“He’s out you know, living with your aunt Leona. He’s in community college.” she says, eyes wide. She hopes her daughter feels encouraged by his accomplishment, his getting out of jail for the seventh or eighth time. This time it was for good behavior. He had been in intensive care most of the duration of this last incarceration, his head bashed in within an inch of his life by his ” friends” while trying to rob somebody.
She sees her daughter is unimpressed, uninterested-annoyed even. Her lips curled looking as though teeth would be sucked.
Daughter is amazed, looking at her mother with glassy eyes with her dinner sitting in front of her. She had not taken a bite. Seeing her daughter’s change of mood, Mother feels the possibility of an uncomfortable, familiar conversation; one filled with all those things this family has pushed under rugs. She quickly says,
“He has to wear a skull cap. If he gets into a fight or falls and gets hit on his head he could die, they beat him so bad. He has to wear that thing for the rest of his life. HUMPH,Humph,humph.”
She says this in a attempt to block off what she knows Daughter is thinking, what she will eventually ask.
“Why are you telling me anything about him? I’ve told you, I don’t want to hear anything about him, except the news that he’s dead!”
Then Mothers’ reflex would push her to make her daughter feel guilty with,
“You’re so hateful!” or,
“You have to learn to forgive.” or the killer,
“You’re too old to be holding on to that shit- when are you going to get over it?”
Get over it.
Instead, Mother talks about how fragile her nephew is and how aunt Leona sees how much he’s trying this time. Mother talks on about how aunt Leona is so excited about the cruise she and mother will be going on. Mother is planning it to “encourage and inspire her”, she says.
Daughter wants to say, “Maybe while you’re on your cruise you could tell aunt Leona that her son is a piece of shit!”
She wants to explain to her mother that every time she mentions him without acknowledging what happened she feels disregarded, unprotected, unimportant, unloved,
small.
Daughter expresses none of this personal truth. Instead a rouge memory comes to her mind.
It is years ago. The families are on vacation. On the white sands of Aruba the stars are bright . She faintly hears the waves crashing against the rocks and rolling off the sand back into the sea. Her heart pounds hard, so much so her body rocks back and forth to the beat of its rhythm.
He is sitting next to her. Her eyes follow the waves. Its movement temporary distracts her from what comes next, what she must do.
He fills the uncomfortable silence with small talk. She learns that he’s not getting along with his parents, of his decision to drop out of school and, of his dysfunctional, drama-filled relationship with his girlfriend whom he refers to as “this bitch” or “that bitch”.
She can only mutter the sporadic “really”, “oh yeah” or, “uhmmm…” as she watches the waves. She is transported to when she was just a few years younger, when he would punch, bit and beat her. She balls up her fist in the sand pushing the grains in the beds of her nails. The pressure stings the palms of her hands-her fists are balled so tight.
She already made up her mind that tonight, their last night in Aruba, would be the night she would confront him. Fight him, if she had to.
“Why you so quiet?” he asks.
She blurts out,
“You know, I’ve never forgotten what you did!”
“What do you mean?” He asks, looking puzzled.
She turns from the waves and faces him, “When you raped me!”
She almost doesn’t recognize her own voice. Her cheeks sting. She feels dizzy. Aruba’s cool breeze doesn’t quail the heat emulating from her nerves. She begins to shake.
What nerve of her to speak-the unspoken. That which she has tried to bury from the very first time his brutality became sexual- the very acts that caused her to accept continued violations of her body in the guise of consensual acts.
She breaths deeply, prepared for what has always come after her definance-no matter how small. A slap on the face, or punch, or bite or worse.
He rolls up his sleeves.
Here it comes, she thinks.
She scans the empty beach and wonders who will hear her if she screams. None of this matters. She had her plan. She would throw the sand stinging her fingers in his face. This would give her enough time to strike him and run back to her room.
And anyway, with all the anger damned up inside her, he would have no chance in a brawl with her, deserted beach or not, she was ready for… whatever.
This instance of certainty and boldness, her audacity to stand up for herself, after years of silence, would be one of the few times she actually surprises herself. This would be one of her proudest moments.
“Look at this.” he says with his fist tight and arm stretched out. He pulls out at lighter from his pocket with his free hand. Through the orange glow from the flicker of light, she faintly sees small round hyperpigmented blemishes that formed a line up his arm.
“I’ve been on this shit for a year now…”
Small talk takes place as they walk back to her room. She feels relieved that no confrontation had to take place. As he shares his setbacks and hopes with her, she begins to feel silly for holding on to things that she’s now convinced herself were her imagination. Maybe it never really happened, she thinks as she nods trying to control her facial expressions.
They are in front of her door now. She takes out her key card and unlocks her door. As she says good night and turns to go inside he says,
“I thought you liked it!”
She turns to look at him.
“What?” She asks.
With a familiar smirk, he says,
“When I fucked you!”
He reaches out and grabs her breast. She pushes his hand away rushes into her room and slams the door. She locks it behind her.
The ring of the telephone and her mother’s voice pulls her from her memory.
“…Yeah child, I don’t know what I’m gonna do about that aunt of yours!” Mother says as she rushes to answer the phone.
Daughter’s eyes are fixated on a piece of salmon as she rolls it around in her plate.
Posted in Me
Tags: Daughter, Family Secrets, Mother, Pushed Under Rug, Rape, Sexual Abuse