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SHAY:Different, because she was softer. But after, he still left her on the floor. By then, I wasn’t jealous anymore. I lay down next to her and ran my fingers through her hair until she fell asleep.
JAMIE:You went back to campus after that weekend, though, right? Tell me you found someone—a professor, if not a cop. Tell me you told someone what happened.
SHAY:Jamie.
(Laughter.)
You don’t understand. We never left again. Not for a year and a half.
JAMIE:What?
SHAY:Like he said, it wasn’t safe out there. There were men who would hurt us because we were weaker, and women who would try to manipulate us, take us away from him. I’d always suspected the world was cruel, but Don made me understand the true magnitude. The things that could happen if I wasn’t careful. No one had ever tried to protect me like that.
After a while, we only left to grocery shop, and even then we took Rachel, because she was more experienced. We began to ask his permission for everything. To eat. To pour a glass of water, go to the bathroom, go to bed. When we woke up in the morning, Don would suggest what we’d do that day, what to wear, what food we’d put on our plates and how much. Eventually the suggesting became telling. He asked Laurel to sew dresses for us because our clothes were too provocative. The dresses stopped past our knees and buttoned up the back, so it was hard for us to take them off, but easy for him. I remember thinking that was romantic. Don liked our hair twisted back with bobby pins. He said it was neat and pretty. He liked to tear it apart at night.
JAMIE:He made you dress like fucking June Cleaver.
(Silence.)
Sorry. That was unprofessional. I’m just… Never mind. Keep going.
SHAY:You might not believe me, but it was a relief to no longer make decisions. I honestly thought Don knew best, and if I did what he said, everything would be okay. Back then, I would’ve traded my freedom for that security a million times over.
For the rest of fall semester, then spring, then fall again, senior year, we missed most of our classes. Don had us go just enough so we didn’t fail out. I won’t even tell you what happened to my GPA. Ironic, right? After working so hard for valedictorian in high school. But Don said people were closed-minded and reactionary, and if they knew about us, they’d misunderstand and try to take us away. So Clem quit soccer, Laurel quit theater, and I quit writing.
We kept our suite in Rothschild so no one would alert the administration or our parents, but we moved our things. At his house, Don moved us out of our separate rooms into a single room on the top floor, next to his, so we could come quickly when he wanted us. It had no windows, but three narrow beds, all in a row, and he expected them made every day, hospital corners. He took the lock off the door so he could check. He took all the locks off the doors, so there wouldn’t be secrets between us.
The worst part about living in the same room was we always knew who he’d chosen each night. If it wasn’t you, you had to lie there and stare at the empty bed, listening to the noises through the wall, his headboard slamming, and know you weren’t good enough. I used to curl up in that little doll bed and cry, touching the wall while he was with Laurel or Clem, feeling the vibrations. Being left behind was the worst punishment. At least it was for me.
The only thing we really had to ourselves was a garden. We called itTheGarden, in capital letters, and no one loved it more than Clem. Don wanted us to plant herbs and tomatoes, functional things that would keep us from needing the grocery store. But somehow Clem got her hands on flower seeds, so we also had wildflowers and goldenrod, which she loved best. It was funny, Clem and the goldenrods. Such a feminine thing—you wouldn’t expect it from her. At the time, I thought she was trying to rewire herself into the kind of woman Don wanted. But now, when I picture the flowers, how sunny and beautiful they were…I think she just needed something to love.
It was hardest for her. Don was always telling her she had an unfeminine body, that she wasn’t trying hard enough to be graceful. This was Clem, one of the best athletes I’d ever met. You remember she was short and muscular, kind of thick. Don wanted us all thin and lithe, because he said that was more natural. He kept us on strict diets. Sometimes I’d get so hungry I’d lie awake at night, imagining cramming a whole potato into my mouth, peel and all. Anything to fill the hole in my stomach. But at least I was able to get thin. Clem could never lose enough weight.
One night, she dropped a wineglass when she was cleaning up after dinner. It was an accident, but Don told her as a consequence, she had to roll in it. A lesson in moving with care. He was always doing that… Embodied lessons, he called them. It wasn’t enough for your brain to learn something; your muscles had to learn it, too. I’ll give him this: it was effective. Even now, years later, I’ll be going about my day and something will trigger one of Don’s old lessons, and immediately, I’m right back there, body stiffening.
JAMIE:And Clem did it?
SHAY:Of course. I’ll never forget the way it looked, Clem rolling through the glass shards, smearing blood over the kitchen floor in these long, crimson swoops, like a snow angel.
(Silence.)
Rachel got on her case even more than Don, though. After a few months, I finally understood that she was his lieutenant. Her favorite thing was to catch us. You would think you were alone in the kitchen, that it was safe to have a sip of water, because you were thirsty and Don wasn’t around to ask, but as soon as you nudged the tap, watched that first drop trickle into your glass, Rachel would appear right behind you. And then you were in trouble.
She lived to punish. With Don, hurting had a purpose, taught a lesson. But Rachel didn’t care about that. She only wanted our pain. When he was really angry at something we’d done wrong, he’d let her hit us with his belt. One night, he asked me to bring him something from Rachel’s room, and I saw her notebook open on her desk. She was listing ways to punish us, each one more inventive than the last. For a moment I thought of stealing the notebook and throwing it away, but that wouldn’t have solved anything. It would have just given her another excuse to hurt me.
JAMIE:She sounds disturbed.
SHAY:It became more and more obvious. You know that famous Man Ray photograph,The Enigma of Isidore Ducasse?
JAMIE:Uh, I think so. Mysterious object covered in a dark blanket, tied with string?
SHAY:It’s a sewing machine, but yes, that’s the one. Coming to understand Rachel was like watching a veil being pulled off inch by inch, until one day you’re suddenly staring at the thing itself. And somehow it’s both ordinary, a thing you recognize, and more monstrous than you ever imagined.
JAMIE:For fuck’s sake. You were trapped in a house with sadists. Why didn’t you run?
SHAY:The truth is, for long periods, things were normal. We were living in the suburbs, in a beautiful house, ten minutes from school—stillgoingto school—a few blocks from a fucking Walgreens. The lines were blurry, and when you’re in the moment, all you can see is the context, the justifications.
JAMIE:It sounds like Clem was Don’s scapegoat, though. The one who couldn’t do anything right.
