Alone in the Wild(36)

She looks at April. “I’m sorry, Doctor. You were conducting an examination. I’ll wait for this.”

April looks at me. I’d like Maryanne to continue—I’m afraid if she stops, she won’t ever restart.

I’m still hesitating when Jen opens the door, baby in one arm, dinner in a bag over her shoulder. I tell April to continue her examination, and I take the baby, who is indeed fussing, sucking on her lower lip, as if she’s a few seconds from crying.

“Is this the baby?” Maryanne says, rising. A smile spreads, a real one, her entire face lighting up as she forgets to cover her teeth. “The one who was with a former hostile?”

I nod. “The woman wasn’t her mother, though.”

“No, she wouldn’t be. There…” She swallows. “There are no babies. They do not—”

She rubs her hands over her face, the move agitated, as if she’s trying to scrub a memory from her mind. She stops, forcing her hands down. When she speaks, her voice is lecture-impassive. “If we become pregnant, they make sure we do not stay that way.”

She catches our expressions and shakes her head. “No, not me. I had a hysterectomy a few years before I came to Rockton. I was spared … that.”

April and I exchange a glance. Then April says, “I would like to conduct a full physical examination. Given the circumstances you were living under, there could be damage that your hysterectomy would not have prevented.”

Maryanne looks at her a moment before realizing what she means. She gives a short laugh. “No, oddly, that is another thing I was spared. Children are forbidden, but so is rape. Sex must be consensual.” She pauses. “Or as consensual as it can be under the circumstances.” Another pause, and a wan quarter-smile. “From an academic perspective, let’s just say it was as consensual as it has historically been for women. We knew the advantage of taking a mate, and we did so, and while I did not meet the love of my life, my relationships were, in some ways, healthier than the one I came here to escape. You may certainly conduct a full exam, Doctor, but rape trauma is the one thing I don’t suffer from.”



* * *



The baby sleeps, and Maryanne relaxes into the examination. I know from experience that bouncing back from the physical ailments is usually the easy part. The human body is a marvel of resiliency. The mind is an entirely different matter. On the surface, it has that same resiliency, yet even after we seem to be back on our mental feet, functioning and happy, the damage lingers, tucked down in the creases, impossible to scour clean.

The body repairs itself, leaving only scars where the skin can’t quite smooth away the damage. The mind does the same—it re-forms, it adapts, it builds bridges over the damaged parts. I can hide my physical scars with long sleeves and jeans, but I don’t. They’re part of who I am. Part of my history, and no cause for shame. I wish I could be as open with the mental scars. I probably never will be.

The physical damages make me look like a survivor. The psychological damage makes me feel like a victim. I know that’s wrong; I just can’t seem to get past the divide.

Maryanne’s scars will not be badges of honor. They do show that she survived trauma that would kill most people. Yet she won’t ever feel that way. When she’s ready to return to civilization—be that Rockton or Halifax—she’ll want help covering those signs.

In her examination, April suggests ways to conceal the rest of the physical damage. It’s reassuring for Maryanne, hearing her trauma discussed in the same way a cosmetic surgeon might suggest fixing a crooked nose. April doesn’t mean it to be soothing—she’s ticking off the boxes that will return her patient to optimal health. Yet Maryanne is soothed, and that’s what counts. Caps will cover her filed teeth. Plastic surgery will remove blackened tissue and make the frostbite damage less obvious.

Maryanne eats after her physical. As she does, while April makes notes, I say, “May I ask you questions?”

She smiles. “May I hold the baby afterward?”

“Certainly. I have a thousand questions, as you might imagine. But I want to begin with ones that April may be able to help me with.”

My sister looks up. She says nothing, though, just resumes her note-making.

“You say that your party was attacked in the night,” I begin. “The party who left Rockton with you.”

“Yes.”

“Were they the same people who took you away? Held you captive?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“Is there any chance they weren’t? I know you said it was chaotic. Is it possible you were attacked by one group and then given to another?”

I get identical looks of confusion from Maryanne and April.

Maryanne says slowly, “I’m not sure I understand…”

“Is there any chance that the people who attacked your camp were not the group you later joined? Or if there were any members you never saw again?”

“It really was a blur of faces, both at the attack and later.” She pauses. “Maybe if I had a better idea what you were looking for…”

I hesitate. As a cop, I would never share a theory with a witness. Not unless I’m trying to lead them into confessing themselves. Otherwise, it really is “leading.” Tainting their testimony. So I have to stop here and analyze. What are the chances that, if I give Maryanne a theory, she’ll intentionally or subconsciously shape her testimony to support or refute it, depending on her gut reaction?