Wicked Restless

“He’s at Mercy, and it’s…well…we’re waiting for him to wake up,” I grimace. On cue, she bows her head—more rehearsed sympathy on its way.

“I see. Well, I’m very sorry,” she says. “We can catch up later this week. I understand, Emma. And I have somewhere I need to leave for soon, so—”

“Right,” I say, standing, my bag in my lap sliding to the floor. I awkwardly bend and pick it up, squeezing my eyes shut as my head is down. Be strong, Emma. Be strong. “I…I’ll let you get going. I just…I only had one thing I wanted to talk to you about first. It…it won’t take long.”

Really, it should take hours. Maybe even days. There should be wake-up calls and interventions discussed, but I get the sense that I have about two minutes to make my case. I pull my phone from the front pocket of my bag, clicking it on, sliding it across her desk, the photo of my face filling the screen.

Miranda remains standing, her head down and looking at the girl on my phone—the one with a deep-purple bruise around her eye, with matching handprints around her arm where Graham dug his fingers in. Miranda only stares, waiting for me to say it.

“I respect you. So much. And it’s more than my heart, though…yeah…my heart has a lot to do with it. But that’s not why I came here. I came here to learn from you, because I believe in what you do, and I want to be like you—professionally,” I say. Her lip twitches at my addendum. “It’s out of that respect that I thought I should tell you first. I’m filing a police report. I’m leaving here and going to the student advocacy center first. And I’m not sleeping until I’ve documented my story. Graham…gave me that.” I move my finger to the screen, pointing to it, then rolling my sleeve up on that same arm and turning it over, exposing the soft flesh of my forearm and the black, finger-sized marks left from his hold on me. “And this,” I add.

Miranda’s eyes dart around the evidence, her look almost analytical. I wait for tears. For an apology. For…something. But she only nods.

“If that’s what you think is best, then do what you think is necessary,” she says, her eyes rising to meet mine. I’m in shock at the complete lack of empathy in them, and I can’t help my candor.

She doesn’t believe me.

“Miranda,” I say, and she straightens at my use of her first name. I’ve called her that before, but something tells me she’d rather show her dominance now. First names make us feel like equals. “Dr. Wheaton, your son needs help. I don’t want this to happen to someone else…or worse,” I say, swallowing hard at the thought of what could have happened. My nightmares play that version, even during catnaps at the hospital—it’s nothing but a teeter-totter of Graham’s anger and Andrew’s pain.

“Like I said,” she says, sliding her chair under her desk and walking to the door, encouraging me to follow. “You do what you feel is necessary. Now, I do need to make an obligation, so if we can talk more at our regular meeting later this week…”

Her lips are in a perfect smile, and I notice how her eyebrows are raised indignantly. I’m not sure what I expected from coming here, but I no longer feel beholden to her for what she’s given me. A weight has been lifted.

I tug my bag over my shoulder and mimic her smile with a clenched-teeth version of my own. I step out of her office and she sends me away with one more condolence for my friend in the hospital, and I walk away, shaking my head and listening to the sound of her heels stamp along the floor in the other direction—all the way to the elevator on the other end.

I leave my sleeve rolled up as I take the stairs down two flights to the ground, and I look at the marks on my arm, renewed strength finding me that I’m right—that I owe nothing to anybody. I push through the main doors, out onto the campus mall, and move my own fingers to the marks on my arms, my hands not able to spread wide enough to meet every mark, and I think to myself how my bruises are like fingerprints—there’s really only one, singular match.

I stop at the advocacy center first. I remember learning about it during orientation, thinking I would never need it. I’m so grateful for it now. It’s after five in the afternoon, but there are people here at the front, waiting—with open arms. From the moment I step inside and utter the words “I was attacked,” I’m surrounded by support. My advocate’s name is Jane, and even her eyes on me while I’m talking let me know she’s on my side. She believes me, and Jane and I—we’ve got this.