Eliza Starts a Rumor(80)

I am coming forward now, for myself, because this toxic secret has persistently eaten away at me for thirty years; for my children, especially my daughter; and for other women in this group that I lead, as an example. I’m ashamed that I kept it quiet for all of this time. I pray nightly that in doing so I didn’t cause other women to suffer the same fate. I know many people will be surprised by my admission, surprised that I bore this alone for so long. There is a reason that Roy DeLuca was given such an honor of having the auditorium named for him at Hudson Valley High, and I know that his many fans will possibly try to discredit me. I know from watching other women come forward that my memory and my integrity will come into question. And I know that Mr. DeLuca, who is now dead, will not be able to defend himself or deny my claims. It doesn’t matter to me. I am glad he cannot defend himself. A defense of any kind would be as damaging as the act itself.


I mourn the person I may have been if this hadn’t happened to me. The price that I have paid for it is immeasurable. The price that the people that love me have paid for it is also immeasurable.


Roy DeLuca raped me. I am happy that he is dead. I hope it was as slow and painful as my life has been on account of his disgusting actions.



She pressed Post without even reading it over and went back to bed.

At around ten o’clock in the morning, Luke came into their room and sat next to Eliza, lovingly nudging her awake. He had a cup of coffee for her and some toast and jam that he placed on her nightstand.

“Kayla wants to show you something, if you’re up to it,” he said.

Eliza sat up and pushed herself back against the headboard. She took a sip of her coffee before speaking. “Are the kids OK?”

“Yes. Upset, but doing OK. They are proud of you.”

“Proud of me? What for?”

“Hold on.”

He opened the door for Kayla to come in. She entered clutching her laptop.

“I have to show you something, Mom,” she said.

She opened up to the post that Eliza had written in the middle of the night. There were already 487 likes.

“Look what you’ve done for all of these women. You have inspired them to speak out. Some even name names.”

She began to scroll through the comments. Kevin came to the door.

“Come in,” she said, patting the bed. “I am so sorry for putting you through that last night.”

“Mom, I love you so much.”

“I’m going to be OK. I promise. I will go for help and make sure of it.”

“We know you will,” Kevin said.

“I love you, Mom,” Kayla said, hugging her.

It broke Eliza’s heart to see her children in this reversed position, comforting her. She hugged them tightly, hoping they would recognize her strength.

Under her post the comments flowed, each more painful than the next, with new ones arriving every minute. In between words of encouragement, like, “Thank you, Eliza Hunt. Your courage is remarkable,” and hashtag slogans from the “Time’s Up” movement like #believewomen and #metoo, came heartbreaking confessions from women with their own painful narratives. Eliza had unknowingly created a safe space—providing the perfect pulpit to trade secrets for absolution. All of these women expelling a rage that had been bottled up for years. Finally heard, finally free.

She and the twins read through them together.


I was always told to be polite. That’s what I was thinking when my dad’s uncle stuck his hand in my bathing suit bottom in our pool.


In my head I slapped him and ran from his office, but in reality I sat paralyzed while he forced himself on me. I was too frozen to even form the word “no.”


My mother’s boyfriend molested me. I never said a word because she was finally happy. When I saw him eyeing my sister I spoke up. She threw him out, but I know she resented me for it.


I was young like you were. I have never told anyone. You are very brave.


In college the cutest guy on campus asked me to an away-weekend formal. Back at the room he pulled out rubbers. I said they wouldn’t be necessary. He said why, are you on the pill? I laughed; no, I’m a virgin. He said, not after tonight you’re not. I still can’t speak the rest.


I was in camp. I was 16. My dad had died the winter before and I missed him terribly. An older man at camp paid a lot of attention to me. I let him. I’m still ashamed.


I was also raped at 17. I have never written those words before. Though I still think of it every single day. I am 67.


In eighth grade I was babysitting for a family down the street. One night it was raining, and the dad insisted on driving me home. He pulled over and asked if I had ever seen a man’s penis before. I ran home and never told a soul. His name was Jim McClusky. Fuck you, Jim McClusky.



It seemed to be endless—endless women had buried their pain deep enough to keep hidden, but not deep enough to keep it from eating away at their souls. It was too much for Eliza to take in all at once. Her eyes felt heavy. She closed Kayla’s laptop and told everyone she needed to sleep a little more.

Luke realized that Eliza had forgotten all about her parents’ visit. He broke it to her gently. “Honey, your mom and dad arrived last night. Mandy explained the whole thing to them. Your mom really wants to see you. Should I tell her to wait?”