Georgetown, and his unwavering commitment to give me a ‘normal’ life. In hindsight, I think he did a fabulous job. We try to get together every few weekends. I help out on Sundays at the grill, or wash dishes. It’s the best way I know to give back to the man who made my current life possible. I love him, without reservation.
And, though I’ll never tell him, it’s my way of thanking him for taking a chance on bringing me back to D.C.
When I got back home, I was a mess. I was in therapy for two years – not easy when you’ve promised yourself to never speak about what happened. I had to swear my school psychologist to secrecy to feel any sense of confidence. I dealt with two things: my fear of Dusty and how he took advantage of me, and how his domination of me made me sexually defenseless. Being subjugated gave me conflicting emotions. Yes, I felt guilty. My mother didn't know. She wasn’t coming to rescue me, something Dusty loved to remind me when he was in the middle of touching me. But after a few nights, when he’d figured out how to make me orgasm – and multiple-orgasm – my hatred of him became mixed with a combination of dread and sexual excitement. My therapist said the classic symptoms of abuse – nausea, nervous stomach, sexual dysfunction, lack of self-care – were normal. It would take time to get past them. Being intimate against my will was all I knew; and my teacher was both harsh and inventive.
The psychologist also helped me get past my inability to sleep and my memories of forced orgasm and being held down. Dusty was deviously brilliant, really. He made sure I could never say I didn’t enjoy what he did to me. I still struggle with the memory of his touch, and how he controlled me. But I’m working on it.
My mother found out two years after I left that Dusty was molesting the ten-year-old daughter of one of his ranch hands. She called the police. The victim testified against him; she was so brave. Dusty was tried and sentenced to 10 years in prison. The day he was transported to Oklahoma’s Department of Corrections, I felt free. My mother sold her half of the ranch back to Dusty’s parents and moved to Napa.
She met and married husband number three the next year. I declined to attend. Don’t get me wrong; I love my mother. But I just couldn’t bring myself to go across country after what I’d experienced. Being home meant being with my dad, even if it was painful all around.
I look back into the mirror, at my reflection. I put my hair into an updo with loose tendrils, and clip a pair of dangling pearl earring into my ears. I smooth powder onto my face, add lip gloss, blush and a little mascara.
Looking smart at work is a must, so today I shrug on my “uniform” – a black matte jersey wrap dress with long sleeves and a hemline just above the knee. The dress ties with a grosgrain ribbon, making me look long (thank God) but not wide. Anna would notice and change me into something else in a heartbeat if I don’t look brand-worthy enough. I pair it with opaque black tights and short black booties. They have a tallish heel but I find them more comfortable to stand in for long hours than flat shoes. I look up. Ack! When did it get to be so late? I whisk into the kitchen, concoct my tea, pour it into a Tervis tumbler, and prepare to leave. I grab my handbag, work portfolio and smartphone, and beat it out the door.
Chapter Two
“What a Difference a Day Made”
Jamie Cullum, Twentysomething
Travel from Queens into Manhattan isn’t really all that bad, and I’m actually the first one in the building this morning. I unlock the door, let myself in and quickly lock it back behind me. I walk around, flick on all the lights, and turn up the ambient temperature. I hear Lottie calling out gaily at a few minutes before nine, as she drops a big pile of fabric samples onto her desk. “Sadie!”
“Yes, Lottie?”
Can you handle that late appointment we have with Violet Emery today?
And, though I’ll never tell him, it’s my way of thanking him for taking a chance on bringing me back to D.C.
When I got back home, I was a mess. I was in therapy for two years – not easy when you’ve promised yourself to never speak about what happened. I had to swear my school psychologist to secrecy to feel any sense of confidence. I dealt with two things: my fear of Dusty and how he took advantage of me, and how his domination of me made me sexually defenseless. Being subjugated gave me conflicting emotions. Yes, I felt guilty. My mother didn't know. She wasn’t coming to rescue me, something Dusty loved to remind me when he was in the middle of touching me. But after a few nights, when he’d figured out how to make me orgasm – and multiple-orgasm – my hatred of him became mixed with a combination of dread and sexual excitement. My therapist said the classic symptoms of abuse – nausea, nervous stomach, sexual dysfunction, lack of self-care – were normal. It would take time to get past them. Being intimate against my will was all I knew; and my teacher was both harsh and inventive.
The psychologist also helped me get past my inability to sleep and my memories of forced orgasm and being held down. Dusty was deviously brilliant, really. He made sure I could never say I didn’t enjoy what he did to me. I still struggle with the memory of his touch, and how he controlled me. But I’m working on it.
My mother found out two years after I left that Dusty was molesting the ten-year-old daughter of one of his ranch hands. She called the police. The victim testified against him; she was so brave. Dusty was tried and sentenced to 10 years in prison. The day he was transported to Oklahoma’s Department of Corrections, I felt free. My mother sold her half of the ranch back to Dusty’s parents and moved to Napa.
She met and married husband number three the next year. I declined to attend. Don’t get me wrong; I love my mother. But I just couldn’t bring myself to go across country after what I’d experienced. Being home meant being with my dad, even if it was painful all around.
I look back into the mirror, at my reflection. I put my hair into an updo with loose tendrils, and clip a pair of dangling pearl earring into my ears. I smooth powder onto my face, add lip gloss, blush and a little mascara.
Looking smart at work is a must, so today I shrug on my “uniform” – a black matte jersey wrap dress with long sleeves and a hemline just above the knee. The dress ties with a grosgrain ribbon, making me look long (thank God) but not wide. Anna would notice and change me into something else in a heartbeat if I don’t look brand-worthy enough. I pair it with opaque black tights and short black booties. They have a tallish heel but I find them more comfortable to stand in for long hours than flat shoes. I look up. Ack! When did it get to be so late? I whisk into the kitchen, concoct my tea, pour it into a Tervis tumbler, and prepare to leave. I grab my handbag, work portfolio and smartphone, and beat it out the door.
Chapter Two
“What a Difference a Day Made”
Jamie Cullum, Twentysomething
Travel from Queens into Manhattan isn’t really all that bad, and I’m actually the first one in the building this morning. I unlock the door, let myself in and quickly lock it back behind me. I walk around, flick on all the lights, and turn up the ambient temperature. I hear Lottie calling out gaily at a few minutes before nine, as she drops a big pile of fabric samples onto her desk. “Sadie!”
“Yes, Lottie?”
Can you handle that late appointment we have with Violet Emery today?
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