Free Wherever I Wind Up by R. A. Dickey Page B

millisecond for my insides to seize up, like an engine without motor oil.
    Oh, my Lord, it’s her.
    How long has it been exactly? I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I haven’t seen her since the last time she abused me. I forget whether that was in the bed or the tub. I try to remember which and then scold myself. Who cares? Why waste one second thinking about that?
    She’s all grown up, done with college, with the same long brown hair, as tall and athletic-looking as ever. The seized-up feeling gets worse the closer I stand to her, my heart racing. My insides feel as if they’ve been freeze-dried. I wonder how many other boys she was supposed to babysit who she wound up violating.
    R. A. DICKEY
     

     
    I think I might vomit.
    As much as I want to stop it from happening, I can’t: the sight of her instantly transports me back to the summer of 1983 and all the sensations that came with it—the sweat and the smell, the trembling and the terror that went through me when she took off her white outfit with the flowers and climbed on me.
    If we happen to have a private moment, I debate whether I should take her down Nightmare Lane. Wouldn’t it be nice to let her know that I remember everything—and let her know what I think of her for doing what she did? I know I am supposed to forgive as a Christian, just as God forgives me.
    I am not much of a Christian at the moment, I am afraid.
    People move into the next room. We are alone. Nightmare Lane, here we come.
    Remember those times when you babysat me? I ask.
    She looks at me, puzzled.
    I don’t really remember much about them, no, she says.
    Oh, really? You don’t remember what happened? I can remind you, because my memory is crystal clear about what happened. Remember the four-poster bed in the room at the end of the hallway?
    I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you are talking about. Could you be thinking about another babysitter?
    Oh, no. That’s not possible. There was only one babysitter in my whole life who did what you did.
    She stares at me blankly, almost dismissively.
    I’m sorry. I don’t know what you are talking about, she says. She looks excruciatingly uncomfortable.
    Good, I think.
    I can see this is going nowhere, that she is not going to cop to anything, and finally drop the subject. I say good-bye to my family and head to Billy and Lynn’s. The next few days, predictably, are awful, the worst kind of emotional relapse. It’s almost as if I’m reliving the abuse again and again, with an extra measure of humiliation brought on by her refusal to acknowledge anything, triggering an appearance by toxic old friends in the back of my head saying: Did it really happen the way I remember? Did she really do all these things, or did I dream it?
    The helplessness, the shame—it all comes back in a torrent. It’s almost a week before it begins to recede, and I don’t feel seized up anymore. In a few weeks I head off to college in Knoxville.
    I never see the babysitter again.
    GIBBS HALL is the athletic dormitory at the University of Tennessee, conveniently located near the Volunteer sports facilities. I arrive in Room 329 of Gibbs in the fall of 1993 with two duffel bags stuffed mostly with sweatshirts and sweatpants and with the mind-set of a walk-on. I am a top recruit, I guess, but I never want to think of myself in those terms. It’s the main reason why I couldn’t stand the recruiting process, which is basically Smoke Blowing 101. They tell you how great you are and have pretty girls escort you around campus on your official visit, and then they have you meet with some of the players, who want to take you out for a night on the town, as if this were all part of a typical day at the University of Tennessee.
    I don’t want to be fussed over or gushed over, and I sure don’t want a night on the town. I just want to take some interesting English classes and play baseball and compete at the highest level possible. I am not there long before I get