“What about the police?” Daniel heard, and he was stunned to realize he'd been the one to say it.
Janice turned. “The hospital automatically reports any sexual assault of a minor to the police,” she said. “Whether or not Trixie wants to press charges is up to her.”
She will press charges against that son of a bitch, Daniel thought, even if I have to talk her into it.
And on the heels of that: If he forced Trixie to do something she didn't want to, then how was he any different from Jason Underhill?
As Janice outlined the specifics of the upcoming examination, Trixie shook her head and folded her arms around herself. “I want to go home,” she said, in the smallest of voices. “I've changed my mind.”
“You need to see a doctor, Trixie. I'll stay with you, the whole time.” She turned to Daniel. 'Is there a Mrs. Stone . . . ?
'
Excellent question, Daniel thought, before he could remember not to. “She's on her way,” he said. Maybe this was not even a lie by now.
Trixie grabbed onto his arm. “What about my father? Can he come in with me?”
Janice looked from Daniel to Trixie and then back again. “It's a pelvic exam,” she said delicately.
The last time Daniel had seen Trixie naked, she had been eleven and about to take a bubble bath. He had walked into the bathroom, thinking she was only brushing her teeth, and together they had stared at her blossoming body in the reflection of the mirror. After that, he was careful to knock on doors, to draw an invisible curtain of distance around her for privacy.
When he was a kid in Alaska, he had met Yu'pik Eskimos who hated him on sight, because he was a kass'aq. It didn't matter that he was six or seven, that he hadn't been the particular Caucasian who had cheated that person out of land or reneged on a job or any of a hundred other grievances. All they saw was that Daniel was white, and by association, he was a magnet for their anger. He imagined, now, what it would be like to be the only male in the room during a sexual assault examination.
“Please, Daddy?”
Behind the fear in Trixie's eyes was the understanding that even with this stranger, she would be alone, and she couldn't risk that again. So Daniel took a deep breath and headed down the hall between Trixie and Janice. Inside the room, there was a gurney; he helped Trixie climb onto it. The doctor entered almost immediately, a small woman wearing scrubs and a white coat. “Hi, Trixie,” she said, and if she seemed surprised to see a father in the room, instead of a mother, she said nothing. She came right up to Trixie and
squeezed her hand. “You're already being very brave. All I'm going to ask you to do is keep that up.”
She handed a form to Daniel and asked him to sign it, explaining that because Trixie was a minor, a parent or guardian had to authorize the collection and release of information. She took Trixie's blood
pressure and pulse and made notes on her clipboard. Then she began to ask Trixie a series of questions.
What's your address?
How old are you?
What day did the assault occur? What approximate time?
What was the gender of the perpetrator? The number of perpetrators?
The Tenth Circle
Daniel felt a line of sweat break out under the collar of his shirt.
Have you douched, bathed, urinated, defecated since the assault?
Have you vomited, eaten or drunk, changed clothes, brushed your teeth?
He watched Trixie shake her head no to each of these. Each time before she spoke, she would glance at Daniel, as if he had the answer in his eyes.
Have you had consensual intercourse in the last five days?
Trixie froze, and this time, her gaze slid away from his. She murmured something inaudible. “Sorry,” the doctor said. “I didn't quite get that?”
“This was the first time,” Trixie repeated. Daniel felt the room swell and burst. He was vaguely aware of excusing himself, of Trixie's face - a white oval that bled at the edges. He had to try twice before he could maneuver his fingers in a way that would open the latch of the door.
Outside, he balled his hand into a fist and struck it against the cinder-block wall. He pummeled the cement again and again. He did this even as the tears came and a nurse led him away, to wash the blood off his knuckles and to bandage the scrapes on his palm. He did this until he knew Trixie wasn't the only one hurting.
* * *
Trixie wasn't where everyone thought she was. She might have physically been in the examination room, but mentally she was floating, hovering in the top left corner of the ceiling, watching the doctor and that other woman minister to the poor, sad, broken girl who used to be her.
She wondered if they knew that their patient was a husk, a shell left behind by a snail because home didn't fit anymore. You'd think someone who'd been to medical school would be able to hear through a stethoscope that somebody was empty inside. Trixie watched herself step onto a sheet of white paper with stiff, jerky movements. She listened as Dr. Roth asked her to remove her clothes, explaining that there might be evidence on the fabric that the detectives could use. “Will I get them back?” Trixie heard herself say. “I'm afraid not,” the doctor answered.
