Indescribable

by Candice Derman

  Mom drops me off at school. “Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you, Candice.” I get out of the car.

  I do love my mom and even though we are lost in this abyss, she still knows how to tug at my heartstrings.

  I am going to have to be patient. I can’t own my own life at fourteen. I still have to go to school, live at home and do my homework, but somehow, some way, some day, my life will be mine.

  Things I have to get through before I become my own boss:

  School.

  Court.

  Being a teenager.

  These are big things, but I’m up for the challenge and I see G-d smiling at me.

  Summer arrives. I love the long warm days in Johannesburg, with clear blue skies and afternoon thunderstorms. In one day the weather can have many moods, and I’m no different. It is calming to know that I’m one with this earth and that I’m as fluid and changing as G-d intended.

  fifteen

  I am trying to get used to life without Dad, with a mom who is so hurt she is vacant and sisters who are just trying to get on with their lives. This isn’t easy for me. I want attention, I want love and I want to be looked after. I decide it’s time to meet my real dad. So much for being my own master of ceremonies.

  The meeting of father and daughter goes like this.

  “Hello, it’s good to see you,” he’s struggling to connect with me.

  He has curly grey hair, a beard, olive green eyes, and a lined face. He is short and lean. I recognise him. I see our physical similarities but I can’t get into his soul and he can’t get into mine.

  We talk, but our conversation is stilted. The silence echoes and I can see this is not the place I am going to get attention in the way I need and the way I want.

  He is afraid to hug me. He looks at me as an abused girl and I feel nameless, a feeling I’m starting to understand well. I promise to keep in touch with him, this man, my real father.

  Life becomes a series of mind-numbing events full of holes, hurt and dirt. I feel littered by it all. Mommy has lost all her money, her assets, her sanity, but luckily not her looks. Her looks need to be maintained or she could end up like Humpty Dumpty and never be put back together again. She had signed surety for Dad – Joe, I mean. He owned everything and fucked everything, excuse the pun, so Mommy doesn’t have her high-flying life anymore. She’s been screwed out of money and her daughter has been screwed. Period.

  Mommy has to sell the house, the Porsche, the boats, the cottage at the Vaal, her antiques and her jewellery. She declares herself insolvent and begins her anorexic life.

  Our house starts to stink of sadness. The cats are weeing on the furniture and I imagine that they are marking their territory in case someone comes along to take their most loved possessions away. The paintings have gone from the walls, leaving only outlines of where they once hung. The only thing hanging in their place is emptiness.

  I start sleeping in my mom’s bed; I am not sure why. I find no comfort next to her, but the thought of being alone in my room is unwelcome. There is no reason for anything; I am just being, surviving.

  Anna left a long time ago and Lizzy is the last other mother standing. Lucas has gone and the garden has died. Gran left with Joe: blood is thicker than water, they say, or maybe it was Jesus who advised her to leave. We don’t hear from my stepbrothers again; they have vanished.

  My new life is horrible. I am staring into nothingness. I can’t help wondering if living with the abuse was better than living this shipwreck of a life. I am alone, my house is empty, but my head is cluttered.

  Boys keep me busy and I am in and out of relationships. I’m addicted to feeling good, but it doesn’t last long. I like the first moments of meeting, catching a boy’s eye and looking away. I enjoy the teasing and the flirting. I love the first kiss: how tongues talk to each other, the warmth, and how the wet makes me excited. But as soon as we separate and I look into their eyes, I feel a terrible sense of gloom and my next move is out the door, my next conversation is to break up with them. They must all think I’m awful but they’re not the answer, they’re not the cure to my disease. I don’t want to have sex with anyone; my vagina is closed for business.

  I audition for a drama place at the School of the Arts. As my tragic monologue I use one of the letters a teenage girl has written to Judy Blume about her abuse. Her story is not dissimilar to mine and I shine in my delivery of living this girl’s tragic life. My tears fall as I speak her words.

  A voice from the adjudication panel, “Candice, that was very believable.”

  If only they knew that I am a mirror of that girl I do not know.

  I pray I get into the School of the Arts; I need a ray of light in this darkness. I’m starting to collect fear like tumbleweed collects dust. Everything has been moving so slowly, days are long and nights are never-ending. I live my life thinking it’s a nightmare and I wake up from sleep hoping it was. Dreams are filled with me running away from Dad, having sex with strangers, and old women cackling at me. The cackling is the worst. They have never left me, those cold, spiteful women. My life feels like the aftermath of war. The bomb has hit, the devastation is evident and no one is there to help. I am struggling to heal my internal wound. No one can see the bleeding; no one is my witness.

  The only excitement I have to latch on to is that I get into the School of the Arts to study drama. I’ll be an actress by day and a victim by night. My friends know nothing about my life; they don’t know the tears that are shed in my mansion that is for sale. My foundation is crumbling and I’m all smiles.

  Wendywood High School will soon be a memory, and Dale will be part of a past I have shut away. I have failed standard seven twice and don’t know if the School of the Arts will put me through to standard eight. My report card is bad and I fail almost everything. Lack of concentration, lack of care, plain stupidity or maybe fucking chronic abuse, but nobody asks questions. I’m just a stupid, short girl with a pretty face and curls that bounce with glee. My ass happily sways and my round breasts are growing by the day. They desire a boy’s touch, they show off in my T-shirt and wish to celebrate. I am their enemy, I hate them, I hate them for growing, I hate them for jiggling as I walk.

  I’m trying not to eat a lot. Maybe at some stage I’ll just eat an apple a day – after all, it does keep the doctor away.

  My daily diet:

  2 x Pro-Vita

  A small slab of cheese

  1 x apple

  Salad with chicken.

  My life makes me want to be thin, to disappear.

  The court date looms. Too soon it will be here, too soon I will see my dad, stand in the dock and talk of his doings. I will smell his smoky hands and try to hold on to the anger, locking away my vulnerability that I wear like an invisible cloak. I will not shed tears that fall in the dark.

  I am in trouble. My heart is broken and I am still walking. Dead.

  My first experience at the School of the Arts is great: a new school and a fresh start. Mom speaks to the headmaster and tells him of our woes. The good man puts me up to standard eight even though I failed standard seven dismally, but someone has to give me a break. If failing standard seven twice is a talent, then going into standard eight clueless turns my talent into a performance. No struggling. I’ll force myself to be academic, to be popular, to be talented. I’m ready to unveil the new me.

  I’m sitting in a circle on the floor with the other students. Our drama teacher tells us that we have to introduce ourselves and talk a bit about our lives. One of the students starts speaking, and I start daydreaming about the Candice that could have been me.

  I imagine a young girl living with her mom, dad and four sisters, a girl with a life full of joy. I imagine a life where laughter is her first language, where her dad is a kind king and her mom a beautiful queen. A home where darkness and pain are illegal and her childhood is filled with love and the possibilities of life’s magic.

  “Candice, it’s your turn.”

/>   I introduce myself to the class. I’m an actress and I do it well.

  “I’m Candice Derman,” I smile.

  The class watches and I put on the show of a lifetime. I lie about my life. What else am I to do?

  I’ve always lied about the skeletons in my closet. They’re not for others to know about. I talk about my passion for acting. This is a truth and I gleam with confidence.

  Even I believe my performance and start feeling good: this is going to be a new chapter for me and I will be happy. My lies can be kind when I mean no harm; they make me believe everything will be okay.

  My real dad is not around, which is neither here nor there. Our relationship is murky and I realise he cannot save me. I’m back to being my own master of ceremonies, and I am feeling less disappointed. What did I expect from him? Balloons? A “Welcome Home” sign? Dusty presents he was collecting for me? Did I expect him to hold me and tell me everything would be okay, words that adults can never say?

  I’m not the eight-year-old he left, and I make my own rules and decide my own destiny. I’ll learn to look after myself, navigate my own way. If I don’t, I will drown in my sorrows, slit my wrists or take tablets. The unease with my dad, the unease with my mom and the dislike of myself are so frustrating but I have to keep going, keep struggling to free myself.

  Another date in court. Another postponement. Another date in court.

  I see Joe, he sees me. I still dare not look. We’re at a restaurant near the court and he is sitting at a table across from my mom and me. If I don’t laugh at the situation I’ll cry forever, so I force myself to laugh. I’m laughing at the horror, I’m laughing at my fear. For the occasion I order a toasted cheese sandwich, with extra fat on my ass, but I’m deserving of this banquet under the circumstances. The toasted cheese goes down my throat like thick tar, each swallow forced. I will enjoy this toastie.

  I leave empty-handed. No prizes, no hearing, just a weary heart, heavy thighs and a full stomach. Soon his day will come.

  Things I love at fifteen:

  Acting.

  The School of the Arts.

  My drama teacher.

  Poetry.

  Apples (they’re about the only thing I want to eat).

  Things I hate at fifteen:

  Joe.

  Court days.

  Academic subjects.

  Food (apples excluded).

  Night-time.

  sixteen

  Thank goodness for drama and for a school that celebrates my sixteen-year-old talent. I’m in my new world of Sophocles’ Greek tragedies, Shakespeare and D.H. Lawrence. These men knew about the broken mystery and magic of life, and I am in love. So many poems to learn, plays to read and productions to act in. I’m making many friends. I even confide in some and they are kind with my secrets and hold them close.

  My drama teacher, Mr Davidson, is wonderful. He believes in my talent and injects me with a spark of life. I feel fuelled with excitement to perform in my first major production. It’s The House of Bernarda Alba by Federico Garcia Lorca, and I play Adela. She is a carefree, loving girl who is in love with her sister’s fiancé. They make love outdoors and celebrate their love secretly, but the family finds out and this wreaks devastation. At the end of the play Adela hangs herself. What a way to heal myself. Every night Candice Derman hangs herself only to live again. I feel the pain. The desperation. The end. Adela heals me and I kill her.

  I flourish in my new environment. My school marks are still bad, but I’ve got a talent, a place to hide, and nothing can bring me down.

  I’ve been dating a boy called Brett, who is kind, gentle, patient and intelligent. He was in Dale’s class at Wendywood High School. We kept in touch and kept getting closer. His kindness has made me want to tell him about what Joe did to me. With my heart thumping in my head I begin telling my new boyfriend.

  “My stepdad abused me.”

  Brett’s eyes are wide and gentle, allowing me to carry on.

  “It started when I was eight. At first it began with him touching me and then he raped me when I was eleven. It carried on until I was nearly fifteen.”

  Head thumping, heart thumping, they are one instrument.

  “I’m sorry,” Brett moves his hands to my face, looks me in the eyes, “you didn’t deserve for anything bad to happen to you.”

  I begin to cry, huge drops leave my eyes, the tears just keep falling, they are uncontrollable. It feels so good to cry in a boy’s gentle embrace. Brett is silent for a long time and allows my years of pain to cry out of me. After my rainstorm, I’ll be dehydrated.

  “Thank you,” I say through tears and snot, my eyes red.

  After that day with Brett I begin to feel stronger; a burden has been lifted from my shoulders. I am still in the wilderness, but I don’t feel that there is a lion constantly gnawing at my leg. I’m still not into mating season: sex scares me, and although I enjoy the foreplay, I can’t do the final act. Brett offers me constant round-the-clock love, but I feel frustrated at my inability to take our relationship further, and my heart no longer wants to be with him.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t be with you.” Another break-up. Bad habits are hard to kick.

  “Why Candice? I don’t get it, it’s so good between us.”

  “It’s not you, it’s me.”

  This he will believe, after all I am the complicated one.

  “I’m sorry, so sorry, I just need to sort myself out. I love you, but I’m not good at always loving me.”

  And with those words, Brett and Candice are over. I don’t have to revisit my sexual issues for a while. I’m grateful to Brett for sharing in my burden. Telling someone who cares helps me unload my rucksack. It’s as if they carry away a small part of me, and I don’t have to be all of me alone. One day my rucksack will be empty, I will share my story with the people I love, and I will slowly heal. But not anytime soon.

  Something’s gone missing in Mommy. Her electric blue eyes have turned a permanent deep, dark blue. Her shine has gone and even her mask can’t hide her pain. She is in a constant state of shock. Mommy’s shock is loud; it’s talking to all her friends, or even strangers if they are kind enough to offer her an ear. She yaps about what has happened and they listen with foaming mouths, loving the saga of Joe and his little women. I wish she would just keep her mouth shut: she exposes me, I’m Exhibit A, a prop, a big part of the story, maybe even the lead.

  Tight-lipped I ask, “Mom, are you okay?”

  Of course she is not okay, but I’ve got to say something. Even in my “I hate you” mode, I still care.

  She answers, “I don’t know how I am going to cope with everything. I don’t have money, I don’t know where we are going to live or what’s going to happen to us.”

  I offer no comfort. I don’t know how she’ll get money but I do know that my mom has a way of getting help at the eleventh hour, then all her worries go under the carpet for a short time, a very short time. She’s a woman greedy for help.

  My mom’s friends don’t seem to be good therapists; she’s not getting the answers she wants from them, so she finds a new way, a new path of “future knowledge enlightenment”.

  “Joe is evil, he’s a psychopath. I’m going to remarry. I have a choice of two men, one younger, one older, both European.” My mom has just been to a fortune-teller and she’s ranting and raving. Since the madness of our lives began, my mom has found some kind of solace in people telling her about her future. She’s been to four fortune-tellers and none of them brings her peace. She seems possessed after she sees them. I watch her pacing, her sad blue eyes on stalks.

  She goes on and on …

  Shit, I want out, away from here, away from her, away from this life.

  But I soften when she tells me that the fortune-teller told her I’m going to be a famous actress. This I want to hear, this I like a lot. Maybe the fortune-teller is right after all. My mood lifts. I don’t want out, I want to eat, maybe a bagel with cream cheese or a blueberry
muffin. The delights of life, the change of moods, the opportunities, the choices.

  I am a very confused teenager, and anger can arrive and depart in seconds. Sadness changes to happiness, hope to failure. I’m in and out of “Oh shit, I want to die”, and “Lucky me, I want to live”, and right now I want to live, live to be that famous actress.

  “Mom, can we go and get a muffin?”

  She too is in a good mood: after all, her prince in shining armour is going to save her and take her away from her debilitating pain.

  The truth is I’m fucked. I want to throw up the blueberry muffin; I don’t deserve scrumptious food. I’m a victim of abuse and my mom is hurt, alone and petrified.

  “Yes, I’d love one.” And off we go, packaged so neatly, mother and daughter.

  We don’t eat home-cooked meals anymore: Joe took that away from us. We can’t sit like a family and play happy; it’s all gone too far. So every night we eat takeaways. I’m into haloumi cheese salad and I’ve cut out bread, which seems to be working. My thighs are shrinking, so a bit of haloumi cheese can’t hurt me.

  “What do you want for dinner, Cands?”

  “Haloumi salad.” Again and again I want to eat haloumi salad.

  Out of the blue I’ve noticed my mom’s energy changing again. Her lipstick is a lighter shade of pink, her eyes have their old shine back and there is a “tra-la-la” in her step. I wonder what it could be, what could be making my mother happy again. And then she tells me. She’s started dating a man. I’m thinking, “No fucking way. How can you let a man into our lives after everything we’ve been through?”

  “I’m going out with him tonight.”

  “That’s nice,” I say through my gritted teeth.