“What do you mean?” Her tone was defensive.
“You know what I mean.”
“No.” Vivian sent me a hassled look. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I didn’t like him talking to you like that, Viv. You didn’t deserve it.”
She sighed and turned to gaze out at the open yard. “It’s not like that all the time.”
I waited for her to say more.
When she didn’t, I could not keep silent.
I wasn’t going to be around much longer and she needed to hear this from me.
I hesitated for a moment, debated the proper approach and opted for the most straightforward. “He’s abusive, Viv.”
It took a second for my words to sink in. “He’s not.” She looked down, wrapping her arms around her midsection as if to shield herself. “Brody’s never laid a finger on me.”
“Brody may not be physically abusive, but he’s emotionally abusive.”
When she glanced up, her delicate brows were drawn together in a frown. “What would make you even think such a thing?”
I cleared my throat. “Let me guess, is Brody the real jealous type?”
“Yes.” Her frown deepened. “But jealousy is an emotion. It’s human nature. It’s a sign of love.”
“I agree … to a point. Does Brody ever accuse you of flirting? Does he always question you about who you’ve spoken to or seen during the day?”
Her expression was guarded, hard to read.
Watching her closely, I asked, “Does he get jealous when you spend time with your friends? Or if you have any hobbies that don’t include him?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then his jealousy is not a sign of love. It’s a sign of abuse. His jealousy is no longer an emotion, it’s become a behavior that’s toxic.”
She pressed her lips firmly together, her eyes refusing to meet mine.
“And I bet he’s controlling. Am I right?”
“Well,” she hedged.
“Your clothes … does he have a say about what you wear?”
“You mean if I wear anything too slutty?” Confusion and alarm warred in her eyes as she blinked up at me. “There’s nothing wrong with that. Brody means well. It just shows that he cares. You know, he’s just concerned. He doesn’t want to see me dressing like a slut.”
I stared at her, a small muscle in my jaw tightening. “He calls you a slut?”
“No,” she protested. “He says I dress like one.”
“Name calling.” I gave her a long, pointed look. “Shaming,” I added. “Another sign of abuse.”
“No.” She shook her head, as if trying to convince herself otherwise. “Brody’s being honest with me. He’s only trying to be helpful.”
“He isn’t trying to be helpful, Viv. He’s controlling.”
He’s a wolf disguised as a shepherd, I thought.
When she spoke again, some of her conviction had gone out of her voice. “You don’t understand. He’s not controlling. Brody just likes to … to smother me.”
“He overpowers you,” I stated.
“That’s not true,” she said, her voice soft, a confused vulnerability in her expression.
“You know it is, Viv. I’ve seen the way he acts around you. The cutting remarks. I’ve heard him take jabs at you, make fun of you, and then say that it was all just a joke. He’s constantly giving you mixed messages. Those are all red flags, Viv.”
“But don’t you see?” She closed her eyes as if summoning the energy to continue. “Brody was joking. He never meant those things that he said. Anyway,” she went on, not meeting my eyes, “I’m a strong girl. You know … sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
“Whoever said that was plain wrong! Words do hurt, Viv. They break you on the inside.”
“But I’m fine, Liam,” she insisted. “I’m fine.” Even as she said this, misery was clear in her eyes and her face bore the strain of their toxic relationship.
“That’s what you keep saying. But you know better, Viv. You know that whether you get hit with a stick or hit with words, it’s not right. And I can see you’re hurting. The pain you feel, the pain from the invisible stick, that’s a sign that you are being abused.
We stared at each other for a long, hot moment, then her temper flared. “What makes you such an expert? You’ve only been back for—what—like a week! How can you even know what Brody is like?”
I didn’t answer right away and the thread of our conversation was lost in tense silence.
I reached in my pocket for my pack of cigarettes and tamped one out.
My lighter flickered in the dark like a firefly as I lit my first cigarette of the day.
I took a deep drag, inhaling it deep into my lungs. “My dad was a lot like Brody.” I angled my head to the left, blowing a smooth stream of smoke across my shoulder. “And guess what?”
“What?” she finally asked.
“All abusers read the same handbook.”
“Really?” Vivian lifted a skeptical brow.
“Really.” I repaid her cynical gesture with an arched brow of my own. “How Brody treats you is exactly how my dad treated my mom. The details might differ some, but the way Brody acts, the things he says, the way you begin to think … you and my mom—your stories are pretty much identical.”
She studied me a moment longer, another frown drawing up through her features. “I really don’t think I’m like your mom, Liam. In fact, I know I’m not because Brody is not abusive.”
“Enough about Brody.” I took another drag on my cigarette. “Brody is not going to change. But you, Viv. You are changing. And that worries me. You’ve become so much more tolerant.”
She lowered her eyes for a moment, raised them again. “Of what?”
“Of the abuse. You are letting Brody get away with being a dick. You’ve begun to accept what you know is unacceptable. And these so called ‘helpful’ criticisms he gives you are not helpful. They’re harmful. That’s how Brody disguises his abuse. And you make excuses for him, Viv. You may not realize this, but you’re doubting yourself more and more each day. You are losing your self. You are losing your voice. And it makes it easier for Brody to control you … which is his bottom line.”
Long seconds passed before she spoke. “No.” Her lovely blue eyes widened with surprise, then pain. “No,” she said again. “You’ve got it all wrong.”
I gave her a searching look. “Do I?”
“I ... I think so …” She trailed off unsteadily.
“You think you are not being abused? You’re obviously an intelligent girl, Viv. Smart. Well educated. I remember how taken aback I was by you. You were so passionate, so idealistic and clear minded. And you used to be so confident. You knew exactly what you wanted in life and you weren’t going to let anyone get in the way. You believed in yourself.”
A moment passed, and then another, and still she said nothing.
“Trust your instincts that you always relied on before. You know how Brody treats you is fucked. He manipulates you by making you doubt yourself. Do not believe his lies. You know the truth. Deep down, you know you are being abused. There is no question about that.”
She began to worry her lower lip between her teeth and my gaze dropped to her mouth, taking in the gentle curve of her lips. Lush, moist, and so incredibly full.
I frowned, irritated that I found the sight so alluring. “You do not have to take his bullshit. You deserve to be treated with respect, Viv. You deserve better.”
As the faint moonlight played across her features, I could see the struggles reflected on her face. Something in my heart softened for I understood, perhaps too well. I’d seen the same struggles my own mom had battled.
When finally she spoke, I heard the weariness in her voice. “Maybe I should try to understand him … you know, put myself in his shoes.”
“Vivian,” I implored. “There is no justification for being yelled at. None. Absolutely none. Don
’t try to understand Brody because you will never understand him. You’ll drive yourself insane trying to understand him. Trust me, most abusers are irrational. You think Brody is rational? Let me tell you, he’s not. You think you can make Brody understand you? Wake up!” I snapped my fingers. “He’s not going to.”
There was a long pause. It seemed to go on for eternity.
I heard her draw in a deep breath. “So how long did your mom stay with your dad?”
“Too long,” I said quietly.
The look she gave me was long and considering. “Is that why you spent so much time at my house?”
I shrugged. “I guess you could say that. Living with my dad … it was just as bad as living with an alcoholic or a physically abusive person. I couldn’t stand it … watching my mom constantly shredded to pieces by all the criticizing, the belittling, the yelling.”
She tilted her head to the side and studied me, as if I were some complicated mystery she must solve. “Why didn’t you tell anyone about it?”
“I did.” I gave a tired laugh. “I told my whole family—my grandmother, my aunts, and uncles, but they just brushed it off. Mostly, they didn’t believe me since Mom bore no visible scars. It almost seemed trivial to them whenever I’d brought it up.” My lips twisted in bitter amusement. “Like it didn’t even matter.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice came out in a whisper. “I didn’t know.”
There was another long pause.
Viv watched me closely and our eyes lingered on each other for a moment before I looked away. As my gaze slid down to my cigarette, I was surprised to see that it had burned away without me even noticing. I lit another and took a long drag. “To me, Mom was a battered woman, just as if she’d been beaten. Dad—he killed her spirit. Yes, there were no visible scars, but all his abuse scarred her on the inside. Eroded her self-esteem. It was so gradual I think Mom didn’t even realize it. Every time he verbally abused her, Mom’s spirit—it died a little. It paralyzed her. She became a prison of his demented mind. After a while, I think she’d pretty much forgot what a healthy, normal relationship was like.”
A beat passed, then another. “Does she know now?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, and even managed to smile a little. “She’s got a good man in her life at the moment.”
Her brows lifted in surprise. “Remarried?”
“Yep.” I nodded again. “They live in Australia. Mom moved back to Melbourne after the divorce and she met Paul a year later.”
“What about your dad?” she asked. “Is he remarried, too?”
“Don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “Don’t care. I’m just glad Mom is out of his life. It wasn’t easy for her. When she left my dad, she left with almost nothing. But she’s in a much better place now.” I sucked in a sharp breath. “It took years … many long years, but I was finally able to convince her that she wasn’t loved, only controlled.”
“I see …” Vivian broke off. She said nothing for a long moment, lapsing back into her own thoughts. “I’m glad you looked out for your mom,” she said at last. “I remember you used to look out for me, too. Do you remember Angela Lowry?”
I gave a wry smile. “Are you referring to The Jolly Green Giant?”
“Yes.” Vivian burst out laughing. “Her. She was always so mean to me. And she was so miserable. Never skipped a day in her life. I’m pretty sure she’s just as miserable today. Little girls who don’t skip in their childhood grow up to be miserable cows.”
“Keen observation.” My lips quirked and I suppressed a grin. “And what’s Angela Lowry doing these days?”
Without missing a beat, she said, “Bagging my groceries at Safeway.”
I studied her with a glint of amusement. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” Vivian stood there grinning, taking enormous pleasure in Angela’s misfortune. “Serves her right for being such a big bully.”
I barked out a laugh.
Vivian was only in third grade when, Angela, a fifth grader at the time, and much bigger than Vivian, started picking on her. One day, Vivian came running back home in tears because Angela had pushed her around and slashed her Hello Kitty backpack.
I’d happened to be hanging out in the front yard, popping wheelies on my BMX while Julian was inside the house grabbing a drink. When I’d heard what had happened, I immediately sped off on my bike, tracked Angela down, and had some words with her.
“Did Angela ever bother you again?” I asked.
Vivian squinted up at me, her mouth set into a firm line. “Come to think of it, no one on the street ever bothered me again. Just curious …” She frowned at me as if trying to work out a puzzle. “What did you do to her? Even back then she was so much bigger and taller than you.”
I gave a short shrug. “I didn’t do anything to her. I simply had a little chat with her.”
“Well.” Vivian looked at me expectantly. “What exactly did you say to her?”
I flicked my cigarette. “I told her that if she ever messed with you again, my pastor would pay her a visit.”
“Oh, Liam!” Vivian shook her head, bubbling with laughter. “You never even went to church.”
“True.” I stubbed out the remainder of my cigarette. “But that sure scared her off. That and I preached about hell and eternal damnation.”
“For real?” Her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Uh-huh.” I couldn’t hold back the smug smile that crept across my face. “I told her she was going to burn in the fires of hell.”
“Wait, wait.” Vivian waved her arms in excitement. “Start at the beginning and tell me word for word exactly what you said to her.”
“Hmm,” I pondered. “It’s been years, but I remember saying something along the lines of: When you go to hell, the darkness is so terrifying it engulfs you. You feel something moving in the darkness … you think it is the nest of maggots in your rotting corpse. But it is not. Something horrible is happening. Terror and fear beyond anything you could imagine surrounds you.
“No! This can’t be happening!” you scream. It is the smell that reaches you first. Your nostrils fill with the stench of burning souls. Your face scorches from the boiling heat. Flames are now blazing out from your eyes, your nostrils, your ears, your mouth, your butt hole—flames are roaring out of every orifice. As the fire licks your body, your raw flesh and your guts slowly melt into your bones, and you convulse from the excruciating pain.
“Why won’t I die?” You rear up, roaring with pain, longing to flee the carnage. You begin weeping and thrashing about. “When will this pain ever stop?” But you know it will never ever stop …”
I paused and cleared my throat so I no longer sounded like Darth Vader. “Um, yeah … as much as I can recall, my talk with Angela went something like that,” I finished, wearing a satisfied smirk on my face.
Vivian laughed again, melting the ice I wanted to keep around my heart. “Well, thank you.” She reached out and patted my arm affectionately. “Thanks for protecting me from The Jolly Green Giant. But you don’t need to protect me anymore. I’m a big girl now, Liam.”
At her words, I remembered the days when Viv was little enough to perch on my shoulders as Julian chased us around the backyard in a game of What’s the Time Mr. Wolf (Julian always ended up being the wolf, and when he yelled “Dinner time” I’d take off running at a fast clip with little Viv clinging onto my back like a second skin).
Now I found myself wishing I could carry her away from the real wolf—the wolf disguised as her boyfriend.
I sighed deeply. Viv was right, though. She was no longer that little girl and I could no longer just whisk her away as I pleased. But I could still look out for her.
I couldn’t protect my mom from my dad. But I could protect Viv.
I had to. The thought of adding that failure to my list was almost unbearable.
“Viv.” I waited until her eyes met mine. “I realize you’re a big girl now.” Just saying those words aloud, it made
something in my heart soften. “A grown woman. But big girl or not, you are being abused. And you need to know that you’re being abused. Recognize it for what it is. Not knowing you’re abused is bad. But refusing to know it? Refusing to recognize it? That’s far worse. Do you hear what I’m trying to say?” When she looked down, I lifted her chin so she had no choice but to face me. “Do you hear me, Viv?”
“I do.” Her words were couched in a whisper and I could tell misgivings still warred inside her.
“Then stand up to Brody. And stand up for yourself, Viv. If you don’t stand up for yourself, you’ll fall for anything.”
At last she exhaled a quiet, steady breath. “I know. I just need some time to think things over. You know, sort out my feelings. Sort out my head.”
I wasn’t so sure if I believed her, but I chose not to push the subject any further.
Instead, I tousled her hair and clasped her in a brotherly embrace. “You don’t have to do this alone. I’m here for you, okay?”
“Okay,” she murmured, hugging me back so hard I thought I might not live to see tomorrow.
Smiling, I dropped a feathered kiss on her forehead.
Like the hug, it was a brotherly kiss. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“Night, Liam,” she said, her voice coming out small and tired.
“Good night.” I stood watching her as she shifted away from me.
At the doorway, she paused and cast a look over her shoulder. “When will you be going back to Iraq?”
“In a week,” I answered.
“I see,” she said quietly. There was a pause until she added, “Do you want to? Go back there, I mean?”
I nodded. “I do.”
“Why?” she asked. “Why do you want to go back?”
It sounded like a simple question, but to me, it was a loaded one.
Why did I want to go back?
Her question hung thick in the air like battle fumes.
Why would anyone want to go back to a war without any clear demarcations of a battlefield? The I.E.D.s, the harsh desert environment, the shitty food, sand in every crevice, seeing the fear and desperation in the faces of the Iraqi civilians, witnessing my own friends and soldiers getting blown into smithereens.
Vivian's List (Vol. 1) Page 2
