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Chapter 26
“I should’ve reported it,” Ali told Linda, shaking her head.
“What made you think about that now, Ali?”
Ali looked down at the ground, thinking about yesterday in bed with Cornell, lying flush against him—skin-to-skin, as he traced endlessly up and down her arms.
“I thought it would be worse if I did report it. I mean, I didn’t know how far it would get anyway. It was days later. I was in the hospital and said nothing. I was still confused.” Expelling a heavy breath, Ali shrugged at Linda. “Who would believe me? And work… what if someone there thought I was inappropriate with a student? Someone could spin it that way. And Cornell… ” Ali paused. “What if someone held this against him? I’d never forgive myself.”
Linda held her gaze. “You can’t go on thinking about if you reported it, where that might leave him or you today. The truth is, it might not change one thing. You would still be sitting in that chair, and there’s a chance he might still be playing football. It’s an ugly truth. But that’s important to acknowledge. You’ve put enough blame on yourself. Do you really need to add more?”
“I don’t know if I can handle more.”
“Remember, Ali. Climb the mountain. Don’t pick it up and bring it with you. Move your mind somewhere else. Focus on the fact that everyone you told has believed you and supported you.”
That made Ali laugh. “My parents and Cornell?”
“Important people carry a lot of weight,” Linda reminded her. “How have things been with Cornell?”
Ali’s mind ran through the last few weeks—focusing on home because that’s what the small, two-bedroom house had begun to feel like again. It was warm and light, filled with their laughter, their conversations, small touches that startled neither of them, bigger ones that brought Ali and Cornell back together in the way they should be—connected, bare, vulnerable.
But Linda had also been right—Ali couldn’t depend on sex in the middle of the day. She couldn’t depend on it deep in a heavy dream as she waited for it to turn into a nightmare. But when she woke from the darkness, Cornell was beside her, often caressing her arm with a gentle hand, moving the hair from her face. And sometimes he slept through, and after a few panicked breaths, Ali would feel enormously grateful that he had. Because when Ali would lie back down on the pillow and try to match Cornell’s deep, even breathing and succeed, it meant progress, that she didn’t need his touch or hold. She just needed him beside her.
“Better,” Ali told Linda. “Lighter. He’s been… ” She trailed off.
‘Supportive’ didn’t seem to be the right word. Was there a word to describe someone who held your hand on the floor in silence and spoke at the exact right time? Was there a word for someone who held your eyes captive when you needed to see what was right in front of you and not what lurked in the shadows of your mind?
“Soothing,” Ali said with a nod. “I don’t know if I could get through this without him.”
Linda smiled. “What about work? Have you felt supported in that decision?”
“It’s your call. I’m with you whether you stay or go,” Cornell had told her.
Ali nodded.
“And have you given more thought to it since the last time we spoke?”
“I sent my CV in. I just… don’t know how I’m supposed to stay in a place that expects me to give my all and I can’t.” She pursed her lips together, shaking her head. “I don’t think I’m doing anyone any favors by staying.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
Ali glanced around Linda’s office. “I mean, when I started this job seven years ago, I wasn’t much older than the kids I was mentoring. And not one day did I ever think I wasn’t doing a good job. Sure, I guess there were days I thought I could do more. But still. I was there for those kids. Too much. But that’s what that place needs, that’s what they need and… ”
Linda narrowed her gaze. “And what, Ali?”
“I’m afraid to. For the first time in almost a decade, I feel small. And let me tell you, there hasn’t been one player in my office ever who is less than double my size. I’m five foot two on a good day, but I never once felt like I was less than six feet tall until that day.” It’s the worst feeling in the world. “And now, when I have a player in my office, I’m thinking about how many steps it will take to get to the door. I’m thinking about never locking my cell phone so I can call for help easier. I know that’s crazy. But it’s how I feel.”
“It’s not crazy. It’s triggering. And in the place of trauma, triggers are understandable.”
“So how can I continue to work there if I’m constantly triggered by the people I’m supposed to be helping?”
“If you continue to put in the work, and you accept that part of you has to change, that nothing really will be as it was, it’s possible. But that doesn’t mean you have to. It just means it’s a lot to think about.” Linda tilted her head in question. “You might consider asking others how they get up every day and put one foot in front of the other and step willingly into a triggering place.”
Ali shook her head. “I honestly don’t know anyone who has gone through this. I guess I’ve been pretty sheltered and lucky.”
Linda smiled.
“What?” Ali asked.
