Chapter 5. The Inquisition
“Which of those men did this to you?” asked the curt doctor sporting the same shade of blonde hair and style as Randy, parted on the side and feathered back. As he snapped on a pair of gloves, his square jaw clenched, and his eyes examined mine for an answer. My lip trembled, I was confused but had to clear this up quickly as my closet door was in sight again.
“Neither of them. They are the good guys. My ex-boyfriend did this to me,” I replied, rather calm, but still scared to say it all.
“And where is he?” asked the doctor, pressing me back onto the gurney to see the wound on my belly, and I winced at the pain in my back.
“At his house in White Plains.”
“Is that where this happened?” He stopped examining it and stood up again, his gloved hands on the gurney rail as his steel gray eyes held mine.
“Did he rape you?” he asked. I broke the stare, my heart quickened, and I trembled as I knew I had to answer him and tell him the secret hardly anyone knew. Alex didn’t know. Brandon didn’t know. Anna didn’t know. The only ones who knew were dead or so far away from me that they couldn’t expose my secret to my new life. Now that was ending. I feared to speak the answer; first, they always think drugs or alcohol; then when I explained, they looked at me like I’m this crazy mental case, and I would have to prove my sanity all over again.
“Miss Beal, did your boyfriend rape you?” asked the doctor again, now moving me so he could see my back and pressed on it, making me jerk to escape his hands.
“I . . . I . . . I don’t know. I blacked out.”
“You blacked out. Were you drinking?” he asked, gently helping me onto my back then shined that little penlight in my eye and inspected the other that was swollen shut.
“No, I . . . I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and I . . . when I get scared, I—”
“You disassociate,” he replied with a sigh, his eyebrow cocked at me, and I knew his next line of questioning.
“Do you know what he beat your back with?”
“Why did he do this to you?”
“I broke up with him.”
“Who are the guys with you?”
“One’s a friend and the other’s my boss.”
“Why didn’t they go with you when you did this?”
“They wanted to, but I wanted to do this on my own.”
“Why? Surely you knew he was prone to this form of behavior.”
“Yes, but I thought I could handle it.”
“Okay, I’m going to suture the navel and do a rape kit. Just relax, you’re safe, and we’ll take care of you so you can go home and rest soon, all right?”
I nodded, knowing somehow the police would be called into this and that I had no choice but to do as he said.
The doctor left my side in the cubicle to put on his latex gloves and assembled his suture kit while the female resident and nurse began cleaning the wound. With the first rush of pain, I saw the closet door again. I tried to stay there in that cubicle, but when the resident pressed the syringe of Novocain into the ripped flesh, as the heat of the medication seeped into me and re-ignited the burn that was there when Randy ripped out the piercing, I was triggered back inside my closet again.
The doctor tried to get me to communicate with him then asked the nurse to get someone from psych down there. When I became conscious of my surroundings again, a fat woman with short blonde hair wearing a black clerical shirt with the white tab collar stood there at my side, holding my hand. Her perfume, I recognized it as the same Lilac water that Anna used, made me think at first that Anna was there.
“Who. . . who are you?”
“I’m a chaplain. What’s your name?”
“Megan. Can I go home now?”
“Do you know what just happened?” she asked, waving to the doctor who looked up from his notes at the nurse’s station.
“I blacked out. I do that sometimes.”
The doctor returned to the cubicle.
“Miss Beal, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, sitting up.
“While you were out, I did both the suture and the rape kit. You were indeed raped. Did you know that?”
“No. I don’t remember it.”
“Are you on the pill?”
“And you took it today?”
“You can have Tylenol for your pain. I want you to see one of the psychiatric residents before you leave.”
“No, that’s not necessary. I just get triggered by pain.”
“I realize that, but I think you should be seen by another doctor.”
“No, I don’t want to see anyone else. I just want to go home. Where’s Alex?” I looked to the chaplain. “Please, go get Alex for me. I need him.” She looked to the doctor who nodded, and she left to locate him.
“Don’t you tell him that I disassociate. I’d lose my job. Although Alex cares about me, he’s also my boss.”
“Fine, but will you promise me that you will seek help immediately?”
“Yes, of course. I’m an abuse survivor and my disassociating is my coping mechanism.”
“Then you need to stay out of abusive relationships.”
Perturbed that this bozo was probably never spanked as a kid to let alone have the capacity to understand where I was coming from, I replied, “Easier said than done.”
A moment later, Alex rushed into the cubicle with Brandon not far behind. I stretched my arms out to Alex and he held me against him.
“Well? Was she raped?”
“Yes,” I replied for the doctor, “I just want to go home, Alex, please, please take me home.”
“Okay, as soon as they say you can leave.”
“When can she go?” asked Brandon.
“As soon as the nurse brings the discharge paperwork,” replied the doctor, now frustrated with me.
I clung to Alex until the doctor left. The resonating of his heartbeat through his shirt and tie calmed me and helped me avoid the pest that the resident had made of himself.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Evans from Psychology,” said the young woman who entered the cubicle. I broke out in tears and began to sob as the resident who had agreed to call off the shrink squad directed her out of the cubicle, explaining to Alex and Brandon that she had the wrong patient.