Sister of Silence

by Daleen Berry

  That’s why I already have three children. Thanks, but no thanks. That I can do without.

  Despite my best intentions, the depression that had begun to creep over me like creeping purple phlox caught and held me fast. It seemed to come and go, and many times I sat and stared out a window, letting my mind fill with peaceful nothingness. To a place without any problems, where everything was calm and tranquil and I was happy, and life was good. During those times, my relationship with Eddie was different. We were friends, not enemies, and our love was good.

  But it was a happiness I could only dream of, one which lasted for brief snatches of stolen time here and there. As soon as one of the babies tugged on my shirt, or I heard the teakettle whistle, I came out of my faraway trance. Then I realized it had only been an elusive fantasy.

  I didn’t give up, though. I tried to be a better wife, a better mother. When the urge to complain was right on the tip of my tongue, I bit it, numerous times. If Eddie yelled at me because I forgot something, or simply for no reason at all, I calmly answered him, refusing to rise to the bait and yell in return—especially when the children were around. I wouldn’t place them in a position where they saw the two most important people in their lives fight and argue. Instead, I quietly told him I would gladly discuss it later, but not in front of the children.

  I had the strongest desire to keep peace for my children’s sake, so they could grow up happy and healthy. Sadly, whatever I did to avoid conflict wasn’t enough. Eddie didn’t listen to me when I asked him not to argue in front of them anymore than he listened to me about anything else. It took years before I learned how the harsh and painful consequences of his selfishness had affected my precious offspring.

  My self-imposed improvement program was strenuous, but I hoped it would make a difference. Armed with nothing but the hope that the love I thought we once had would somehow return, I developed a schedule so I could cram everything into twenty-four hours. Cooking, cleaning, caring for three babies, plus working a part-time job—each had an allotted time slot. Many days I didn’t go to bed until two or three in the morning, only to get up four or five hours later and begin again. Things were a little better between us, and I thought my efforts might just pay off.

  It made me believe anything was possible.

  Anything but not be pregnant.

  Within weeks it became all too apparent I was pregnant. Again. It was difficult to the point of unbelievable, and I kept it to myself as long as I could, thinking that if I ignored it enough, it wouldn’t be true. I was so angry…angry at having to carry, sustain and give birth to another human life. And that new life would take precious time and attention away from my three daughters.

  And then I began to wonder what if this one would be a boy? That it could turn out to be a boy didn’t make it any easier.

  If it is, he’ll grow up to be a replica of his father, someone who uses and looks down on women.

  I was surprised at how clearly I could see the truth, even if only momentarily.

  I think being so angry helped me remove my blinders. Anger at the man who continued to treat me as his plaything, as a toy for him to do with as he pleased. More and more, my three other pregnancies kept returning to my thoughts, and the more I thought about them, and how they came to be, the angrier I became.

  And when my secret finally got out, and people learned I was pregnant with my fourth child, that didn’t make it any easier. Our families and friends teased me, asking questions I couldn’t answer truthfully.

  “Don’t you know how those babies keep happening?” They winked at me while I slowly died inside.

  Of course I know. But do you think you could please explain it to my husband? He’s the one who doesn’t seem to understand. Or care.

  I wanted to scream and tell them I knew exactly how and where babies come from, but I couldn’t seem to do anything to prevent it. Instead, I mustered a smile and made some flippant reply.

  The day came when I realized I had to tear my thoughts away from the past. It was gone and nothing could change that. Although it seemed to work at least at the surface, but inside, I was still upset because another life was growing within me.

  I perked up when Eddie went back to work since it meant we wouldn’t have to scrape by, living on fried mush and macaroni and cheese, only going to the doctor in an emergency; and avoiding the malls and department stores because we didn’t have a spare nickel. Even Eddie’s anger abated, providing some well-deserved peace and quiet. As always when mining coal, his hours were those of a madman, working twelve, fourteen, even sixteen hours a day.

  Still comfortable in my role of a woman who denied the impact of the violence within her own home, I resented him for forcing me to single-handedly do everything. I failed to see those long absences from home for what they really were: a blessing in disguise. I should have though, because whenever Eddie was there with us, he would spend all his time either yelling at the girls to be quiet, or at me to keep them that way.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The day I decided to kill my children and myself was just like any other.

  Eddie went to work, the mail came, neighbors chatted and trains rumbled by. Only I had changed, so that day my world stood still, and my thoughts suddenly coalesced into one singular, cohesive plan.

  For years, I had seen a vision of myself dropping my babies from an open window and I had learned to deal with them. But more often now, while driving near a steep embankment or over a bridge, I had other thoughts.

  If only I close my eyes, and take my hands off the steering wheel, it will all be over.

  I never could do it, of course. But the pattern of thoughts persisted, plaguing me for many years.

  I found myself swimming in a sea of desperation, not knowing how to tread the water that swirled around me, as a silent undertow threatened to drown me as one day bled into another. And another. And another. It didn’t make any difference what I did or how I spent my time—I just couldn’t stop being sad.

  I love my children dearly, and wouldn’t trade them for anything. But I don’t want any babies, and, if I did, I want to be able to choose when. I’ve had no say at all, in any of their births—all because of him. And now, I can’t even make my marriage work. How on earth will I ever escape from this war zone—the one inside my home, the other one inside my mind?

  Still in my nightgown, I sank onto the couch, and watched as the room went fuzzy. The tears were right behind my eyes, trying to get out. I wanted to stop them, tried to ignore the utter despair I felt, and to hide my pain from my children. But slowly the tears escaped, forming little trails down my cheeks. Then another fear occurred, a fear of scaring the daughters who played in a corner, oblivious to everything but each other.

  Like a drunken robot, I rose and stumbled into the bathroom and out of their sight, turning the lock behind me. Unseeing, I reached for the spigot and heard the water splash against the tub. Somewhere in a coherent corner of my mind, I hoped it would drown out my pain. Sinking slowly down the wall to the cold vinyl floor, I began sobbing, feeling nothing but the pain. Quietly at first, until I managed to lift my arm and pull a towel down from the shower rod, burying my face in it. Sobs wracked my body, and I heard a guttural cry like a wild animal come from somewhere deep within me. With the raw sound came freedom from days, months and years of silent anguish as the bottled-up feelings that had waited for so long to explode flowed freely down my cheeks.

  I knew then what I had to do. I was going to take my children, get into my car and drive over a cliff. I knew just where to do it and I watched it happen in my mind . . .

  The car speeds up, going faster and faster as it gains momentum, flying down Bird’s Creek Road. But instead of making the deadly curve halfway down the mountain, I take my hands off the steering wheel and we simply sail over the edge of a tall cliff, coming to rest several hundred feet below, in the forested valley that will become our tomb.

  The explosion happens just as we hit hard rocks and ea
rth, and I feel my throat begin to close, as a mixture of fear and smoke begin to overtake me.

  But my children…they’re still alive—and howling in pain. Their mangled and broken bodies have somehow survived the crash, but their shrieks tear through me, just as flames of fire began creeping toward us, ready to do what the car crash has not.

  A crying sound just outside the bathroom door startled me, waking me from my reverie: No! I don’t want them to suffer. It will have to be something else.

  “I can’t do it, I don’t know what to do . . .” I croaked the words into the fabric pressed against my mouth. “I don’t know what to do to fix things. Oh God, help me, please!” The desperate plea was torn from me, as I struggled to keep my children from hearing my torment.

  Then, almost of its own accord, I began to see something else. Unlike any of the other thoughts that had played out in my mind during the past few years, an unfamiliar one came to me. And like the frames of a movie reel, I watched myself get into the car and sit down beside my daughters. As I turned the key in the ignition, the car began filling with fumes. The long rubber hose I had hooked up to the exhaust wound around the car and into a tiny window. The hose had rags stuffed around it. As the air started feeling warm and heavy, I began to feel at peace. There was no pain, as a slow drowsiness settled upon me.

  In my mind I saw their father finding us hours later, much too late to save us.

  After all, I couldn’t leave my children behind, for their life would be a continuation of the hell my own had been. At the hands of their father, who knew what would happen to them?

  That final thought tore through me, and I looked down at my swollen stomach, visible evidence of another impending birth. My hands wrapped around my belly, as if instinctively trying to shelter the unborn baby from the part of my brain that was thinking about harming it.

  How can I even think of doing something so terrible? I sat there, my arms wrapped tightly around my torso, rocking back and forth and trying to make sense of my life.

  I recalled the day I knew I was again pregnant. It was August and I had just turned twenty-one. My three daughters were already a handful and I didn’t want another child—how I’d prayed that something would happen. Anything to make it go away.

  But that was in the beginning, when I was so distraught I wondered if there would ever be a time I wasn’t pregnant. When I was not at the mercy of a man who did whatever he wanted, with me and to me, without a second’s hesitation.

  Just as I had done with its sisters, I started telling the baby I was carrying, “It isn’t your fault. You didn’t ask to be born, and you have no control over what happens. It isn’t your fault, and you deserve to live.” I kept repeating that until finally, miraculously, the dark, unthinkable feelings vanished. Even though I wasn’t thrilled about giving birth to a fourth child, I knew I had to accept it. It took me almost the entire nine months, but I did it.

  My tears slowing, I thought of my unborn child—all he or she might become—and how snuffing out that tiny life would be much more wrong than trying to endure the abuse. I thought of Mileah’s stubborn pout, the way her chin jutted out defiantly whenever she couldn’t have something she wanted. I pictured Gabby, thumb in mouth, curled up like a kitten, sound asleep on the stairwell. And Trista, toddling down the street in a diaper, a bright blue Cookie Monster doll tucked under one tiny arm.

  Then I tried to conjure up an image of this unborn child. With blond hair and blue eyes, it would no doubt have the same features as its siblings. But what of its personality? Would it be helpful and older than its years, like Mileah? Or quiet and solemn, like Trista? Or perhaps rambunctious and ornery, like Gabby? Would it be another girl? What if it was a boy? Would he follow in the steps of his coal miner father?

  Please no, not that!

  There was no way to know. But I wanted to find out.

  “No!”

  I screamed the word, as the sight and sound and thought of my children—all dead—threatened to drive me mad.

  I want to live, and give the child within me a chance to live—no matter what!

  Besides, I’m too stubborn to die.

  I had found a stronghold to cling to, knowing I had to be there to take care of them, to raise them into responsible adults—because no one else was going to do it. The hope was so tangible I could almost reach out and touch it.

  I can’t leave them, and I can’t kill them. Or us. Nothing—no one—is worth that!

  I stood up slowly, wet a washcloth with cool water, and then patted my face with it. The woman in the mirror stared at me, and I realized I was a mess.

  What could have caused you so much pain that you’re ready to give up? How did you get to this place? You have your whole life ahead of you!

  As I placed the neatly folded washcloth on the sink, I turned away from the reflection there. I couldn’t bear to look into the mirror, for it had always mocked me. Today was no different.

  Turning the doorknob, I took a deep, ragged breath and went to tend my children. My smile was fixed back in place by the time they came running over to me.

  I had no idea how I came to be on the bathroom floor that day, for I was still blind to the truth: I was psychologically and physically abused, battered by the man who claimed to love me, yet who seized every opportunity to prove otherwise. I just wasn’t ready to see it. But the feeling of being a cornered animal, with nowhere to go, did something to me—it made me fight that much harder to keep living.

  That was when I forced myself to face the situation squarely. If things weren’t going to get better, then fine. But I was going to do the best I could with whatever I had at the time. Each day was a struggle, and there were times when my thoughts returned to that day in the bathroom, and I wished I had just gone through with it. But they were coming with less and less frequency and instead, I was learning acceptance. Whenever I felt like throwing up my hands and giving up, I remembered my children—and how dependent they were on me. Their father certainly wouldn’t, indeed, wasn’t capable, of caring for their needs. So it was up to me. That was my outlook on life.

  It gave me a sense of renewed strength, but it really was no different than the same outlook I had adopted since I was old enough to realize I couldn’t trust the adults in my life. I was the only person I could trust.

  The fourth and final pregnancy was the hardest on my body. I gained more weight than I had with the others, and by the end of the day caused my back to feel like I had carried cinderblocks around all day long. By evening I was exhausted, miserable, and at times I even hoped I would miscarry. I felt like a horrible person for even thinking it, but I had so little time and energy I didn’t see how I could possibly have enough left for a fourth baby. Someone, maybe even more than one of them, was going to be shortchanged in the process—but I also knew there was nothing I could do about it.

  The night we called the doctor was a moist spring one, with the evening dew just starting to dampen the grass. My contractions were hard and close together, and I prayed the baby would wait for the doctor before making an appearance. I tried to rest between contractions while Eddie puttered around downstairs.

  We had found Dr. Roper several months earlier: he was the only doctor within the tri-state area who still did home births. The doctor and his nurse, Norma, had only been in the house a few minutes when the pains began getting stronger. He told me my cervix was dilated three centimeters.

  “It might be awhile,” he told me as he smiled kindly. “Why don’t you try to get some rest, while I go into the next room and take a nap myself?”

  I tried but as soon as I shut my eyes, the pains began again. I finally eased my swollen body downstairs, trying to look more graceful than I felt. Eddie was in the kitchen entertaining Norma, who was probably ten years his senior. He was laughing as he made popcorn and I was struck by the irony of it all, that he was flirting with another woman while I was about to give birth to his child. It was so surreal I couldn’t even comment on it. I simply
retrieved a snack and returned upstairs, hearing his laughter echo as I climbed back into bed.

  Somewhere along the way I managed to doze but as night turned to early morning, the pains returned with a burning intensity. Dr. Roper said I was completely dilated, and the baby would make an appearance any second.

  Everything happened rapidly after that. Suddenly, Dr. Roper was supporting two reddish shoulders, just as the baby slipped out into the waiting world. “It’s a girl—No, it’s a boy!” the doctor sounded incredulous.

  “It is a boy!” Eddie was amazed as he watched Dr. Roper place the squirming, crying infant on my stomach.

  No, they must be wrong, it’s another girl.

  But when I looked, there was no mistaking him for a girl; he was definitely a boy. Who weighed almost 11-pounds, Dr. Roper said. I was amazed. To have a son—well maybe the pregnancy had been worth it after all. I was just stunned he was mine.

  As with his sisters, the baby boy remained nameless for a few days, when we agreed on “Slade.” He never stopped smiling, which earned him a favored position with everyone in the household. He never cried, either, and would just whimper. But after eating or getting a diaper change, he was as happy as ever. I grew to love him more each day, and soon wondered how the girls and I had survived without him.

  But I had to make sure he was my last baby. Dr. Roper had spoken with me about future birth control, since he was concerned because I had given birth to four children in five years. After thinking long and hard and praying fervently, I made the agonizing decision. I told Dr. Roper I wanted to have my tubes tied. I knew my procreative powers were a gift from God, and under normal circumstances, I would never even consider the procedure.