We fly around the corner of Burnt Hill Road like the car has wings, lifting us up and sailing us forward. Beside me, Abby taps her hands on the dash, whispering, "faster faster faster". I can't go any faster. It's dark and late and the road is ill-lit. And I'm still wondering if there is anything to this at all, if Mary Anne's not simply throwing some kind of fit. I don't know her well anymore. She's become a little bizarre.
"Are you sure she's not simply fighting with her stepmom again? Or Stacey McGill?" I ask Abby.
Abby shakes her head. "You didn't hear her voice. Something's wrong."
I'm not quite convinced.
"That's Mary Anne's house!" Abby exclaims, pointing to the house straight ahead, as if I've forgotten where Mary Anne lives.
We pull into the driveway and screech to a halt. The neighborhood is silent and dark. All except Mary Anne's house. Every light burns in every window, upstairs and down. The porch lights and lights over the garage are also turned on, bathing part of the yard in a shadowy luminance. I begin to feel uneasy. There's something strange and eerie in the air.
Abby and I hop out of the car and slam the doors. At the sound, the front door flings open and Mary Anne streaks out onto the porch and down the steps, illuminated in the glow of the lights. Her hair is a mess, her make-up running, the front of her skirt and blouse drenched with blood.
"Mr. Marshall tried to rape me!" she shrieks, clenching her fists and dropping to her knees.
Abby and I freeze halfway across the lawn. We stare at Mary Anne. She collapses forward onto her elbows, shaking, her head bobbing up and down. I realize what's happening. She's hyperventilating. Abby springs alive first, rushing to Mary Anne, and I follow, sliding across the wet grass in my tennis shoes. We reach Mary Anne and drop beside her.
"She's hyperventilating!" I cry. "We need a paper bag!"
"No! You're not supposed to do that anymore! I saw this happen to someone once. We need to calm her down," Abby replies.
"Let's take her inside before the neighbors come out," I suggest.
Abby gives me a strange look. I don't know why I said that. I don't know what I'm thinking.
"Come on, Mary Anne, stand up," Abby urges, grabbing Mary Anne under the arms. She pulls Mary Anne gently to her feet. Mary Anne's still breathing fast and deep. We support her weight and carry her up the steps and onto the porch, the toes of her black Mary Janes dragging across the cement. We take her into the living room, but when we reach the doorway, we see several streaks of blood on the couch, red against the pale blue, and on the carpet lies discarded a pair of ripped white cotton panties with tiny yellow flowers.
Oh, dear Lord, what happened here?
We deposit Mary Anne gently into an armchair. Abby sits on an arm, leaning over Mary Anne, rubbing her back and whispering in her ear. I stand beside them, awkwardly, watching, not knowing what to do. Mary Anne's breathing slows and falls into a regular pattern, in and out, in and out, right on pace.
She starts to cry.
"Where are your dad and stepmom?" I ask, lowering onto my knees beside the armchair.
"Not here," Mary Anne gasps. "They won't be home tonight."
"Your grandma? We'll call your grandma!" I suggest and Abby nods.
"Out of town. Atlantic City. With her church group."
Abby and I look at one another at a loss. What are we supposed to do now?
"Do you want to tell us about it?" Abby asks, softly.
Mary Anne shakes her head, but then whispers, "I was baby-sitting for the Marshalls."
"Yes?" Abby prods.
"I was baby-sitting for the Marshalls," Mary Anne repeats, staring at her knees, hair hanging forward, blocking her face. "I was baby-sitting for the Marshalls," she says again and I wonder if she'll ever get past this point or if she will be stuck there forever, like a needle caught in a groove on a record, scratching and repeating. "I was baby-sitting for the Marshalls and Mr. Marshall said he'd drive me home. We pulled into the driveway and all the lights were out. He said, 'late night for your parents?" and I said, 'they're away.' Mr. Marshall said, 'let me walk you to the door. Everything is dark. I want to make sure you are safe.' I said, 'it's okay. I'll be fine,' and Mr. Marshall said, 'no, let me walk you to the door.' So, I did.
We walked onto the porch and I unlocked the door. Mr. Marshall started coughing. Very loud. Hacking. He pounded on his chest. I said, 'come in, I'll get you a glass of water.' He followed me into the house. I went for the water and when I came back, Mr. Marshall was standing under the archway to the living room. I reached out my arm to give him the water. He grabbed my wrist and I dropped the water. It shattered on the floorboards and I screamed. Mr. Marshall grabbed my other wrist and squeezed very tight. I thought he would break me. He shoved me into the living room and pushed me onto the couch. I screamed, 'Stop!' and he said, 'you invited me in, didn't you?'
He pinned me down on the couch underneath him. He started kissing my neck and touching me all over. He kept saying, 'I know this is what you want. I know you've always wanted it. Relax, Mary Anne. I'll take care of you.' I was yelling and struggling, but he held me down. I couldn't fight him. He tore off my panties and undid his pants. He shoved my legs apart. I knew what was coming. I don't know exactly how it happened. I grabbed a coaster and smashed him in the face. I think I broke his nose. He screamed and blood gushed out. It just poured out all over me. Mr. Marshall pulled up his pants and ran out. He left me on the couch covered in his blood."
Mary Anne's shoulders shake as she begins to cry.
"Oh, Mary Anne," Abby gasps and wraps her arms around Mary Anne.
I take Mary Anne's hand. It's limp in my own. I listen to her sobs. I listen and I have no answers.
Abby looks down at me from over Mary Anne's head. "We need to call the police," she says, firmly.
Mary Anne's head snaps up. "No police!" she shouts. "No police!"
"Mr. Marshall is a rapist," Abby replies. "We need to call the police."
"No police! No! I don't want anyone to know!" Mary Anne protests, her voice choking on its panic. "I don't want anyone to know! Everyone will blame me!"
I tighten my grip on her hand. "No one will blame you, Mary Anne," I assure her. "You did nothing wrong."
"I invited him in!" Mary Anne yells. "He's right! I invited him in! I let him in the house! Everyone will know! Everyone will say it's what I wanted!"
Abby pushes Mary Anne's hair back from her face. She shakes her head. "No. No, Mary Anne. You didn't ask for this. You asked him in for water. He had no right to do this. It's not your fault."
I nod. "That's right, Mary Anne. You are not to blame."
"But everyone will know!" Mary Anne shrieks. She jumps up out of the armchair, knocking her head against Abby's chin. Mary Anne glances down, eyes widening, as if seeing herself for the first time. "I have to get him off me!" she screams and dashes out of the room.
Abby and I leap to our feet and pursue her. Across the foyer and up the stairs. Mary Anne's feet pound heavy on the stairs. Abby and I thunder behind her. Mary Anne runs into the bathroom and turns on the shower. For a moment, I think she will jump right in, clothes and all, wash the blood right down the drain. But Mary Anne lifts her blouse over her head. She tosses it to me.
"Wash it out! Wash it out!" she shouts and tears off her skirt. She throws that to me, too. "Wash it out!" she repeats.
Abby and I stand crowded in the doorway, watching Mary Anne strip. Blood seeped through her blouse and now stains her stomach and bra. The bra flies through the air and I catch it. I'm supposed to wash it out, too. Now Mary Anne stands before us, stark naked, except for her white socks and Mary Janes. She doesn't bother with them. They don't need to be washed out. She climbs into the shower. She climbs in and sits on the tile, straight beneath the spray. Somehow, I know exactly what she wants and somehow, it makes perfect sense.
"Wash her out!" I command, giving Abby a shove.
Abby hesitates, then rushes over to the shower. She grabs a bottle of dark red shampoo off the shelf. It matches the blood on Mary Anne's clothes. Abby squeezes the shampoo onto Mary Anne's head. I fill the sink with water. Yes, somehow, this makes perfect sense. This is exactly what we should do. Right? Right?
I check Mary Anne's skirt. There's a large spot of blood on the front. The skirt is torn on one side. Is it mendeable? Does it matter? I plunge the skirt into the water and grab a bar of soap out of the dish. It's light green. It smells like melon. I scrub the skirt with it. I scrub hard. The water becomes marbled with pink, spreading out and taking over. I scrub harder and harder. The blood comes out. It washes out.
"This is insane!" Abby exclaims. She's lathering Mary Anne's hair. Mary Anne's head isn't visible beneath the bubbles. The shampoo smells like ripe raspberries. The smell drifts through the bathroom. It dominates the room. "We're washing the evidence away!" Abby cries. "We need to call the police! We'll ask for Sergeant Johnson!"
"No police!" Mary Anne shouts. She's drawn her knees to her chest. She's still wearing her socks and shoes.
"I'll call my mother then," Abby says. "She's probably home by now. I'll call her and she'll come over. She'll know what to do."
"I don't want your mother!"
"We'll call Kristy's house then. Don't you want Kristy? You called her first. We'll get Kristy and Elizabeth."
"No!" Mary Anne cries.
"No Kristy!" I yell. "No Kristy and no Elizabeth!"
Abby whirls around. Her hands are covered in soap suds. Her sweatshirt is wet. So is her hair. "This isn't about you, Shannon! Can't you stop being mad for one minute? Think of someone else! Think of Mary Anne!"
I scowl at her and wring out the skirt. I toss it onto the hamper. Then I drain the sink. I wait for it to drain before filling it with fresh water. Fresh water, clean water. I'll wash it all away.
"No Kristy. No Elizabeth," I repeat.
"I don't want them to know!" Mary Anne wails.
"We'll call the McGills then," Abby says. She detaches the showerhead and moves it around Mary Anne's head, washing out the shampoo. "Maybe they're home now. We'll get Mrs. McGill to come over. Mrs. McGill will know what to do, Mary Anne. She'll help."
"No!"
"Listen to her!" I insist. "She doesn't want anyone else. No adults! We don't need any adults!"
"An adult is exactly what we need!" Abby snaps. "This is serious, Shannon!" She glares at me, then focuses back on Mary Anne. "Okay, you don't want Stacey or her mom. We'll call the Sheas. We'll call the Blumes. You called them. You must have wanted Katie and Grace. I'll call them back."
Mary Anne shakes her head. "What will they think?" she sobs. I didn't notice her tears beneath the shower spray. "I don't want them anymore. I decided I didn't want them. That's why I hung up on Mrs. Blume!"
"You hung up on Mrs. Blume?" Abby exclaims. "Grace and her parents are home? You found an adult and hung up the phone?"
"She would call the police! I realized when I heard her voice! She'd call the police! Everyone would know! So, I hung up! I hung up and called you! I knew you would help me, Abby." Mary Anne yanks on Abby's arm, pulling Abby down to eye level. "I knew you would help me. That's why I called you. That's why I didn't call Julie or Emily first. They'd tell their narc parents. They're all narcs. The Blumes, the Sterns, the Bernsteins. They're all in the same narcing network. They would tell! Everyone would know!"
Abby pulls free of Mary Anne's grip and stands. She turns to me and steps forward. "Mary Anne is obviously confused. I don't even know what she's talking about now. I'm calling my mom. And if I don't find my mom – " Abby points a finger at me, "I will not call the Brewers, but I will call Mrs. McGill. I'm finding an adult. This is serious." Abby walks out of the room.
"No!" Mary Anne screams, scrambling to her feet. She chases after Abby. She chases after Abby in only her socks and Mary Janes.
I drop the blouse I'm rinsing out. I follow them. Abby's racing down the stairs. Mary Anne streaks down the hallway, nearing the staircase. Just as she reaches the landing, her cat, Tigger, shoots out of nowhere. Mary Anne trips and falls forward, diving down the stairs. She smacks into the banister and tumbles forward.
"Mary Anne!" Abby and I shriek.
I run down the stairs. Abby runs back up. We meet halfway.
I crouch down beside Mary Anne, who's stretched sideways across a step. "Are you okay?" I ask her, gently, then look up to glare at Abby. "See what you did?" I demand.
Abby scowls. "This isn't my fault!" she protests. "Come on, Mary Anne, sit up."
Mary Anne struggles into a sitting position. She holds her hand over her left eye.
"Let me see," I say, pushing her hand away. I study the side of her face. "That'll leave a bruise," I remark.
Mary Anne cries.
"See how you've upset her?" I ask Abby and hold out a hand to Mary Anne. "See what happens when you try to involve adults? Everything gets mucked up." I help Mary Anne to her feet.
Abby stares at me. "Are you serious?" she gasps. "What's wrong with you? We can't just pretend this didn't happen! Mr. Marshall did this on purpose! He planned it out! He meant to rape Mary Anne! Right in her own living room!"
"Mary Anne doesn't want anyone to know. We need to respect that decision, Abby," I reply and start up the stairs, an arm around Mary Anne.
"Fine," Abby says, tightly. "I'm good at covering up crimes."
"Yeah, you are," I agree, nastily.
In Mary Anne's bedroom, I take off her wet socks and shoes. Abby goes through the dresser drawers and brings over clean panties and a pair of flannel pajamas. Red and green plaid. Christmas pajamas. So festive. Abby and I dress Mary Anne, then I brush her hair. Mary Anne cries. Abby and I don't speak.
Mary Anne huddles in a corner on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, leaning back against the wall. She bangs her head a couple times.
"She's going to hurt herself," Abby says.
"You aren't helping," I snap.
Abby is quiet.
"This is all my fault," Mary Anne whispers.
"It isn't. It isn't at all," I reply.
"You shouldn't feel ashamed," Abby tells her.
"I am ashamed," Mary Anne says. "I am a terrible person. I think I'm being punished. I'm being punished for how I've treated everyone. I string Pete along. I need to let him go. I'm being punished."
Abby looks over at me, but I ignore her.
"You aren't being punished, Mary Anne," I assure her.
"No one deserves this," Abby adds.
Mary Anne shakes her head. "I think I might. Don't tell anyone. Don't tell anyone at all. My dad would be so upset. What if he blamed me? Sharon would be mad, too. She'd blame me. That's why I didn't call her. She can't know."
I knit my brow together. "Isn't Sharon out of town?" I ask, perplexed.
"No. She left. She left two days ago. She's staying at her parents' house. We aren't her family anymore. She wants Jeff and Dawn. I'm not Dawn. Sharon can't forgive that. I'm not Dawn." Mary Anne closes her eyes and rolls her head to the side. "This would never happen to Dawn. Dawn's stronger than me. She never would have invited him in. She would know better. And Dawn could fight. She can fight back. She head butted a boy once. So I hear."
I have no idea what she's talking about.
Neither does Abby. She looks as confused as I do. We can only repeat all we've said before. This isn't your fault. No one will blame you. No one will be mad. You fought back. You are strong. Over and over we repeat the words. We repeat them until Mary Anne falls asleep. I cover her with a blanket and brush the damp hair away from her face. Tigger appears from wherever he's been hiding. He jumps onto the bed and kneads Mary Anne's blanket, then curls up beside her stomach.
"I need to call home," Abby whispers.
I check my watch. When did it become two o' clock? Is anyone even worried about me? Abby and I walk downstairs into the kitchen. Abby lifts the phone off the hook.
"Don't tell," I remind her, as she begins to dial.
Abby narrows her eyes and turns away. "Hello? Mom? I'm sorry to wake you…you were worried?...I'm sorry…I'm at Mary Anne's. We fell asleep…Yeah, I'll see you in the morning…okay…bye." Abby replaces the phone on the hook, then lifts it again and holds it out to me.
I shake my head. There's no one I need to call.
Abby starts to hang up again. Her eyes fall on a list beside the telephone, secured to a bulletin board. A list of phone numbers. She holds out a finger and scans down. Her finger stops at The Marshalls. Abby bangs out the number.
"What are you doing?" I screech, trying to tear the phone away.
Abby shoves me back. I hear the phone ring. I lunge forward again, but Abby turns away.
"Hello?" she says into the receiver. "Mrs. Marshall?...yes, I know it's late…who is this?...no one…I just called to tell you that your husband will get more than a broken nose the next time he tries to rape the baby-sitter!"
Abby slams the phone down.
I can barely control myself. "You promised not to tell!" I cry, absolutely furious. "You promised no adults! Don't you care about what Mary Anne wants? Don't you care about her at all?"
"Yes, but do you?"
Abby turns and stalks out of the kitchen.