by Nikki Sex
He gives me a faint smile, takes a deep breath. “Then when you mentioned André’s interest in men, it seriously freaked me out. Stupid really, as my father preferred children, not men. But all the times André spent in a tent with me… I imagined him taking advantage—maybe when I slept, or him having secret sexual thrills.”
“Ouch.”
“Tell me about it,” he snorts. “Add that to the fact André was screwing my sister, and had also been in bed with you—it was all a huge trigger. I just lost it. I panicked, certain that André couldn't be trusted and would hit on me next.”
Surprised, I laugh. “Not with your history.” I make a well in the center of the bowl, then whisk in milk and eggs.
“No,” he says, putting sliced strawberries into a bowl. “Anyway, I’m sincerely sorry for being a jackass,” he says. “I was insanely jealous—I felt I’d been duped by André and by you. I doubted everything and everyone, especially myself. I fell right back into feeling I was a monster. I knew no one could ever like me, much less love or want me.”
“Oh, I get it,” I say, continuing to whisk the batter. “When you get seriously triggered you slide right back into feeling like a monster and a pervert. I slide into self-blame, panic and I hear the phrase in my head that upset me as a child, ‘Stupid, stinky, stutter girl.’ Old habits die hard.”
“I really thought I was past all that crap,” he says with a heavy sigh.
I shrug. “We all think we’re ‘past’ our past—until it turns around and bites us in the ass. I’ve been working on my own crazy for years, but I still have a long way to go.”
“You. Are. Not. Crazy,” he says vehemently. “You’re wise and kind and perfect. I can understand doubting myself, but I should never, ever have doubted you.”
“Aww,” I say with a smile.
Pretty damn smooth. Using a wooden spoon, I begin to stir in a liberal amount of butter. Grant’s buttering me up all right, just like I’m doing to these crêpes.
“Will you forgive me?” he asks.
I glance at Grant briefly, but say nothing. Instead, I keep working, careful not to overwork the batter, yet going for an even, creamy mixture. He’s not getting off so easy; I’m making him wait.
“Renata?”
“Well,” I raise an eyebrow, meet his eyes and say, “OK, apology accepted.”
“I knew you’d forgive me,” he says happily, beginning to cut up the banana. “It was one of the things I obsessed about all evening, how to apologize and whether you’d excuse my behavior. I calmed down once I realized that you would.”
I laugh out loud, not certain whether I want to kick him, or kiss him.
“I know you pretty well,” he says with mischievous complacence. “We’ve already decided on children, we want at least one girl and one boy. A person doesn’t just give up on something like that.”
“True,” I agree, still smiling for all I’m worth.
Ideally, I should leave the batter in the fridge for an hour to rest, but we’re hungry now. The non-stick pan is already heating on the stove. I add butter, tip the pan to evenly coat the surface, then pour the first crêpe. As it cooks, I quickly get out the ice cream and whipped cream, placing them on the table. We’re all set.
“Mmm. That smells incredible,” Grant says, as the edges curl and the base turns golden.
“Didn’t you eat dinner?”
He shrugs. “I wasn’t hungry. I’m starving now.”
“Then you get the first one, you might as well eat it while it’s hot.” I slip the finished crêpe onto a plate and hand it to him. “Et voila!” I say and pour the next one.
“Mmm,” he hums when he takes his first bite.
“Good?”
“Delicious,” he declares with genuine admiration. “So. You ask what happened tonight? André did a wonderful and terrible thing. What an evening. The Wilkinsons’ owe that man for cutting open a festering family wound. I decided that I didn’t even mind that much if he did fuck Betty Jo. What difference does it really make?”
“Good point.”
“Also, despite what appeared to be similarities, André’s nothing like my father.”
“No, he really is one of a kind.” We both laugh at that observation. “Are you going to tell me what happened tonight?”
“I’m getting around to it,” he protests, scooping more ice cream onto his crêpe. “Anyway, I sent André a text asking, ‘Are you screwing my sister?’ ‘No,’ he texted back.”
“Ha!” I exclaim, loading two more crêpes onto his plate. “I knew it!”
“How did you know?”
“André treats each person individually, his management fits the circumstances. In Betty Jo’s case, he sensed her vulnerability and jumped right into counselling mode. He’d never take advantage of someone like her. Sex with your sister would confuse the issue. It would all end in tears.”
“I see.” He looks away, falling silent for a couple beats. "Uh… I guess I should mention something. I called my mother tonight,” he admits. “I told her my father was a pedophile.”
Shocked, I spin on my heel to face him. “You didn’t!”
“I was pretty low, feeling sorry for myself and my whole family, actually. It was payback, I guess. I decided she should suffer, too. Anyway, I phoned her and confessed that our father sexually abused me and Alex, but not Betty Jo.”
“Jesus,” I whisper. “How did she take it?”
“She didn’t believe me, of course,” he says. “She’s absolutely certain I’m making it all up. So, I explained about the photos of others he abused, the victims outside the family, just to hammer in the truth. I didn’t mention names.”
“That must’ve been some conversation.”
“Dammit, Renata! I’ve wanted to tell her this for years. I’ve wondered forever. No one could be that clueless. She had to have known, it must have been obvious!”
“Did she believe you in the end?” I ask, turning off the stove and setting down a plate of crêpes on the table.
“No. Mother’s pissed at me. She thinks I’ve lost my mind, but I told her she’d find out in time. I warned her everything would come out during the trial.”
Contemplating this new development, I wrap the leftover batter in cellophane and put it in the fridge. Then I sit down and put a crêpe on a plate for myself. All the while, I’m considering Grant’s mom’s vehement rejection of this news about her husband.
‘Methinks the Lady doth protest too much,’ as Shakespeare would say. But what will happen when his mother discovers her son’s stories of abuse are true? Surely she’ll have a nervous breakdown.
“Will her denial last, do you think?” I ask.
He shrugs, takes another bite. “I’ve no idea. Everyone will know about my father soon enough, though. This is far too big to hide, especially with a trial coming.”
“Yes,” I agree. “I’m sorry she didn’t believe you. That must’ve hurt.”
“Not really,” he says. “I’m not surprised. That’s how I thought she’d react if I ever told her, which is probably why I never told her. For some inexplicable reason, physical displays of affection were vulgar to my mother. I felt neglected and unprotected, even though she treated me well, really—better than my father did, anyway. I hated her for such a long time. I wanted nothing more than to rub her nose in the steaming pile of shit I was buried in up to my neck. Of course, this made me feel even more of a monster and a bad son. Guilt was a huge issue for me all of my life, until I met André… and you.”
I take his hand in mine. “Your mom is seriously screwed up. She has something else going on. Trust me, I honestly think a normal mother would believe you.”
“Thank you,” he says, squeezing my hand gratefully. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Grant goes on to tell me how he spent his evening, the horror story of Betty Jo’s upbringing, and the details of how she was shunned and excluded because she was a girl. Her feelings of being unwanted and unloved, h
er low self-worth, and her constant longing for attention from her father.
I can see it all so clearly. The image of an innocent, loving little girl, excited and happy, waiting… waiting… waiting to be loved, but always being ignored. The sadness of that picture is devastating.
The cruel words her father said, ‘Why would I be interested in a silly little cunt like you?’ Terrible! Horrible! What a piece of shit! When Grant explains how Betty Jo reacted by throwing him off of the balcony, I don’t know if I want to cry for her lost childhood or applaud her actions. I do know I like her better for it.
Who deserves to die more than a cruel, child molesting asshole like Chester Wilkinson?
“We’ll contact our attorney in the morning to figure all of this shit out,” Grant says. “Alex and I discussed it. We don’t want Betty Jo doing time if we can avoid it—that is, if she admits what she’s done.”
“André will help her figure out the best thing to do.”
“Yes. I’m glad she’s with him right now.” Her frowns. “No matter who ends up going to trial, we need to present the sexual abuse issue. No one feels sorry for a pedophile. I may be able to get some of the others who’ve been abused by our father to testify as well.”
“It’s going to be a media circus. How do you feel about that?”
He smiles. “Surprisingly OK, actually. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. There are plenty before me who’ve faced the haters and ended up changing the world. Courageous individuals who admitted to being gay or lesbian, or others who’ve stood up and spoken out for justice and civil rights. Because of them, the world is a better place. Maybe I can make a difference.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You’ve made a huge difference to me.”
He smiles. “Back at ya, darlin’, but I don’t think our relationship will particularly feature.” His chuckle is slightly hollow. “I survived child abuse. Traditionally, people like us keep our mouths shut about our past, but why should we?”
“No reason at all,” I nod my agreement.
He shrugs. “Sure we were fucked seven ways from Sunday by predators, but it wasn’t our fault. There’s nothing for us to be ashamed of.”
“Many will be moved by your story,” I say. “Lots of people have had similar experiences. Abuse is terribly common, way too common."
“Right. Maybe I can even use my ‘Sexual Abuse Therapy Foundation’ as a means to generate publicity for survivors like ourselves.” He gives me a self-deprecating smirk. “I’ve still got all of my journals. Perhaps I should write a book.”
“Oh, good idea! What would you call it?”
He smirks. “How about, ‘Intimate Relations?’ Does that work for you?”
“Smart ass,” I say. “If you’re going to do that, you may as well call it, ‘Sexual Predators 101.’”
“What about, ‘How I Was Reared by My Father?’ Or is that too visual?” He throws his head back and laughs uninhibitedly.
I can’t help it, I laugh, too. “Oh my God! What a terrible play on words!”
“It’s wonderful to get to the point where you can laugh about a subject like this. It’s not at all funny, but it is! Grant, who was once so somber and serious, has changed. When we’re alone, there’s a newfound playfulness around him and a readiness to laugh.
“I could call it, ‘My Universally Popular and Charismatic Father—the Child Molester.’ I imagine that would sell, don’t you?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Still smiling, I shake my head. “That would be a best seller. But I was thinking of something sweet like, ‘How I Found True Love after Abuse.’” I say, batting my eyelashes at him. “No?”
“Nice,” he says with a warm smile, the kind of smile that makes me melt. We both stand up and I naturally step into his warm embrace.
Mitten comes back inside, purring and chatty, rubbing up against our legs and demanding to sit on my shoulder as though nothing’s happened. Grant lavishes him with attention.
Eventually, we clean up the kitchen together, then vacuum and tidy up the mess from the trophy stand so we don’t shred our feet from shards of glass. We both need a good night’s sleep.
In bed, we hold each other tightly, taking refuge in each other’s arms, but neither of us feel like making love. There’s too much to think about. The last twenty-four hours have been far too intense.
I fall asleep and wake to the sound of Grant’s phone ringing in complete darkness.
“Hello?” Grant says blearily. The digital clock displays 3:00 a.m. in brilliant green numerals.
“Grant Wilkinson?” a male voice murmurs, I can hear him clearly in the silence of Grant’s bedroom.
"Yes… I'm Grant Wilkinson.”
“This is Doctor Underdahl, from Highland Park ER. I’m sorry for calling at this hour, but your mother has been admitted to the hospital.”
“What?” Grant says sharply as he bolts upright in bed.
“I’m afraid she’s taken an overdose—it appears to have been intentional. She’s out of danger, but had lost consciousness by the time the ambulance picked her up at her home. When you come in, will you please bring her insurance details?”
Chapter 64.
“People often claim to hunger for truth, but seldom like the taste when it's served up.”
― George R.R. Martin
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
“It’s not your fault,” Renata says.
“I know,” I agree. “As you’ve told me already, denial doesn’t last a lifetime. My mother was going to figure it out someday. I can’t help it if the truth hurts. Besides, it’s better for her to find out before the trial. How will she cope if it becomes front page news?”
“Good point.”
It’s after three in the morning and no cars on the road. I can feel Renata’s weighted gaze from where she sits in the passenger seat. She’s worried about me, but she needn’t be. I’m more concerned about my mother right now.
“So, you’re really doing OK?” she asks.
I slant her a glance as I turn into the entrance to my mother’s property. “I’m good. We all have shit to deal with, our own guilt and regrets—things we wish we’d done differently. I can’t take responsibility for my mother any more than she can be fully accountable for my crap. People make their own choices. Then they figure out how to live with the consequences of those choices.”
“Wow,” she says. “Deep.”
I laugh and shake my head. Renata cracks me up. The sheer fact she can make me smile and laugh after the last twenty four hours of hell is a real accomplishment. I've always been too serious, but not anymore. Not with her.
“When Betty Jo told us what her childhood had been like...” I pause, “it humbled me. The reason she was always so unhappy was right there in front of my nose. It was damned obvious. Socrates said the only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing. If that’s the case, I’m beginning to become a very wise man.”
“Ah,” she says. “Very good, sensei.”
I give a low chuckle. “Yes, I finally figured out I know nothing,” I tell her. “Guess I’ll start with that.”
“Nothing at all?” Her expression is skeptical.
I park the car in the circular driveway under the portico, turn to smile at her and take her hand. “The only thing I’m absolutely certain of is you. My life is definitely much better since I found you.”
“Awww. You’re getting pretty damned smooth,” she teases.
She teases, but I can tell my words affect her when she puts a hand to her chest. I’ve tugged on those heart strings of hers, all right. Did I mean to? Am I as manipulative as my father? Was I born with it?
Fuck. My mind is all screwed up, following senseless lines of thought. I’m not a monster. I’m a good person, my intentions are honorable. I don’t have to supervise my every word or action.
My mother’s home is a huge, three-story manor, facing Lakeside Park. It has what appear to be Lincoln Memorial size pillars and a rooftop outdoor ar
ea with waist height column railings. Built in the early 1900s, it’s been extensively renovated. With 8,000 square feet, four bedrooms, five baths, a four car garage and separate apartments for her two live in staff.
It’s three thirty in the morning, so we’re careful to be quiet. I assume her maid has gone back to bed, although I suspect she may have gone to the hospital with my mother. Either way, her cook will be asleep.
I study Renata’s expression as she takes her first steps inside. Her eyes widen and she blinks rapidly, blinded by the white marble flooring with black highlights, a huge staircase, complete with an enormous crystal chandelier. White painted walls, and white wallpaper, my mother loves the French provincial style, with liberal lacings of gold.
A smile lights her face as she walks through the house. There are magnificent oil paintings on the walls, all in gilt frames. Slate fireplace, a huge granite kitchen, fully appointed game room, you name it—it’s there. It’s over-the-top, just like my mother acts with her so called friends. Still, as ostentatious as it is, it looks fabulous.
After my father passed, my mother redecorated. After so many years of being forbidden to do so, did she finally enter his sacred, evil den? Are all of those dead animals still hanging on the walls?
A feeling of dread weighs down the pit of my stomach as I remember. If they’re still there and I get a chance, I’ll give all those animals a decent burial.
Renata follows me upstairs, looking around wide-eyed at everything. Just off of the master bedroom is where I find a white-painted wooden filing cabinet. It looks more like a dresser, but is obviously where my mother would most likely keep her documents.
“I’ll look through her papers here. Would you please look around to see if you can find her purse, if you don’t mind?” I ask Renata. “They couldn't find it when the paramedics were here, but it can’t be too hard to locate. She never went too far without it.”
“Sure,” she says and meanders off.
From the top drawer, I pull out a large manila folder labeled, ‘Valuable Documents,’ and set it on a nearby table. In it, I find family passports, birth certificates and… ah, jackpot, her medical insurance information and cards.
