Things
You Can't Take
by
Erin Lockwood
Genre:
Contemporary Fiction
How
far would you go for your best friend....
Abigail
and Kessia shared a childhood bond that couldn't be broken.
Challenged, yes—but never broken.
Born
into Hollywood lineage, Kessia understood the risks and pressures of
celebrity life and willingly dedicated hers to serving and protecting
her best friend’s rise to stardom. But when Abigail learns of
Kessia’s own behind-the-scenes battles with a predator, her sense
of friendship drives her down a path that blurs the lines between
loyalty and revenge at all costs.
* Amazon
Erin
Lockwood grew up in Castro Valley, California and attended the
University of Oregon, where she graduated in 2003 with a degree in
journalism. From there she moved to Denver and spent the next seven
years searching for the love of her life and building the family of
her dreams.
It
wasn’t long until, with children starting preschool and more time
on her hands, Erin refocused on her career, beginning with a
successful entry into the world of residential real estate as a
Realtor. Free time was spent reading book after book (and
binge-watching the subsequent films) in the New Adult genre. Feeling
hopelessly in love with her husband, she wrote him a short story
leading up to their fifth wedding anniversary. That’s when she
discovered her tireless passion to share her experience of falling in
love through fictional characters. That story evolved into the first
novel in the Angles trilogy.
Erin
still lives in Denver, Colorado with her husband, Phil, and their
three children.
Hey, Moms—You Probably Spoke to Your Child's Predator Today: A Mother's Gift
An open letter By Erin Lockwood - author
of Things You Can’t Take
This open letter is a real conversation I had with one of my
daughters. I put it on paper because I feel it’s a message that all parents
should share with their kids. It's a true story that has also inspired my
newest fictional work, "Things You Can't Take". My hope is that my
personal experience is shared with as many parents as possible to shed light on
the nature of so many cases of sexual assault. Please share with your sons,
daughters, mothers and friends.
Dear daughter,
We have to have a long talk tonight because something happened
today. It was small. Tiny. Just a little blip in your day that you almost
didn’t mention because it seemed insignificant. Well, I’m sorry honey. Though
you thought it was a small thing, what happened was not insignificant.
Please listen up, because this is important. You’re getting
old enough to learn something bigger because I can’t always be there to protect
you. So here it is.
When a grown man who has no relation to you and no relation
to your parents—someone who is an adult and only a friend of a friend—wants to
hang out and talk with you instead of the other adults, that’s a problem. Yes,
it’s just a conversation. Yes, it feels good that someone is paying attention
to you. I know how beautiful, funny, smart and wonderful you are to be around.
But under no circumstances is it appropriate for an adult to try to form a
friendship with you, especially someone who is outside of our family’s small
circle of trust. Yes, I’m sorry, but it’s small. I can see in your eyes that
this doesn’t make sense to you.
We were all in the same room together. There was never a time
when you were alone with this man, but there were other kids at the party you
should have been playing with and there were other adults he should have been
talking to. I already knew I was going to have to chat with you about it. But
when you told me he asked when your birthday was, and said he was going to put
it in his phone, I knew we needed to have a really big chat and we needed to
have it fast.
First, let me tell you that you did nothing wrong. It seems
confusing to you that I’m making such a big deal about you telling someone when
your birthday is. You feel as if it’s a small, insignificant fact. I understand
how you see it that way. But this is a big deal. The way I see it is different.
I’m not saying that man you talked with is or isn’t a
predator. But I want you to have a bigger understanding so that if you should
come across a predator and I’m not around to protect you, you are better
equipped to protect yourself. Or better yet, prevent needing to protect
yourself.
A sexual predator doesn’t always act impulsively. So many—too
many—of them nurture their relationship with their victims slowly and steadily,
over time. If you tell him when your birthday is, you won’t be surprised when
he talks to you near your birthday. That won’t seem strange. Then when he says
he wants to do something for you for your birthday, it will seem natural to
you. Slowly, he can build your trust in a way that feels easy to you and you
might not see coming.
I love how well-mannered and sweet you are. But you can be
well-mannered and sweet and still state your boundaries. A lesson I wish I
learned when I was your age.
I’ve wanted to keep you protected in my bubble since the day
I became your mother. In many ways you still are protected in my bubble. But
that won’t always be the case. So I’m having these hard conversations now.
Because I can promise you one thing: I sure as hell won’t risk having these
conversations after it’s too late.
I know it’s not easy being my daughter. I can be a little
“helicopter-y” and overbearing at times, because to me, nothing is more
important than your safety. But there is a reason why I am the way I am.
See… I know all too well how a predator can be subtle at first. How they can start
when you’re young, with very small things. I also know that behavior like that
only escalates.
I had an aunt who married a not-so-great guy. Nobody seemed
to catch onto that for a long time. He was family and I knew him as far back as
I can remember. I also remember him slipping his hand down the back of my pants
whenever he hugged me. The first time he did that was when I was five years
old. I didn’t know anything about what was and wasn’t appropriate when I was
five. He was family and his hand would touch my little tushy under my pants.
Unfortunately, when it first started happening, I was too young to know it
wasn’t okay.
Small intrusions like that happened for years. And I knew I
wasn’t the only one. I heard him talk to other girls my age in a way that made
me very uncomfortable. But I lacked the confidence to say anything about it.
And I definitely didn’t want to risk being wrong if I told my parents. So he
continued to get away with it. And like I said, it escalated. It grew into a
relationship that felt secretive. Like he was doing me a favor by talking to me
and behaving a certain way around me, and that I would be the uncool one if I
told a “real” adult like his wife or my parents.
One day when I was seventeen, my parents and I went to my
aunt and uncle’s house for a little family get-together. My grandparents were
there too. I was in my senior year of high school and when mom asked where I
was with my college applications, I told her I wanted to apply for the
University of Oregon but hadn’t printed out the application yet. My uncle said,
“Let’s go upstairs and print it out now.” Nobody saw anything wrong with that
small idea. Including me, at the time.
Once we got upstairs to his office, he closed the door behind
him. Still, I didn’t see anything wrong. Closing a door is a small, simple
thing that many people do every day. Plus, my parents were downstairs! What
could go wrong? Well, a lot. He closed the door and let me pull up the
application on the computer. It was a 30-something page document and back then,
printers took a very, very long time. I knew I would be alone in that room with
him for up to a half hour. And he knew it too.
I didn’t start to feel nervous until my uncle bent down and
pulled a bottle of Wild Turkey whiskey out from a cabinet with not one glass,
but two. I knew the other glass was for me. It wasn’t exciting to think about
an adult allowing me to taste alcohol–it was terrifying. My gut was telling me
something wasn’t right, and alcohol didn’t seem glamorous or fun. I knew it was
the last thing I needed in that situation. But still, I didn’t feel confident
enough to leave the room.
As I suspected, he poured a glass for himself before pouring
another and handing it to me. I said, “No thank you,” and waved it away. But he
persisted and told me to stop being a baby. Over and over he told me it wasn’t
a big deal. “Just drink it,” he’d push, seeming annoyed with my immaturity. I
gathered whatever courage I had in me and took the drink and had a sip.
I hated everything about it. Especially how I felt he was in
complete control, how I wasn't able to say no in a way that made a difference.
And even though he was the adult, he didn’t respect no for my answer, and that
was so very wrong of him.
You’re asking me if I regret taking the alcohol. My answer is
“no.” I didn’t do anything wrong. I did the best I could for being a young
seventeen year old who was with someone she should have been able to trust.
Nothing I did was wrong. All of the responsibility lays on him. He was the
adult who knew better.
I hate that I need to tell you the rest of my story. But I
don’t hate it as much as I hate keeping from you the lessons it taught me.
My uncle then started asking me if I had any sexual
fantasies. Immensely inappropriate. Never okay. But like I said before,
this relationship had been slowly developing into one where I couldn’t
differentiate the last inappropriate thing he said or did from the next. Still,
I knew he was going too far. I told him I wasn’t comfortable. I told him I
didn’t want to answer him. But he pressed on.
I didn’t think to call for my parents because I had been
conditioned to feel confused about the lines between right and wrong where he
was concerned. But most importantly, I remember being paralyzed with fear. I
had no idea how far he would go. And in my mind, I didn’t know how to stop him.
Because my words certainly weren’t working.
It was textbook predatory behavior.
He circled around me, continuing to remind me to drink my
whiskey. I was too scared to drink the whiskey, but I was even more afraid to
not do what he said. So I pretended to drink, spitting the liquid back out
every time I brought it to my lips. At that age, I was doing what I thought I
could. And breaking the rules by drinking alcohol was the least of my worries.
During this encounter, he never touched me in a private
place. He stood behind me and said that if I couldn’t think of a sexual
fantasy, he would help me think of one. Then he described to me what it would
be like if two naked men approached me and began to touch my privates. I
remained still and quiet, scared out of my mind and more uncomfortable than
I’ve ever felt in my life.
The only time he laid a hand on me was when he was describing
this fantasy for me. He touched the back of my neck in what you might consider
“a safe place” to touch. But like everything else he had done, things started
in a safe place and escalated – and this could have ended at a very dangerous
place.
When he was in the middle of describing a sexual scene for
me, the printer stopped. My senses were heightened. That printer sounded like a
200-man army marching back and forth across each paper, over and over and over.
I was hyper aware of it. As soon as that sound stopped, I jumped up, grabbed
the stack of papers and ran out the door. I ran downstairs, grabbed my keys
(because I drove separately from my parents), yelled, “Bye!” and ran out the
door. I got in my car and drove home, trying to process everything that
happened.
With one small infringement into my comfort zone, starting
years ago with sticking his hands down my pants when I was five, he had
weaseled his way into having this power over me over a decade later. I knew it.
I hated it. Even though deep down I knew exactly how bad of person he was, and
how wrong his relationship with me was, I didn’t have the confidence or
experience to verbalize my intuition.
I felt guilty for feeling so affected by the encounter,
especially because my uncle never actually touched my privates. For the first
two weeks after it happened, I didn’t say a word to my parents but I couldn’t
sleep, I had a hard time eating, and I couldn’t focus on anything in school. I
spiraled downward and wasn’t able to function the way I should. It got to a
point where I knew I had to tell my parents because emotionally, I was dealing
with something beyond my capabilities.
I’ll be honest: Telling my parents was not fun. And it didn’t
make me feel better either. They each handled it very differently. Your
grandmother didn’t have long talks with me like the one I’m having with you
now. And your grandfather blamed himself. He felt responsible for not being
able to protect me and I remember when he said, “I feel like I failed you as a
father.” That broke my heart. Truly, it hurt more to hear him say that than any
of the emotional pain I felt from my uncle’s behavior toward me. I wanted the
whole thing to go away. Hearing that made me wish I had never said anything to
either of them.
So I have a promise to make you: I will carry your load.
As your mother, I will do everything I can to help prevent
you from being in a situation like mine. But if you should ever find yourself
being assaulted or abused by anyone, you can tell me. In fact, you can tell me
if you merely feel uncomfortable around someone. I will believe you, guide you,
and make sure it’s handled by a responsible adult.
Most importantly, I will tell you that it was not your fault.
No matter what happened, you never did anything to deserve it. And what
happened to me was not my fault either. I’m having this talk with you now
because I want to make sure we do everything we can to keep you safe. But if
something should happen, the only one responsible will be the one who committed
the crime. It would never be your fault. And it would never be my fault.
It’s important that you understand this. My parents’ reaction
when I told them about my uncle left me heartbroken. So much so that I never
wanted to put them or myself through that experience again. I still needed my
parents, but I didn’t feel like I could talk to them or let them help me when I
had a problem. And unfortunately, I soon came across a very big problem.
Your grandma was an ice skating instructor and took me to a
competition so I could see my friends. I was on winter break from college. I
was as naive as could be and didn’t have the benefit of these long talks like
ours.
There was a party to celebrate the end of the competition.
There was also an after-party, hosted by someone I’d known for years who had
always made me very nervous. Let’s call him Tim. Back when I was twelve,
he was twenty-something. I never liked the way he looked at me and I had tried
to keep my distance, but since I tried to stay clear, he sent a friend to tell
me, “Tim wants you.” I shook my head nervously, wanting to tell this friend
that I want nothing to do with Tim. But the words wouldn’t come out. All I
could do was shake my head, too shy and nervous to use my words. And this small
thing was something I never ended up mentioning to my parents.
So years later, after trying to keep my distance as best I
could, here was Tim again, hosting an after-party in his hotel room. I came to
the competition to see my friends, and since all my friends were going to the
party, I wanted to go, too. I remember convincing myself that since I was
eighteen, I was a woman now, and didn’t have to be afraid or nervous around
him. Besides, I thought, what can go wrong in a hotel room full of friends and
other people I know?
So I went to the party with my friend. Let’s call
her Jane. We agreed we wouldn’t leave without each other, and our main
objective was to have fun and celebrate. I felt happy and confident as we
approached the room. As soon as we walked in, Tim walked straight up to me, as
if he’d been waiting for me all night. He asked if I wanted a drink. I did, so I
said yes and followed him to a long dresser in the room. He was the host with
the alcohol, so I didn’t see anything wrong with taking a drink from him.
Besides, I wasn’t driving and was surrounded by people I knew, so I couldn’t
see the harm in having a drink.
He handed me a very small glass with only a little bit of
liquid in it. And that was the last I remember of the party.
You see, my friend Jane left without me. When I saw her the
next morning, she told me that Tim had put me in the bathroom until everyone
else left. It wasn’t until she was ready to leave that she realized I was in
there. She told him she wasn’t leaving without me and demanded that he show her
where I was. He humored her and led the way into the bathroom where I was lying
in the bathtub. He picked me up and told her that he was going to prove I
wanted to stay with him. Jane later told me that when he lifted me, my head
fell backward and my eyes rolled back. And then he kissed my mouth.
My friend got scared and left me alone with Tim.
I don’t remember much of the middle of the night with him,
but I knew he took me to his bed. I can remember not being able to feel
anything—not even my own vocal chords. I wanted to scream, but nothing would
come out. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. There were a few moments of
clouded consciousness where I could hear the phone ringing from the bedside
table next to us. And I could hear constant pounding on the door. Jane told me
later that she regretted leaving me, so she asked another friend, David, to
help her out. David was pounding on the door, and Jane was calling from the
hotel phone in the hall. But Tim never answered and he never got up to see who
was at the door.
When I woke up in the morning and finally had control over my
own body again, I found myself covered by several sheets and comforters, even
over my head. I had no idea why, and I wasn’t going to stick around to find
out. I grabbed what I could and ran out the door. I left my jacket and my right
sock. They were the least of my worries. What I needed was to find my mom.
By coincidence, Jane was on her way up to find me as I ran
down the hall toward the elevator. I asked her why she left me and she
explained her side of the story. Jane detailed the way Tim kissed me in the
bathroom, how she regretted leaving me, how she and David tried calling and
pounding on the door. Listening to her, I was confused but full of adrenaline
because what she said made me feel safe to state, “I think Tim raped me.” To
tell you the truth, I have no idea why I said, think. I knew. I think
I was afraid to admit that something so heinous had happened to me. I didn’t
want it to be true, so I left that door open. But NOTHING could have prepared
me for her reaction. She said, “You can’t accuse someone of something like
that. You could ruin his life.”
Instead, it ruined my life. At least for a while.
As an adult I find it beyond comprehension that any human being would have had
that response. Those wrong words were said to me at the wrong time. It changed
everything in that moment and forced me to bottle my exploding feelings inside,
when I should have felt secure in telling a trusted friend a terrible thing had
happened to me. I was so scared about the possibility of having caught an
incurable sexually transmitted disease, or being pregnant. But I said nothing
and kept it all to myself. I couldn’t sleep for weeks. What was worse is that,
given what happened with my uncle, I felt like I couldn’t tell my parents. I
just wanted to pretend the whole thing never happened.
So I did pretend. Sure, over time, the impact lessened, but
the memories and the suppressed pain never started to feel better until years
later, when I started to share my story with my friends. As I grew older and
wiser, my confidence grew with me. But here’s the thing: the real healing
didn’t start until I admitted to myself what happened to me that night.
I never saw my friend Jane again, and I hope you never have a
friend like her. Of all of the awful things that happened at that hotel, Jane’s
reaction affected me the most. I know that I’m often critical of the people you
surround yourself with, my sweet girl. And that’s because I know how precious
you are to me. Your friends are precious to someone else too. I want you to
have the self confidence to surround yourself with real people who can help you
in crisis instead of hurt. And I want you to be that same kind of friend to
them. I have high standards for both you and the people you allow in your life.
You want to know if there is anything I would have done
differently. That’s a complicated question because the answer is yes and no. I
can’t change what happened. Nor can I change or control either of the predators
who were in my life.
But what I wish was that I knew the “rules.” These are rules
that I make sure you understand very clearly. You know that you’re never
allowed to be in a room with an adult with the door closed, because there is no
circumstance when that is appropriate. You can go ahead and blame it on me.
Tell them, “My mom doesn’t let me close doors.” You can even tell them how lame
I am. I don’t care, as long as the rules are being followed.
I want you to know that there is a difference between right
and wrong. I also want you to know that there is a way to hold those
boundaries, even while being well-mannered and sweet. Anyone who respects you
will respect your rules. And a big lesson I want you to learn is that if you
state the rules and someone doesn’t respect it, they are likely wanting to
cause you harm. If you say, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think it’s
appropriate for me to tell you when my birthday is,” or “I’m sorry, I’m not
allowed to give personal information out,” his reaction would have told you if
his intentions were true or not. And if someone doesn’t respect your rules,
most definitely, tell me about it.
As you get older, there will be other rules. New rules. I’m
not dumb enough to expect you to wait until you are 21 to have your first taste
of alcohol. If that’s what you choose, I’m all for it. But my main concern will
be your safety with alcohol. Never, ever, under any circumstances should you
ever let someone make you a drink. I don’t care how well you know someone—I
want you to be responsible for what you are putting in your body.
I wish I knew those rules when I was your age, and I wish I
followed them. But to answer your question in a different way, no. I don’t
regret anything that has ever happened to me. In fact, now that I’m an adult
and have dealt with my past, I embrace my experiences. I wouldn’t change a damn
thing. Do you know why? Because I will gladly keep those experiences that made
me wiser, smarter, and experienced enough to be as protective of you as I am. I
want my experiences to be my gift to you, so you never have to experience them
yourself.
Please do not waste this gift. Use it to the best of your
ability, and let it make you stronger and wiser so that this world can be a
better place for you. And pass your wisdom on to your children, so the world
can be an even better place for them too.
I love you with all my heart and so much more. So please
understand that the reason you think I overreact sometimes is because I love
you too much to let a little thing pass by. You’re worth the little things.
Now get to bed. We’ll talk more tomorrow, and the next day,
and for the rest of our lives.
Thank you for reading my letter. I hope you feel compelled to
share my message with others. Thank you, Phil, for making me feel so safe and
strong. If you have your own story, know there are so many people out
there who will support you! Please visit Amazon to find my psychological
fiction novel about sexual assault, Things You Can't Take.
We unpack our
bags in the City of Light. Kessia hangs up a
sundress and
finds a note under it. I smile, knowing it’s from
my mom, and
there’s one for me in my suitcase, too. She
grabs the paper
and slowly walks to the short balcony
overlooking the
Eiffel Tower.
Every time we
travel, Consuela packs our bags, and my
mom slips in a
note for us. I push a shawl aside and find
mine. We’ve
been here for only a few hours, but I’m already
feeling
homesick. I pick up the handwritten note and walk to
the balcony
next to Kessia.
We’re sixteen,
and we’ve been let loose in one of the
biggest cities
in the world. I know my mom is writing to me
to tell me to
enjoy myself here, but I have a job to do. I need
to focus on
that. The only fun thing about working is that
Kessia is
always with me.
When I finish
reading my mom’s note, I lean over the
balcony and
feel the slightly cooled night air on my face.
“I love how
it’s prettier at night,” Kessia says about the
Eiffel Tower
lit up in front of us. “I think we have three days
off in a row,
so we should go to Amsterdam!” She widens her
eyes, excited
about the possibility.
I just smile
and shake my head, remembering my mom’s
note about
having fun. But being irresponsible doesn’t sound
like fun to me.
“No way.”
Kessia gives me
a sarcastic smile. She’s more
adventurous.
But that’s not a very fair comparison because
I’ve always had
a lot more responsibility.
“Come on.” She
nudges me. “We’re sixteen. Even your
mom says we
should have a little fun.” Kessia waves her note
in the air.
I give her a
wry look. “I don’t think Amsterdam is what
she had in
mind. Fun, yes. But I can’t afford to be reckless.”
Kessia nods. I
know she understands.
After we
unpack, we head downstairs to the lobby,
crossing the
white stone tiles to a plush brown and red lounge
area.
Everything is different in this old-world atmosphere—
the smells, the
flowers, the taste in the air. Even the wood
and paint on
the walls seem different than what our buildings
are made out of
in America.
Most of the
cast and crew have arrived, and they’re all
gathered
together, occupying the entire lounge area. We only
have one day to
acclimate ourselves to the new time zone
before shooting
starts. Kessia and I go make the rounds,
hugging and
saying hi to everyone. They’ve always treated her
like part of
the show’s family. She’s a part of everything I do.
“Mason, how was
your flight?” I ask him when I can’t
think of
anything else to say. I’ve known him since the show
started, but
some time in the last year, I’ve become so
nervous around
him.
“Can I have
your autographs?” a girl asks behind us,
holding a
notepad and pen. She has an English accent and
must be a fan
of the show.
I see her
parents standing off to the side, waving excitedly
for her.
“Of course.” I
bend down and say, “Are you here on
vacation?”
She nods and
can’t stop smiling, looking up at Mason. He
joins me,
taking the pen from my hand when I’m done.
“Do you want a
picture, too?” he asks the little girl.
She squeals and
says, “Yes, please.”
We scrunch
together with the little girl between us. When
Mason’s arm
reaches around to pull us closer, he rubs my
side. I can’t
help but overanalyze his touch. Does
he like me? I
smile
anxiously, but the little girl thinks I’m smiling at her.
She thanks us
and walks away. One side of Mason’s face
lifts, and for
a moment, I wonder if we’re staring into each
other’s eyes.
He twists around and grabs a brown bottle from
one of the
lobby’s side tables.
I can feel my
forehead cave down on my eyes. “You’re
drinking?” I
ask cautiously. You’re
only nineteen.
He casually
places his free hand in his pocket and shrugs.
“Yeah, it’s
legal here.”
I try not to
shake my head at him, disappointed. It’s
not
legal
for your underage fans back in the United States. I look around,
knowing that
anyone could be watching.
“What’s wrong?”
he asks.
I step back.
“Nothing. I just forgot to tell Kessia
something.”
Spinning on my heels, I spot her only a few feet
away.
“Hey, Kessia.”
I grab her arm and turn her away from
Mick, one of
the writers. “We should go back to the room,” I
say just low
enough for her to hear me.
“Why? Everyone
is getting in. We slept on the plane; we
can’t sleep
now.”
I move my hands
in a circle in front of me, trying to find
the right
words. “There’s this thing with our bodies. If we
don’t lie down
right away when we get to a new country, we’ll
get sick.”
Kessia stops
and tugs at my arm. “You’re telling me this
now? We’ve been
out of the country several times before.
What’s the real
reason you want to leave?”
I take a
breath. “It’s Mason. I like him.”
“Duh. Who
doesn’t?”
I purse my lips
together and swallow. “He’s drinking beer.
I can’t be seen
near him. What if someone takes a picture and
assumes that
I’m drinking with him?” What
would my fans
think?
Kessia leans
back on her heels and tilts her head. “Isn’t
that a little
bit of a stretch?” She reaches down and holds
both my hands.
“Just because he has a beer doesn’t mean you
do. People
aren’t stupid.”
“I know. You’re
right. I’m overreacting. But remember
when I got that
henna tattoo? It was in the tabloids the next
day.”
“It was fake,”
she says with an even tone.
“Yes,” I agree,
“but that’s not what the tabloids said.”
“But they were
wrong,” she argues further, not taking me
seriously.
“Come on.” Kessia smiles at me and starts to turn
back toward the
lobby.
“But”—I stop
her—“I still don’t feel like being down
here. Let’s
just go upstairs and watch a movie. Pete’s going to
be here for the
shoots, and I really want to be rested, so I do
my best work
when he’s around. Tammy says he has a big
project coming
together. He could be considering a spin-off
show just for
me.”
Kessia tries to
smile but looks uneasy.
“That’s good
news.” I shake her arm, trying to loosen her
up. Why aren’t you happy for me?
“Yes, that’s
great.” Her eyes open wide. “Of course. Let’s
go upstairs.”
She looks sick to her stomach.
It must be the
jet lag.
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