“Why no smile today, Sweetheart?” you ask with sunshine oozing through your pores.
I shake my head in silence.
“Oh come on! What’s the matter?
“You wouldn’t understand,” I whisper.
“Don’t be silly! You can talk to me. I’m your mother. You can tell me anything.” You look serious now, reaching a hand across the table to hold mine.
The contact starts a chain reaction. A quivering in my chest builds to a lump in my throat; pressure grows, springs a leak, and a tear breaks loose from my eye. Within a moment, my body is wracked with silent sobs I can no longer hold in.
You hold my hand tighter. “Honey. Oh, Honey. It’s OK.” You reach in your purse and discard three dirty tissues in your search for a clean one. Finally, you press one to my cheek. “Don’t cry. Whatever it is can’t be that bad.”
“But he doesn’t love me anymore!” The words burst from my mouth more loudly than I intended, making me flush with embarrassment.
“Nonsense! You’ve only been married two months!” You are certain I am wrong. Again.
“But he said…”
“I don’t care what he said. He loves you!”
“He called me a stupid cunt.” I whisper and bow my head in shame.
“What did you do to make him say that?” You are certain he is right.
“Nothing.” I look up hoping for support.
“I don’t believe he would say that for nothing.” You shake your head, sure that I’ve done something horrible to account for his harsh words.
“No. I missed a spot on one of the dishes I washed and put away.”
“See! It wasn’t nothing!” Your confidence has returned. “You were careless. He probably had a bad day. You’re married now. You have to learn to deal with his moods.”
I should have known better. My eyes sting with betrayal.
“But he shouldn’t have called you that. Are you sure he didn’t say stupid dunce? I’m sure you misheard him.” You put the soiled tissue in your purse next to the others.
I know what he said. He called me a stupid cunt, a lazy fat whore, a bitch, an ugly dog, a cocksucking slut and a retard all in the course of a week. He also called me sweetheart, his lovely love, muffin and cutiepie, but I don’t believe those anymore. He was much more sincere about the others. I could never convince you of that so I don’t try. You used to call me tramp, little bitch, stupid, silly, klutz and always declared you loved me too. I wipe my eyes, sit up straight like a good girl, paste on a smile.
“You’re right. I’m just being overly dramatic.”
I pour you another cup of coffee and get up to wash my dishes, carefully this time.
The next week you call and ask how I’m doing. My hand moves to my shoulder, still sore from when he grabbed my arm and jerked me through a doorway two days ago. The pain is the only evidence that anything happened. It feels like there should be some mark, some proof that he physically hurt me.
“Fine.” I lie, the word tastes bitter in my mouth. I wonder if I should have it looked at, my shoulder. Surely it should be better by now. Will an x-ray show a dislocation? It doesn’t matter. I don’t have the money for that and it would only make things worse. I imagine his reaction if I came home in a sling, a constant reminder of the damage he did. No. That was a terrible idea. Better to hide my pain.
“Are you there? Day dreaming as usual, I suppose. It is so hard to have a real conversation with you anymore, I swear!” I think you have never had a real conversation in your life.
“I’m here.” I think I am anyway. I wish I wasn’t. It seems I spend a lot of time these days out of body, out of mind, looking for answers that don’t exist or travelling far away from my reality. This week, I devoted hours to internet searches on how to handle an abusive spouse, restraining orders, women’s shelters, legal advice, and then covering up my tracks.
The news was not good. Abusers don’t change. Restraining orders do next to nothing and often make things worse. Women’s shelters are safe, but overcrowded and only a temporary solution. Legally, it is a huge gray area in which the abuser’s rights are often held above the victim’s safety. Another three months of searching for solutions and finding none, I’m still here.
Another Tuesday morning, another cup of coffee with you. It sounds like you, anyway. My eyes will not focus properly. Another horrible wrong-doing on my part last night: too much salt spoiled the soup. I swear I get dumber every day. No matter how hard I try not to, I still manage to get something wrong.
You put your hand gently to my forehead, a wrinkle of concern on yours. “Are you coming down with something?” I shake my head no, but reconsider when my head throbs. I close my eyes. Coming up with something would be so much better. Something witty to say, something clever to get myself out of this visit, something impossible to escape my situation. But nothing comes to mind.
“Look at me.” Firmly you take my chin and turn my face to yours. I comply. I try. I really try.
“Where’s your purse?” I’m caught off guard. What does my purse have to do with anything? You see it on the counter near the door in its usual spot. Stepping to the side and squatting in a very unladylike way, you pull my arm over your shoulder and lift me from the chair. I walk with you to the door, to your car, let you strap me in. I wonder what we are doing, but I ask no questions. I’ve learned not to ask questions anymore. I never like the answers.
When you turn the car into the hospital lot, I ask what we’re doing there. “Finding out what’s wrong,” you say. Everything, I think. All you had to do was ask. I would have told you anything you wanted to know. I say nothing and let you have me wheeled into the emergency room. Maybe they will stop the constant pounding in my head and the ever present pressure in my chest.
Three hours and 27 minutes later, the doctor announces the verdict: mild concussion; prescription: rest and observation. You decide to take me home with you. Why couldn’t you have done this three months ago? I fear it’s too late now. I’m not here anymore. The doctor asks how this happened. I stare at him blankly. “I’m required to report abuse to the authorities,” he says. I say nothing. He rolls his eyes and lets out a disgusted grunt. Thankfully, he is paged to another emergency and I do not answer.
You get the car while an orderly wheels me out. We drive in silence to your home, that used to be my home, too. You set me up in a recliner in the den, in front of a muted TV. I see a smiling woman mopping floors after a careless child tracks in huge globs of mud on tiny boots. I sure hope that stain comes out, for her sake. You finish tucking blankets around me. It is too hot, but I don’t complain. I don’t move. I just stare over your shoulder at the TV. Another smiling woman’s husband just finished playing football and is handing her his stained clothing. She is almost as good at fake smiling as I am. I wonder how long she’s been married.
“Is that what it was?” You position your face in my line of sight. “Abuse? Was the doctor right?” You look so concerned now. I blink. “Was it Sean? Did he hit you?”
I close my eyes. Of course it was Sean. Who else would it be? But did he hit me? I think so. I know he shoved me really hard and I smacked my head on the shelf in the laundry room. I’m not really sure if I can truthfully say he hit me, though. “I don’t know.” It seems really important to get this exactly right.
The tension that has been growing in you all morning snaps. “How can you not know?” You raise your voice another decibel. “Was it Sean or not? Did he hit you or not?! Was this the first time? How long has this been going on?” You’re standing over me now, shouting. “How could you let this happen?”
My eyes are leaking now. I pull the covers over my head and cower. Did I let this happen? I don’t remember agreeing to this, or even not taking a stance. The way I remember it, I said No! Stop! Don’t! It’s always over so quickly, there’s not time to even get out of the way, much less let it happen. Is she saying this is my fault?
You calm yourself, pull the covers back down to my shoulders, stroke the hair gently away from my face. “Oh Sweetheart, it’s OK. You’re safe now.” You take me in your arms and hold me. I don’t even try to stop the tears now. I want to believe you. “Mom is here.”
Friday morning and we are having coffee at your table today. The sun peeks from behind a cloud and sparkles on our white cups. I can see clearly now. You are telling me again how Sean could not hurt me and still love me at the same time. I nod and take another sip of bitter black brew.
“How could you stay there after the first time?” I can’t tell if you are disappointed in me or you think you may actually have done something wrong. “Did you think you could change him? Did you think he still cared?”
“Maybe.” One word answers seem to be all I am capable of anymore.
“Tch!” You shake your head in disgust. This is the mother I know and love. I’ve missed you these last three days. You put your cup down and look at me, the same pitying look you would give an ‘intellectually challenged’ individual. “How could you?”
I put my cup down. Anger is bubbling up from somewhere deep within. I can feel the heat of it crawling up my neck into my face, turning it the bright pink of shame. “How could I?” I grip the mug tighter in an attempt to compose my words wisely, but they come tumbling out. “How could I what? ‘Let it happen?’ How could I ‘think he loved me?’ Or maybe you mean ‘How could I be so stupid?’ You think I did something to deserve this?”
The color drains from your face. I’ve never talked to you in this tone of voice, spewed venom like this before. I think for a moment you feel sorry for Sean if he has seen this version of me. I am drunk with adrenaline and cannot stop.
“Don’t you love me, Mama? You say you do, but how many times did you hit me? So many! Just discipline you called it. You eventually stopped.” I see you tremble slightly. It makes me bolder. “You called me names, told me I was stupid, lazy, careless. Was I wrong to stay with you as long as I did?” You shake your head almost imperceptibly. I don’t know if you are denying you did those things, that I was wrong, or just denying me. It doesn’t matter.
“No?” I raise my clean white cup to trembling lips. I take a big gulp of hot liquid and enjoy the burn on the tender tissue inside my mouth. Setting down the cup, I reign myself in. “It’s OK, Mom. I know you love me.” The look on your face says otherwise now, but I am beyond caring.
“I appreciate you letting me stay here until I sort things out.” You have made no such offer, but you have taught me well in the ways of manipulation. I will need your help to get out of this nightmare safely. I will also need you to shut the fuck up to get out of this with any shred of self-respect. I’m beginning to see a lot of things now that I have a little distance and a lot less swelling of the brain. What I don’t see yet is how to do it without becoming you.
The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving a sickly hollow feeling at my core. Is this what you feel like? How did you get this way? I wonder. I don’t remember much of your mother. She left us too young. You look just like the picture of her in the living room. I shift uncomfortably in the hardbacked chair. We sit in silence several minutes, neither of us moving.
I reach out for your hand, give it a gentle squeeze. You try to paste on a big fake smile, but it crumbles before it peaks, leaving a glimmer in your eye of something that looks like hope. You squeeze my hand back. Maybe your complex feelings for me hold more actual love than I believe. I see a fragility in you this morning I never would have believed existed yesterday. I give you a half lopsided smile and a chance to see how we can heal together.
