“Yes.”
“He’s going to be the best dad, isn’t he? We’re going to be happy, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
My mom holds me a little too tight and tells me she loves me. I know her piercing blue eyes are full of hope. She is always full of hope, and likes to believe she can fill a room with an Alice in Wonderland magic. Most of the time she can, but not tonight.
“I love you, Ma.”
She leaves and I’m alone, more alone than ever. I find my own fingers walking down my tummy towards the place Dad touches. I begin to touch myself. It feels bad, it feels good, I feel bad, and I don’t care. I fall asleep, have nightmares and wake up terrified. I can’t stay in my room. I can’t go into my mom’s room. I’m stuck and I’m scared.
It’s darker and more evil in my room than it is in my mom’s bed so I sneak into the bedroom. Mom and Dad are sleeping and I slip into the bed next to Dad. I don’t want my mom to be cross. I’m praying Dad doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t, but his fingers do and I begin to fly above myself, watching me, not recognising me. Dad touches, my body responds and I’m terrified. I hate myself.
I wake up before my mom and dad and quickly run to my bedroom and get dressed.
“Candice, breakfast.”
“Coming.”
“How did you sleep? You look tired, are you okay?”
“Mom, I’m fine.”
“You’re perfect.”
“Thanks Mom.”
“Come on, eat up and let’s go.”
I’m on my way to being an A-plus liar. I can hide all my fears and rise above the darkness, play with my friends, contribute in class and make silly jokes. Perfect little me.
My mom doesn’t know I’ve already gone, left the house, my school and the playground. I’m with my unicorns, away, away from here, in my silent prison.
Dad kisses my forehead, he is being a father, strong, kind and caring. He places his hand on my shoulder.
“See you later sweetheart, enjoy school.”
“Thanks.”
I hug Dad. I hug him because he loves me and I like being loved. I hug him because I love him and I like loving. Maybe he keeps making mistakes and I need to forgive him; maybe my prison won’t be so bad after all.
I’m an eight-year-old girl who loves bubblegum ice cream and milk suckers. My dad kisses me with his tongue and touches me in places that feel bad. I love my sisters, my friends and my mom. I love Cabbage Patch dolls and Barbie. Dad loves me. I know because he told me how special I am, how pretty, how G-d wants this to happen between us and that our love is so deep that only G-d can understand. That’s why we must never tell people because they wouldn’t understand this powerful love. I play his game, play with fear and anxiety. No one knows our game; no one knows I am starting to become crippled by fear, lies and loneliness.
There are other times in my life when there is no tongue, no touching and no fingers. I’ve learned how to have fun, learned how to be my age, learned how to kick back like the other eight-year-olds. So I’m normal, not so normal, this is my new kind of normal.
“Dad, I’ve been invited to a birthday party tomorrow. Please can I go?”
“But we’ve got plans for this weekend and I don’t like you spending the day away.”
“Please, Dad.”
I’ve also learned that the only way I will be able to go to this party is if Dad, in broad daylight, in his office, can touch what I now call my fanny – thanks to Dad’s teachings. If he can touch it in his way, and I can become nothing, become an object long enough, I can go to the party.
He begins. I become the sheet of paper, the pen, the desk, the wood, and then I become nothing.
“You can go.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I pull up my panties. Yippee, I’m going to the party. A day away from here, from him, this man I love, this man I’m scared of. This man I call Dad.
When he isn’t being a husband, a father, a businessman, a son, a smoker, he finds his tongue a new home, inside my fanny. First it is the tip of his tongue, an uncomfortable fly landing on my sensitivities. I want to slap it away, slap him away. But it becomes firmer, stronger and parts my private lips. No longer a fly, it becomes more demanding. My legs forced open, he pushes his rough tongue in her. I hate this, I hate her. I feel her opening, letting his tongue deeper inside me.
Things I learned at eight:
Happiness comes and goes.
How to kiss with the tongue.
Sums.
Girls aren’t allowed to go to Cubs.
A man’s thing can go hard.
I’m pretty and can get attention.
I love to act and want to be famous.
I can leave my body and be nowhere.
I can keep secrets.
I know how to miss someone.
I can get on with life.
My body can become an object.
nine
I’m no one; I’m the air, the desk, the floor and the carpet. We are lying on the floor; he’s hard and sticky. I’m his toy, I’m invisible. I’m afraid and I hate myself. Does G-d hate me?
“Want to get some bubblegum ice cream?”
“Please,” I say with no expression.
I don’t want bubblegum ice cream, I don’t want to be here with him in his office, I don’t want to be me, I don’t want to exist. I pull up my panties. My legs are tired, my in-between place is sore. His knuckles are too large for that space. I feel sick. Maybe the ice cream will help.
We’re in the car and he tells me how wonderful and special I am. I wonder if wonderful and special equals no one, nothing, invisible and dirty. Dad tells me G-d loves me, Dad says he loves me so much that he can’t help himself. I’m thinking I must be very special to be so loved.
My ice cream is delicious. The bubblegum is hard and chewy, the ice cream cold, blue and soft. I lick it, love it. It soothes my insides as it slides down into my tummy; it feels like medicine and I feel healed.
“Good?” Dad asks.
“Better than good!”
It’s my birthday. I’ve eaten ice cream and opened so many presents. I got the best stuff: jelly shoes and bracelets from Kim, a Hello Kitty purse from Gran, and pretty clothes from Mom and Dad. Mom, Gran and Kim tell me they love me and I again think I must be so very special to be so loved. G-d, Dad, Mom, Gran and Kim love me, Candice Derman. I’m so lucky.
For my ninth birthday I have a swimming party. I have lots of friends over. We swim, laugh, eat and play games. I love these moments, carefree and happy. My mom throws the best birthday parties. Sometimes she organises treasure hunts, sometimes she arranges ponies, and sometimes there are clowns. I love birthdays; I wish I could have one every day.
They are like forgiveness, G-d loves me again and he doesn’t think I’m evil, bad and nasty. G-d thinks I’m his princess and I feel good, clean and beautiful. Everyone is celebrating me. There is so much chatting and laughing. Dad’s being so nice to all my friends, he makes them giggle and scream as he runs after them in the garden. I love him now, all playful and kind. He looks at me and summons up a big smile.
“Happy birthday, my love.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“One day you are going to be the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
Happy birthday to me.
Hard.
Happy birthday to me.
Hard, hairy.
Happy birthday, dear Candice.
Small, sore, wet.
Happy birthday to me.
Squirt, sticky, smelly, warm.
There are a few things I want to be when I grow up:
An actress.
A dog walker.
A mother.
A model.
When I blow out the candles on my birthday cake, I close my eyes and make some wishes. Maybe one of them will come true some day.
My soon-to-be stepbrothers, John and Richard, are at the party. They live in Zimbabwe with their
mother and stay over during their holidays. I like them, especially Richard. He reminds me of me: naughty, loud, fun and cross. The only difference between us is that everything he feels, everyone knows about. I’m hoping to be his girlfriend, even though I am his stepsister. I imagine he is a good kisser.
I’m nine, and I can blow bubblegum bubbles better than anyone else. My bubbles are massive and when they pop, they cover my nose and mouth. Usually I find this funny, but not today; today I can’t breathe, I am sure I will suffocate and die. I start peeling the sticky goo from my face. Everyone is watching and laughing. I’m laughing too, a nervous laugh. I tell myself it’s only sticky gum, Candice, not the sticky stuff that comes out of Dad. It tastes nice, not like Dad. Silly me for thinking I could die from gum. I wonder if I could die from “cum”; that’s what Dad calls it.
“Happy birthday, Candice!” everyone shouts.
I smile. I’m nine. I have cake, chocolate and sweets to eat and lots of presents to open. What have I got to be afraid of? Let the party go on and on.
The night of my birthday party I go to bed happy and full, my head spinning from sugar and treats. I wish I could put my ninth birthday in a snow globe and stay in this day forever. Everyone with their smiles plastered on their faces and Dad, just being Dad, protecting me from the snow.
The touching increases and things in the “I-wish-Dad-wasn’t-doing-this-to-me” department grow. His fat, pink tongue has found its way into my once smiling mouth. He smells like smoke: Dad is a big smoker. He wakes up in the morning and inhales, goes to sleep at night and exhales. The bed smells of cigarettes, his clothes smell of cigarettes, he smells of cigarettes.
The worst smell, though, is his mouth with its dragon-like tongue. The first time his tongue entered my mouth I wanted to vomit, a loud, convulsing never-ending vomit. His tongue felt big and for a few moments I forgot how to breathe through my nose. His tongue slapped my tongue and hit the back of my throat. I thought he was going to lick my insides out, suck my blood and steal my heart, but he didn’t. When his tongue left my swollen mouth my insides were still intact, my blood was still pumping fast around my body, and I knew my heart was still there because it was beating so hard I thought it would thump me to death.
I was wrong; nothing happened. I continued to live and a new kind of normal took over.
On the morning of the wedding I have butterflies in my tummy. I’m so excited about the day, about my dress, about all the guests, but mostly I’m excited about Joe becoming my real dad.
The wedding is perfect. Everyone is so happy and filled with celebration. I recite a poem. I love the attention and feel on top of the world. Everyone laughs when they should, and claps when I finish, even though my poem has nothing to do with love or weddings. The best part of the wedding is seeing Romy. I haven’t seen her in ages and I miss her so badly. My mom’s so happy she is here and her heart has opened up once again.
Romy arrives in an ugly grey and yellow dress and here I am in my beautiful white and pink dress. I hate my dress, I hate that Romy is uncomfortable. I love her and I love that she came. Even though her dress is dull she looks prettier than anyone at the wedding. I’m so proud of Romy; what a perfect day.
I want to be loved, wear beautiful dresses, play with my friends and be protected by my parents. I don’t want night-time to come. I don’t want a wee place; I want to stitch it up and close it forever.
After the wedding, life goes back to some kind of normality. Dad’s mom moves in with us, so now I have a new gran. She is old, fat and wrinkled with a mouth that turns down, and her hair is grey and falls to her waist. She plaits it and puts it in a bun. She loves her son, Jesus and G-d and I try to love her. Mom thinks she also needs a new style. Gran gets a short haircut, new shirts, blouses and fancy shoes. I notice her mouth slowly turning upwards.
I go to school, shop with Mom, play with my friends, fight with Kim, do my homework, and have nightmares. Romy stops coming around and Dad continues touching me. And he’s getting hold of me more often during the day.
We have moved to an even bigger house, we are rich. We are rich because my mom’s dad was rich, which made my gran, my mom and now my dad rich. It once made Lionel rich but when he left my grandfather’s business and my mom, he became poor. My grandparents are now dead and Dad is running the furniture business.
Our house has many floors. We have a dining room, TV room, five bedrooms and a snooker room. Outside there is a jacuzzi, sauna, swimming pool, pond, tennis court, small gym and Dad’s office.
We have three black people working for us, Anna, Lizzy and Lucas. They have worked for my mom for many years. Anna is like my second mom. She makes sure that I sparkle as clean as the house. She comes on holiday with us, dresses me up as a little Zulu girl, makes me pap and collects bottled seawater, though I don’t know what she uses it for. Lizzy helps Anna clean and cook; she’s my third mom. Lucas is our gardener. He takes care of everything growing and green. He has magic fingers and flowers bloom when he touches them.
We have two German shepherds called Sasha and Nero and two Persian cats called Tuppence and Smurf. They all live together in harmony and are among my best friends. I’m living on my very own island called Villa Be Vardi, that’s what Dad calls our kingdom. I’m not sure about what goes on outside our kingdom, I don’t know who the President is, who our neighbours are or why there are no black children at my school.
I’m in our snooker room. It has a bar and behind the bar are tall stools. I’m on a stool, legs spread over the wooden seat. Dad often puts me in this position. The hard wood pushes into me and my lower back is so sore. In a way, I like the pain; in a way, it distracts me from what’s really going on. I forget about my lower back banging into the back of the chair and I see Dad touching himself. I see his large, hard, hairy, ugly thing. He is moaning, his eyes have rolled back, he’s not thinking of anything. It seems like Dad’s not really there; he is but he isn’t. This is not Dad, it is a monster.
His tongue has left my insides and his fingers are there instead. He’s moving them in and out hard and fast; it is sore, and he doesn’t care. He looks desperate and out of control. He starts to make loud noises. He takes his fingers away, loses his balance, opens his eyes and the white stuff spurts out of his wee place. The sticky goo flies out onto me and I smell the smell. It is strong. It’s a smell I don’t understand, a smell I don’t like. Dad’s coming back, I see him entering his body.
“Go and bath. Get cleaned up.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I love you more than anything. You’re the best daughter in the world.”
This is my new kind of normal.
I’m in the bath and I feel nothing, I am nothing. I am numb. I’m washing myself but can’t feel myself doing it. I pull out the plug and let the water down the plughole. I want to go with the water. I want to be the water. Gone. Nothing. But I can’t. I’m here in this bath. My sadness and fears are eating away at me and I’m getting bored of being in this state of nothingness. I get out of the bath, get dressed. I’m hungry and I’m ready for some fun. I want to eat and I want to play. I’m not sure what I want to do first but I know I want to forget about the badness and get on with the goodness, so I’m all up for games.
“Hey, Kim, you want to play a game?”
“No, I’ve got homework to do.”
“Can’t I help you?”
“Yah, right. Go play some snooker with Dad.”
A big slap of silence.
“I’ve already done that.”
“Well I can’t help.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
I go outside, kick a ball for a while, get bored, play with my dolls in their doll’s house, see what Anna is cooking for dinner and eventually settle down to watch TV. Maya the Bee is on, and I happily slip into Maya’s world of pollen, flowers and song.
I’ve started acting and doing plays. The best thing a
bout acting is I get to be other things: animals, trees, I even get to play a cat. I am not scared of being in front of people, I love it, and I love the attention. I just do my thing, purr and wave my make-believe tail. I remember all my lines and never want it to end. I want to be that cat forever. After the show everyone comes up to me and tells me how good I am. Dad puts me high on his shoulders, he is so proud of me; he carries me all over and tells everyone I am his daughter. I am so happy. I believe he will never hurt me again, never touch me in dark places; this one night I am his daughter, he is my father and I love him. My mom, perfect mom, walks behind us smiling. We are the best family in the whole world. No one can ever be as happy as us. I am the cat that got the cream, lucky me, lucky nine-year-old me.
School is so hard. I can’t concentrate for long; everything they teach me is too boring. I’m bad at maths, I can’t spell anymore, and teachers find me a disruption in class. When I’m at home Dad doesn’t let me leave my room until I learn my times tables. Mom agrees; she doesn’t want a stupid daughter. So I’m stuck in my room looking at the numbers moving around the page. They make me dizzy as I force them into my head. I want to keep them there long enough so that I can recite them to Dad before I vomit them out of my brain.
I want to kiss my boyfriends and girlfriends when they come over to play and I’m touching myself a lot. It’s so nice, so horrible; I feel bad and good at the same time. I like the feeling and can make myself twinkle at the end, but it only lasts a few seconds. Afterwards I lie there feeling nothing, numb, except for my beating heart accompanied by the sound of the old ladies cackling at me.
I’m nine, I’m a liar, I’m an actress and I’m Dad’s favourite girl. I’ve started doing a lot of children’s theatre productions. It began when my class went to watch Jack and the Beanstalk. I knew I didn’t want to be watching, I wanted to be performing and so my passion truly began. After the play my mom spoke to the director of the company, she asked me to audition and I made the grade.
Indescribable Page 2
