by Daleen Berry
She stared at me, surprised. “Good? What on earth do you mean? You couldn’t find a better kid. I still remember when your mom worked in the café and you helped her after school. Then you sold all that candy so you’d have your own spending money. Why girl, you were probably one of the few teenagers I knew who never got into trouble. I don’t even remember your mom ever saying you talked back to her.”
I laughed. “No, that was Carla’s department. She was always back-talking to Mom.”
“How is she anyway? She was always such a happy-go-lucky child.”
“I wish I knew, Martha. But the truth is, I hardly ever see her. She rarely visits and then, it’s just for a few minutes. She’s always busy running off somewhere.”
“No children yet?”
“No, she and Wayne keep hoping. They’ve even talked about adopting. I don’t know, I sometimes think she runs around to keep herself from thinking about not being about to have children.”
“You mean they can’t?” Martha asked.
“I don’t know, she just said they’ve both undergone all kinds of tests, but so far, nothing’s turned up. I really feel for her.” I sighed.
“I know. Children add so much to your life. Of course, they can make it a pain sometimes, too, but…” She laughed, and I remembered how that bubbly, contagious sound used to warm me as a child.
We talked until well after midnight, but when we began yawning, we decided it was time for bed. I was starting to feel tired, but when I lay down, all signs of sleep fled. I kept hearing our discussion, and all of the things Trudy and I had talked about kept running through my mind. Without realizing what I was doing, I picked up my journal from where it lay on the nightstand, and tore a page out. “Dear Eddie,” I began, and stopped.
I had no clue what to say.
But suddenly, the words began pouring onto the page. My energy hadn’t abated when I finished, so I started my second letter. An hour later, I had two lengthy letters composed. Of course, neither Eddie nor my mother would ever read them. It was probably just as well. Some pretty strong feelings had come out through my pen, and as I turned out the light, I felt a sense of release from my past. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.
Throughout the weekend, those feelings gained more ground, giving me a courage I never knew I had. Martha and I went shopping, and the entire family, including Kathy and Rhonda, put together a picnic Sunday afternoon. Martha had asked some friends over, and one young couple who had no children were busy keeping my brood occupied while I filled their plates. As I called for the kids, I couldn’t help but smile. They were climbing all over Ted, who didn’t seem to mind at all. When they came running, they all fought over who was going to sit beside him and Mark. I looked up at Martha, who shrugged at me. “You decide, Mom.”
I made a decision I hoped would keep everyone happy and as we sat down to eat, I kept thinking about my children’s father. Eddie was always too busy working to take time out for them, yet perfect strangers realized how much joy and happiness they could provide. They weren’t bad children—they just needed more love than one parent could give them. And there I was, back to the old dilemma: was it better to stay married to Eddie so the kids would have a father, or wiser to part, leaving them fatherless, so to speak. As I ate my hamburger, I watched them enjoy Mark’s easy banter and Ted’s friendly teasing. I still wasn’t sure what to do.
Sunday afternoon we pulled away amidst yells from Martha’s family of “Don’t forget to write,” “Have a safe trip,” and “Don’t wait so long to visit next time.” My four yelled back, waving happily out the windows.
I was happy, too, but I needed to go home. Part of me wished we could stay longer, but another part yearned to return, to continue on the private journey I had began—even though I didn’t know where it would lead me. As I headed onto the interstate, pinkish rays of sunlight were visible behind the trees.
I love this place. How I wish we had never moved away. Because that’s when I became his pawn, when his abuse began. The molestation. The rapes.
I looked around at the kids, who were dividing up the cookies Martha sent with us. I smiled, feeling grateful.
But it hasn’t all been bad. I got four beautiful blessings out of the deal.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The day was dreary when I next met with Trudy, the sky grey and ominous. I took my letters, which were tucked inside the pages of a notebook.
“Did you get your letters written?” Trudy asked brightly.
“I did.”
My words hung there between us only briefly, before she beamed at me. “Wonderful! And how did it make you feel?”
“Honestly? Like killing Eddie.”
“And your mother, did you write one to her?”
“Yes. It was harder to write, for some reason,” I said.
Her nod seemed empathetic. “I can understand that. Would you mind reading them?”
I pulled them out of the notebook, fumbling with the pages as I did so, trying to slow down time. “Out loud?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I can.” I felt like a schoolgirl who was about to be punished for refusing to do an assignment.
“That’s okay. May I read them?”
“Go right ahead.” I handed her the letters and sat back, wondering what she would glean from them.
As Trudy read, I recalled what I had written. I began by telling my mother how much I loved and respected her, especially during the times when she was a single parent without Dad around. But I also said that resulted in there being not enough supervision, which contributed to the amount of time I spent with the Leigh family. I talked about all my ‘what ifs’, knowing it was useless, since the past couldn’t be changed.
Then I said I knew she didn’t realize what was happening to me, because she would have stopped it, if she had known—that I had wanted to tell her the truth, many times, but I was always afraid she would think I was a terrible person. I told her how, at thirteen, I thought I knew everything and was totally grown up. How I had been smart, gotten good grades, and how all my teachers liked me. That was when Eddie really began getting involved in our lives, and I mistook his interest in me as another sign he cared about us—like he did by helping her with household repairs. How it took me years to realize he was only acting that way for selfish reasons—so he could get to me, by using her. I talked about how guilty and ashamed I felt, and how I came to believe it no longer mattered—how I stopped caring, believing I was to blame. And besides, I told her, Eddie reinforced that, telling me it was my fault. I also said that even when I tried to tell him ‘no’, or make him stop, it didn’t always work.
I related how I had learned, by looking at my own children, that at that age I was never mature enough to make such a decision, to take part in the sex he insisted on. That I had trusted Eddie because he was like the big brother I never had, and I really believed he cared about me. Only a child, I wrote, would have accepted what I did and endured it quietly, without saying a word to anyone. And in the end, borne all the guilt, as well. I told her I was tired of feeling as if I was to blame, and I thought maybe if she had been watching more closely, she might have seen what was happening. That maybe she could have done something to make it all stop. That’s when I urged her to take precautions with my two sisters and brother, who still lived at home.
Then I ended the letter. “If this has helped you in any way, let it be in that none of them have to experience life as I did. I love you.”
Several times while she was reading, I saw Trudy nod her head briefly, as if in agreement, and at times I could see a thoughtful look on her face. When she was finished, Trudy handed the pages to me.
“They’re very well-written.”
I felt myself blushing. Accepting compliments was still difficult. “Thank you. So, how did I do?”
She smiled. “There was no right or wrong way to do this. But you expressed yourself well, by telling Eddie how he made you feel, how it c
hanged your life, and the anger you have because of that.”
“I said I hated him.” I grimaced, feeling slightly guilty. “We’re supposed to forgive people who hurt us.”
“Yes, and maybe someday you will. But it’s too soon for that. You’re entitled to your feelings of anger or hate, and then some.” Trudy paused before continuing. “The letter to your mom is really touching. It doesn’t sound like you’re angry with her about not doing anything. It sounds more like your letter is pleading with her to be more cautious with your younger siblings.”
“Yes, I’d hate for anything like that to happen again. And it could, so easily.”
“How did you feel when you wrote the letters?”
“I felt sad, mostly. But angry, too. Really angry when I realized how Eddie took advantage of me at such a young age.”
“I know. And remember, these letters are just for you. They’re not to send, unless at some point in the future, you think you want to.”
I shook my head. “I know. But right now, I don’t think I ever could.”
“So, how did you feel when you were finished?”
“It felt like part of the pain was gone.”
Trudy smiled. “That’s good, Daleen. You’re doing great. You’ve come a long way in a short time. I’m so proud of you.” Between her heartfelt words and the hug she gave me as I turned to go, I was beginning to feel proud of myself, too.
As I began to feel more—fully experiencing a wide range of emotions that ran the gamut from frustration and pain, to anger and longing—I found some things were still the same. Instead of being able to concentrate on a work assignment, I would find myself remembering. It was a fight to stay focused and do my job.
Then there were the men. I had always noticed, in a peripheral sort of way, how some men looked at me, but I gradually came to see their glances in my direction. Where I once thought their looks had to be sexual, one day I realized the looks came my way for a variety of reasons—and not all of them related to sexual thoughts or fantasies. I struggled to work through the issues from my childhood and teen years, and felt like I was morphing from a caterpillar into a moth, so I could finally fly free.
Little by little, I learned to be patient and long-suffering with myself. I still forged ahead, taking on more and more work assignments. In some ways my job helped me to keep working on my personal issues, but at the same time it protected me from facing everything at once.
Everything in its own good time.
By pouring myself into my job, using my mental energy to focus on news events that distracted me from what happened at home, I could deal with the dichotomy of my life. In one way, I felt like my life was fraying at the seams, but in another way, I felt stronger and more empowered. It was as if I was a detached stranger, looking in on the person I had been, and the person I was becoming.
I only had one question: Who will I turn out to be, when it’s all over?
As I walked across the street to get news from the sheriff’s department one morning, it hit me: the time I’d spent around men and women who worked in law enforcement had been good for me, imbuing me with the type of courage I hadn’t had before. I would never want to keep a loaded weapon in my own home, but during my interviews, sitting across from the desk of someone who carried one for a living, gave me a sense of safety. It was as if, after seeing all those police officers at work, protecting the public, I realized that if I really needed them, they would be there for me, too.
But it was other stories, about other women, that gave me a sense of personal empowerment. One such story occurred when Hilda Heady received the Susan B. Anthony award. I interviewed Heady and the nominating committee. Heady received the award because of her work with the Preston Birthing Center, and because she stepped into what had traditionally been a man’s role, after being hired as the hospital’s administrator. As I spoke with Heady, I realized that being a woman didn’t necessarily restrict you from having the same things a man had—namely, recognition and accolades. Her achievement helped me see what was possible for a woman, and taught me we aren’t only caretakers of our men and our children. We can be much, much more.
That’s when I remembered Dad telling me that a woman can do anything a man can. After interviewing Heady, and seeing all her achievements, I finally knew my father was right.
While I came to recognize that professional career women can help make great advancements in their community and in the world, I still held onto the Bible stories that had played such a large role in my own life. There was Sarah, who had left her luxurious home in the wealthy city of Ur, to accompany her husband, Abraham, when he asked her to live the rest of her life in tents. And Abigail, who proved to be the perfect wife, who helped defuse a tense situation involving her husband, Nabal, when he nearly got his household killed after refusing hospitality to King David. There was also Esther, a young Israelite woman who ended up saving her entire nation.
These women were the same ones I had been hearing about since I was a little girl, and their examples had been imprinted on my consciousness with a branding iron, as examples of good women, good wives, who ran households while supporting their husbands’ efforts.
So all the while, a battle waged within me, and I found myself torn between work and home. Work gave me confidence, but being at home took it away. With my marriage at the breaking point, the wedding dress dream came more often, eventually became a daily ritual. Every night I tried to escape the man hunting me with a knife, intent on killing me. Those nightmares were so real I often woke up in a cold sweat, my heart pounding, and scared to death.
Or maybe it was because, by then, I was really seeing my life for what it was, and I was beginning to separate from the abuse.
I truly had no idea how traumatic waking up to the true state of my life would be. It was a blessing, but in another way, it was a terrible curse, which I learned from—of all things—a broken washing machine.
Mom’s was awaiting repair, so she had been doing her laundry at our house. “Daleen, you didn’t find any extra underwear in your washer, did you?” she called to ask the next morning.
“Uh, no,” I told her, then laughed. “Why, don’t you have any?”
“No, it’s not that. It’s just that Jackie went through the laundry baskets looking for clean panties and she can’t find any. I thought maybe they got mixed in with some of yours,” Mom said.
“I’ll look and see. I washed a couple of loads last night, but they haven’t been folded yet.”
“Okay. Call me if you find them.”
As I folded the clean clothes, I kept an eye out for any unfamiliar underwear, but I found nothing that wasn’t ours. I asked all of the kids and even Eddie, but no one had seen them. Eddie said he had no idea what I was talking about, but he checked the washer and the dryer again, to see if they had mysteriously remained behind, even after I’d washed our clothes.
The mystery remained exactly that until a couple of days later, when Mom called and asked me to drop by. It was a Saturday and Eddie was at work, so I took the kids with me. Mom, Jackie and I were chatting over coffee with some of my mother’s delicious coffeecake, when I saw an odd look pass between them.
“I think we better tell her, don’t you?” Jackie tried to smile but still looked uncomfortable, and I felt like an actor coming on stage in the middle of the final act.
“You tell her.”
I looked back and forth between them, wondering what was going on. “Tell me what? What’s wrong?”
“Well, do you remember the missing panties?” Mom asked.
I nodded, wondering why they were still an issue.
“Jackie and I think maybe Eddie took them,” Mom said, looking into her coffee cup.
I sat there. I heard the words, yet they made no sense.
“Last night when we came home, Jackie went to her bedroom and found her lingerie had been laid out all over her bed, very neatly. The only explanation we can think of is Eddie.”
I r
emembered that Eddie had been there the night before, repairing a broken bathroom faucet. Still, some internal force, fueled by years of habit and fed by an equal amount of denial, kicked in, causing me to try and shield my husband. “Are you sure? I mean, maybe there’s another explanation . . .” The excuse sounded weak even to my ears. I stopped, unable to finish.
“We already asked Michael, but he’s here all the time and if he was going to do something like that, it seems kind of odd that he would do it the very same evening that Eddie was here,” Mom said.
I shook my head slowly. “Besides, Michael wasn’t here last night, was he? Didn’t you say you all went to the mall?”
“Yes,” Mom said.
Jackie, who had been silent throughout the exchange, spoke up. At fourteen, she already showed signs of the beauty she would become. “When I saw the things lying there like that, I went to the dresser and looked through my drawers. He had taken the bras and panties from there. I could tell by the way it was all messy, not neat like I keep it.”
My heart went out to her, because I knew how she felt: violated.
I hate you, Eddie Leigh! How dare you try to hurt Jackie with your perverted desires!
“I can’t stand him. He gives me the creeps.” Jackie made a disgusted face as she spoke.
“That’s true,” Mom nodded. “For some reason, Jackie has been uncomfortable around Eddie for a while now. She doesn’t even want to be here when he’s working around the house.”
“She has good reason,” I said, all desire to protect him gone. “Mom, I told you what he was like. Don’t you remember what happened with Carla when we were all together at Bruce’s the summer Eddie and I got married? You know, when we were going on our honeymoon?”
Mom looked puzzled for a moment, then I could see the dawning in her eyes. “Oh that. Well, I just thought that was Carla’s way of getting attention.”
