I knew the little pit bull was still there. But she was tired now, and afraid we would forever be defending our innocence.

Excerpt originally published in crying wolf by eden boudreau. Reprinted by permission of bookhug press.

CW: This excerpt describes the aftermath of a violent sexual assault

Eden Boudreau. Crying Wolf. Book*hug Press. $25.00, 232 pp., ISBN: 9781771668088

“I wasn’t cheating on my husband.” I sat up and swivelled toward her, begging for her full attention. “I wasn’t cheating. I know it sounds like it, but I wasn’t. This was a date. My husband and I have a different arrangement. Not arrangement… that sounds bad.” I balled my hands up and tried a different approach. “We are polyamorous. It’s a form of non-monogamy, like an open marriage, but not really. It’s not just about sex; it’s more than that.” I was rambling again, and I worried that I was losing her. I didn’t know much, but I knew I desperately wanted her on my team. We stared at each other in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time.

Slowly, Nurse Jane nodded and opened my file. Flipping through the pages, she commented without looking up, “You know, some people in that community, I’ve been told they have these sort of pre-arranged agreements, you know? And maybe sometimes wires get crossed, or miscommunicated.” Finally meeting my eyes, she bobbed her head as if encouraging me to remember some imaginary consent agreement that never was.

I shook my head slowly, trying to stop the anger from bubbling to the surface. I wouldn’t say I have a short temper; I simply don’t have patience for ignorance. As a child, this had led to endless arguments with my mother over my “attitude.” I was never cheerful enough or appeasing, always with an opinion and never a filter. Though he never said it, I was sure this made my father endlessly proud. He and my mother were polar opposites. Where she spilled emotions over every situation, he refused to cry even after learning of the passing of his own father. As an adult, I realized neither of these were healthy coping mechanisms, and undoubtedly both had contributed to their messy divorce. As a child though, having not grown up with my father living in my household, I would do anything I could to impress him. Including starting an argument. It had become my specialty.

Now—slowly, clearly enunciating each word so that I would not be seen as yet another hysterical woman—I responded to Nurse Jane. “We are not swingers. We are not part of the fetish community. We are a non-monogamous married couple who are open to romantic and physical partners in addition to our own relationship.” She nodded. Setting aside my chart, she moved to the counter and started removing items from a box with “RAPE KIT” stamped in bright red letters on its top. Seeing those words sent a jolt of panic through my chest. I continued, “And even if we were, which we are not, that doesn’t mean consent is always automatically assumed.”

I was staring at the back of her faded blue scrubs, willing her to turn around and acknowledge me, to believe me. The fact that I had to work so hard to convince another woman that my marital lifestyle shouldn’t factor into my believability, especially a woman who had presumably dedicated her life to helping victims heal, felt like the spark before an explosion.

“Have you ever heard of that tea and consent video? You know, the one where they explain that even if someone invites you over for tea, and you accept, and even if they ask once you’ve arrived if you still want tea, and you say you do, and even if they pour you a steaming hot cup of tea”—I took a deep breath, my voice shaking—“you still don’t have to drink the fucken tea!”

Her shoulders sank. Removing her gloves, she turned toward me. My whole body was shaking now, uncontrollably, like the last leaf on a tree in autumn. She placed both hands on my shoulders and squeezed.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” The tears broke their dam now, rolling down my cheeks to drip off my chin into my lap.

“It’s okay.” Her voice had lost all its bite. It was barely a whisper over my sobbing. “It’ll be okay.”

She placed a neatly folded johnny gown in my lap and asked me to change into it while she went to retrieve the doctor. As she left, the deadbolt clicked again, this time from the outside.

I removed my clothes and slid on the thin fabric gown, struggling to knot the ties behind me. I lay back on the table and desperately tried to let my mind wander away from the waves of shame, guilt, and embarrassment. On the wall beside me was a plastic rack filled with pamphlets. On one there was a woman standing on a beach, looking out at the ocean.

When we were young, Kami and I would spend at least two weeks every summer on the Northumberland Shore in New Brunswick at our family’s cottage. It was designated time with our father, but for me, it was yet another chance to escape. The ocean was one of the few places I always felt free. You would think, growing up in a province surrounded by water, that you could go into it anytime you like. But the beaches at the cottage had a different feel. You could run through the waves, skip from sandbar to sandbar, and sit around the bonfires until the embers burned out without ever having to worry that when you returned home, there would be another argument, raised voices, more sadness.

So that’s what I would do. Hide away on the beach behind the tall strands of wispy grass while wearing socks of sand and seaweed, generally with my little notebooks in tow. I went everywhere with a journal or a book back then. The ocean gave me solace, but the stories kept me company.

I was always a lonely kid. Even when surrounded by people. It made me wonder if even a small portion of my reason for agreeing to an open marriage was the possibility that it might cure that loneliness. Just because I actively avoided attention didn’t mean I didn’t want it. It was one of those martyr moments that are almost impossible to explain but make sense to those who know them as well.

The turn of the lock brought my attention back to the little room, and I nervously crossed and uncrossed my legs as the doctor entered, followed by Nurse Jane. The doctor was a short, petite woman. Her scrubs were rumpled and her fine brown hair was pulled back tightly off her face. There was no hand-holding or hair-petting with her. Putting on a fresh pair of gloves, she immediately went to work. Barking notations at the nurse, she started from the top.

“Hair missing from the nape, scalp red and inflamed. Bruising under the left eye, and around the neck. Bite marks on left nipple, minor lacerations.” She paused, turning my forearms over and looking closer. “Beautiful ink.” It was a fleeting moment of connection between me and this woman who was about to become very personal with my very private area.

She maneuvered my feet into the stirrups for the pelvic exam. “Six millimetre tear on the perineum,” the doctor mumbled through her mask to Nurse Jane. She met my eyes over the thin paper sheet draped across my thighs. “I can put a stitch in it, if you’d like. It’ll be sore for a few days either way.” I nodded for her to go ahead. I’d had more than one stitch down there after Milo’s birth, and I didn’t see the point in turning it down now.

I concentrated on the ceiling tiles as she numbed the area, the sharp prick of the needle making me wince. A low buzzing caught my attention. Nurse Janie removed her glove and glanced at her phone as she pulled it from the pocket of her scrubs. Whispering into the doctor’s ear, she anxiously apologized and excused herself. Again the click of the lock echoed in the small room.

A few minutes later, the doctor patted my knees, the universal sign every woman knows to mean that the exam is done. I shimmied up the bed to sit, awkwardly covering my lap with the paper sheet. We sat together in silence as she jotted hasty notes into the kit. When she’d finished, she handed me three prescription slips: a prophylaxis in case I had been exposed to HIV, Plan B in case of pregnancy, and morphine for the pain.

“Oh,” she turned back to her pad and quickly scribbled another note. “Here is one for a sleep aid. There are three refills. You don’t have to fill it anytime soon, but there will most likely be a time when you’ll need it.” She placed the slip of paper into my hand with the others, letting the weight of her palm rest on my mine for a moment. “This way you won’t have to explain everything to your family doctor until you’re ready.”

There was an odd changing of the guard as Nurse Jane returned and, with a curt nod, the doctor left. Turning her back to me, Nurse Jane went about finishing up and sealing my rape kit while I slipped back into my clothes, fumbling a little with the new numbness between my legs.

“Sorry about leaving you with the doctor earlier. Normally we wouldn’t have you on your own for that exam.” She paused, and I noticed her shoulders rising to settle against her earlobes. “We had another young girl come in with a similar story, so I wanted to be the one to speak with her.”

I’d heard what she’d said. Another woman had been assaulted, and now she too was here to get help. In fact, the girl was probably across the hall in the opposite exam room, blocked by gurneys and IVs. I wondered if this was how every day unfolded here—women in and women out—and if that contributed to Nurse Jane’s detachment, her predisposition to make excuses for the predators who sent women to her waiting rooms.

Shaking off the thought, I reached for my purse as Nurse Jane moved to stand between me and the door. It was less an attempt to block my way than it was an effort to secure my attention.

Dipping her head to look into my eyes, she asked, “I know you weren’t comfortable reporting last night after it happened, but are you absolutely positive you don’t want to speak with an officer?”

I hesitated long enough for her to step around me and grab a handful of pamphlets from the wall rack. “Okay, that’s alright.” Shoving them into my hands, she hooked her finger gently under my chin and raised it just slightly, “There is no statute of limitations in Canada on sexual assault. You don’t have to make a decision now. But just know the longer you wait, the harder it will be.”

I knew she meant that the longer I waited to report, the harder it would be to get a conviction. But something in the back of my mind flinched, and I knew the little pit bull was still there. But she was tired now, and afraid we would forever be defending our innocence—whether to a jury or to ourselves.

***

Eden Boudreau was born and raised in a small rural area just outside Halifax. In 2016, she relocated to Ontario with her family. As a bisexual, polyamorous woman who has survived her fair share of adversity, Eden’s work draws on her life experiences to inspire vulnerable and relatable stories. Her essays have been featured in Flare, Today’s Parent, and Runner’s World, amongst others. She is the host and creator of the podcast, Dear Lonely Writer, aimed at destigmatizing mental health struggles during the writing process. Boudreau lives in Georgina, Ontario. Crying Wolf is her first book.