Introduction

"[An] emotionally potent tale about the power of a secret." --Kirkus Reviews

Jeanie thinks she was to blame for the sexual assault she suffered in college--and she’d do anything to keep her old-school Catholic family from finding out about the resulting pregnancy, as well as what she did to conceal it.

Years have passed since the assault, and Jeanie’s husband, Greg, still thinks she’s the seemingly innocent girl he married in a rush to spite his controlling mother. It’s the height of the Seattle dot-com boom, and he’s too busy cashing in his stock options to pay attention to his wife. He isn’t aware of Jeanie’s lingering shame and guilt, or that she married him in the desperate hope that devoting herself to marriage and motherhood would somehow absolve her from the sins in her past.

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Excerpt

Chapter 1

Erie, Pennsylvania, 1993

I was in bed, but it wasn’t my bed. I struggled to surface from the depths of my drunken haze. I was freezing. My eyes cracked open and focused on an air conditioning unit whirring in the window. This wasn’t my room. I was curled into a tight fetal position with my goose-pimpled arms clamped to my chest, and—oh my God, was I naked? I ran a hand over my stomach and down to my hips. Nothing.

The air blasting from the AC smelled of mildew, and the pillow under my head held the taint of cigarettes. I pushed myself up onto my elbows and felt a soreness between my legs. I inched my hand downward, and my fingertips touched a damp spot on the rumpled sheet beneath me. Holy crap. Beside me, my Early American Literature professor stirred and coughed, then rolled away from me, dead asleep.

I remembered going to Dr. Asner’s office the afternoon before, prepared to beg him for an extension on my final paper. I’d been sick with mono for weeks, and I was behind in all my classes. Graduation was only a month away.

“I’m sorry you’ve been ill, Jeanie,” he’d said. He had that upscale-outdoorsy sort of look in his ragg wool sweater, pressed jeans, and spotless L.L.Bean boots. “I wish you would have come to me sooner. I was going to recommend you for a scholarship to the graduate program, but now that you’re in danger of failing, I’m not sure I can help you.”

I tried not to cry. My financial aid had run out, my part-time job with Dining Services wouldn’t cover the cost of an additional semester, and my parents couldn’t afford it. Asner scooched his chair closer to mine and put a comforting hand on my knee. “We can talk it over,” he said. “Someplace more comfortable.” I can’t believe I fell for such an obvious line.

We walked across the quad together, the spring air heavy with the fishy stink of hawthorns in full bloom. It was late Friday afternoon and the campus was deserted. I had to hustle to keep up with Asner’s athletic pace; I was still weak from the lingering effects of the mono, and I fatigued easily. “How about a drink?” he said, and of course I agreed. I wasn’t about to say no to the newly installed chair of the English Department.

We headed toward State Street, and for a delighted minute, I thought he was going to take me to the froufrou wine bar where the faculty liked to hang out, but then he turned left onto Fairview Avenue and pointed out his big brick house on the next corner. I glanced at his left hand, saw the gold wedding band. So, I’d get to meet his wife. She was probably in the kitchen fixing his supper right now, expecting him back from his office hours at any minute.

But no one was home except a sleek wisp of a cat that leaped from the windowsill and scraped itself against my legs. I preferred dogs to cats and nudged it away with my toe. Dr. Asner went over to a tall wooden wine rack in a corner of the living room. “Red or white?”

“Red,” I said, thinking it the more cultured choice. I wasn’t really a drinker and always stuck to the three-for-$5 Rolling Rock specials whenever I went out to the college bars with my roommate, Carla. I perched myself on the edge of the couch as he poured two glasses and handed one to me. The only kind of red wine I knew was the awful cheap stuff that came in a jug, so I was surprised by how good it tasted.

Asner dropped into the leather armchair across from me and propped his ankle on his knee. He was handsomer than I’d ever noticed before, and younger too. I wondered where his wife was. I fiddled with my backpack at my feet. “Um, Dr. Asner? About my final paper?”

“Don’t worry about the paper, Jeanie. You can have till the end of exam week to turn it in.”

“Thank you.” I gulped my wine in relief and glanced through the archway toward the dark kitchen. “I suppose your wife will be getting home soon? I don’t want to take up your time.”

“No worries,” he said. “She’s away at a conference. Poetry Society of America.”

I remembered now; his wife taught freshman English. She went by her maiden name, so I hadn’t connected the two of them right off. Asner reached for my glass, refilled it, and passed it back to me. I’d eaten nothing but a granola bar all day, and I was already catching a buzz. I felt funny being alone with him now, knowing his wife wasn’t around. I thought I should probably leave pretty soon, but I was afraid of seeming rude if I skipped out too quickly. I’d at least finish my wine.

Asner got up and put on the new Sting CD that I totally loved but couldn’t spare the $16.98 for. The edges of the room started to grow hazy. The skinny cat jumped into my lap, and I laughed and stroked its narrow back. Asner was on the couch with me now, pouring us more wine, and Sting was singing about his barley and his fields of gold.

I’m not exactly sure how the kissing started, but I know I didn’t resist it at first. I was flattered and amazed that such an accomplished older man could possibly be attracted to me. I didn’t have much of a love life—boys seemed to overlook me for some reason. They always went for Carla, who was much prettier and far more outgoing than I. She was the one who sometimes hooked up at last call, while I trudged back to our dorm room, alone.

So, when Asner took me by the hands, tugged me up from the couch, and headed for the stairs, I was thrilled to follow right behind him, caught up in a strong current of wonder and desire. But when he steered me into his bedroom and pushed me backward onto his bed, it was as if I woke up all of a sudden and realized what I was doing. “No,” I said, pulling away from him. “No. You’re married.”

“Never mind my wife. She’s my problem, not yours.” He’d kissed me again, hard. I had tried to push him off me, but he wouldn’t let go of my arms. I remembered kicking and thrashing, my long hair tangled in my face, my head jammed into the pillows. I hadn’t had the strength to fight. I’d felt the weight of his body on top of mine, pinning me down. After that, it was all a blank.

I slid out of the bed, groped for my clothes, and found my jeans and sweatshirt bunched on the floor. I yanked them on, staggered into the hall and down the stairs. I had to get out of there, fast. My sneakers were by the front door; I jammed my feet into them and ran outside. The sky was starting to lighten, but the streetlights were still on, and the grass was glistening from a recent rain shower. I paused, swaying, on the creaky front porch. I was still drunk. A jolt of nausea rose from my stomach, and I slumped over the wooden railing and vomited into the bushes. When I caught my breath, I realized I’d left my backpack in the house. I crept back inside and felt around in the dark entryway, then remembered I’d left it by the couch.

Footsteps sounded above. I whipped around, and there was Asner’s dark outline hovering at the top of the stairs. “Jeanie,” he called down to me. “What are you doing?”

My foot bumped the backpack. I grabbed it, slung it over my shoulder, and made for the door, but I stopped short on the threshold. I should say something. Confront him. Tell him he was a jerk and he could go to hell, like Carla would have. I gripped the backpack strap with both hands and turned around to face him. Asner cinched the belt of his bathrobe and started down the stairs. “Wait a minute,” he said, holding his hand out to me. “Don’t go yet.” I bolted for the door.

I scanned the sidewalk for early dog walkers and took off running up the street toward campus and the senior dorms. After three blocks I had to slow to a shaky walk. The wind kicked up, scattering flower petals across the pavement like blots of snow. Did we really, actually have sex? I couldn’t remember, couldn’t say for sure. The physical signs said yes, but my mind wouldn’t let me go there. No way. I didn’t do stuff like this. One-night stands weren’t my thing, and I never got so drunk that I lost control of myself or couldn’t remember what I’d done. I’d never even thought about sleeping with a professor. It was sleazy and stupid, so stupid! And it was all my fault for going to his house with him when his wife wasn’t home. My fault for staying when I should have left, for drinking too much, for letting him get me into bed. I was a good girl, a nice girl. How could I have let this happen?

The wind gusted through the trees, and raindrops splashed my face. What if I wound up being pregnant? The thought was too much for me to process. I started to run again. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1) Do you think Jeanie made the right decision in trying to keep her marriage together for so long? If you were in her place, what would you have done?

2) Jeanie reacts to the assault she suffered at the hands of her professor with denial, shame, and feelings of guilt that cause her to keep the event a secret for many years. How have societal attitudes changed since the 1990s, particularly in light of the Me Too movement and recent prosecutions of serial offenders?

3) Jeanie was trained since childhood to pursue a life as a devoted wife and mother, but her commitment to her marriage eventually slams up against the harsh reality of her dysfunctional relationship with Greg. What were the turning points for her?

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