Sister of Silence

by Daleen Berry

  “Yes, but the order is supposed to keep him away from her.” Joe gave me a weary look. “Look, I said that’s what’s supposed to happen. It doesn’t always.”

  I checked my notes, asking him to give me a few minutes to see if I’d missed anything.

  I walked down the stairs and out the front door, wondering for the umpteenth time why I had never filed for a protective order. Even my attorney recommended I get one, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. And it wasn’t from a fear Eddie would retaliate in anger, if I did. It was more from shame and embarrassment, at having to admit to the cops I knew professionally that my life was no better than the victims they saw and helped, every day of the week.

  Beyond that, I still believed his violence was something that happened here and there—that I could handle on my own, without a protective order. After all, my mother had handled everything on her own—raising five children, holding down a job, taking care of my father and a huge old house that required lots of work. So why couldn’t I?

  Aside from all of that, though, there was a single remaining reason why I had not gotten a protective order after any episodes of abuse—I was afraid to speak up, afraid of what others would think of me and, mostly, afraid they wouldn’t believe me.

  Ever since I began openly talking about our “secret life,” and taking steps to protect myself, I felt weepy and cried a lot. After Eddie broke in and held me hostage in Slade’s room that day, I had more anger and fear to deal with, and I often felt like I was coming apart at the seams as the emotions I had locked away for years started to overwhelm me. The summer heat and humidity only made the situation even more unbearable.

  It feels like a funnel cloud. I’ve gotten so sucked into their pain and anger, I can’t even see clearly.

  So in late June, I packed up the kids and drove to Harrisburg, Pa., to see Bruce. He said he was glad we were coming, and over the telephone told us about all the fun activities he had planned. When we arrived at his apartment that Friday night, the kids ran from the car, yelling “Uncle Bruce, Uncle Bruce!” I followed them, amazed by their devotion to him. They had no sooner reached his door than it swung open.

  “Why, if it isn’t a bunch of poor orphan children, come to visit me. Won’t you come in, little orphans. I’d love to have you visit for the weekend.” With that, the girls whooped and yelled, laughing at his teasing welcome. They all tried to hug him at once, and he looked like he had small legs and arms coming from everywhere. Only Slade hung back, but Bruce was quick to notice.

  “There—what’s this? It looks like one more orphan, a little orphan boy. Won’t you come in, too?” Slade acted shy and Bruce gathered him up in his arms, hugging him tightly. “How are you little boy? My, you’ve gotten so big. I haven’t seen you for a long time. I’ll bet you’re about ten now. Are you ten?” Slade shook his head and held up five fingers, and everyone laughed. Bruce always knew just what to say to get the kids going.

  Our five days together passed too quickly, with picnics and a visit to the nearby science center. The kids loved the hands-on science activities, and Bruce and I went from one child to the next, snapping pictures the entire time. He had bought some riding toys for them, so in the evenings after dinner, we went out to the large yard behind the apartment building.

  While the kids played together, Bruce and I sat on the grass and talked about everything that had happened. Whereas I had somehow sensed Mom wasn’t willing to hear all the sordid details, it was different with Bruce. He understood. He was shocked at how long the abuse had gone on, and couldn’t get over the fact that Eddie had refused to support his own children, or how mean and hateful he continued to act. I told him Eddie had always been that way when we were alone, but put on a good show when my family was around.

  “I don’t know how you lived like that,” he said, amazed. “My sister Jane had a boyfriend who was mean, but nothing like that.”

  “I guess you just get used to it. And besides, Eddie always blamed me for anything and everything. I think you get to the point where you believe it yourself, and think you’re not good enough for anything—or for anyone—else.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true. But how terrible to live like that.”

  “What happened to Jane? Is she still with that guy?”

  “Oh no, as soon as he began mistreating her, she kicked him out.” Bruce laughed. “Yes sir, I remember her telling me she wouldn’t stand for any man to treat her like a doormat.”

  I smiled, wishing I had been that strong. “Your parents must have set a good example for her, for all of you, when you were growing up. I really think domestic violence—which is what it is—gets passed down from one generation to the next. You end up marrying someone like your father, and you become an abused wife.”

  “No, my parents were never abusive. Oh my dad was a drinker, but he never hurt my mom. At least, we never knew about it if anything had happened.” Bruce looked thoughtful for a second. “But wait a minute, your dad never hit your mom, did he?”

  I nodded slowly and told Bruce the story about Dad’s burnt dinner. He looked flabbergasted. “Your dad did that to your mom? I’ve never heard her say anything about that!”

  “Yes, pretty sad, isn’t it? I was eight when I told her I wanted her to divorce him, because I never wanted him to hurt her again. It was pretty frightening,” I said.

  “I’ll bet. Man, that is just so hard to believe. I mean, I would have never guessed.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly conversation you’d share during dinner parties, if you get my drift.” I smiled.

  “No, I guess it’s not,” Bruce said, still visibly upset by my news.

  “After all, that’s the way it happens. The abuse occurs and it’s kept secret. No one knows, and no one talks about it. That’s why it continues—and why so many women never leave. Why, except for that one discussion, when Mom knew I saw what was going on, we never talked about again. Not one word.”

  “But maybe it just happened that one time,” Bruce said.

  I gave him a sideways look. “That’s why Mom left Dad when they were in Jordan and she was pregnant with Michael—because he threw a can of beer at her. That’s the only other big one I know of, but there were others that led up to it. I really don’t know that much about it, because she still won’t talk about it. Only if I press her, and then it’s still difficult for her to say much of anything at all.”

  Bruce sat there staring at me, and as I saw the battle within him, I wasn’t surprised.

  To believe or not to believe?

  Bruce knew it was the truth, but like all family and friends, he couldn’t understand why he hadn’t seen the signs of abuse himself. He couldn’t understand why he hadn’t known what was going on for all these years in my own marriage. Even more disturbing, Bruce had just learned that his best friend—who happened to be my father—had been abusive to his own wife, my mother.

  “But maybe it only happened those few times. I mean, basically your father’s a great guy who just drinks too much. Of course, there were many times when he would come home late at night, drunk, and I’d wonder how your mother could be so understanding and take all that nonsense. It’s different for me, because I’m single and I don’t have a wife waiting at home. But still—”

  “Maybe the physical violence did only happen a few times—I only saw it that once, and she told me about the beer can incident. But there was also emotional abuse. Putting her down, being critical of her, telling her she couldn’t do anything. In the end, she ended up believing all that garbage about herself.” I could feel myself getting heated up, passionate about how much harm comes from domestic violence.

  Bruce appeared to consider that. “You know, you’re right. That’s abuse, too. It’s just that most people don’t look at it that way.”

  “No, they don’t. Our society thinks abuse against women—be it physical, emotional or sexual—is okay. We might say we don’t, but we show by our actions that we do. We permit it by not e
nacting stronger laws against it, and by closing our eyes to the fact that it happens. Yes, you have groups out there to help women and their children, shelters for them to go to, but how many times does the neighbor across the street come over and offer help? Or does that person instead say, ‘I’m not getting involved. It’s none of my business.’” I stopped, spent, and decided it was time to get off my soapbox.

  Bruce smiled. “You’re right, you know. That’s exactly what people say. Pretty sad, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it sure is.”

  By September, things were much calmer and I was feeling stronger every day. A picture of me holding a writing-related award plaque I had received appeared on the front page of the newspaper. It was exactly what I needed to validate my writing abilities.

  “Congratulations! You both won awards in the West Virginia Press Association’s competition,” Linda had told us a few days earlier. Brad and I looked at each other, breaking out in matching grins.

  “No kidding,” Brad said, surprised.

  “That’s incredible.” I finally found my voice. “Which story?”

  I knew Linda was entering our work in the competition, because she had asked us to choose our best pieces. “Your series on health care. It took first place in the investigative reporting division,” she said.

  Brad gave me another big smile. “Congratulations!”

  “You, too!” I laughed.

  At home, the kids were ecstatic when they say my photo. “We need to have a party for you, Mommy!” Mileah said.

  Trista and Gabby quickly chimed in, suggesting cake, cookies, ice cream and all the usual stuff we ate at our parties. The excitement was palpable, and I was happy my children wanted to celebrate my award. I had always tried to throw a small party for their achievements: first day of school, a good report card, winning a school competition, or just to lift someone’s spirits, when they were down in the dumps. So that night, we sat down and had a party for me—and as I looked around at my lively, laughing children, the moment felt bittersweet, because I knew what I was going to do. I prayed their happiness would hold out, giving them something to hold onto, in the days to come.

  Later, after everyone was asleep, I stood looking at the plaque for a long time. Then I looked at the newspaper clipping of my picture. It felt so good to receive such an award. New and exciting things were happening and I was elated, because it confirmed what I already knew. Deep inside, I knew I was a good reporter. But because I had been questioning so many things about myself for many years, I still had doubts about many of my abilities. Looking at the plaque, I felt pride that it was mine. Winning a first-place award for investigative journalism didn’t just mean I was a good writer, it also meant I knew how to research the facts, dig and sift through them, and then analyze all the data to come up with an objective, accurate article.

  My thoughts turned to Wanda, and how her short life had ended. We had never even met, but we shared a bond stronger than most people who lived—and loved—together. A shared sisterhood of silence, brought about by years of being abused while living in a war zone within the four walls of our own homes. Wanda might have lost her battle, but it wasn’t for nothing, since her death had helped give me the fortitude to continue on my own path to peace and contentment, where my children and I would be free from fear and violence.

  Eddie wouldn’t stop trying to convince me to come back to him, saying he was sorry, that he would change, and he still loved me. I didn’t care what he wanted, and I told him as much every time he tried to sway me with words. But his refusal to give up left me dubious, fearful and sick, that I would never be entirely free. What would it take?

  I knew I had work to do, with far more memories of abuse to process than I could possibly do on my own. I had known that for some time.

  So my next step was to check myself into Chestnut Ridge Hospital in nearby Morgantown. Trudy had helped arrange for me to be admitted since I didn’t have any medical insurance. Given my reduced income, single-mom status and having four mouths to feed, the hospital took me in as a charity case.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” I said, close to tears because of her kindness and all her help. “You’re a godsend, Trudy.”

  “It’s nothing. I think it’s an excellent idea, given all you’ve been through,” Trudy said. “And honestly, you may have some deeper issues they could help you address better than I can. They have a doctor who’s supposed to be great with rape victims.”

  It was a breezy day when Mom, of all people, dropped me off. I had been protecting her from the truth for years but after Eddie broke into the house and I felt more threatened than ever before, I told her the truth.

  “I knew he had a bad temper, but I didn’t know it was that bad,” she said as matter-of-factly as if we were talking about the weather. I had never noticed how little emotion she expressed, when it came to life-changing topics. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing you took the kids and left.”

  I felt an inner lightness, because of opening up to her. But I still hadn’t told her about the sexual abuse that began when I was thirteen. I really didn’t think she could handle it. Maybe, in a way, I still needed to protect her. That would come in time, I felt certain.

  I’ll tell her someday.

  When Mom had gone and I was left alone in my hospital room, I began feeling weepy and missed my children. It was the first time we had ever been apart like that; visitation with their father was sporadic, and when it did occur, it rarely lasted longer than two nights.

  “Mrs. Leigh?” I turned from the window to see a thin woman in a nurse’s uniform standing there. “I’m Susie and I’ll help you get settled in. We have to go through this checklist, to make sure you don’t have anything that could be used to hurt yourself,” she said with a cheery smile. “Now, do you have any nail clippers in your suitcase?”

  “Really?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Yes, they’re contraband. You’d be surprised what people can do with them,” she said.

  Susie ran through her list, inspected my suitcase and confiscated my purse: “We’ll keep this in a locked area for safekeeping,” she explained. “If you need anything from it, just ask someone and they’ll help you. Now I’ll be right back with your meds.”

  I went into the bathroom and stood looking in the mirror above the sink; my face looked distorted, like it did with carnival mirrors, only worse. I could barely see my reflection. Placing my hand on it, I knew what was wrong. It wasn’t even glass.

  It sobered me to realize that people who came here might try to kill themselves while they were patients. I thought they came to get better. That’s why I was there. I’d been having problems with depression, and at times the old hopelessness and thoughts of suicide tried to creep back in—but I refused to let it.

  That’s why I’m here. To get better. To leave all that garbage behind. In the past. Where it belongs.

  Susie brought me a hospital gown to change into, then led me into a small room. A male doctor came in soon after, and I was surprised when the nurse didn’t return. I sat there on the table, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable while he conducted a short exam.

  What if he rapes me?

  I had to resist the urge to jump down and run out screaming. I was terrified at being alone, partially undressed, in a room with a man.

  Stop it. He’s not going to hurt you. He’s here to help.

  If only I believed that.

  I was in the hospital for two weeks, and went from feeling like an outsider to taking the lead during group therapy. I didn’t care if other people knew what had happened to me, because I knew I was a good person, and the sexual abuse from all those years wasn’t my fault. It was just like the poster above my bed said: “I know I’m good because God doesn’t make junk.” I wanted to get better, and the only way to do that was to open up, to be honest and candid. I had to make sense of my past, and talking about it was the best way to do that.

  In art and relaxation therapy, though, I d
idn’t have to say a word. The art therapist gave us all kinds of things to work with: colored stones, watercolors, wood, varnish, and glue. My first piece was a picture of a bird flying free in the sky.

  “You know, many people who feel imprisoned draw birds,” he told me.

  Putting the final touches of blue paint on the sky, I smiled. “Yes, that’s me, flying free.”

  Relaxation therapy was my favorite, because it taught me how to relax every single muscle in my body. Using soft, soothing music, the therapist told us to close our eyes and block out everything but our breathing. She taught us to breathe slowly and deeply, and then to gradually allow each muscle to relax. By the time I left an hour later, I was so relaxed I felt like I had taken a long, luxurious nap.

  But it was Dr. Williams who helped me to release my inner pain. Using similar relaxation techniques, she helped me remember the rapes: how helpless and frightened I had felt, and how I had wanted Eddie to stop.

  Dr. Williams explained it was common for the trauma was buried, so I had to work through it by essentially reliving it. For hours afterward, I felt emotionally raw and vulnerable, just as I had all those years ago. But by the next day I felt a little better and by the day after that, I could feel myself getting stronger.

  Dr. Williams said she was certain I had Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and offered to see me on an outpatient basis. But I needed to think about it, because going back into such pain was, by far, the hardest thing I had done during my stay.

  The day I was discharged, everyone wished me the best and I felt like I was leaving family behind. As I left the hospital, I took a deep breath and stepped out into the bright sunshine. The warmth touched my face and infused me with hope for whatever was ahead, and I felt a sense of freedom I had never experienced before.

  On the way home, I thought of the big old house where we had once lived together as a sad, broken family, and wondered what was next. Whatever it was, it was going to be better. I knew that. I didn’t know how, but I knew that much, at least. I was convinced it would be better. Our future was going to be nothing like our past. I had gone from being a passive victim of abuse and rape, to facing death that day I fell apart on the bathroom floor, to recognizing I have an abundance to give to the world around me. Yes, our life as a family was going to be very different.