Beyond the Darkness

by Angie Fenimore

  Richard stared at me icily. Then he snatched a pair of shorts that I had designed and made for myself. "If that's how you want it, fine!" he said, tossing my shorts into the fireplace.

  I rescued my shorts, but they were on fire. I stomped on them to put out the flames, but it was too late. They were destroyed.

  "How could you do that, Richard?" I sobbed.

  "You're right. I think it's counterproductive to be destroying our own things, don't you?" he said.

  "I hate you!" I raged, heading for the living room, where I grabbed the tiny wooden shoes that I had toddled around the house in as a child, until I could no longer squeeze my little feet into them. They were the only vestige of happiness from my childhood. "You want to hurt me, let me help you." I tossed the little shoes into the flames. Forcing myself to watch them burn, I was seized with regret but when I saw Richard's face, I got a spark of gratification. Now he'd have to take me seriously. He'd know how unhappy I was. . . .

  Indeed, he looked genuinely shocked by what I'd done. Then he started to laugh in horror. "You're crazy," he said.

  "You're crazy!" I screamed back.

  "No, really, I think you're certifiable. You shouldn't be allowed to walk around loose," Richard said.

  "I hate you!" I was howling as I snatched our framed marriage certificate from the wall. Realizing my intent, Richard leaped forward and tried to grasp my wrist. "Oh, no you don't," he said, but he was too late. I smashed it into the fireplace. As it burned, Richard grew solemn. "What is wrong with you?" he asked.

  "I don't know. I'm sorry," I cried, moved by his concern and chagrined by my fever of destructiveness.

  "I'm sorry too. Don't worry about the check. We'll work it out."

  But the check was the least of my worries. I was horrified by the monster I was becoming.

  SEVEN

  After graduation Richard accepted a commission in the Air Force. For the first time in our marriage, our financial tensions eased up. But military life brought me new anxieties, for Richard's future depended a great deal on me. I had to assume my place in the pecking order of wives on the base, curry favor with the spouses of his supervisors, and conform perfectly to certain standards of womanly behavior at all times—in short, I had to fit in. Officers' wives who couldn't or wouldn't measure up would cost their husbands promotions. I felt that both Richard and I were on duty twenty-four hours a day. Our first duty assignment was in Florida, where Richard spent all day at the base while Alex and I sunned on the beautiful beach behind our apartment house. I woke up to tropical breezes and the sound ofwaves lapping the shore. My life looked idyllic, but I was unraveling with the dual pressures of motherhood and my new social responsibilities. I was also tormented by dark memories that seemed to be working their way to the surface, memories of sexual abuse and the feelings of self-loathing they sparked in me. Between those obsessive thoughts and my periods of JoAnne-like rage, I felt that I was going crazy. What I would come to think of as "the cycle" was kicking in.

  One afternoon Richard came home from the base and told me, "I found a nice little church down the road. I think we should go." By now I had grown so distant from spiritual things that I could hardly mention church or God anymore without feeling guilty. I hadn't prayed meaningfully in several years. So I changed the subject, but a few days later Richard brought it up again. "Come on, Ang," he said. "You haven't been to church in ages."

  "Fine," I said, thinking I would come up with an excuse by the time Sunday came. But when I woke up on Sunday, Richard was already dressed in his suit and had Alex ready to go too. Obviously, Richard was not going to be put off.

  The service seemed to bring all my confusion to a head. It was excruciating, for it seemed obvious to me that I no longer belonged here with these people—perhaps I never had. My mind flooded with the grim thoughts that plagued me all the time now. Why had God let such horrible things happen to me? I must have created them. I am a useless person, a terrible wife, a mother possibly unequal to my sons ''terrible twos." I felt panicked and sick, flooded with the sense of contamination I'd felt when I was younger, back in the days of my eating disorders.

  Richard didn't seem to take account of my distress. On the way home from church, he asked, "Well, how did you like it?"

  I didn't answer. I could see the wheels turning in his head already. This church attendance wouldn't be a one-time thing. He was planning a whole program. I was going to be his next project—I was to be reclaimed, redeemed. I knew Richard well enough to realize that he wouldn't let up. He would keep turning up the subtle psychological pressure until he got his way or he drove me crazy.

  Sure enough, he asked, "Would you like to go again next week?"

  I felt like screaming. Why couldn't Richard see what I had become, that I never was what I had pretended to be? I wanted to jump out of the car. I was so obviously beyond the reach of God that no amount of church was going to do me any good.

  Then suddenly I knew what I had to do. "I want to go," I told him. But I didn't mean "go to church." I meant "go away."

  The next day when Richard left for work, I packed everything I could fit into the car. Whatever I couldn't cram in, I left strewn around the apartment. I dropped a note to Richard on the table saying the minimum: Vm leaving. It doesn't have to be permanent. It's not all your fault. . . . Then I strapped Alex into his car seat. Maybe I was running away, as my mother had, but I wasn't abandoning my son.

  I wound up in Southern California, where I worked nights as a waitress so I could be home while Alex was awake. Richard called nearly every day to beg me to come home. He was being reassigned to Tacoma, Washington, and he wanted me with him. He even sent me a pair of beautiful, expensive pearl earrings that I knew he couldn't afford. But I refused to be persuaded. I had a whole new life, going drinking with friends when my shift was over and finding that I liked the oblivion that alcohol could bring, associating with people who expected as little from me as I would get from them. ... I was free of the suffocation of marriage. I had escaped.

  Then one morning I woke up with a boozy headache, with the events of the night before completely blacked out. And I realized that I was still haunted by my dreams, and that my careless life in California was only fueling my sense of worth-lessness. I was abusing my body and, worse, punishing my innocent son for my misery by depriving him of his father. And by keeping him from Alex, I was causing Richard pain. Nothing I was doing made sense.

  And I set off for Tacoma and the new home I'd never seen, hoping to give marriage a second chance.

  EIGHT

  Richard had always been kind and tender with Alex, and now he was bending over backward to be gentle with me as well. He didn't even flinch at the stack of unpaid bills that I had run up in California. He was so happy that I was finally home, and so was I. For a long time the only arguments we ever had were about my family. Richard still harbored some resentment toward my mother and Toni because he suspected that they had encouraged me to leave him. But to be fair, I have to admit that my family did little to heal the rift. The ill will was almost palpable when we visited my mother in California. Toni and her boyfriend met us at Mom's house, so we could all drive to dinner together. Alex was tired and hungry, and as we worked our way through an impossible traffic jam, he threw a tantrum. We asked my mother to stop at any restaurant along the way, but she insisted on taking us to her special place, assuring us that it would be worth the wait. All week she'd seen me indulge Alex's every wish, so she didn't take his outburst seriously. Even when Alex grew uncontrollable, she told us to hang on just for a few more minutes. I felt like she was saying, "Since this is my treat, we are going to do it my way."

  At last we arrived and ordered, but Alex kept fussing, prompting several stylish couples around us to stare and complain. Leaning over, Richard said, "Why don't you take him for a walk?" I jumped at the chance to be excused from the tension. In the best of times, Richard and my mother tolerated each other only for my benefit, and this dinner was growin
g unbearable.

  Once we got outside, Alex calmed down. I walked him around the block for a while until my family filed out of the restaurant. "So how was dinner?" I asked Richard when I got him alone.

  "Well, your mother took this opportunity to set me straight on proper parenting technique."

  "Oh, really. Was it good advice?"

  "It was loud advice."

  "How loud?"

  "Plenty loud, and with quite a few obscenities."

  "Really?"

  "Really. Your mom was explaining to me and the rest of the restaurant that we were giving in to Alex's whims. Then she said we were putting too much pressure on him with our unreasonably high expectations."

  "I don't understand. Do you think we have exceptionally high expectations of Alex?"

  "I think your mother was exceptionally high."

  "I don't think she was high, I think she was a little drunk."

  "Angie, please don't defend her. For the record, I think she was both, but that's neither here nor there. Being blitzed didn't change what she thought—it just gave her a convenient excuse to mouth off about what she's thought all along."

  "Can you blame her for criticizing you? She knows that you hate her."

  "I don't buy it."

  "Don't buy what? You do hate her."

  "I don't buy your whole argument. I reject your entire premise. I don't hate your mom, but even if I did, how would that entitle her to criticize us—loudly—in public? Not being liked may make her want to do it, but it doesn't entitle her to do it!"

  "But still, if she—"

  "Oh please, shut up. I mean it, shut up. It's bad enough to have to swallow parenting advice from the person who is quite possibly the single worst parent on the planet without having to hear her biggest victim come to her defense."

  "I'm not her victim."

  Richard was livid now. "You see yourself as the victim in every situation except this one, when you really are a victim. You don't see how you've let your whole worldview, your entire self-image be colored by your parents."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that I feel like I pay for your mother's mistakes. You seem to have a complete inability to accept responsibility for your actions. She taught you that by her absence. If you don't like what I say or something is too tough to handle, you withdraw or find some other way to escape. If we have a heated discussion when we're driving somewhere, I have to worry that you'll jump out at the next red light. That's not normal. Every unlikable trait in your mother that I see mirrored in you scares me to death. Do you really think she . . . is she any kind of an example for you? Are you going to continue to do the things you've seen her do?"

  "You don't know how much it hurts me when you talk so harshly about me and my family."

  "Alex and I are your family too. When you act unstable, like we don't matter, like nothing matters; when you act like you might desert us when times get tough—we pay." Then, as suddenly as his tirade began, Richard stopped himself. "Well . . . I've gone too far haven't I? I'm sorry for the way I've said this."

  I didn't say anything.

  "Here, at least let me slow down to fifty-five miles an hour before you jump out this time."

  I just stared out the window for the remainder of the drive. One thing that was too tough to handle was the possibility that he was right.

  NINE

  Now that Alex was almost two years old, I started thinking about having another baby. Toni had been my anchor during my childhood, and I wanted Alex to have the same security. I had loved being pregnant with Alex, and I yearned for that happiness again. I also thought that another child might strengthen my bond with Richard. So we tried, but I didn't get pregnant. I had conceived Alex almost the minute we started planning, but now every month brought disappointment. As the year dragged on, the new truce I'd established with Richard grew fragile and strained. We started carping at each other again. Finally, my longing for a baby was so strong that I got down on my knees for the first time in years and pleaded with God to send me a baby. Jacob was born nine and a half months later. Alex's birth had filled me with peace, but Jacob's plunged me into depression. I felt so guilty for bringing a child into such an unstable marriage and so afraid that I wouldn't be able to cope with the pressures of a new baby. Richard and I fought bitterly for a while, but it was even more frightening when our arguments gave way to an angry silence. For long periods we would refuse to speak to each other unless it was absolutely necessary. Divorce seemed inevitable, but I was determined to hang on, to prove to Richard that I was not my mother. Even when we stopped speaking, I took care of the kids and the house, ironing Richard's uniforms and packing the sack lunches he took to work every day. For a while I even wrote little love notes and hid them in the bag or in his briefcase.

  I made a half-hearted attempt to go to church with the boys. Richard was no longer interested in attending because that would mean committing himself to me and our marriage. I suspected that I was attending myself only to make a show of being a good wife. I still felt completely spiritually disconnected.

  Then one day, when Jacob was four months old, I saw a TV news story that brought all my old torments into focus again. A child had survived an abduction and the most brutal sexual mutilation I'd ever heard about. Fired by pain and anger at my own sexual abuse, I called the TV news station and learned that a group of citizens was forming to fight for changes in the laws governing violent sexual offenders. I quickly grew completely immersed in the cause.

  Richard objected to the long hours I spent organizing and attending protests, but he could see that I didn't care what he thought. I spent a year working with the group, dragging along my infant son and three-year-old or occasionally leaving them with baby-sitters. I took pride in my righteous work, but I wasn't prepared for the toll it would take on me. Hearing the stories of other victims of sexual abuse brought my own poisons to the surface. I started obsessing about the abuse again, unearthing new, horrible memories that were too big and too painful to accept. I felt powerless to defend myself against them. I started sleeping days and crying nights. I started drinking again, heavily. I knew I needed help, but I didn't know where to turn.

  Finally, I went to see my minister, who was a kind, understanding man. Something inside told me to trust him, though I believed that my problems were way out of his league. I confided that Richard and I were hardly speaking anymore, that we had drifted so far apart that I feared nothing could save my marriage. Then he looked intently at me and said, "You're not putting notes in Richard's lunch anymore." I was stunned. I had been too embarrassed by the silly gesture ever to tell anyone about it, and I was sure Richard would never share such an intimate detail about our life. The minister continued, "You need to start doing that again. You don't know how much those notes affect him. They give him hope."

  I told him that I could not face the anger and depression that engulfed me. He hesitated to counsel me, but I begged him, "Please. Just tell me what to do."

  He stroked his forehead intently and then leaned forward in his chair. "If I tell you, then you must do it," he said.

  "Of course I will," I replied through my tears.

  "If you read the Scriptures and pray, then God will take care of the rest."

  I couldn't believe that just reading and praying could heal me. But nothing else had helped, so I thought I better trust my minister's inspiration. He'd known about the notes in Richard's lunch bags, along with some other details of my life that I'd thought were pretty well hidden. Perhaps he was on target this time too.

  But there always seemed to be some big obstacle to prayer. Every single time I knelt to pray or opened my Bible, the phone would ring, Jacob would cry, or Alex would pitch a fit. It was uncanny—it was almost as if some power were trying to keep me from following his advice. It wasn't long before I abandoned the effort altogether. I was no longer the naive girl who thought you could look to God when you lost your car keys, never mind when you thought you had lo
st your sanity.

  Finally, inevitably, I packed to leave again. By now Richard seemed relieved, worn out by the emotional storms, the months of cold silence, and the uncertainty over whether I would stay. I got a job selling BMWs, which would give me a car as well as the income I'd need to live on, and until I could find an apartment, I spent nights with friends. I came home only during the day when Richard was at work.

  That's where he surprised me. I was sitting on the kitchen floor sorting through some papers—the birth certificates and address books that I would need—when he walked in. The look of urgency in his eyes persuaded me at least to listen to him. "We need to stay together," he said.

  "Yeah, right."

  "No, really. I have the distinct impression ... It was like I felt a voice come into my mind, telling me that we need to be together to raise the boys, Alex in particular," he said. "They need both of us. You are supposed to go see your minister. He will be expecting you."

  Oh, good. Another ploy to keep me here, I thought. I looked at Richard with disgust and started to pick myself up off the floor.

  "Wait," he insisted. "You know I'm not the kind of weirdo who hears voices and crazy stuff like that," he went on. "I was told that this impression came to me because Alex has been praying for us. You won't have to take my word for it. You'll know for yourself."

  "You're kidding" was all I said. I wasn't even sure that Alex knew how to pray, though he did go to Sunday school.