The Awakening

I woke up to one of those days where daylight was lurid and bleary. It felt like a hangover. Every part of my body felt heavy, and all I wanted to do was fall back to sleep, but my mind had started pulsing like a steam engine, churning and throbbing, bleeding out thoughts I had no interest in hearing, but they wouldn’t stop. What happened last night? God. I couldn’t remember.

I laid there, my cheek pressed against the gray textured blanket that impressed into my skin like a waffle iron, and tried to play the tape backward. What is the last thing I remember? I didn’t remember falling into bed. I didn’t remember how or if I bothered to change clothes. I definitely didn’t remember brushing my teeth and based on the hot, thick feeling in my mouth, I probably didn’t brush them at all. What time is it?

Daylight permeated the window. The demanding blaze of the sun told me it was at least some time after 8 AM. I groped around the bed, eyes squeezed shut, for my phone. Meanwhile, a headache started beating against my temples. Maybe I am hungover.

Finally, my hand clapped against the hard mechanistic rectangle that was immediately recognizable as my phone. I hazarded the light of day and looked at the screen—12:12 PM. Oh. Shit. What had I done?

I am not a creature who sleeps until noon. I am an early riser. I am a “get up and get after it” kind of woman. I am also not a person who often loses time.

I am still trying to remember the last thing that is concrete from the night before—the thing I can hold onto. I know that Jeff is out of town. Jeff, my wonderful and loving husband who does so much for me and the kids. Shit. The kids. Where are the kids? Then I remember—they’re with my mom—that’s right. Jeff had suggested my mom watch the kids while he’s out of town for a night on business, so I can have a little rest and relaxation. That’s right.

I squeeze my eyes shut—then what happened? I do know that I did get into the wine last night. But I have a bit of wine every night. Then what? It was after noon, and I thought, “I’ll go to the pool,” and yes, I remember going to the pool. I see myself driving up the road to the country club, and Clifford, the bartender, pours and glass of wine and then tops it off with a flourish, emptying the bottle and says, “Here you go, darling, a little extra,” and then he flamboyantly tossed the bottle into the trashcan.

“Ooh, girl,” he said, “I netted that.”

I remember giggling. But what happened next? I went out to the pool. I ran into one of Jeff’s friends—Adam. Adam is a tall, dark-skinned, dark haired tall drink of water kind of guy. I objectively have always thought he was handsome, but I don’t look at him in any kind of way. He asked where Jeff was, and I told him he was in St. Tammany Parish doing some work and that I had a day and night to myself. I excused myself to use the bathroom. I remember that. I came back, and we talked nonsense as adults who don’t want to be too intimate and too close often do, even though we are mutually attractive humans, while I drank my wine.

But that’s where my memory falls into nothing. I groan and open my eyes again. I have to get up. I realize then—I’m not wearing any underwear. That’s very much not like me. The shirt I have on is baggy and loose, and as I take in the white v-neck, I realize that it’s not mine. It’s a man’s shirt. Did I sleep with Adam? Oh, surely not. Surely he wouldn’t do that to Jeff. Maybe he just helped me get home? But how would I have gotten so drunk on one glass of wine? At the pool? God. I don’t remember anything.

I stumble out of bed. My head feels so thick and heavy. I feel like I’m moving underwater or in a dream—am I dreaming? I fumble down the hallway. I need water. My head is screaming now. I glance out the window by the front door when I make it to the foyer. My Jeep is in the driveway. I’m terrified. I drove home and don’t remember a thing?

More steps. In the kitchen, on the island, there’s a piece of paper with a note on it—I promise I won’t tell.

Tell what? To whom? Who wrote this?

I brace myself on the island. My heart is racing. I walk clumsily to the cabinet and pull out a plastic cup—an old Mardi Gras throw, and then wander back to the refrigerator and pour a cup of water. My hands are shaking as I gulp.

Breathe, Caroline, breathe, I tell myself. I need to check my phone. Maybe there will be some evidence of what happened last night in there. There’s an unread message from Adam—hey, I hope you made it home okay! Great to see you!

Okay. So…I didn’t go home with Adam? I’m relieved but also—whose shirt is this? What is this note from?

Suddenly, my phone lights up. Jeff is calling. I nearly drop it but fumble and swipe right to answer. “Hello?” My voice is thick and hoarse. God, I am not okay.

“Caroline?” Jeff asks.

“Hey,” I croak. I clear my throat. “How are you you? How’s your trip?”

“I’m fine. How are you? You sound like you’re sick.”

I take in a breath. “I’m okay. I just…can’t remember what I did last night.”

There’s a pause then Jeff asks, “What do you mean?”

“I just woke up.”

“That’s not like you.”

“I know. I went to the pool, and the only thing I remember was getting a glass of wine and running into Adam—you know, your friend from tennis, and I went to the bathroom, and I don’t remember anything after that.”

“What are you saying? How do you not remember anything?”

I can feel the tears welling because I really can’t remember, and my head hurts so badly. “I don’t know. I woke up, and I can’t remember. My head hurts. I went to the bathroom at the club, and I came back, and we talked, and after that it’s all gone. My memory is gone from then until when I woke up.” I choke. I can’t say the other parts—I was wearing a man’s shirt and no underwear and then there was a note. What happened? I’m not a cheater but what if I am?

“That’s really strange,” Jeff says coldly.

“You have to believe me. I didn’t do anything, I don’t think. I’m scared, and I’m confused.” Now I am crying.

“I believe you, but I feel like there are things you’re not telling me.”

My eyes dart toward the note. My heart catches in my throat. “I just want to make sense of everything before I admit to something that isn’t true.”

“What does that mean?” Jeff’s voice is like ice. I’ve never heard him talk like this.

“W-w-well, I just got into the kitchen for some water, and there’s a note on the counter that says, ‘I promise I won’t tell’.” I break into sobs.

“What the fuck, Caroline.” The line goes dead. The hardness in Jeff’s voice is like a stamp on my heart. What did I do? What did I just maybe admit to? Did I cheat?

I have no clue. I text Adam: yeah, home safe. What happened after we finished talking yesterday?

I watch as three dots bubble up on the screen. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Then finally, his response. “Nothing really. You seemed fine. This other friend of mine, Kevin, came up, and you and he started talking. I was about to go anyway, so I left you to it.”

I scan my mental Rolodex for a Kevin, and I come up empty. I can’t remember a Kevin at all. I text Adam—do you have his number? I just want to ask him something.

Adam shoots back contact information for Kevin.

“Hi, Kevin, it’s me—Caroline, from the country club. This is embarrassing, but I wanted to ask…did anything happen with us last night?”

I put the phone down, and I wait. I pick the phone back up. I text Jeff I love you.

Nothing. I wait some more. I text Jeff again. I promise, I would never cheat on you. And in my mind—on purpose. But what if it was by accident? Is it even possible to cheat by accident?

I wait. I should eat. I make a piece of toast. My phone stays silent. I want to scream. I just want the timeline to be filled in.

Finally, my screen lights up. It’s Jeff. I want a divorce.

Wait, what? No? I didn’t do anything—I don’t think. I call Jeff. The line goes to voicemail. “Jeff, I didn’t say I cheated on you. I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember anything. I must’ve been drugged.”

And suddenly…it makes sense. I was drugged. I had to have been, but by Jeff’s friends? Why would they do that? My stomach spins as my head turns, and I gag. I run over to the sink, purging the water I chugged along with an unctuous yellow bile. I rip a paper towel off the roll and wipe it across my mouth. And then I gag again.

My whole body is shaking now. I’m not okay. I clutch the counter and sink onto my heels. Oh, God. I don’t feel like I had sex, but how can you even tell? Jeff wants a divorce. Jeff wants a divorce. Jeff wants a divorce. I am not okay.

But did I do anything? Was I—I can’t even process it. By this guy Kevin? He still hasn’t texted. The hell with it. I call. I am now pacing the kitchen as the phone rings. Finally—it picks up. “Hello.” It’s a woman’s voice.

“Oh. Uh, hi. I’m Caroline Winterson. I’m trying to get in touch with Kevin. I just need to ask him some things about….”

“Oh fuck you, whore. I know who you are,” the woman cuts in.

“I’m sorry?”

“You slept with my husband.”

“I don’t even know your husband,” I reply.

“Then why did you take him home with you last night?”

“I didn’t,” I say, which is the truth because I did not. I have no memory of him or him going home with me.

“I know what you did, and he might not be willing to tell, but I am.”

“I was drugged.”

“That’s what they all say,” she snarls.

My head is pounding on all sides. “Can I please just ask him what happened? I don’t even remember talking to him.”

“Fuck you,” she says, and then the line goes dead.

I am lost. I am beyond my wit’s end. I have no answers. No solutions. Nothing. Maybe I did do the thing I swear I didn’t consciously do. But even if I did—if I wasn’t aware, am I guilty? Can a body operate without its operating system and still be considered culpable for its actions? God. Apparently.

But I wasn’t there. I want to cry. The irony that I am now fully trapped inside of my body while last night I was fully departed from it is not lost on me. I briefly contemplate suicide. Anything to get me out of this vessel of misery and confusion, this world where my husband is going to leave me for something I have no memory of doing. I am going insane.

It would be so easy, I think, to take a knife out of the block and slice through the delicate beings that pulse along the forefront of my wrists and to let the blood flow out until pounding misery left my skull, bled out onto the floor and pooled around me. It would be so easy to draw out the essence of life and to die here and now, so I don’t have to endure the shame and humiliation and torment of these accusations…of perhaps realizing that I did something that I would never have done if I was in full control of my faculties. I am so tempted.

Yes. It would be easy. I pull a chef’s knife with its sharp blade and curved edge from the block. Jeff is going to leave me. The kids will be fine without me. I am a bad, bad, bad person. The world is better without me. I press the edge of the blade against the soft skin of my forearm, right in between the words on my tattoo—a T.S. Eliot quote—“The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree are of equal duration.” Just one hard pull, just one hard press, just dig deep, and go.

I am standing alone in the kitchen with the knife against my arm, ready to cut. What do I really have to live for? My parents have my kids right now. My husband is gone. I have no idea where I’ve been or what I’ve done. But I still have to account for all of it. But if I was dead—I wouldn’t have to at all.

I will admit—I’ve never been suicidal, but the temptress that is death right now has never been more seductive.

Part of my brain screams just do it, and another part says, wait. A quieter part reminds me that I was drugged and raped and that I should be seeking justice.

Yes, that part, but she also asks—who care? I’m a nobody and a whore to Jeff, the only man I ever have loved and who I love unconditionally, and to everybody else? I’m just a body to be used and discarded. Clearly. I won’t tell.

I will tell. “I’m going to kill myself. I know I was drugged and used. I didn’t do anything,” I type and send in a group message to Adam, Kevin, and Jeff.

And then I wait, the knife sitting on the countertop like a companion.

The clock ticks. Minutes, hours pass. Nobody responds.

I have my answer. I call the police and tell them I need to do a rape kit because now I see it. Jeff suggested I dispense with the kids. Jeff suggested I go to the club. Jeff’s friend was conveniently there—of course, I always tell him where I’m going and when. I went to the bathroom and left my drink with Adam. And after that—I was a goner.