ENOUGH is a Rumpus series devoted to creating a dedicated space for essays, poetry, fiction, comics, and artwork by women, trans, and nonbinary people who engage with rape culture, sexual assault, and domestic violence.
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Late Summer 2022
It’s 7 a.m. when my husband places a steaming mug of coffee on the small round table adjacent to my apricot-colored reading chair. A gust of brisk New England air rushes through the open window, poofing up the white sheer curtain, reminding me of a boat sail as it dances and swirls, until finally falling back into place. It’s an unusually crisp Sunday morning in early September. The day holds so much promise.
“Shall I light a fire, sweetheart?” Alan asks.
“Oh, yes.”
My cell buzzes on the table, creating a ripple across the coffee’s surface. Sadie’s years-old prom picture lights up the screen with her smiling face, purple plastic–rimmed glasses framing her sea-green eyes. Her long, curly brown hair is pinned to one side with a delicate rhinestone comb, and she’s lovely in that shimmery blue ball gown everyone raved about. In the photo, Sadie was seventeen. She was happy.
If either of my other children called at this early hour, I’d be concerned. But with Sadie, I know without a doubt something is wrong. Having a kid on the spectrum has kept me on high alert for twenty-two years. Tiny hairs prickle along both arms, and my heart pounds a little faster.
“Good morning, honey,” I say, faking cheerfulness for my own sake.
“Hi Mom.”
And then a pause.
“I’m at the hospital,” Sadie says, her voice small. “I’m okay, but I wanted to let you know.”
It’s important to remain calm. Do not overact. She probably expects you to go off the deep end, and that’s exactly why she didn’t call before ending up at the hospital.
My top teeth sink into my lower lip.
“The nurse is gonna do a rape kit in a few minutes.”
Oh God.
“Are you alone?” I ask, praying, praying, that she is not.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want me to come?”
Please say yes.
“No. I’ll let you know if I need you,” Sadie says. “Jonathan’s been helping me through it.” Jonathan. Her on-again-off-again college boyfriend who shattered her heart with a final breakup last year. Why didn’t she call her mother? I’m her go-to person.
“Okay, honey. We’ll be right here. Please keep us posted.”
“I will. Gotta go.”
“I love you,” I start to say, but the line has gone dead.
I curl my bare legs under my white waffle robe in a failed attempt to find warmth. A breeze fluffs the curtain again, but this time I don’t care and wonder why I ever cared in the first place. For a few minutes I sit still, staring out the window at our lush green backyard. By October the trees will turn, blanketing the ground with reds, oranges, and yellows. It’s my favorite time of year. Replaying the conversation in my head, I try to process what I just heard.
“Alan, can you please come here?”
He’s standing in front of me now, coffee pot in hand, watching my eyes give way to salty tears.
“What is it? Babe, what’s happened?”
“It’s our girl,” I say. “Someone raped our girl.”
Sadie practices good hygiene, but it took a long time for her to understand the importance of cleanliness. She’s finally figured out how to make and keep a friend. She’s not comfortable speaking up and sounds unsure of herself, even when she knows exactly what she wants. Assertiveness is not her strong suit and probably never will be. Sadie’s spent her life struggling to conform in a society that expects everyone to be the same. I’m amazed she’s made it this far. There was a time when I believed my academically high-functioning daughter might never go to college. I wondered how she’d manage at school by herself, without me there to help pick up the pieces. I’m the one who understands her best. Raising a baby/toddler/child/teenager on the spectrum was challenging, exhausting at times, and rarely without complications. Sadie is a young woman now.
But here we are again.
“I’m so proud of myself,” Sadie said on the phone before heading out that fateful Saturday night. “I’ve never done this before.” She was going alone to a local bar to support her college friends who had formed a new band. I was proud of her. And just a tiny bit nervous.
The stranger was in town for a weekend bachelor party. At the bar that night, the handsome thirty-something approached Sadie, flirted with her, asked her to dance, swept her off her feet. He bought her drinks even though she doesn’t drink. He made her feel special, something that didn’t happen often. He preyed on Sadie’s innocence, her youth, and her lack of common sense.
Later that evening, obliterated with alcohol, the man convinced Sadie to drive him back to the rental house he was sharing with five other men who were also there for the bachelor party.
Weeks later, when Sadie was finally able to open up about the incident, we’d sit together on the couch and I’d try my best to listen. Relief flooded through me hearing there was only one assailant. It sounds a little insane, but I’d convinced myself one rapist was better than six.
“I told him over and over I didn’t want to do that.” Sadie said. “I kept saying ‘No,’ but he wouldn’t stop. He held me down.”
Hearing this detail practically wrecked me. It was something I could never unsee: my youngest child in a strange house, helpless, being physically restrained by a violent man with one thing on his mind.
I didn’t want to burden Sadie with too many questions but needed to understand where her head was that night.
“Honey, did you feel like you couldn’t leave? Could you have driven away?”
“I was scared he might hurt me,” Sadie whispered. “He was really strong.”
It’s 2005 again. Sadie is on the school bus coming home from kindergarten. Another five-year-old girl, known around the neighborhood as an up-and-coming bully, grabs Sadie by the arm and twists the skin on her wrist so tightly that by the time she arrives home, it’s bruised purple and blue. “Could you have told the bus driver?” I asked, appalled that someone would intentionally hurt my child. “I don’t know, Mommy. I just don’t know,” was the answer.
Sadie was repeatedly assaulted on a Saturday night, just two days before she was supposed to begin graduate school.
After the rape, there was a lot to do. I found Sadie a therapist. I secretly called the university to tell them what had happened. I drove to Sadie’s apartment to find her unshowered for days, dressed in crumpled clothes, unwilling—or more likely, unable—to care for herself. I helped her manage the horrific side effects of STD prevention meds. I bought groceries, helped with chores, but mostly tried to lift her spirits, assuring Sadie that everything would be okay. Even if I didn’t believe it myself.
I asked if she wanted to press charges.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I don’t want to ruin his whole life.”
Oh no.
“Besides,” she continued, “It wasn’t really his fault because he was so drunk. He’ll have a criminal record, and I’ll feel bad.” And then: “I’ve heard other victims say no one ever believes the girl, so what’s the point?”
Sadie’s words made me want to shake her by the shoulders and force her to think like me — overflowing with rage, wanting the man to be punished for his heinous crime. But that’s not how this works. As a child, my daughter had to be taught empathy, something we worked on together for two decades. Now I wonder if it may have backfired, confusing Sadie into believing she must care strongly for everyone, including her abuser. Because Sadie sees the world in black and white, I assume she is resolved to stay quiet. Maybe this is all my fault.
To everyone’s surprise, after weeks spent digging through the murky gray, Sadie made her decision to move forward. She wanted to protect other women from this predator. We hired an experienced attorney, but through the process I worried Sadie wasn’t being honest enough, detailed enough, specific enough with her statements to the police. I worried her steadfast empathy for the guy might appear stronger than her physical and emotional pain.
Either I was unfortunately right or the system was so rigged that Sadie’s initial assessment of not being heard was right. A year after the assault our attorney called. “The Grand Jury dropped the case,” she explained. “His lawyer convinced them it was consensual. Sadie’s testimony would never hold up in court. I’m so sorry.”
The rapist wouldn’t have a record. He’d never have to answer for his crime. His life probably wouldn’t change one bit. He’d likely forget about Sadie and move on to another unsuspecting woman. But for Sadie, the dropped case left unanswered questions churning inside her. Was the sex consensual? Did she not try hard enough to stop him? Was it because she wore those leather pants to the bar? Deep down Sadie knew she was raped, but our criminal justice system tried convincing her otherwise.
In 2024, Sadie would finish graduate school at the top of her class. She’d find a loving, caring boyfriend and tiptoe back into trust and intimacy. She’d figure out how to push the past away enough to focus on the future.
Sometimes I wonder if Sadie’s recovered better than I have. I’ll always remember that perfect September Sunday morning when life felt simple and beautiful. Those sweet memories morph into blackness as I imagine a stranger brutally holding down my fragile daughter, assaulting my child, penetrating my baby girl. Every so often that phone call sneaks back into my psyche and I hear her broken voice all over again. Hospital. Rape kit. I just wanted to let you know. Butlike Sadie,I push those thoughts away. I get on with my day. I get on with my life.
I pretend everything is normal.
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Many names appearing in these stories have been changed. Visit the ENOUGH archives here. Rumpus original logo art by Luna Adler.
