Indescribable

by Candice Derman

  When we get home, my mom wastes no time in telling Gran. Her severed heart has put her in motion, an angry rampage. Her silence is over and the war has begun. Abuse is all she can see and I’m now an outline, not her daughter.

  I run to my room to escape more changing expressions, more horror written on everyone’s face. The madness I feel is extreme. I want to be in a boxing ring beating up my opponent; I want to be in hospital on a drip; I want my mom to hold me and tell me it’s all going to be okay, but it won’t, it never will be.

  I hear my gran shouting, “Oh my Lord Jesus …” and wonder where the hell this Lord Jesus is right now. I shut my eyes and imagine Dale. What could have been, what should have been. I keep my eyes shut, shut tight and I pray to the universe. Please G-d, save me from this, from what I’m going to have to face.

  I’m so tired and eventually surrender to my sadness. My tears dry, numbness protects me and slowly I fall asleep. Thank you sadness for helping me to sleep.

  The next morning I wake up and get ready for school. Panties, uniform, socks and shoes. I’m shell-shocked by what happened last night. I figure doing what I normally do is the best way to face the world. I’m afraid to leave my room and face my family, see Mommy’s face, Romy’s nervous hands and hear Gran’s “Oh my Lord Jesus” sayings. None of them can save themselves or me.

  I force myself to put one foot in front of the other and leave my room, walk into the house of echoes, past the bedrooms, up the stairs, and into the kitchen.

  Mommy’s dressed to perfection, hair and make-up in strategic place. She’s pacing up and down the kitchen. Her tight top shows her ample cleavage, and hot jeans and stilettos only a catwalk model could wear complete her statement. There is a wall between us, a continent, a universe. I wonder if she blames me? There is no comfort in the fact that Mom believes me; the truth has crushed my family’s foundation. We can participate in life, look like part of the human race, but today we are different, today our story has changed. Mommy’s fantasy has evaporated, her husband is a bad man, her hope has vanished and it is entirely my fault. I want to collapse in on myself.

  “Let’s go … I’m going to drop you off at school and go to see the psychologist. I’m not sure how to handle this situation.”

  “Okay.”

  Gran hasn’t come out of her room and I’m grateful for that. Perhaps she’s still praying to G-d and maybe he will provide her with the answers I need.

  So here I am at school, in maths class. Staring at the blackboard and watching Mrs Engelbrecht scribble numbers in chalk. I watch the black turn to white and see the numbers turn into letters. They say CANDICE DERMAN + ABUSE = SLUT.

  My head leaves the classroom of Candice the slut and takes me to a better place. I use my technique of flowing away from the present. This place is far more peaceful. Good and evil don’t exist here, just the quiet of nothingness. I slip further away. Maybe this is how I’ll be able to heal myself in time: to float into the peace of quiet, knowing there is another life away from guilt and splattered pieces of heart. The bell rings for break and brings me back to the chalk that states the obvious about me.

  Break comes and goes and I do what I do best. Chat to my friends, flirt with boys, and think of 101 ways to commit suicide. I’m in and out of the past, present and future. I’ve lost my place in the world. Like a bird with no nest, a lamp with no light bulb or bubblegum ice cream without the gum. The day is long. English class seems like I am learning a new language, maths makes me feel like I am an alien who has just landed, and the crumbs on my blazer show that food is my hidden solace.

  Eventually the school day ends. Mom arrives in her aqua Porsche, with her aqua eyes. Mom doesn’t deserve this lie of a life: she loves life, it is her playground. She is good at living her fairy tale, but her greatest flaw is forgetting that along the way fairy tales often get scary and nasty. I don’t blame her for living in her chocolate box fantasy; I mean, who wouldn’t want that?

  I get into the car. Mom informs me of the proceedings for the day.

  See the psychologist.

  Make a statement to the police.

  Go to the government gynaecologist. (I guess they want to see what’s up there in the land of my vagina.)

  Sounds nice.

  I bite into my cheese pie and wonder what’s to become of me.

  I try to make a list of all the things I love at fourteen:

  … … blank

  I just eat the pie and long for my eighteenth birthday to come.

  We arrive at the psychologist’s office. He starts asking me questions. I make a quick mental list of all the places I don’t want to be:

  Home.

  School.

  In the car with Mom.

  In the psychologist’s office.

  “Hi Candice, my name is Dr Tillbury.”

  “Hi.” I’ve got nothing to say to this man.

  “Your mom told me what your dad’s been doing to you and I want to know how you’re feeling.”

  How the fuck do you think I’m feeling, motherfucker?

  “… mmmmnnn, I don’t know, I’m confused.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  Silence …

  He speaks again: “Your mom loves you very much, and this is going to be a very difficult time for all of you …”

  You think …?

  He’s waiting for me to say something. I hate it here, I hate it here, I hate it here. I keep repeating these words in my head like a stuck record. He breaks my inner repetition with more meaningless words.

  “We’ll set up another meeting, in case you want to talk. In the meantime, you must tell the police everything you remember.”

  “Okay.” Wow, that was life-changing. Thanks Mr Mother Fucker! You solved my life’s problems in ten minutes.

  We jump into the car again. Off to the police station we go. Mom and I don’t speak to each other. We arrive after our long, non-talking journey, get out of the car and walk into the police station.

  An Afrikaans man comes out to meet us.

  “Young lady, please follow me. Madam, please wait here.”

  I add the police station to my mental list of places I don’t want to be.

  I follow him and don’t turn back to look at my mom. Oh my G-d, will he cuff me, put me in jail, blame me for everything, tell me I’m a terrible, terrible person?

  “Sit over here,” he says.

  I sit in a big chair that dwarfs me. He moves to sit at the opposite side of his desk. There are papers sprawled across it, pictures of babies and young people with bruises and burns. I feel sorry for them and I am comforted that Dad never burnt me with his cigarettes or broke my bones.

  “So Candice, I have to take a statement from you. You must talk slowly and tell me everything. I have to ask questions that will be difficult to answer and I am sorry.”

  His office smells smoky. The windows are closed and I’m thinking, please open your damn windows. The walls are covered with slogans: “Stop abuse”, “Speak now”, and posters of children with faces smudged with tears and women with black eyes.

  This is a very bad world.

  “Let’s start. Tell me when you need a break.”

  I already need a fucking break.

  There are tissues perfectly positioned next to me on the desk. They’re a bit dusty, as if there has been no child brave enough to cry in front of this Mr Policeman.

  I look at him; I look through him; I want to get up and run, run out of his office, out of the building and onto the street. I want to run to another continent. Leave myself behind, wave me away and say goodbye to the abused me. But I just look at him. I can’t speak, I feel stuck like a person with locked-in syndrome.

  I sit and I wait; he sits and waits.

  Eventually I get feeling in my body, like I’ve been plugged into a socket and a current is surging through me. My body forces my sob story out of me again.

  I’m feeling cynical and old, vulnerable and young. I talk and tell him where,
how, when it started and on what days. I want to cry but I hold back my tears. I fight them. I know I’ll punish myself if they fall. I continue telling him my story, cold and impersonal, telling my story as if it hasn’t had a major impact on my life and shaped my fourteen years. He listens, writes in a scrawl and asks questions. He takes a peppermint and sucks on it. I wonder why he doesn’t offer me one. I could do with a peppermint.

  We finish late. The gynaecologist will have to wait until tomorrow. He pats me on the shoulder.

  “Well done, you did good.”

  “Thanks.”

  He walks me back to reception. I notice him eyeballing my mom. I’m sure he’s thinking, “That’s one sexy momma, why on earth did the dad need to go near the kid?”

  I’m not sure how I get through the next few hours. Mom cries to her friends on the phone as tears spill down her made-up rosy cheeks. Gran carries on praying but G-d’s not helping. Jodi and Kim have left the building and Romy and I just hold on to each other and try to survive the night.

  “Candy, I love you so much.”

  “I love you too, Rome.”

  Morning arrives. I have to miss school and Romy has decided to come to the gynaecologist with me. I add the gynaecologist to my mental list of places I don’t want to be. The hospital is ugly, a perfectly cold, sterile environment. No welcome, open your legs and enjoy the ride. We walk through the icy corridors and into an ugly office. I am so glad Romy is with me.

  “Put this gown on and take off your clothes and underwear. I’ll be back in a few minutes,” says the nurse who is waiting for me.

  Three older women return. My legs are opened up. One woman feels inside. The other woman takes close-up pictures of my vagina with a really large camera, and the third one is there, just because. Maybe she is going to be a nurse and she is learning. Just my luck to get a “no-reason” nurse standing and staring at the opening of my few-pubic-hairs vagina. I wonder if she thinks it’s a pretty one.

  There is no positive to this situation, no gold star for being a survivor. I hate this so much. I hate these three women busying themselves in places they are not wanted. I lie there forcing myself to breathe, forcing myself to see further than the present, to find something worthwhile and good to hold on to.

  I squeeze Romy’s hand and think how much I love her. It’s a big, huge, complete love. I capture this feeling, force the love into my heart and let it flow through me. Slowly the love grows, my breathing eases and it helps me get through this moment. And then I realise, in amongst this ugliness, with my legs wide open and people invading my vagina, that love is like medicine: it helps me heal. So I make a promise to myself that in this life I am going to love so hard that the pain subsides. I am going to love so hard that the bad dissolves into a small amount of blood in my body and that it won’t own me. I am going to love so hard that I beat Joe and become a winner, a survivor. And I’ll wear an internal sash that says, “Lover of life”.

  Fairy tales can be evil and messy along the way, but they always have happy endings, and I demand mine.

  I smile at my thoughts and I am brought back to the present by the flash of the camera. I wonder if my vagina was smiling at the right moment. I give Romy’s hand another squeeze and her eyes a silent thank you. The photo shoot is over. They see Dad’s penetrated me and they have their evidence. I don’t get a sucker for good behaviour.

  Panties on, clothes on and off we go back home.

  Life just carries on. I eat my three meals a day, have some snacks and avoid my family’s eyes, which is not difficult to do because they are avoiding mine. My sisters have boyfriends and this keeps them “happily” occupied. Mom hasn’t been able to get hold of Dad for days and we’re not sure why. We don’t know when he’ll be coming back but we do know he will be heading home soon and I’m petrified.

  I go to school and act as if everything is normal, which is easy because all I’ve got to do is continue failing.

  Knowing the Devil is going to arrive any day now is at the back of all of our minds and that’s a very dark, dark place to be.

  The house has been struck by madness. There is a silent screaming taking place. I hear Mommy whispering on the telephone, words like bastard, psychopath, prick, paedophile. Other than that, it’s the gloom of another perfect day.

  We imagine Dad’s arrival with every door that opens, every footstep, every knock, but still manage to continue with our various daily rituals. Mom’s is the most interesting. Her morning begins with a naked face, bare for no one in the world to see. Slowly and methodically it gets covered. A light base, heavy eyeliner on both top and bottom lids, and many layers of mascara. The first helps her to be the new Yvonne; the second, third and fourth bring out the superhero in her and make her blue eyes stand out. After the dark layers of mascara, she moves to her lips: a passionate pink liner with an extra passionate dollop of gloss. My mom’s nearly finished, except for her perfect bobbed hair with heavy fringe that has to be brushed.

  She then runs a bath, the final part of her ritual. Bubbles foam from her favourite bubble bath, Badedas. The smell wafts from the bath and fills the bathroom with a rich, clean elegance. I love this green, forest smell. Even now with all my inner turmoil I can breathe in deeply and enjoy the feeling of peace this smell brings. My mom gets into the bath, lies back and sighs. A sigh of relief. A moment that belongs to her. I watch her body underneath the bubbles, breathing, holding and exhaling. I watch her body thanking her for slowing down and continuing with her morning ritual.

  I look at my mom’s face, the made-up one, the cold one that hides all her hurt, all her anger and all her fear, and I notice she has gone floating somewhere behind the mask, somewhere under the bubbles. I want to envelop my mother in love but all I can do is stare. Our love is complicated. It comes with secrets and lies, protection, pride, sadness and pain. I button up my school shirt and turn my face towards the mirror.

  I am no longer looking at my mother’s superhero face but instead I am staring at my own made-up face. I don’t need make-up to change me; I just need to change my expressions. If I lift my turning-down lips, make them smile at the corners, I look sweet, innocent, even untouched, perhaps. If I put my hair in a banana clip and let my locks fall, I could pass for a princess. If I open my eyes wide enough and force a sparkle, I look almost childlike.

  My mom and I are the same. She dresses up with her mask; I dress up with 101 expressions of “I’m so fucking happy, don’t you want to be me?” We’re both winning the war by hiding what we really feel and showing the razzle and dazzle of utter success. These lies should win us both Oscars. People see the external me: she is missing Dale but coping so well; shame, she is sweet but a little dim; she really knows how to have a good time. But if I peeled away my 101 expressions and told my truth, it would go something like this: I’m petrified of life, scared of death, and I live in fear of Dad’s arrival. Fear is a weak word for such an underground feeling; it should be illegal to feel this afraid.

  I’m lost.

  I’m lonely.

  I’m angry.

  I’m numb.

  I’m confused.

  This is my truth.

  With Dale gone, Dad nowhere to be found and with no one to talk to, I’m living a very vacant life. I should rent out my body and let some deserving person take me over for a while.

  Mommy’s going out a lot at night with her friends, keeping herself busy so as not to go mad and blow her pretty brains out. I wish I could go out, keep myself busy. My pink bedroom feels like it’s caving in on me and I have to escape or I’ll suffocate.

  It’s raining so hard outside, thunder that deafens, lightning that shoots electric fear. I run out of my room, mirroring my eight-year-old self, and sneak into my mom’s bed. The night is filled with fury and I toss and turn. I try to find a comfortable spot, but no such luck; after all, this is the bed where it all began, in the early hours of the morning, when Joe’s fingers did the talking. I am immobilised with fear, I can’t stop the
thunder in my head, the chatter of madness, or the chatter of my teeth.

  I get out of the bed and run to Romy’s room. I snuggle up next to her, so close her breath is on my shoulder. I have a bad feeling. The rain is so fucking hard. I get even closer to Romy; my palms are wet with anticipation and subconscious knowing.

  The knock comes loud and clear. It’s as if the thunder, lightning and rain have paused to give the knock greater emphasis. Romy and I are silenced; we know it’s the dark man. What the fuck are we going to do?

  The brass knocker echoes. Knock, knock, knock.

  We hear his mom screaming at him, screaming for G-d to help.

  “Lord Jesus, Lord Jesus.”

  Romy and I are shivering in the bed like two little mice with nowhere to hide. We have eaten the poison and are just waiting to die, waiting for our grim reaper to come and fetch us.

  More screaming in tongues, screaming at Joe, “My son, my son, go away.”

  The thunder is so angry, maybe it’s on our side.

  Romy and I, eyes wide open, terrified, get out of the bed and run to Jodi’s bedroom.

  Dad shouts questions, Gran tries not to answer and speaks to Jesus instead. More tongue talk. Not sure what is being said, only G-d knows.

  Eventually English, “How could you?”

  “What are you talking about, Mom?”

  “You know, with Candice?”

  “Just let me in.”

  “I can’t, go away.”

  Long talks to Jesus.

  Jodi is sitting up in bed. None of us can speak, we’re listening to the Devil and his mother.

  “What about Candice?”

  “You slept with her … You touched Romy.”

  “Just let me into my house, they are lying.”

  “No, no, no … Go away.”

  Dad is here and he’s coming to get me. Maybe he will kill us all. I’m terrified, shivering takes a hold of my body.

  “No, no, no … Go away.”