Once I was safely closed within the small rectangular space, I leaned my back against the door, gulping in wine-flavored air, and fought a fresh wave of tears. My hands were still trembling. I was sweating. My heart was still racing.
And this time, inexplicably, for whatever reason, when I repeated to myself that nothing actually happened, the words felt like a lie.
“Mona?”
I stirred, my back straightening at the sound of Lisa’s voice. I had no idea what time it was, just that I’d been sitting on the closed toilet lid for such an extended period, I’d passed the excuse “needs to pee” a long while ago and firmly entered “may require serious medical attention.”
“Open up,” she said.
Staring at the closed door, I debated my options. I’d heard Lisa and Gabby’s murmuring voices, and then I’d heard the front door open and close. And now, some minutes later, Lisa was standing outside, and I was extremely reluctant to let her in.
“Mona.” Her voice was gentle, and I thought I heard her place something on the door between us, maybe her hand. “Gabby told me what happened at school, when—when you were fifteen. Open the door.”
Those tears I’d fought so hard to dispel threatened another appearance. I swallowed convulsively, blinking, fighting the stinging behind my eyes, and stood. I didn’t want to cry. With Abram I would. But with Lisa? She’d said they made me weak. Therefore, no. I didn’t want to cry with her. I needed to get a handle on these zany feelings before I could face her.
Then she said, “You know that you’re not to blame, right?”
I covered my mouth with my hand, breathing in through my nose, waiting for the wave of emotion entropy to pass.
“You’re allowed to be mad,” she continued, her voice quiet yet firm. “You’re allowed to call it an assault, you’re allowed to say you were terrified, and you’re allowed to admit that it—what he did—had an impact on you. Admitting the truth doesn’t give him power over you.” She sounded like she was quoting someone, which made me wonder if Gabby had coached her.
Lisa made a soft sound. “Mona, open the door.”
Letting my hand drop, I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Come on, Mona. Why not?”
Try being honest. Abram’s voice, the ghost of Aspen past, filled my ears, spurring me to confess. “Because I don’t want to cry.”
She paused, as though considering this, and then said, “I won’t make you talk. But how about, if you open the door, I will teach you a trick that will help you not cry.”
That had my attention.
Eying the doorknob, I quickly unlocked it, hesitated, and then twisted it to open the door a centimeter. I then stepped back and crossed my arms. My sister peeked inside, her gaze wary, and she gave me a little smile.
“Hey.”
I was busy pressing my lips together—because I was now a crier—and said nothing.