Indescribable

by Candice Derman

  Tears, thunder, lightning.

  We are all staring at the empty space that Gran and Dad’s voices seem to occupy in the room.

  Eventually Gran relents and lets Dad in. I count to myself: one, two, three … Trying to calm down, but nothing can stop my terror. He storms downstairs as angry as the weather, following our whispers and whimpers to Jodi’s bedroom. No time for prayer, I am going to have to face this man, this waking nightmare.

  He starts ranting at Romy.

  “You, you …,” he’s stuck for words.

  He’s big and ugly but at the same time still just looks like Dad.

  He spits out the words, “How could you?”

  I’m sitting on the bed next to Jodi; Romy’s standing in the corner looking thinner than usual. I guess we’re all looking thinner. At any other moment I might have liked the skinny me, but right now the thought does not cross my mind. Dad doesn’t look at me; he’s pretending I’m not there.

  “What are you trying to do, put another nail in my coffin?” He’s huffing and puffing and wants to blow the house down.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  Romy is shaking, she’s at her most scared and I feel a surge of my most angry self. I don’t know where my strength is coming from: I would beat him up if I could.

  “Get out!” I shout at this man I once loved, this man I call Dad. “Get out of our lives, that’s what we want, for you to go. We hate you.”

  My strength is leaving. Candice the weak is returning.

  In the midst of all this turmoil superwoman arrives. Dry under her umbrella, perfect under her mask, cold and hard with the help of her raw wounds. She tells her husband to follow her. He does. The screaming begins. Superwoman walks up and down, the sound of her six-inch heels echoing as they punch the floor.

  Romy runs out of the room and locks herself in her bedroom. Jodi and I stare into the thick empty space that still carries the heavy, smoky aura of Dad.

  Jodi lifts herself from the draining silence and suggests we phone Dr Tillbury. Kim appears from her bedroom, eyes large and lost. The three of us march out into the pouring rain and into Dad’s office. They think it’s a good idea to phone from there so as not to arouse suspicion. Not that we would have: Supermom has Dad in her web and is trying to eat him alive.

  The rain is a welcome relief, it’s hard and angry and it calms my beating heart. I wish I could become one of the raindrops, water that will eventually disappear.

  “How could you?!” Mom screeches.

  “They’re lying, Yvonne.”

  “You’re the liar. Who are you? Fucking bastard. I hate you.”

  This is what I have done. I should have waited until I was eighteen and run away. No one would have known. I could have spared them all this pain. Mom should just as well be screaming the same words at me.

  “Who are you? Fucking bitch. I hate you.”

  Dr Tillbury arrives. The time between the phone call, the thunder, Mom’s screaming and his arrival is a blur. He tells Jodi to keep everyone calm. Fucking hell, he’s a fucking genius.

  “Joe, calm down,” Dr Tillbury says.

  “How dare you tell me to calm down? They’re lying, they’re trying to break up my marriage. I don’t know why they would lie like this.”

  Mom rants, “I swear, I’ll kill you.” I have never seen her in such a tirade.

  “That’s enough. Everyone listen to me, we all need to calm down and think rationally. We can sort this out. Joe, I suggest that you sleep at a hotel tonight, and you and Yvonne can meet in my office first thing tomorrow morning.”

  A deathly silence comes over the room and all of a sudden the wolf gives up. Dad agrees to Dr Tillbury’s request and leaves with his tail between his legs.

  Dr Tillbury disrupts the zombie state my mom, sisters and I have slipped into. “I have to go. Please all try to look after yourselves tonight. I’ll make sure that everything is okay.”

  He’ll make sure everything is okay? Who does he think he is? Not even G-d can make this okay.

  Kim and Jodi go back to bed; Mommy goes to bath; Gran prays to Lord Jesus; and I am left alone to think of my options.

  Slit my wrists.

  Hang myself with a belt.

  Take pills.

  Run away.

  Eat a toasted sandwich.

  Watch TV.

  Go and lie in Mommy’s bed and forget the world just caved in.

  We have a winner! Option seven.

  I pretend I’m sleeping when Mommy comes to bed. She slips in close to me and all I can hear is her uneven breathing. I wish she would say something to me, something kind and caring, but she is incapable of softening her rigid, angry body, incapable of using untrue words of comfort. We can’t fall asleep and we can’t talk to each other; we are just trying to breathe, trying to live through this frightful night.

  G-d really forgot to give parents a seventh sense so that they could see into their children’s hearts.

  My list of how I think my mom should be looking after me:

  Tell me she loves me and that everything is going to be okay.

  Create happy moments.

  Remember I’m the child.

  Take me to the movies.

  Talk to me about the abuse.

  Talk to me about other things.

  Force a fucking smile.

  Eventually I fall asleep. My body forces me into another world and before I know it, it’s morning and I have survived the worst day of my life.

  Up on my worst day list:

  Dale’s death.

  The first time Dad touched me.

  Being drowned.

  Dad fucking me.

  Mom finding out the truth.

  Dad’s arrival.

  I go to school, or at least my body does. I’m a zombie but no one picks up on this. My daily report reads, “Candice was very well behaved today.” Maybe I’ll always need darkness to keep me on the straight and narrow.

  Mom is an hour late to pick me up from school and as I wait, sitting on the ground throwing stones onto the street, I wonder what will happen to us, how my family will survive this and if Dad will kill me.

  Finally I see the Porsche. I get up, dust off the back of my skirt and get into the car.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “It was the worst morning of my life. The police arrested Joe, they should lock him up and throw away the key, but knowing him he will make bail,” vomits out my mom.

  Blah, blah, blah. I hear my mom talking but I have tuned her out. The last thing I hear her say is she can’t believe that this has happened to her, and I’m wondering if she’s forgotten that it happened to me.

  I am fourteen going on fifteen. I have lost my boyfriend, my dad and my virginity. The reflection I see when I look in the mirror is confusing. I’m an average teenager with above-average assets, perfectly round breasts, a flat tummy and olive skin, but my internal reflection is old and grey. I carry knowledge beyond my years and my above-average ass has been touched too many times. If I look in the mirror for too long, I fall inside me and lose myself, and by the time I’ve finished staring, I’ve become a grain of sand.

  No one is there for me and I resent everyone I love. My sisters are silent witnesses and my mom just puts one foot in front of the other. I need help, and I need it fast. I start reading a book called Letters to Judy by Judy Blume. Teenagers write to her about all their problems. I can’t put this book down. I’m surprised and comforted knowing that I’m not the only girl walking around broken and beaten by life. I am also shocked that there are so many me’s out there. Judy’s book becomes my confidante and even though she doesn’t know me, I feel she understands. I’ve already decided it’s going to be up to me to heal myself, but reading about other teenage lives eases my inner isolation and helps me move forward.

  There is a newspaper lying on my mom’s bed. It is open on page three: Jose de Bivar (how nice of them to use his full name) has been accused of repeatedly raping his stepdaughte
r. My name has not been mentioned. I’m sure no one I know would have read this sad tale and if they did, they wouldn’t know that I’m the unfortunate stepdaughter.

  I’m still thrown. Seeing it in writing makes it all seem so real, makes the abuse more tangible. I have this small clipping; like a tattooed Holocaust survivor, this is my proof. I have lived through this.

  I really thought my first newspaper article would be about Candice Derman, the talented young actress hitting the theatre scene. Just my luck, I’m now known as the faceless, nameless, abused girl.

  My day will come. I feel it in my veins, in my spirit, and this picks me up, fills my being and makes me really hungry for some bubblegum ice cream. Today I’m not watching my weight. I want to lick the cold stuff and feel like a normal teenager with an ice-cream craving.

  My list of what’s normal for me:

  Go to school.

  Live in fear.

  Try to remember the good parts of me.

  Lie to my friends.

  Daily dreams, prayers and wishes that one day my family and I will be okay.

  My mom was right, Joe did get bail, only R2 000. Some ex-girlfriend paid for him. Nice woman. She must really like bad men who like young girls. I hate her, I hate her. Now he is walking and talking, eating and laughing, living and sleeping, while I and my family are sleepwalking and not talking, struggling to eat and not laughing, living in a coma and never sleeping.

  When a family has been stung by the horror of abuse, there is an allergic reaction. Mouths close and minds seize up; no one can talk about it and no one can forget about it. Everyone just has to carry on living, living dead.

  Thank goodness my friends don’t know. They talk about boys, movies and actors; they worry about teachers and passing exams. It’s a wonderful relief. I’ll never tell them about my sordid life of a large penis and a small vagina. They will never know.

  My days consist of school, then seeing the psychologist and the prosecutor. These have become my after-school activities. They are getting me ready for the day I have to stand up in court and tell the judge my sad tale. I’m not sure why Romy doesn’t have to talk about Dad’s misguided fingers and I’m not going to ask. The more I avoid conversations about Dad’s manhandling, the better it is for my family and me. It is so much easier living a life of avoidance.

  I hate all the buildings I have to be in. School is so ugly: brown desks and chairs, dirty, off-white walls and long corridors. My psychologist’s office is not much better: the walls are crisp white but the décor is cold and the room sparse.

  The worst building is the court: brick, grey, dark and depressing, with wood that has creaked and cracked over the years, greeting murderers, sex offenders, robbers, paedophiles and victims with wet eyes.

  While I’m being coached and questioned by the prosecutor I can’t help wondering why these buildings have to be so goddamn ugly. Why can’t they repaint, bring in some colour and light? They should create a safe room for all the unsafe hearts and minds.

  “Candice, are you okay? You seem so far away. Do you want to talk about anything?”

  “No, I’m fine.” I really want to suggest a new coat of paint. Maybe they could bring in a palette of blues and greens, pretty landscape paintings or fresh flowers.

  My mind drifts in and out of redecorating the office and hearing the prosecutor talk to me about my own life, asking questions. When? How often? When was the last time?

  I think back to the last time, Dad towering over me, handsome, overweight and strong, “I love you, Candice.”

  Those were my dad’s words. Words I wanted to hear so often, like a starving child in Ethiopia. My greed to be loved was enormous; I wanted to eat up Dad’s love. I think about him picking me up and starting to tongue me, rough, kissing me like a cannibal, wanting to eat my body. I remember him throwing me on the bed, greed in his eyes, pulling off my pants and then my panties, cradling my breasts over my T-shirt. I think about him stumbling out of his trousers and taking off my T-shirt and bra, my nipples erect, deceiving me and him. I remember the smell of his nakedness, his hard penis pushing inside me. We had done this so many times before. Hundreds? Thousands? Who’s counting? I would never get used to it.

  I remember him hurting me, holding my breasts too tight and moving in and out too fast. I remember waiting for him to come, for the end, I remember. Little did I know that this would be the end, the end of Dad forcing me to become his little woman, of being his sex toy, of being his daughter, of Dad saying, “I love you”, the end of ever talking to Dad again. Had I known, would I have behaved differently? Could I have asked, “Why Dad?” Would he have answered, “Because I can’t help myself, I love you and I am sorry.” Would I have forgiven him? Do I forgive him? I don’t think in these terms. The best way I can move forward is not to think of Dad with kindness, not to love him, but to hate him; he is not milk and honey, he is battery acid.

  I leave the prosecutor’s office bewildered and shell-shocked. Things have moved too quickly, from a secret I have carried deep within the hidden parts of me, to everyone knowing. My life has been smashed into pieces and I have no idea how to put it back together again.

  “How did it go?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Mom.”

  “Fine.”

  Silence, an unbearable silence. I try not to look at her. I don’t want to see the depth of sadness in her eyes. I look straight in front of me, at nothing.

  The drive home takes about fifteen minutes, a lifetime. I age in those fifteen minutes; I become weathered, depleted and old. I am fourteen and I am old. I have to learn to forgive myself, learn to love myself. If I don’t, sadness will eat away at my core and I will begin to rot.

  Home has become a house of horrors, a place that holds the past in its clutches. My bedroom, with its sickly pink theme, makes me want to vomit. I hate the innocence of this room. A lie. I see my mom’s bedroom, Dad’s love den. So many times he’s taken me in their bed, in the jacuzzi, a place to touch my privates, the pool, a quick, wet, easy place to slip inside of me, or a place to drown me. I’ve been had on every stool, couch and chair. No room lets me escape my past, every room carries the heaviness of my yesteryears.

  The phone rings. Mom answers. I watch her expression change and I know it’s bad news. I look into her eyes. Why did I have to look into her eyes? Her blue eyes are now a deep, dark black. I read terror in the darkness. She looks past me at an empty space and tells me that Monday is the first day of the hearing. Today is Tuesday so I’ve got just under a week to go before I face the man who ruled my life.

  I am Candice Derman. I am angry. My numbness has been replaced with an “I don’t give a shit” attitude. Let me face this man who fucked up my life, the man I loved and who treated me like his bitch. I was the dog, and he was my master. I wagged my tail and forgave him over and over again, always thinking that tomorrow would be different. But I was stupid because nothing changed. Every day my master would come back for more and every day I would forgive him and wag my pathetic tail. I am strong-willed, opinionated, confident, noisy, playful and cocky and I let him do this to me. I said nothing. I let him hurt me, I let him ruin my future.

  So now it is my time to face him in court and I will be strong. But who am I kidding? I should know that with each passing day come different moods, emotions, needs and weaknesses. With all these conflicting emotions, I need to find clarity in my life, so I’ve started a new trick, controlling my food intake, and this makes me feel better. Less food equals more strength.

  The court date arrives. I’m sitting on a bench outside the courtroom, my legs dangling and swinging, not out of joy but out of shortness. The numbness has set in again and it overrides my fear. My mom sits close by me but I don’t really care, she could be across the universe as far as I am concerned.

  People walk past, some in a hurry, others as slow as snails. They all have somewhere to go; none of them wants to be here. Criminals and victims, all in chronic pain, all misundersto
od.

  I am in my school uniform, hair back, fresh-faced. I look neat. Maybe if I unravelled myself and they saw my true feelings, they would blame me. I sit still, neat and tidy.

  I see Dad from the corner of my eye. I feel the lost years of my life well up inside me, years of him fucking me, years of pain, of joy, of lies and deceit, of loving him, of loving him, of loving him.

  My numbness scale is dipping and my heart beats faster.

  I am vulnerable. I am terrified. Lost. Alone. Isolated.

  I’ve already been given a sentence, placed in an invisible jail, one I’m afraid I will never escape. A jail of guilt, self-loathing and little food.

  I feel bleak. Dad’s looking good, he’s lost his belly. Comfortable. Strong. My anger scale rises. I could bash his confidence right out of him. How do some people remain so calm when they have committed unthinkable crimes? Can’t he see that my mom and I are puppets and have lost our way? We are motionless. Our strings have been cut. We are up for sale, going pretty cheap, we need a new puppet master, someone who will lead us into the light.

  The buzz from lack of food kicks in, or maybe it’s a phone call from G-d to remind me, in this building, outside this courtroom, next to my mother, that I need to create my own future and demand my own sanity. My mom let someone else be the master of her ceremony and look where it got us. I need to be my own puppeteer.

  I like this feeling. I don’t care if it dissolves into nothingness, I’ll remember the taste of my own power. Dad looks over at me and I look away. Even with this new feeling I’m not strong enough to face him now, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

  The court date is postponed. We walk into the daylight, the sun is shining and I know I have become master of Candice’s ceremony.