The Things We Take and Leave Behind

Because of Rachel Sullivan’s life, I wandered into a dark wood and lost my innocence.

Because of her death, I’m here once more.

           A dust cloud billows behind my Tahoe, the headlights illuminating a stretch of dirt road that I haven’t traveled in eighteen years, half a lifetime ago. It’s nearing midnight, and I’ve seen no one since I turned off the main road three miles back. My hands tighten on the steering wheel when the headlights catch the flash of metal ahead, a rusted gate with barbed wire fencing. Rachel’s family still owns this forested patch of land outside Williamsport, Pennsylvania, where we grew up.

           I pull up to the gate and stop, my heart hammering. It’s okay. You’re okay. I kill the engine and step out, the cacophony of insect chirps rising like a symphony, the cool April breeze chilling my cheeks. I raise my gaze to the sky, a three quarters moon bathing the forest in a pale glow. Shouldering my backpack, I click on a flashlight, though it’s hardly needed. A length of chain locks the gate to a post, but there’s enough slack for a person to slip through. A thicket of trees lies ahead, but it’s cleared here by the gate, and my feet tread the hard-packed earth. Yes, just a little further now.

           Rachel Sullivan and I were partners in zoology lab our senior year of high school. We dissected a cat together – named him Sir Dripsalot - and we bonded over that poor creature. When actress Anna Kendrick burst onto the scene in Twilight, she reminded me of Rachel: a perky, diminutive brunette with an engaging smile. Rachel and I didn’t run in the same circles, but when she invited me to her “birthday bonfire” on a warm June night a week after graduation, I summoned the courage to go. In a week’s time, my family would move to the D.C. area, and that fall I would launch into college life at Maryland. Why not enjoy one last hurrah with a handful of classmates I would likely never see again?

           I never saw Rachel afterward, our friendship relegated to skimming social media posts and the obligatory birthday greetings. But when she died last week in a car crash, her parents asked me to officiate her memorial service. I am a chaplain, after all.

           Every fiber in my being yearned to refuse the request. I’ve never returned to visit old haunts or attend football games. The invitation to our ten-year reunion went unopened…because of what happened that night. Because he might be there.

           I somehow survived the service, though my heart thudded each time a man entered the room. Cory Vandever did not show, and perhaps that’s why curiosity won over caution, why I’ve slipped through the gate and retraced my steps twenty yards or so to the old campfire. The same stones line an ashy firepit as large as a kitchen table, the same logs form a crude seating arrangement around its edge as if Rachel’s party had taken place mere days ago.

I approach the same log I claimed as my seat that night. As I recline and click off the flashlight, I’m transported to that night, warmed by the glow of a roaring fire and a dozen faces I barely knew…

           Laughter crackled around me like the snaps and pops of the blazing bonfire, its dancing flames holding me in a trance. Though I sat several feet from the fire, my forehead beaded with perspiration, and I was glad I had chosen a dark pleated miniskirt instead of cropped jeans. Britney Spears was all the rage then, and Rachel wore a miniskirt as well, bubble gum pink with a white top. She had squealed with delight when I pulled up, then pressed a red Solo cup into my hands. The other faces belonged to names I knew, but little else, and while Rachel bounced to Christina Aguilera crooning from someone’s cell phone, I found a seat and smiled along to inside jokes that held no context for me.

           Then the boy I had always thought was cute joined me on my lonely log.

I didn’t know Cory Vandever, though we were both in Mrs. Hanover’s fifth grade class. But I had often noticed the boy with the mop of honey curls, impish blue eyes, and an open smile. His friends were cute, and his girlfriends were cuter. He never wandered the halls alone.

But there he was, beside me, and because he had taken a seat, the others did as well, laughing and refilling drinks from a giant cooler. The dark fluid was a mystery, sour and pungent. The second cupful went down smoother, the third smoother still, and I found myself settling into a blissful oneness with the glowing faces gathered around the fire. Cory inched closer and wrapped his jacket around my shoulders. My head nestled into the crook of his shoulder, and he smelled like aftershave and hickory smoke. I closed my eyes and felt the hum of his voice as he chatted with his friends, a hazy dream from which I didn’t want to wake.

The sudden urge to urinate jarred me, and I straightened, looking around. “Where can I….?”

           Cory laughed. “I’ll take you.”

           Into the woods we walked, hand in hand. Cory pointed out a tangle of growth that provided some cover, and I hurried over. I felt silly squatting, the splash sounding as loud to me as a waterfall, but it was also natural, the way of things.

           I finished up and peered into the darkness, turning a slow circle, and caught sight of Cory ten paces or so further from the way we had come. He leaned against a massive beech tree, hands on his thighs. Instead of pushing himself upright, he held out a hand and pulled me in. I gasped at the electric clash of my body against his. His mouth found mine, his hands massaging my thighs. I’d kissed a couple of guys at church camp, but I’d never been kissed like this, and every fiber of my being sprang to life.

The hooting of an owl shakes me from my reverie, and I rise, looking in every direction. It hits me how alone I am here. I take a breath and turn toward the path we took. There, through the trees…dread snakes up my spine, but I find myself drifting that way, as though moved by an ocean current. A few steps more, and I recognize the pale, ghostly tree. I imagine Cory leaning against it in the moonlight, and a shiver courses through me. What if I hadn’t taken his hand, and instead started back toward the fire? What if I hadn’t driven there in the first place, just made an excuse at the last minute? How would my life be different now?

Cory turned me so I faced the tree, my hands planted on the smooth bark, and he pressed against me, his warm breath in my ear sparking a primal ecstasy within me. An odd pride bloomed, knowing I was the beauty that drew him in.

He pulled away, and the chilly air bit at the backs of my legs as my skirt swished up. Then my panties were yanked down, and I laughed, shocked and surprised and nervous. “What are you doing?”

“Have you done it before? You’ll like it.”

“I don’t think we-“

His sudden movement cut my words off. It was happening, somehow.

I bit off a cry. “Wait…”

“It’ll only hurt for a minute. Then it’ll feel amazing.”

“No. Please stop.” Searing, stabbing pain.

“I can’t,” he managed to say through labored breaths.

“Please don’t-”

“It’s okay. Oh yeah, it’s good.”

It’s not supposed to be like this. It’s not supposed to be like this.

Cory’s breath caught, and his entire body shuddered. Then he was gone. My skirt fluttered back into place, my panties still wrapped around my knees. I stared at the milky white bark, my hands planted on the trunk like a suspect in a cop show. Tears sprang into my eyes, and I squeezed them shut as I pulled up my panties. I didn’t feel like myself, as if my mind had been transplanted into a different girl’s body. I knew somehow the girl wasn’t a girl anymore. But instead of something more, she was less.

I turned, hugging myself. Cory stood several feet away, chewing his lip, staring at the ground. “We should get back, huh?”

I nodded, unable to work any words past the lump in my throat. He turned and I followed, knowing I had left something intangible, precious, beside that tree.

We emerged to Rachel recalling a day in eighth grade when the tornado siren went off at a football game and everyone had to huddle beneath the bleachers. I returned to my seat, but Cory huddled with a friend on the opposite side, hidden from view. I still wore his jacket, and I shrugged it off. I counted to fifty, then rose and said my goodbyes. The glowing faces pleaded for me to stay, then cautioned me to drive safely. His voice remained silent.

I tuck the flashlight into my pocket and plant my hands on the cool, smooth bark. A woman stands where a girl stood half a lifetime ago, a girl who lost something she would never be able to reclaim.

The word rape never felt quite right. All the definitions included the word force. Did Cory force me? He didn’t threaten me or fully restrain me. I didn’t call out. I didn’t fight him. I just stood there. I asked him to stop, but feebly, without conviction. What if I had pushed him away? Would that mop-topped kid with the easy smile have snarled, pushed me back into place? A small voice within me whispered that he would not.

A branch snaps in the silence, and I whirl around.

Oh god.

His curls are shorn to a buzzcut, but even in the dark I know it’s him. He freezes, ten yards from me, and flashes his palms, a don’t shoot gesture. “Sorry, I-“

           “What are you doing here?” The force of my voice seems to push him a step back.

           His words are a whisper. “I thought you might be here.”

           “Okay?” My hand lowers to the lipstick-sized capsule of pepper spray dangling from my backpack and raises it to chest level. My racing mind quickly calculates. No wind. Good.

           Cory eyes the capsule and steps to the side, lowering his hands as he does so.

           I don’t change my stance. “What do you want?”

           Cory opens his mouth, then laughs softly. “That’s a good question.” His gaze lifts to the canopy overhead as if the moon will provide some answers. “I guess I was thinking about Rachel.” He melts to the earth and sits cross legged, his hands in his lap. “I don’t know. I just wanted to talk.”

           Trusting instinct, I lower my hand and release the capsule. “Sneaking up on me in the dark isn’t the best conversation starter.”

           “I know.” Cory scrubs a hand across his face. “I wasn’t even sure you’d be here, but when I pulled up and saw the Maryland plates...”

           My eyes, now accustomed to the dark, take in his haunted eyes, his lean, muscled frame, the tattoos running up each arm. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

           Cory blinks, as if he hadn’t considered this. “You look…well.”

           “Thanks.” The polite thing would be to mimic his words, but I’m not feeling polite and he doesn’t look well. Instead, I state the obvious. “You have a lot of tattoos.”

           “Yeah. Navy.”

           “Do you have kids?”

           The corner of his mouth kicks upward. “Two. A boy and a girl.”

           But not married. He wears no ring, and the pain in his eyes speaks of relationships that haven’t ended well.

Cory grows somber again. “So you’re a chaplain.”

Most people aren’t sure what to make of that. A few have gone so far as to ask if I’m celibate. How many professions prompt perfect strangers to inquire after your sex life? On the other hand, if a guy hits on me, I can tell him I’m a clergywoman, and he backs off like my top’s on fire.

           “I also manage a non-profit.” I take a steadying breath. “A domestic violence shelter.”

           “Oh. Is that what you wanted to do growing up?”

           “I wasn’t sure, but I think this is what I was supposed to do. I get to care for vulnerable people who need somewhere to go.” I cock my head to the side as the realization hits me. “I guess in a way I have you to thank for that.”

           “What?” Cory’s head snaps up, his eyes defiant. “Thank me? What I did to you-“ He scrubs a hand across his face again. “I hate myself for that. I hate myself.”

           I don’t respond.

           “I was scared. I wanted to find you, tell you I was sorry, but I couldn’t make myself do it. I couldn’t sleep, just waiting for the police to show up.” A pause. “Did you tell anyone?”

           I shake my head.

           “Why not?”

           “I was embarrassed.” I cross my arms. “I just wanted to forget about it, I guess. I didn’t really try to stop you.”

           “I shouldn’t have started.” Cory’s eyes fill with tears. “You wanted me to stop, and I wouldn’t. Damn it, it wasn’t your fault, okay?”

           I hesitate. “Okay.”

           “No, I mean it.” Cory Vandever then proceeds to do something I’ve never witnessed someone do before or since. He rises to his knees, then folds forward, his inked arms spread forward, his forehead touching the ground, like a dog submitting to the alpha. “I’m sorry.” His muffled voice chokes with sorrow. “Please. I’m so sorry.” His entire body wracks with sobs, a broken man pouring himself out through the yawning, jagged cracks.

           For a moment, I just watch him. Then something compels me to take one step toward him. Then another. I kneel beside him, not sure what words will emerge. “You hurt me. But it didn’t destroy me. And you can’t let it destroy you.”

           He quiets, his breath hitching.

           I continue. “I’m screwed up. I’ll probably never get married, for one thing. Hell, maybe I’ve seen too much. These women come in, and they’re damaged. Men too. Not many. Men aren’t supposed to need help.”

           Cory is still for a moment before he speaks. “I can’t take it back.”

           “No. But you can make it up to me.”

           He tenses, as if wary of what I will suggest, then pulls himself up to sit cross legged again. We’re only a few feet apart, but that feels okay somehow. I pat my thighs with my hands, allowing the words to surface. It’s always worked best this way, allowing my heart, rather than my head, to speak.

           “You have a son. Tell him it’s okay to cry, to talk about his pain, his fears. Tell him he’s enough. You have a daughter? Help her to protect her beauty, her heart. Be her hero.”

           “Her hero?” Cory shakes his head.

           “You’re not a bad person, Cory. You’re a good person who did a bad thing.” I know this to be true. “And I forgive you.”

           “I don’t want you to forgive me. I don’t deserve that.” He drops his head into his hands and cries silent tears.

           I take a deep breath and seek the courage to do what I feel must come next. “Forgiveness isn’t saying, ‘What you did is okay.’ Forgiveness is saying, ‘I’m letting it go.’ Those are very different things.”

           Cory lowers his hands and meets my eye, his breath shuddering. And listens.

           “When I walked out of these woods eighteen years ago, I knew I left something behind, something pure and good. But it took years to realize how much I carried out with me. Shame. Regret. Resentment. Guilt. Anger.” I take his hand, and he lets me. “Forgiving you drops my burdens, not yours. It’s not about what you deserve. It’s about what’s healthy for me.”

           Cory takes it in. His gaze rises to a point over my shoulder, fixes there, and I know he’s staring at the tree.

           I continue. “You won’t always receive forgiveness, or you may never know about it. So you have to forgive yourself. We’re told to be strong, to deal with it. But here’s a secret.” I pause for emphasis. “We weren’t designed to carry it. Any of it. If you’re not the father you want to be, it’s not because you don’t have enough within you to do it. It’s because you have too much.” I let that sink in. “Here’s part two of the secret. When we decide to drop that load, it has to go somewhere. It can’t just vanish into thin air. In fact, there’s only one strong enough to carry it. You give it to him. That’s what he wants you to do. Give it to him.”

           Uncertainty clouds his blue eyes, but he’s nodding.

           “I’m not saying it’s always easy. But try it. Empty yourself, and you may be surprised what fills in its place. What’s the opposite of anger?”

           Cory blinks. “Kindness. Tenderness.”

           “Guilt?”

           “Innocence.”

           I nod, unable to speak further. There’s a light in his eyes now, faint but there. New. And I find tears streaming down my cheeks.

           I am the first to leave as the sky lightens in the east. Cory chooses to be alone for a while, to think things through. We don’t speak of reconnecting, but we don’t rule it out either.

A dust cloud billows behind my Tahoe, and I smile, imagining the sign beside the front door on our escape house, painted by a former guest.

FOR EVERY DARKEST HOUR, THERE IS ALWAYS A DAWN TO CHASE IT AWAY.