by Edward Fays
Inspired by JOHN MITCHELL
Quiet Desperation
We have all felt the pit of desperation in our stomachs. Some people experience the kind of despondency that gnaws away at them like termites through rotting wood. The kind that permeates their thoughts during the day and the inner sanctums of their dreams at night. These people go to extreme measures to safeguard themselves against the source of their hopelessness, making sure what they endured before will never, ever happen again.
Kimberly was twenty years old, a junior in college, and there wasn’t a week when she didn’t break down crying with uninhibited abandon. Often, in an emotional outburst, she would run sobbing out of the classroom in a mad rush to find seclusion in the bathroom. Locking herself in the corner stall, she would cry for hours, the sleeves of her shirt stained dark with tears, her wet fingers slipping on the cold green-tiled walls.
In the seven years since her thirteenth birthday she had gained fifty pounds. The snide remarks from people in school and her father’s bitter attitude at home made her life unbearable. No one could comprehend the fear Kimberly was trying to insulate herself from; her father was furious that she was no longer the charming girl she’d been during her preteen years—the one who loved to dress up and look pretty. Now most of her clothes were oversize. She always wore sneakers or flat shoes, never makeup, skirts, or high heels. Baggy sweatshirts and sweatpants or jeans were what she felt most comfortable in.
When she started gaining weight, her mother, Allison, expressed concern, attempting to find the root of the problem. Her father, Philip, stringently voiced his opinion, claiming, “She has no discipline and we shouldn’t waste time asking her what’s wrong because nothing is wrong. She just lacks willpower!” Philip’s outbursts were frequent and vicious, causing her mother to recoil in fear and never question anything again.
Kimberly’s depression felt like a noose around her neck, making suicide a tempting option. The few friendships she did have deteriorated, and while most people her age got together for parties, Kimberly spent her weekends alone in her room or taking lonely walks in the park near her parents’ house. She would stare at her reflection in the pond—pudgy face, pale white skin, body shaped like a pear. She never walked away without throwing a rock in first, wishing the ripples of the water could transform her body as they did her reflection.
Her grandmother Martha visited frequently and expressed concern about Kimberly’s weight problem and somber attitude. She suggested that Kimberly see a therapist, but Philip bluntly refused. “There is no need to waste my hard-earned money sending her to an expensive shrink!” he yelled. His explosive temper stifled even his mother-in-law, and she decided to keep her opinions to herself.
The situation climaxed the day Kimberly’s grades from the fall semester arrived in the mail. When she got home her father erupted, howling, “Why am I paying for your tuition when you’re not even in school! You have two incompletes, one D, and two C’s!” She stood stock-still as he swatted a dish off the counter and it shattered at her feet.
Waving her report card like a piece of evidence, he threatened that if she didn’t lose weight, get better grades, and start looking like a woman instead of a fat little boy she’d be sorry, and kicked out of the house. When he flung her report card in the air and stormed out the back door, Kimberly fled to her room. Plunging face-first into her bed, she wept until her tears ran dry and her eyes burned with redness. “I can’t live like this anymore,” she bellowed into her pillow. “I can’t! I just can’t,” she cried, punching the mattress, her voice slowly draining of energy, falling to a pathetic whimper.
Late that night, nightmares of her past startled Kimberly awake and she thought of her father screaming at her in the kitchen that day. She hurriedly packed a bag and raced to her grandmother’s house. Unable to contain the feelings she had buried for so long, she pounded on the door. “Grandma, open up, it’s me! Please open the door!” she wailed.
Startled out of her sleep, Martha slipped on a robe and hurried down the stairs. “Kimberly, is that you?”
“Yes, Grandma, it’s me. It’s just me,” Kimberly said with a desperate sigh. Martha opened the door and Kimberly rushed in, wrapping her arms tightly around her grandmother.
“I need to talk with you, Grandma,” she said in a muffled voice, her face buried in her grandmother’s chest. “I need to talk with someone I haven’t failed.”
“What is it, my dear?” Martha asked anxiously. “What happened?”
Kimberly gazed at her grandmother, her eyes wet and jumpy, and said, “I can’t live with my feelings anymore and I need someone to help me. No one understands. I need your help. Do you have any idea what’s happened to me? Do you know what he did to me?”
Martha gulped, afraid to say what she feared it might be. Kimberly stood there trembling, her hands flopping, her eyes clenched shut. There was a heavy silence, too burdensome to break. And then, with each word creeping bit by bit from her mouth, Martha asked, “Did he touch you?”
A well of tears emerged and Kimberly cried out, “He raped me, Grandma! My God, why did this happen!” Chills pulsed through Martha’s body erupting in a gush of tears streaming from her eyes. She embraced her granddaughter and together they stood weeping desperately in the doorway.
Finally, after losing themselves in furious emotion, Kimberly peered into her grandma’s eyes and, with the heartache of someone who had been stripped of her dignity, said, “He hates me, Grandma. I want Daddy to love me, but he hates me.”
“W … when … did he do this to you?”
Kimberly dragged her feet over to the couch, and Martha nervously sat down beside her. “It started when I was eleven and lasted until I was thirteen,” Kimberly said, her hands fidgeting in her lap as she spoke. “He warned me not to tell anyone. He told me it was because he loved me, but I knew it was wrong. He used to say I was beautiful. I thought the only way to make him stop was if he thought I was ugly so I ate as much as I could. I had to find a way to protect myself. That’s why he hates me now. He said I’m not the same beautiful girl I used to be.”
The grief Martha felt as Kimberly related the horrible details was heart wrenching. She was overcome with sadness at what had happened, rage at herself for not noticing the signs, and disdain toward Philip for what he had done to his only child. What if I hadn’t listened to my daughter? What if I’d talked with Kimberly about her weight problem and discovered the truth behind it? Why couldn’t I see? The horrid notions swept her mind.
Abruptly, her thoughts were pierced by Kimberly’s delicate voice asking, “Grandma, what am I going to do now?” Kimberly was twenty years old, a woman, but at that moment, in that desperate situation, she looked like a defenseless child. Martha stroked the tears from Kimberly’s cheeks and said, “You’re going to live with me now and we’ll get through this together.” Then she embraced her granddaughter, trying to wash away the fear and mistrust and make her feel safe and secure for the first time in almost a decade.
Kimberly started seeing a therapist and began the slow, arduous road to emotional and physical recovery. Allison still lives with Philip, too scared to leave, even after learning the truth.
Today Martha showers as much love as she can on her only grandchild. She feels the need to make up for the love Kimberly lost during her teenage years. She pleads with parents and grandparents to talk with their children and grandchildren—to know and understand what they’re feeling and possibly rescue them before it’s too late. She emphasizes that people cry for help in many ways. Kimberly’s weight gain may have been a protection mechanism, but it was also her way of crying for help. “Cries for support come in all forms,” she says adamantly. “We just have to listen and be there to help the ones we love in their time of need because, after all, they are our family, and there is no more important bond in all the world.”
Kimberly is losing weight and making new friends at school. The sudden outbursts have stopped, but nightmares still invade her
sleep. She’s thinking about studying psychology, becoming a therapist. Perhaps working with girls and boys who have been sexually abused. She says she doesn’t know if she can forgive her father. Maybe someday. She doesn’t feel desperate anymore, just cheated. She lost her teenage years but knows that was just one period of her life. She’s looking forward now, anxious to make up for lost time. Yearning for those years to vanish from her memory like her reflection in the rippling water.
Inspired by MARTHA HUFFINGTON
How About a Catch?
Every little boy needs a man in his life so they can play catch together. Richie’s father had played that role until an unexpected heart attack claimed his life. He was forty-one years old.
It had been a long time, and his throwing arm wasn’t what it used to be, but Richie’s grandpa Sammy felt it was his responsibility to step up to the plate and fill the role as catcher and pitcher. Early one summer morning he yanked on the frayed string attached to the attic door, unfolded the steps leading to the “hotbox” at the top of his house, and rummaged through a few dusty boxes until he found the one containing his old baseball mitt. Sitting up there with a dim light burning and beads of sweat amassing on his forehead, he blew the dirt off the old glove and slipped it over his left hand. The scent of the well-worn leather rekindled a lot of fond memories. With a sentimental look in his eye, he hoped they could create a few new ones for him and his grandson.
Over the following months, Sammy and Richie could be found on Saturday mornings throwing the ball back and forth across the yard, the dewy grass sticking to their sneakers. In time Sammy took on the role not only of baseball companion, but also of father.
Their catches became a summertime tradition for the next few years, until other commitments and a weak throwing arm took over. Sammy was getting older, and Richie was busy with school. Their times together came less often, but the quality of their conversations and the love they shared was healthier than ever. Sammy was proud of the man his grandson had become. His only wish was that his own son had been there to witness the transformation.
In his first semester at college, Richie got a call telling him that his grandpa had passed away. It wasn’t totally unexpected; Sammy had been ailing for some time. Richie returned home for the funeral but had to rush back to school for midterm exams. It wasn’t until the Christmas break that Richie had the chance to say the good-bye he felt his grandpa deserved.
On Christmas morning Richie stood alone, reading the engraving on Sammy’s headstone as snowflakes sprinkled delicately upon his hair. About ten yards away he noticed a man sobbing at what appeared to be a child’s memorial. Richie bent down and at the base of his grandpa’s gravestone placed the gloves the two of them had worn many years earlier when playing catch. In each of them lay an old baseball with tattered strings and bruises from connecting with the bat so many times. He cried as he prayed and thanked his grandpa for the times they shared together.
“Was he a ball player?”
Startled, Richie’s thoughts were interrupted by the question of the very man he’d seen crying a moment ago. He could still see the tears falling from the man’s eyes. Richie looked at him and said, “He was the greatest. He was my grandfather, and when I threw the ball he was always there to catch it and throw it back to me. I could always count on him.”
“My son, Terry, and I played catch together,” said the man. “Some of my best memories with my son are throwing the ball around on a Saturday morning.”
Richie smiled and picked up the two mitts now lightly dusted with snow. He said, “How about a catch?”
“Right here?” replied the man, his hands spread wide at his sides.
“Why not?” declared Richie. “I’ve got a feeling they’ll see us.”
So on a nippy Christmas morning, as the snowflakes drifted softly from the sky, Richie enjoyed a game of catch with a stranger. As he caught the ball snugly in his glove and felt the sting in his palm, the vivid memories flooded his mind. He knew his grandpa was watching him. He hoped his dad was, too. And in the distance he could see the man crying and smiling as he snared the ball from the air while standing next to his son’s memorial.
Inspired by RICHIE HOFFMAN
It’s Never Too Late
Grandparents are portrayed as affectionate people, pampering their grandchildren with love, milk, and cookies. I wish that could be my story. I tried to deny myself the truth, but no longer have the desire.
I was born to an unwed mother and that misfortune caused my grandma to dispute the fact that I ever existed. Perhaps it was the era in which she grew up, but as a child I did not understand people’s intolerance and dogmatic views when it came to certain situations. All I knew was that my grandmother wanted nothing to do with me. She didn’t blame me for my mother’s mistake; she simply couldn’t accept the fact that her grandchild was born out of wedlock.
As a young girl I missed out on the special times granddaughters and grandmothers share, but I learned to occupy myself until the feeling passed. In school other kids prattled on about their grandparents. They spoke of going to the toy store, playing games, and the fun times they had at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I convinced myself that they were lying. Hardening my emotions was the surest way to block out the pain of knowing that I was unwanted for reasons I could not understand.
As I matured, I thought less about not having a grandmother, persuading myself that I was better off. Fewer family obligations, fewer gifts to buy, that sort of thing. The tactic worked until a stinging realization, as if a bucket of icy water was splashed in my face, awakened me to what I had previously neglected to see. A woman was standing with her granddaughter at the grocery store checkout line in front of me. The little girl, squatting inside the shopping cart, snatched a bag of M&Ms from the rack and struggled to open the wrapper. The woman quickly reacted, making the little girl put the candy back where she found it. Then she vividly illustrated the difference between right and wrong, making sure that her granddaughter understood that her actions have consequences. I stood there, engrossed, as she educated her granddaughter about stealing and proper values, while at the same time realizing that I had never learned anything from my grandma. It was devastating, feeling cheated out of the love and guidance grandparents bestow upon their grandchildren. Certainly my grandma had many wonderful stories and lessons she could have shared with me, I thought.
That afternoon I mailed a letter to her saying that although many years had passed, I felt we could still build a meaningful relationship and that it was something we both deserved. Included was my address and phone number. “Please respond,” was scribbled in crayon next to a playful drawing of a little girl holding her grandma’s hand.
The phone rang a few days later. The voice on the other end sounded weak and defeated, as if the years had taken their toll. “Holly, I am sorry,” were the first words my grandma ever said to me. I was twenty-seven years old.
My mind scrambled for just the right words and although my thoughts fluxed with phrases I could spout, none of them seemed to express my feelings. So instead of thinking about what to say, I just began speaking and found that the right words would not come from my mind but rather, from my heart.
“Hello, Grandma,” I uttered.
“My dear, a long time has passed since you were a child and I took that stupid stance,” she said. “I was wrong. For years I fought the urge to call you, fearing you would refuse to speak with me.”
“There were times, especially when I was a teenager, when I wouldn’t have spoken with you, but I saw something wonderful the other day, something that made me realize it was both of us and not just me that was missing out on a special part of life. We can choose our friends but not our family, so it’s important to nourish those relationships. Years have passed that we can never recapture, but it’s not too late for us to begin building a relationship. Rather than contemplating what we lost or should have done differently, I think we should use this moment as a second op
portunity to make things right between us. It may be too late for you to rock me in your arms but I’ll gladly take a hug. I want to learn about you and learn from you. And I want to tell you about me. We’re family, is there anything more important?”
“I used to think that there was,” she said in a voice humbled by embarrassment. “I was too caught up with what the neighbors would think and the belief that it was a sin to have children if you weren’t married. But no matter what I thought I should have been there for you. I’m so sorry.”
“You can be here for me now, Grandma, and I can be there for you. Do you want to give it a try?”
“I can’t … think of anything I would … like more in all the world,” she said, her words fragmented by a surge of tears.
As I share this story, Grandma and I have spoken on the phone several times and our relationship has blossomed. We haven’t seen each other yet, but arrangements for a first visit have been made. It’s on a weekend. I plan on enjoying some milk and cookies. Maybe we’ll even visit a toy store. And when I get back, I’ll be sure to tell all my friends about the wonderful time I had at Grandma’s house.
Inspired by HOLLY NAVARRO
A Measure of Success
For as long as I can remember, I measured success by the size of my stock portfolio, bank account, and other assets. The person with the largest net worth was the most successful. It was calculated and precise.
Most of my friends were business associates. We were all very competitive, which prevented me from sharing personal thoughts and feelings. My business comrades were great to have a power lunch with or hit the links and talk shop, but I wouldn’t speak with them about a personal problem. Within my circle of friends, there was only one person I could turn to and share my innermost feelings—that was Charlie.
We sparked a friendship in elementary school, and despite taking vastly different paths over the years, our relationship endured. We didn’t understand each other’s ambitions, but we respected one another’s choices and cherished our time together. With Charlie, I didn’t have to worry about keeping my guard up. I could tell him if one of my investments went belly-up or if I was having a bad day. With my business friends, I forfeited my emotions for a callous cutthroat exterior, feeling that displays of vulnerability would turn them against me. I thought it was something we all felt, but none of us ever admitted. Secretly, I suspected that each of us had a “Charlie” in our lives.
