Alice Sebold - Lucky

We walked toward the back.

The photographer was holding up his camera. Lila stood against a wall holding a number in front of her chest. Hers, like mine, was written in bold Magic Marker on the back of an SPD envelope.

"Alice," the photographer said upon seeing me.

I placed the duffel with our clothes in it on an empty desk.

"Remember me?" he asked. "I took evidence in your case in eighty-one."

"Hello," I said.

Lila remained against the wall. Two other policemen came forward.

"Wow," one said. "It's great to meet you. We don't get the opportunity to see many victims after a conviction. Do you feel good about your case?"

I wanted to give these men a response. They deserved it. They usually saw only the side of a rape case that Lila, forgotten against the wall, represented: fresh or weary victims.

"Yes," I said, aware that what was happening was all wrong, stunned by my sudden celebrity. "You guys were great. I couldn't have asked for better. But I'm here for Lila."

They realized the strangeness of it too. But what wasn't strange?

They posed her and while they did, they talked to me.

"She doesn't really have any marks. I remember you were real messed up. Madison worked you over good."

"What about the wrists?" I said. "He tied her up. I wasn't tied up."

"But he had a knife, right?" a policeman asked, anxious to review the details of my case.

The photographer went up to Lila. "Yeah," he said. "Hold up your wrist in front. There, like that."

Lila did as instructed. Turned to the side. Held her wrists up. Meanwhile the uniforms surrounded me and asked me questions, shook my hand, smiled.

Then it was time to make phone calls. They set Lila and me up at a desk in the opposite corner. I sat on the top of it, and Lila sat in front of me in a chair. She told me the number of her parents and I dialed.

It was late now, but her father was still up.

"Mr. Rinehart," I said, "this is Alice, Lila's roommate. I'm going to put Lila on now."

I handed her the phone.

"Daddy," she began. She was crying. She got it out and then handed the phone back to me.

"I can't believe this is happening," he said.

"She'll be okay, Mr. Rinehart," I said, trying to reassure him. "It happened to me and I'm okay."

Mr. Rinehart knew about my case. Lila had shared it with her family.

"But you're not my daughter," he said. "I'll kill the son of a bitch."

I should have been prepared for this kind of anger at her attacker, but instead I felt it to be directed at me. I gave him Marc's phone number. Told him we would be sleeping there that night, and that he should call with his flight arrival time. Marc had a car, I said; we'd meet him at the airport.

Lila went with the police to fill out an affidavit. It was late now, and I sat on the metal desktop and thought about my parents. My mother was just now back working again after having a two-year increase in panic attacks. Now I would ruin that. Logic was beginning to leave, draining away from me. With blame so heavy and nowhere to place it but the fleeing back of a rapist Lila could barely describe, I took it on.

I dialed.

My mother answered the phone. Late-night calls meant only one thing to her. She waited at home for the news of my death.

"Mom," I said, "this is Alice."

My father picked up.

"Hi, Dad," I said. "First, I need you to know that I'm okay."

"Oh, God," my mother said, anticipating me.

"There's no way to say it but flat out. Lila was raped."

"Oh, Jesus."

They asked a lot of questions. In answer I said, "I'm fine." "On my bed." "We don't know yet." "Inside the interrogation room." "No weapon." "Shut up, I don't want to hear that."

This last one was a response to what they would say over and over again. "Thank God it wasn't you."

I called Marc.

"We saw him," he said.

"What?"

"Pat called and I went over and we drove around looking for him."

"That's crazy!"

"We didn't know what else to do," Marc said. "We both want to kill the bastard. Pat can't see straight he's so mad."

"How is he?"

"Messed up. I dropped him off at a friend's house afterward. He wanted to stay with us."

I listened to Marc's story. They both had a few shots, then drove up and down the nearby streets in the dark. Marc kept a crowbar in the car. Pat would scan the lawns and houses as Marc slowed down and then sped up. Finally, they heard yelling, and then saw a man running out from between two houses. He ran onto the sidewalk and then, seeing Marc's car, turned quickly and headed back down the block, slowing his pace to a walk. Marc and Pat followed him. I can only imagine what they said and what they were planning.

"Pat was scared," Marc said.

"It might not have been him," I said. "Did you ever think of that?"

"But they say criminals sometimes stick around," Marc countered. "Besides the yelling and then the way he acted."

"You were following him," I said. "Marc, you can't do anything-that's the deal. Beating someone up doesn't help anyone."

"Well, he turned around and charged the car."

"What?"

"He just came at us, yelling and screaming. I almost shit my pants."

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"Yeah," he said. "I think so. It had to be him. He stood in the headlights yelling at us."

By the time Lila and I were driven to Marc's apartment on the other side of campus, I was too overwhelmed for further talk. I wanted to keep Lila safe from knowing about Marc and Pat's actions. I could understand it, but I didn't have much patience with it anymore. Violence only begat violence. Couldn't they see it left all the real work to the women? The comforting and the near impossible task of acceptance.

Inside Marc's bedroom Lila and I changed into our flannel gowns. I turned my back while she changed and I promised I would guard the door.

"Don't let Marc in."

"I won't," I said.

She got into bed.

"I'll be right back. I'll sleep on the outside edge, so you'll be safe."

"What about the windows?" she asked.

"Marc has bolts on them. He grew up in the city, remember?"

"Did you ever ask Craig to fix that back window?" Her back was to me when she asked this.

I felt the question, and its attendant accusation, like a knife at the base of my spine. Craig was our landlord. I had gone upstairs to his apartment two weeks before to ask him to fix the lock on my window.

"Yes," I said. "He never did."

I slipped out of the room and consulted with Marc. The only bathroom was through the bedroom. I wanted all details taken care of, down to this: If Marc had to urinate in the middle of the night, I told him to use the sink in his kitchen.

Back in the bedroom I slipped into bed.

"Can I rub your back?" I asked.

Lila was tucked into a ball with her back facing me. "I guess so."

I did.

"Stop," she said. "I just want to sleep. I want to wake up and have it be over."

"Can I hold you?" I asked.

"No," she said. "I know you want to take care of me, but you can't. I don't want to be touched. Not by you, not by anybody."

"I'll stay awake until you fall asleep."

"Do what you want, Alice," she said.

The next morning Marc knocked and then brought us tea. Mr. Rinehart had called with his flight number. I promised Lila I would get all of her stuff out of the apartment ASAE She had a list of things she wanted her father and me to pack for the flight home. I called Steve Sherman. I needed a place to store my stuff. Lila had a friend who would take hers. Moving and packing: Her stuff was something I could take control of. I could serve her that way.

I stood at the same gate where Detective John Murphy had waited and watched for me. I had already met Lila's father once, on a visit to her house that summer. He was a huge, hulking man. As he approached me, I could see him begin to cry. His eyes were already red and swollen. He came up, put down his bags, and I held him as he wept.