August 1998
As I pulled the riding mower into the garden shed, I felt drained but somewhat safisfied.I've never been a fan of temperatures above sixty degrees farenheit (16C) and that afternoon, it was just a few degrees shy of ninety (32C). The stench of the highly heated metal of the mower intermingled with the scent of freshly cut grass and my excessive sweat reminded me that at least the lawn was done until the next time. I got a little sad thinking that the first couple of years of living in my house, I'd done it with a push mower. After a half dozen years, I realized I needed a power mower to complete the three quarters of an acre in an afternoon. When I hit forty-five, I had to purchase a riding mower since it was all up or down hill.
I figured a long, cool shower and a chance to relax for a while until there was something else around the house than needed care was just what I needed. After my shower, I threw on a clean pair of pants and a t-shirt and settled into my recliner to reflect on how much longer it would be until fall brought her amazing palette of brilliance to signal the end of tending to the lawn and garden for this year.
For a few minutes, I sat there trying to enjoy the rotating fan and I drifted into thinking about the advantages of a binary sort over a bubble sort and similar academic minutia. My pager rang and I knew that meant only one thing, I had a call. As a volunteer rape crisis counselor, I did a couple of twelve hour shifts each week. On a good shift, the pager was silent. Those times I did get a call were often someone looking for a mental health professional who specialized in sexual asssault or someone needing a sympathetic ear or shoulder.
Other times it would be someone still fighting with the horror long after the assault took place and looking for some comfort until the nightmares went into hiding again. I even had a few callers who learned my schedule and called when I was on simply because my voice or words gave them some comfort and helped them back to the here and now instead of THEN. Those calls were also intermingled with someone who had just been molested or raped. I did what I could to make sure they were safe and encouraged them to file a report with the appropriate law enforcement agencies. I would also convince them NOT to shower or clean up and get to the hospital to be treated for potential STD's or pregnancy, to have any injuries cared for properly and allow them to collect whatever evidence they could.
The calls that were the most difficult were ones when I was called by the hospital staff to work with someone before they had to suffer the indignity of "the kit", where the staff would collect clothing, fluids, and any other remnants left by the animal that attacked them in the event there was a prosecution. Most often it was a child.
This was one of those calls.
When I got to the hospital and was pointed to the appropriate room, I first encountered a mother and stepfather arguing with hospital staff and police as to why they weren't allowed in the room. (In this instance, the rapist was the stepfather and the mother seemed more worried about him than her daughter.) I reqested the officers move them out of the area so the nine year old wouldn't have to hear that drama.
When I entered the room, I said hello to the nurses and showed them my credentials although most of them knew me. I then pulled a chair up beside the young girl's head and talked to her.
"Good afternoon. I'm so very sorry that this has happened to you. My name is Bruce and I'm here for you and you alone. But you can call me anything you want. What do you want me to call you?" That seemed to bring a small and short lived smile and she said that Beatrix Potter was her favorite writer. "Okay. Beatrix it is." "The nurses need to collect some things and it probably won't be very pleasant. If you want, you can hold my hand and if you need to, squeeze as hard as you can. I'm going to explain what is going on and please ask me if you have any questions or if you need the nurses to stop for a minute."
She reached over and, now showing a blank stare, grabbed my hand and squeezed as I expected. Over the next half hour. we talked about the evidence being gathered, including her clothes, any genetic material left by her stepfather, photos of the physical damage, etc. She never let go of my hand but I could tell she was somewhere or somewhen else, no doubt in shock. It made me feel horrible knowing that she WOULD break down at some point and I was hoping it would be now instead of carrying the horror for weeks, months or years later before speaking or crying.
For a nine year old, she asked intelligent questions and seemed to go through the procedure without any panic, tears or horror. After the nurses took the evidence bags and let me know they were done and that the State had been called so that the child would not have to go back to that environment. Knowing that was not the only emergency that afternoon, I volunteered to stay until the State arrived. The little girl said it wasn't as bad as she thought it would be and thanked me for spending my afternoon looking after her.
Suddenly, I thought someone had snapped their fingers as if to wake someone hypnotized, I saw the calm facial expression disappear and be replaced by a horrified, hurt and confused nine year old. She seemed lost for a second and suddenly, with another squeeze of my hand, looked up at me and asked, "Is it okay to cry now?"
All I could do was say, "Of course it is" and grabbed a box of tissues off the shelf. She hugged me and let go of the pain and horror of that afternoon. I am not the least bit ashamed to say that I cried almost as much as she did. We finally ran out of tears about the time the State workers came in and we explained what was next, including not going home. I made sure the caseworker had my pager AND phone number in case it was needed by them OR the young girl but apparently it never was. I never found out what happened as I rarely did except for the occasional suicide. Yet even thirty years later, whenever I think of that poor girl trying to be brave and asking for permission to cry, I can't stop crying myself.
After more than seven decades in this place, I've seen more than my share of death and horrors but I don't think there is anything more horrific to me than seeing the death of a young child's innocence at the hands of someone they trusted.