Always Watching

struggle, panicked by the unfamiliar sensation of someone’s lips against my own. His tongue slides into my mouth, the taste of him making me gag. Scared now, I push him hard in the chest. He pulls his face away, his eyes surprised and angry, his lips tight.
    “I thought you said you liked me?”
    “I do. I just … I thought we were meditating.”
    His face softens. “We are. This is a special meditation. It’s just for us, so you can’t tell anyone. It’ll be our secret.”
    I feel another surge of fear. This isn’t right. I start to get up.
    He grabs my hand, his face now furious. “Where do you think you’re going?”
    “I don’t want to do this.”
    “You don’t have a choice. Not if you want your mother to keep getting better. You remember how she used to be, don’t you?”
    I catch my breath. I remembered too well, the dark moods, the threats of suicide. Aaron must’ve seen the terror in my eyes, the moment he had me, because he says, “I can help her, Nadine. And you can help me.”
    Then he unzips his pants.
    *   *   *
    Now, years later, my eyes closed, I described in detail everything he’d done—and everything he’d made me do. “He wanted me to perform oral sex. But I didn’t know how, so he made me open my mouth, then he put it in. And he also touched me, mostly just my breasts. He kept asking if I liked it—I remember that.” I also remembered how terrified I’d been, shaking and crying, not understanding what was happening. “After he was done, he said that if I told anyone, my mom would get sick again. He said…” I opened my eyes. “He said that she’d kill herself.”
    I began to cry, reliving all the fear I’d felt in that moment, believing that my mother’s life was in my hands, that if I made one mistake, she’d die. She’d finally crumble under the weight of all her sadness and dark thoughts. The same feeling I’d had most of our childhood, be good, take care of our mother. But who had been taking care of me? Robbie, yes, but he’d only been a boy himself.
    And I’d been just a little girl, on her knees in front of this man, scared and helpless, knowing that the things he was doing were wrong, a horrible sick feeling of shame in my stomach, that I was dirty now, that something was wrong with me.
    The officer got up, came back with some Kleenexes. I didn’t try to stop the tears. I gave in to them, allowing my grief. For the little girl who didn’t have anyone to protect her. I’d been taken advantage of in the worst way. Manipulated by fear and guilt, trapped and unable to say, No, this isn’t right, stop now. And there was no one who could save me, to even see what was happening. To care.
    Finally I took a breath, blotted my tears, and blew my nose, feeling wrung out, the emotions still thick in my throat as I struggled to accept what he’d done to me. I now understood why I’d blocked out the events. It was common in sexual abuse cases where the victim had been threatened, but I was still having a hard time grasping that it had happened to me. I was also scared what else might have happened—I still couldn’t recall how the abuse stopped, or if it did.
    The officer said, “Were there any other occasions? Did he ever take you anywhere else?”
    I remembered my mother’s confusion. Don’t you remember the picnic? It came back now. He’d taken us to a lake that had an old fishing cabin. Everyone had fun, but I hated the place. I’d already been there, with Aaron and another girl, whose name I couldn’t recall, but she’d been about my age. He’d encouraged us to take off our clothes and go skinny-dipping in the cool lake water. I hadn’t wanted to, but the other girl had, so I followed. Later, he’d wanted us to play hide-and-seek, naked, while he watched. We’d balked, we were too old, but he said it would be fun. The person counting had to sit on his lap. I could still hear his voice in my mind, One, two, three  … and feel his hand under my towel.
    I shared the memory with the officer. “I think it was usually at the river, though, and maybe just a handful of times over the first few months.…” I paused, thought back. My mother was right, after Coyote had died that summer, I became deathly afraid of swimming. Aaron offered to teach me, but it had been a ruse so he could spend more time with me down at the river, with lessons every week. I had vague recollections of him starting off kind and friendly, showing me how to swim,