My Dark Vanessa(115)

I follow him down the stairwell to the building door and, before he steps outside, ask if he’s still mad at me—for calling him a rapist, for running my mouth. I expect a gentle tongue click, a kiss on the forehead. Of course I’m not. Instead he thinks for a moment and then says, “More sad than angry.”

“Why sad?”

“Well,” he says, “because you’ve changed.”

I put my palm against the door. “I haven’t changed.”

“Sure you have. You’ve outgrown me.”

“That’s not true.”

“Vanessa.” He takes my face in his hands. “We’ve got to end this. At least for a while. Ok? This isn’t good for either of us.”

I’m so stunned, I just stand there, let him hold my face.

“You need to create a life for yourself,” he says. “One that isn’t so focused on me.”

“You said you weren’t mad.”

“I’m not mad. Look at me, I’m not.” It’s true—he doesn’t look at all angry, his eyes calm behind the wireless frames.



For two weeks, I stay in my apartment, camped out in front of the TV with Minou curled against me. I work through the DVD set of Twin Peaks, then go back and rewatch certain episodes again and again. Sometimes Bridget watches with me, but when I start rewinding the scenes of violence and screams, the ones in which the good man character is overtaken by a sadist spirit that drives him to rape and murder teenage girls, she goes into her bedroom and shuts the door.

During those weeks in the news, a fourteen-year-old girl named Katrina disappears out in Oregon. Pretty, white, and photogenic, her face is everywhere, the headlines blurring into the TV series. “Who Took Katrina?” “Who Killed Laura Palmer?” Both were last seen running for their lives, disappearing into a grove of Douglas firs. The obvious culprit for Katrina’s disappearance is her estranged father, who has a history of mental illness and hasn’t been heard from in weeks. Compared with the dozen pictures they have of Katrina, the news uses only one photo of her father, a disheveled mugshot from a DUI. Eventually, the two are found in North Carolina, living in a cabin without electricity or running water. When the father is arrested, he is quoted as saying, “I’m just glad this is finally over.” Later, more details emerge—how frail Katrina became while on the lam, that while living in the cabin, she resorted to eating wildflowers to survive. Alone in the living room lit blue by the TV, I mumble things too terrible for anyone else to hear, that I bet a part of her loved it and never wanted to be caught.

Bridget ventures out of her bedroom and finds me stoned on the couch, coughing up tears. She feeds the cat, picks up my empty bottles, leaves the electric bill on the coffee table, along with her half and a stamped, addressed envelope. She knows something bad happened that night Strane came over but gives me room to deal with it on my own. She doesn’t ask, doesn’t want to know.

*

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Seminar absence

Vanessa, are you ok? Missed you in class today. Henry





To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Worried

I’m starting to get concerned over here. What’s going on? You can call if that would be easier than writing. Or we could meet off campus. I’m worried about you. Henry





To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Serious concern

Vanessa, another absence and I’m going to have to give you either an F or an incomplete. I’m happy to give you an incomplete and we can figure out how you can make up the work, but you need to come by and fill out a form. Can you come in tomorrow? I’m not angry, just very concerned. Please let me know. Henry





When I appear in his doorway, Henry breaks out in a smile. “There you are. I’ve been so worried. What happened to you?”

Leaning against the doorframe, I stare him down. I’d expected a wave of apologies as soon as he saw me. It’s unfathomable that he hasn’t already made the connection. The night at Browick was three weeks ago, not long enough to forget.

I hold up a course withdrawal form. “Will you sign this?”

His head jerks back, surprised. “We should probably talk about it first.”

“You said I’m going to fail.”

“You haven’t been coming to class,” he says. “I had to get your attention somehow.”

“So you manipulated me? Awesome. That’s so great.”

“Vanessa, come on.” He laughs like I’m being ridiculous. “What’s going on?”

“Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do what?” He sways back and forth in his desk chair, watching me with put-on obliviousness. He looks like a child caught in a lie.

“You attacked him.”

He stops swaying.

“You waited outside a bathroom and grabbed him—”

At that, he jumps up and pulls the office door closed so hard it slams. He holds out his hands as though trying to calm me down. “Look,” he says, “I’m sorry. Obviously, I shouldn’t have done what I did. There’s no excuse for it. But I hardly attacked him.”