Indescribable

by Candice Derman

Other questions I ask myself:

  Is blue still my favourite colour?

  Am I going to buy a hotdog at break?

  Does Sarah still think I’m her best friend?

  These questions are less bothersome, and slowly the unease leaves my body. I also have answers for all these questions.

  I’m training my mind to go from bad thoughts to good thoughts. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. Today it did. My “life is cherry” mood is back. The nice thing about life is that sometimes you do have the answers when you’re stuck, and you can move forward and just sip on a frozen raspberry drink.

  Mom’s delighted when Dad comes back from his business trip. She loves feeding him and making him happy and full. She gets up early to make him breakfast: eggs, bacon, a fresh pot of coffee and a whole lot of love. I see Mom wanting to please Dad, the twinkle in her eye when he sits at the table and her excitement when he makes appreciative noises about her food. Mom has no idea Dad is a wolf in disguise; she is just so happy, she thinks she has won a prize. Mom loves Dad, Dad loves Mom and they both love me.

  Eleven is terribly confusing. I’m almost a teenager, I run around like a hooligan but I like to wear dresses. I feel afraid of the dark and would love my mom to cradle me in her arms, but I’d also like to have a boyfriend and leave home. I’ve just got to sit still, hold these feelings inside and decide whether to breathe or not.

  Things I love at eleven:

  Caviar.

  Training bras.

  Ice-skating.

  Sunshine.

  Fruit.

  Sleepovers.

  Netball.

  Michael J. Fox.

  Dad.

  Things I hate at eleven:

  Loneliness.

  Cheese blintzes.

  Maths.

  Fighting.

  Confusion.

  Sex.

  Dad.

  Eleven is hard and eleven is easy.

  twelve going on thirteen

  I’m in my dad’s office; he is doing me on the floor. My bony back is jutting into the rough carpet, I’m naked on top, bra cast away to the side, skirt crumpled around my waist, and panties pulled down to my knees. Dad’s trousers are around his knees, his shirt wrinkled and sticking to his sweaty, musty body. He is thrusting in and out and I’m wondering if he remembered to lock the door. Part of me wishes someone would walk in and see this unholy sight; and part of me is in fear that someone would see me, legs open, my eyes wide and terrified, with a full view of Dad’s ass and balls.

  That someone could be Jodi, who has started working with Dad and has also moved back home. If she opened the door maybe I would be saved, she could be G-d’s chosen one. But Dad doesn’t make mistakes: he would never leave the door unlocked, he would never let us get caught.

  When Dad is on top of me my body responds, wet, hot, cold, stone. My head shouts, “Go away, motherfucker”, but no voice comes out. I’m naked, weak and pathetic, hating me, blaming me, shouting at me, “You stupid girl, do something.” But I lie there, I just lie there, allowing my dad to be in charge. Abuse takes away my fight, my cheek, my love of me.

  I look up at his desk and I see a photo of my mom smiling down, with her blue eyes and big, wide toothy grin. It is a pretty picture of her and I wonder what her expression would be if she could see her husband and daughter now. I watch the expression on my mom’s face change: I see her blue eyes turn murky and her lips turn downward, she clenches her jaw and I wonder if her expression shows blame. I wonder if she would blame Dad or me. I blink, look away, look at the photo again; she is still smiling, happy and unaware.

  Dad comes, gets up and gives me a hand, kind man. We clean up; tissues are always close at hand. He unlocks the door and carries on with business as usual. Of course I do the same; there is homework to be done and I want my dad to be proud of me. He sits at the head of the desk and I sit opposite him, just like a regular daughter and father.

  My dad wears a watch, cufflinks, a tie around his thick neck for business meetings and a gold ring on his pinky finger, which he tells me is a family heirloom. He loves movies about historical figures, and Ben Hur and Spartacus are among his favourites. He watches nature documentaries, lions attacking zebras, a hyena eating a buck, or a snake swallowing a rabbit. My dad can shoot a gun and speak a couple of languages. He also tells me he can parachute out of a plane. He disciplines the misbehaved, has a neat handwriting and quotes paragraphs from self-help books. He can unzip his trousers, pull his underpants to the side, take out his penis and come all in five to ten minutes. My dad is multi-talented and has many faces.

  Twelve is a funny coming of age. For starters, I’m changing physically and if I stand naked in front of a full-length mirror, I see short dark hairs growing on my legs and my privates. My breasts are also growing; they’re pert, round and pretty and I like them. I’m also scared of them. They seem so grown up and I’m not sure I want to be a grown-up.

  My curly hair has started to grow and my curls have dropped and look like dancing springs around my face. The plumpness in my cheeks is less and I have visible cheekbones now.

  I do a few looks in the mirror, conveying different moods. First happy – I grin, large, too large, exposing my top and bottom teeth. I look silly but this makes me smile. Next a grumpy face – I frown so much I push my brows right down into my eyes. Then a sad face – I make my mouth fall to the ground and my eyes well up with tears. I like the sad face, it helps me release something deep inside me and I crumble to the floor and cry.

  I cry because I’m lost, I cry because I love life, I cry because I hate Dad, I cry because it feels good, I cry because my eyes tell me the truth and force me to stop lying when I’m alone in my silence. I cry because I can. Naked and alone, I cry.

  Dad’s been going to Mozambique a lot. We have a furniture business in Mozambique and two wood mills on the island of Pemba just off the coast. These trips give me time off from sex and I can become the real me, the naughty me, the cheeky me, the one who fears nothing and likes to play, because when the cat’s away the mouse will play. I decide on some serious play, sleep over at friends, friends sleep over with me, talking until all hours of the morning, having midnight feasts, going to the movies, flirting with boys, putting on new bras for my new boobs, and taking my new high school by storm.

  I’ve just turned thirteen and started at Wendywood High School, a school for the normal, not for the slow. This is a big jump for someone who’s been in a remedial school and I’m excited and nervous about it. I know how to pretend well but I don’t know how to pretend I’m good at school. It’s so crap being abused and struggling at school, I feel like I can never win.

  I sit in class and listen to the teachers in a complete blur. I feel like I’m slowly rafting down a river, watching the birds flying over me, seeing the trees rustling on the bank. It seems like a perfect day and I smile, but behind my frozen smile I know there is a massive drop coming. I know I’m going to fall and drown but my smile remains frozen. My teachers must find me so sweet but terribly dim.

  The problem with struggling at school is that you can’t fake it and I’m doing so badly the teachers are starting to notice. There are other kids struggling too, so they start a class for the ones who aren’t managing. Not so great to be moved into that class because the whole school knows that Standard 6D is for dummies. I try to make jokes and be the naughtiest in class, just so I don’t have to think. Think equals fear.

  In the looks department I’m not really confident, but people seem to like what they see and I have to use this to my advantage, which makes me seem arrogant and conceited. Rather that than feeling insecure and needy.

  There’s one boy in particular who doesn’t mind arrogant and conceited. His name is Dale and he’s ten out of ten in the looks department. Dale is a couple of years older than me and is in standard eight.

  “Hey Candice, it’s my birthday today.”

  “Well, what do you want me to do? Sing for you? ”


  “That would be nice,” Dale says grinning.

  “Yah right. See you around.” I’m playing hard to get. I walk away with butterflies in my tummy.

  Dale’s working hard to get me. All of a sudden he goes to the same extra maths teacher as me, he hangs out near me at break and in assembly he is in the front row of the balcony, looking down at me. I can’t help turning my head and looking up at him. Dale’s breaking me down. I have to catch my breath when I see him. Wendywood High is looking a lot more rosy with a sexy six-foot-two boy wanting me.

  6D is also a better class to be in; at least we learn at a pace I can keep up with. Hopefully, this will help me to pass. I’m scared of knowing that I have so many years to go at school: five years feels like a lifetime and when every subject is a struggle, a lifetime seems like eternity.

  Life sometimes feels like a blur; things happen so slowly and sometimes they happen so fast. I wake up, think about Dale, get ready for school and eat breakfast. I go to school, hear the teachers talking to me, chat to my friends, flirt with Dale. Go home, take off my school uniform, eat lunch, daydream about Dale. Dad sneaks a moment with me, undoes his zip, leaves his shirt and trousers on, undoes my skirt, licks his hand, slides it onto my vagina, makes her wet and slips his hard penis into me. I’m thinking to myself, “Dad, I’ve got to do my maths homework.” Dad comes, one, two, three, trousers up, shirt tucked into trousers, and he leaves.

  I’m somehow getting used to the normal, not normal, the fast, slow thing about my life. And the blur.

  Dale and I start hanging out together at break. We talk about rugby. He’s the captain of the school team and plays a mean game. We talk about movies. Dale loves Yul Brynner and westerns. We talk about our families. His parents are divorced and he only has one sister. Today Dale seems talked out. He’s not saying much and I’m worried he’s cross with me. I’m fumbling through a meaningless monologue, trying to fill the silence.

  Eventually I take a breath and Dale interrupts me. “Candice, I’ve got something to ask you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

  “Really?” It feels like Dale’s just asked me to marry him.

  “Yes, really.”

  “Of course I’ll be your girlfriend.” I jump up and hug him. I’m ecstatic. This boy is mine.

  A few weeks go by and Dad’s not liking Dale. He’s jealous that I’m floating on Dale’s cloud nine. I’m often not allowed to go to Dale’s house but luckily he’s allowed to come to mine. I love spending time with my boyfriend, who somehow understands me.

  Dale doesn’t know about Dad: he doesn’t know that after our young, fresh, beautiful kisses, I get an old tongue and a penis shoved inside me. I couldn’t tell Dale; not me the virgin, the one who has never been touched.

  Dale must be the first to touch my breasts, to kiss my stomach, to stroke my skin. Kissing Dale feels so good, Prince Charming kissing his princess. I feel so clean with Dale, so untouched.

  “Want to go out tonight?”

  “I can’t, Dad won’t let me.”

  “What is it with your stepdad?”

  “I don’t know.” I want to scream out and tell Dale what Dad makes me do. I want to tell Dale how it makes me feel. I want Dale to hold me.

  “Let’s not talk about my dad, please. Let’s just kiss.”

  We do; we kiss for so long that I get lost in Dale’s smell, in Dale’s touch, in Dale’s kisses. I look into his eyes and know another world is possible, a world where love exists, where hope happens and dreams are real. I know real love comes with no violence, it’s not about fear and silence, it’s not about having power over another person. It’s soft and kind and intense and passionate, it’s about giving and taking, discussing, and kissing and kissing and kissing. I know from this moment, from deep inside me, that one day I will escape Dad, escape this reality and live a life I can be proud of. Dad can never take away my desire to love or be loved, he can’t take it away because I know love can heal. Loving Dale so hard is my therapy.

  I feel my heart beating, I feel so excited and I know I’ll escape. I kiss Dale harder.

  “Dale, I love you.”

  “I love you too, Candice.”

  Dear G-d, please, please let this last forever. I pray.

  Our relationship develops into something really special. We enjoy each other’s company so much; life seems better with a boyfriend like Dale. I know I’m young but I feel years older, and somehow Dale seems so much more mature than his teenage years. I’m enjoying this, these special moments. I like pretending I’m a virgin who has never been touched; being a naïve teenager who is experiencing first love. I know the only truth in that sentence is that I’m experiencing my first love, but who cares.

  Dale and I write a lot of letters to each other. His always start with love and praise, “Candice I love you, you are so clever, it doesn’t matter that you struggle at school, one day you are going to be a great actress. I love your body, you are beautiful.” Mine always end with fear and insecurity, “Dale do you really love me, do I turn you on, do you really think I’m clever?”

  I always ask and he always answers. His letters put me on a love high. I’m not floating above myself, not running away from my body, not watching me from a distance. I am connected, I’m floating with my body, I’m being me, in love with a boy who loves me back.

  School continues to be difficult and sex with Dad seems to be getting more intense, but with Dale around it seems more bearable. I’m not excited about the school holidays that are coming up and having to go away with my family for three weeks. Three weeks without Dale scares me. Three weeks with Dad scares me.

  San Lameer is lovely; it’s by the beach and we’re staying in a big holiday house. I like being at the beach, watching the never-ending skyline and imagining I am out on the water, floating in nothingness, just being one with G-d. If there is a G-d, of course, because I wonder if G-d would let small girls get hurt and big men enjoy it; I wonder why G-d doesn’t help lost puppies and broken children.

  I like to tan and go a deep chocolate brown. It makes me happy, makes me feel healthy and strong, like I’m a little brown weapon. This is stupid, of course, because I’m nothing of the sort. I’m just a small, brown, abused smudge, which is also stupid because I’m not that either. I’m really a small, brown, strong girl who now knows love and the difference between good and bad. I’m a girl who knows what I like. I like that Dale doesn’t grab me roughly when we kiss, that he doesn’t force his strong body on me. I like it when he tickles me softly and holds me lovingly. I like that I’m in control. I don’t want sex, not yet anyway, I don’t want this innocence to go. I want to like myself for a little longer. Sex ruins things, makes men greedy for more.

  Dad is moving fast, in and out of me, licking my nipples, his arms on either side of me; my legs are open and limp. He is moaning, I am still, my nipples are hard and sore, not excited. My arms are spread out, I am not moaning. I am wet down there but it’s not from excitement.

  My mom is upstairs making breakfast for the family. It seems like this moment will never end, the ongoing fucking, the ongoing moving in and out. Maybe I’ll be in this position for the rest of my life, grow old, and end up a haggard old lady. Maybe Dad will die on me and we will decompose as one.

  I still try to float above us when he is moving in and out of me, but this morning I watch everything he is doing, somehow I can’t turn my head away. I stare at Dad and me, the weak and the strong, the lion and the deer, the dead girl and the live man. Dad comes inside me. I’m so used to the smell of his smoker’s breath, his sweaty body and his cum.

  I wonder why I went to lie next to him, why I still look for love from him, why I let him do this, why I don’t run away and why I can’t just scream. But I’m left with nothingness inside my soul, the death of me even though I’m still alive, cum inside me from my dad. I’m left desperate, alone and guilty. I hate my inability to get up and start hitting him. I hate mys
elf and I hate my life.

  I’m falling off the universe and I can’t watch me anymore, so I make a list of all the things I love in life. I rush through it so I don’t drown in Dad’s bodily fluids.

  I love:

  Dale.

  The ocean.

  Watching the sunrise and sunset.

  Acting and movies.

  I start to feel better. Time to put on my clothes and run and run and run, and pretend I’m not going to come back to my life, the life of Candice Derman, the fake, the liar, the oppressed, the victim.

  My feeling better doesn’t last long, as worry has moulded itself to resemble me. It starts in my heart, a massive deep beat, one thump at a time. I worry that I’m pregnant, that Dad could be the father of my child. I panic, I can’t breathe. I’m on the beach, I’m on the white sand. Breathe Candice, breathe, it just takes one breath at a time. I’ll ask Mom later, I’ll make up a story; it will be fine, I’ll be fine.

  The sun is shining, the day is bright and my thirteen-year-old self is filled with doom and gloom. Night arrives, dinner is eaten and I manage to participate in family banter. Mom comes to say goodnight and I begin my story lie. I learn that a girl has to have started her periods to be able to have a baby, so I’m pregnancy free and Mom is none the wiser.

  “Goodnight,” she kisses me on my forehead.

  Good night it is.

  Our holiday continues as if we’re the happiest family in the world. The sun warms me up from the inside out and gives me a tan my friends will be jealous of. I buy African beads and granadilla ice lollies. I smile at all the right times and play happy families; Dad has me well trained. I even sometimes believe the lie. But behind this picture-perfect snapshot I am disfigured and ugly.