me skip.
“I would recommend taking this week off,” he says. “From school and from other activities.”
Thank goodness for small mercies. The doctor continues with a bunch of questions about my regular doctor and transferring records and consent forms, and I answer like he’s a waiter and I’m picking between fries or a side salad. You say the stupidest things when doctors tell you that you might be pregnant without your consent or memory of how it happened. Polly never lets go of my hand.
“I’ve also submitted your recommendation for psychiatric evaluation.” He manages to say that gently, which probably takes years of practice. Maybe he was taught how in med school.
“Okay,” I say. “That’s good to know.”
For the first time, he is awkward. Parry Sound is not a large place. Like Officer Plummer, he is probably not used to this. When professionalism ends, he can’t stop seeing me as this tiny girl, this victim of terrible things. I want so hard to prove him wrong, but I think I have forgotten how.
“Your name is really Shark?” I blurt, and the moment breaks.
“My whole life,” he replies.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Polly says, the dismissal clear and polite. I’m always impressed that she can do that to grown-ups. “We’ll ring for the nurse if we have any questions.”
“Someday you’re going to have to teach me how to do that,” I tell her after Dr. Shark leaves.
“My secrets come with me to my grave,” she says. It dawns on me, for the first time, that having Polly for a best friend is about to become more important than it ever was before.