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“Let me give you a ride,” he answered immediately.
I knew it would be very incredibly dumb to accept a ride from a strange man immediately after being attacked. Horror stories of women being kidnapped and murdered ran through my head. The weariness in my bones was dragging me down though, and there was an aching in my pinky finger that I was scared meant it was broken.
“Okay,” I said.
The exhaustion washing over me wouldn’t allow me to say anything else. He led me over to the passenger side and pressed a button that sent the other door flying up. With both of the doors open, the car looked like some strange bird. Tucking that thought away, I climbed in, smiling gratefully. Inside the car was all smooth paneling and luxurious leather, and I sank with a sigh into the seat. Before he climbed into the other side, I took a chance to examine my finger. Bent at an uncomfortable angle and beginning to bruise, it was definitely broken. I hid it before he climbed in the car though. I was sure he’d demand that I go to the hospital. I could bind broken fingers, but I couldn’t afford a trip to the emergency room without health insurance.
“Where should I drop you?” the man asked in a voice like velvet.
“201 East 27th,” I said, “Thank you.”
“Not a problem,” was the only answer I got.
We didn’t speak much, just a little small talk as he looped around the block. I was humiliated by my lack of social skills when I brought up the weather. The hardest part by far was telling my body that it was having an unfair reaction to the man doing me a favor, and I couldn’t let that happen. I was sure the only reason itwashappening was because he had suddenly become my knight in shining armor. Nevertheless, my body continued to betray me, my cheeks flushed and want sticking in my belly. I was even more ashamed because a man like this, with obvious wealth, several years older than myself, would never be attracted to a mess like me. I knew I was imagining the tension in the air, and I tried to laugh it off with an attempted witty comment about the rain being wet.
When we finally pulled up outside my apartment, I was surprised to find that less than ten minutes had passed, when I felt like we could have driven all the way to New Jersey in the time I spent trying to talk normally.
“This is you?”
“Uh, yes,” I said.
I stared with some shame up at the aging building. There was a sign on the front of the broken door claiming it would be fixed by next week. It had been there since I moved in.
“How-um-how do I…” I gestured to the door, and the man laughed.
“The button there,” he said, pointing.
I pressed it, and the door flew upwards, letting the cool air flood the warm space. I stepped out of the comfort of the car, and I thought of something just before it closed.
“What’s your name?” I asked, ducking my head back into the car.
“Julian,” he answered, “yours?”
“Evelyn,” I replied.
“Nice to meet you, Evelyn,” he said politely. “I hope next time we meet in better circumstances.”
“Thank you, Julian,” I said.
He nodded with a crooked smile, and then the door was closed and he was gone. I waited a moment on the street, watching as his taillights disappeared around the corner. I turned and pushed into the building, being careful of the pinky on my left finger. I climbed the stairs, not even bothering to try the elevator. On the fourth floor, I finally opened my door and strode into the apartment.
It wasn’t much, but the price of apartments in Kips Bay wasn’t exactly cheap. I was lucky to have my own place—the landlord cut the rent because the air conditioning system didn’t work. Because of this, especially in early July, I often found myself curling up to sleep under one of the windows—not something particularly safe, and I was lucky if I got any sleep at all in the sticky humidity. It was only a studio, but I didn’t take up much space. When I left Oregon, I didn’t really have much room for more than some clothing in my suitcase. Everything else, I bought when I arrived. The most space was almost completely filled by my bed and a sofa I’d bought pre-owned, on which numerous books were currently scattered. I shucked my bag off of my chest with my good hand, and threw it onto the sofa. I heard the definitivethunkof the books inside landing amongst the others piled there. Next, I had to take care of my hand.
In the kitchen area of the studio, I pulled out the small first-aid kit I’d had since I was eleven years old. I dragged out a roll of micropore, some gauze, and fished one of the few tongue depressors I had left. Next was the part I always hated. I grabbed a thick textbook and plopped it on my kitchen counter. I dragged the tips of my fingers across it and straightened the pinky out of its curled position. That hurt badly enough but when I had to pop the joint back into place, I had to bite my lip to stop from crying out. With my right hand shaking, I slid the tongue depressor under the broken digit and placed the gauze over my aching knuckles. Wrapping the tape firmly around it, I sighed when the job was finally done. It was uncomfortable and ungainly, but I didn’t have many choices. I took some painkillers, grabbed an ice pack, and settled down with a cup ramen on the sofa. I placed my injured hand on the back of it, raised above my nose, resting on top of the ice pack. My working hand switched between forking noodles into my mouth and turning the pages ofDavis’s Drug Guide for Nurses.
When I was finally ready for bed, the ramen sitting warm and heavy in my stomach and the pain in my finger finally diminishing, I wandered into the bathroom and stripped off my clothes. I wanted to see if I had any bruises, but thankfully most of my torso was unmarked, except for a couple of dark marks blooming across my ribs. Turning, however, I saw the horrifying results of having a knee pressed to my back. It was already a mottled, purple thing, scattered like painful paint chips across the place between my shoulder blades.
I had seen worse.
I pulled on my pajamas, washed and treated my scratched palms with some bacitracin cream, and climbed into bed. The evening had been bad, but no less horrific than every day in Oregon.
* * *
My eyes were sticky when I woke up, and only half-remembered nightmares danced just beyond the reach of my consciousness. I groaned as I sat up, and when I tried to reach for the glass of water at my bedside, my hand throbbed painfully. Everything about the night before came back in a rush, and I had to lay back down for just a moment. What worried me most was my own state of mind. I wasn’t recalling the attack as vividly as I remembered the moments after it. I should have been a mess, I should have been curled on my bed, scared that the attacker might still be after me. I wasn’t though, instead, I got up, and showered. I was stiff, and the bruise on my back had come up even more beautifully overnight. I made sure to double up the layers, despite the hot weather. I didn’t need other people to see any of the bruises because my t-shirt failed to sufficiently cover me—the minimum of what a shirt was supposed to do.
I stuffed a couple of books into my satchel and slung it over my shoulder. Before I left the house, I decided I shouldn’t be blasé, so I grabbed a can of pepper spray that had been my faithful companion on many nights in Portland. I tucked it in the front pocket of my bag and left, locking my door behind me.
I chose my apartment specifically because of its proximity to the Rory Meyers campus, and on days like this, when my whole body was aching, I was grateful for my own forethought. I strolled into the atrium with plenty of time before the seminar I signed up for. Hannah stood in the middle of the atrium, holding a Starbucks coffee in one hand, and texting with the other. She was a girl I’d met at an orientation seminar because we’d been the only two that had shown up without anxious parents in tow. She had chin-length, sleek black hair, and piercing blue eyes. She carried herself well, and always seemed to know how best to dress her lithe frame. I, on the other hand, was an overtired mess that wondered why I would ever voluntarily take classes before the semester even began. I jammed my hand into my hoodie pocket, not wanting to get into what happened the night before.
