What I remember the most is calling my mother back in Hoboken at 2 am after my rapist had left my apartment. I remember most him cursing at my little dog Mr. Pibb that he'd "kill the fucker" if he didn't shut up. I lay on the couch, bloody and humiliated, crying as quietly to my pillow and begging to the God of Moses whom I had been raised to love and fear, "Dear God, please just make him go away!"
And it seems so silly now but- please, please Mr. Pibb, don't bark anymore. Just go get your ball. Don't make him kill you.
Don't make him.
Don't do anything that gives him the excuse a violent coward like this needs.
I only was thinking in terms of what made him happy. Don't resist. Don't cry. Don't even bark.
Because I really thought it was my fault.
That's why I'm coming forward, and in such a public way. To tell the Pat Lillises of the world- YOU are the criminals, and I did NOTHING wrong! And I want justice.
At long last, JUSTICE.
* * *
He left. Finally. My little dog kept barking. But the coward, contrary to my worries, never bothered to kill my little dog. Maybe he was worried this was one creature who would fight back.
I got up from the couch and went to my phone, the same "Princess" telephone my daddy had bought me so many years ago. Not much of a phone, but I almost always used my cell phone for my work, and kept the old "Princess" phones, in bright pink with Barbie on the head-set, for "kitsch" value, I suppose- but also for my daddy, who I still loved as much and as purely as I did when I was fifteen.
I couldn't think where the cell phone was. But I KNEW where the old clunker lay. So I stumbled over to the phone and picked it up, and called back to New Jersey, where it was after five a.m. Now that my parents were older, they still had several hours to sleep, not like in the old days when daddy rose before dawn to go to his job in Manhattan to give me the best life a little girl could ever want.
"Mom," I said, hearing my tired mother's voice on the other end of the line, "it's Amy. Please get daddy, okay?"
"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" she said, through the early morning haze and three-thousand miles of confusion.
"Just get daddy," I said. I couldn't bare to tell mom what had happened. It was so shameful.
"Sweetheart, your father is asleep, you know how his blood pressure is..."
"MOM! Goddammit, wake daddy up! Mom, don't you hear me? I was RAPED!!!!!"
The phone hit the floor and I heard mom start crying. Then I heard daddy coming to the phone, to his thirty-something daughter so far away, needing him one more time. "Baby, my God- what happened out there?"
"Daddy," I said, hating myself for what I was saying, "Your little girl is dead."
And we both just cried for a few minutes. With mom in the background, screaming and wailing.
Then I told him what happened. And he said just what I wanted my daddy to say.
"You are still my little girl, and I love you- and whoever did this, they didn't kill my little baby. You're still here. And we're going to see this bastard pay. You and me. I promise."
And when daddy died just a year later, after Patrick J. Lillis walked free and clear from his crime, I lost all faith in the world, forever. Because it was the first time that my daddy didn't keep a promise to me.
I guess I learned pretty late in life that some promises can't be kept by daddies, or anybody else.
Not when the evil person who had violated you had seemingly everything on his side.
This blog is my attempt to get justice, at long last. For me, yes. But for my daddy to. Patrick J. Lillis, wherever you are in Los Angeles tonight, you're going to face SOME kind of justice, even if the "law" looks the other way because of your high priced attorneys and clever stories.
No one will ever stop me from getting justice from Patrick J. Lillis, no matter what they threaten or do.
Daddy, this is for you.