ABUSED - A Daughter's Story

by L. L. Bartlett

  That night, after all us kids had gone to bed, I was awakened by shouting. Daddy was terribly angry, and Mama was screaming at him.

  “Get out!” she yelled.

  “You’re damn right I’ll go, and I’m not coming back,” he hollered. The door slammed, and it was quiet.

  I slipped from my bed and looked out my bedroom window, watched Daddy march to his car. He got in but didn’t start the engine. He sat there for what seemed like a long time. I could hear Mama crying downstairs, but I was afraid to go to her. Afraid of him.

  What if he came back inside? What if he started hitting Mama?

  At last Daddy’s car door opened and he stalked toward the house. The door must’ve been locked, so he began to kick it. I didn’t know if Mama opened it or if he busted it down, but soon he was back inside and the yelling started again.

  I turned and saw Amber curled up in a ball on her bed. “No, no,” she kept murmuring.

  Bobby’s bedroom door burst open. His face was twisted with fury. “He’d better not hit her—I’ll kill him if he tries to hit her,” he cried and flew down the stairs.

  “Bobby, no!” I hollered, but he wouldn’t listen.

  “Get out of here—we don’t want you,” Bobby yelled, charging at Daddy like a poodle on a linebacker.

  Daddy was saying something, lunging for Mama as I rounded the bottom of the stairs, but Bobby jumped between them, his arms swinging.

  “Bobby, no!” Mama cried.

  Without thinking, I went to Daddy’s gun case, pulled out a shotgun and aimed it at Daddy’s chest.

  It was loaded.

  “Emily, put that gun down,” Mama screamed.

  “Bobby, get out of the way,” I said. My voice sounded shaky.

  “Emily, you damn fool, put that thing down,” Daddy thundered, but he didn’t step forward.

  “Get out, or I’ll shoot you,” I said, as the heavy gun wobbled in my grasp. “Bobby, call the police.”

  “You’ve poisoned my own children against me,” Daddy growled at Mama.

  “We don’t like you because you’re so mean and you hurt Mama,” Bobby yelled.

  “Go away and don’t bother us any more,” I said, the gun still leveled at Daddy.

  Daddy’s face was beet red, but he backed toward the door. “This is all your fault, Janet,” he said, glaring at Mama. “I’ll get you for this.”

  “Get out,” I said again.

  The door slammed. Mama, Bobby and I stared at it until we heard the sound of Daddy’s car engine rev. He left rubber in the driveway as he took off, then it was deadly quiet, except for the sound of a crying baby.

  I let the shotgun’s barrel droop. Mama stepped forward, taking it from me. In one smooth action, she unloaded it.

  “Emily, don’t you ever touch a gun again,” she said.

  “Then let’s get rid of them,” I said. “Let’s get rid of all Daddy’s stuff!”

  Even though it was after midnight, Mama and I started packing Daddy’s things in cartons and trash bags, while Bobby went upstairs and quieted the baby.

  “You can’t take him back,” I told Mama.

  “I won’t,” she promised. “But I don’t know how we’ll make it. We may not be able to keep the house. But I promise, Emily, you children and I will always be together.”

  She broke down sobbing, and I put my arms around her, comforting her like I wished she could comfort me. I had to be strong for her. And suddenly I realized I was no longer a child.

  Daddy didn’t come back the next day, but one of his buddies came to pick up some of his stuff. I don’t know what Mama did with the guns, but they were gone, and the case was empty after that.

  Daddy didn’t send any money, so Mama found a job as a salesclerk at the mall. She worked from four until ten most evenings, as she had to wait for me to come home from school to take care of the rest of the kids. She was dead tired every day, but she actually seemed younger—and definitely happier. And none of us kids missed Daddy—only his paycheck.

  We had a garage sale and sold the rest of Daddy’s stuff. Mama frowned as she counted the dollars and change. “It’s enough to pay the mortgage for a month, but that’s all.”

  One of our neighbors knew someone at legal aid, who got Daddy’s pay garnished, which helped a lot. Bobby wanted to get a paper route, but Mama wouldn’t let him.

  “Get good grades at school. Then when you grow up, you can get a well-paying job to take care of your family. I know you’d never abandon your kids,” she said, and her voice cracked.

  Our lives settled into a quiet rut. We did eat macaroni and cheese most nights, but Bobby’s and my grades at school also improved. We really thought things were going to work out.

  Then Daddy started coming around.

  At first, he didn’t seem quite so mean. He’d bring groceries and drink coffee with Mama at the kitchen table.

  When the lawn mower broke, Mama called him, and Daddy came over and fixed it. But he still made Bobby cut the grass.

  Daddy showed up on Amber’s birthday, bringing her a beautiful porcelain doll. But when she spilled punch on the doll’s dress, he yelled at her and made her cry.

  One day I came home from school and found Daddy’s car parked in the driveway. I knew he should have been at work—and I had a bad feeling in my stomach. He was sitting in his old chair, a bottle of beer in his hand, watching TV.

  “What’re you doing here?” I said, unable to keep the anger from my voice.

  “I live here,” he said, looking smug.

  I glared at him, wishing I could wipe the arrogant look from his face. Instead, I rushed into the kitchen. “You let him come back?” I accused Mama, unable to keep the panic from my voice.

  “You don’t understand,” she said, and pulled me into a hug. “The store closed and I lost my job. I didn’t know what else to do. Emily, we need him. And he promised me it would be better this time. He promised.”

  “And what if it isn’t? What if he’s just as mean as he always was? What if he hits you again?”

  “It won’t happen,” Mama said, but her eyes looked worried.

  Daddy had taken the day off from work to move back in, and the whole family was crowded around the kitchen table for supper that evening. To celebrate his return, Daddy bought steaks. But Dee-Dee didn’t want to eat hers and pushed her plate away, spilling her milk all over the bowl of mashed potatoes. Daddy hollered, making Dee-Dee cry, and Amber went running from the table. She hid under her bed and Mama had no luck getting her to come out. Daddy started yelling, and then all the little ones were crying. Daddy stormed out of the house, and we all went to bed early—even Mama.

  It was late when Daddy came home drunk. He picked a fight with Mama, and hit her—just like old times. This time Bobby called the police. The patrol car showed up with lights flashing, and when the cops saw Mama’s face, they hauled Daddy away. All the neighbors were peeking out of their curtains, and Mama threw herself on her bed and cried herself to sleep.

  The next morning, Daddy was released, but we didn’t see him much for a few days as he had to go back to work. He blamed Bobby for having to spend a night in jail, and that weekend punished him. Bobby had to wash all the windows on the house, including those on the second story.

  “Rob, he’s too young! He’ll fall off the ladder and hurt himself!” Mama cried.

  “Aw, you worry too much.”

  Bobby was awful mad, but he knew better than to do a sloppy job. Daddy wouldn’t even let him stop for lunch, and it was almost three o’clock when Bobby finished.

  Daddy came out to inspect the work. “Looks pretty good,” he said. Then he took the bucket from Bobby’s hand, dumped dirt in it, and threw dirty water on all of the downstairs windows.

  “Now you can do the whole job over again.”

  Bobby just stood there until Daddy went back into the house, then he started to cry.

  “I hate that bastard,” Bobby growled.

  “Don’t let Daddy hear you
talk like that or you’ll feel his belt,” I warned him.

  “I’ll call the cops if he does.”

  “And then we’ll all be in even more trouble, and you know he’ll take it out on Mama.”

  Bobby kicked the sponge and it got dirty. He rinsed it, and started on the windows again.

  I felt sorry for Bobby, but wasn’t allowed to help, so I snuck him a couple of cookies to keep him going.

  The house was very quiet that night. Even Dee-Dee and Christopher had learned to keep out of Daddy’s way.

  No matter what Mama did, she could never seem to please Daddy. She wanted to keep on working, but Daddy told her, “No wife of mine is going to work.”

  That lasted a couple of weeks.

  “Starting tomorrow, I’ve got a job at a convenience store,” Mama told me one day. “It’s just weekday evenings. You’ll have to watch the kids, but this way we’ll have some money if Daddy should move out again.”

  I knew then that she wasn’t thinking if he moved out—but when.

  Only two weeks passed before Daddy found out about Mama’s job. They had another big fight late that night, and I crept to the top of the stairs to listen.

  “I told you, I don’t want my wife working.”

  “Is that what you tell your girlfriend?” Mama accused.

  I heard the crack of an open palm on another’s skin.

  “You leave Cheryl out of this,” Daddy said.

  I sank down on the stair, shaking with anger. How could any woman in her right mind would want a man like Daddy? Why had Mama put up with him for so long?

  When I came home from school the next day, Mama was crying, and folding the last of Daddy’s shirts, putting them into a cardboard carton.

  “He’s gone again,” she said. She actually seemed sad about it.

  “Don’t cry, Mama—we ought to celebrate,” I told her.

  Mama smoothed my hair. “I worry about you, honey. That you’ll think all men are like your Daddy. But they aren’t. Grandpa never treated Grandma that way. And years ago your Dad was a kind and thoughtful man. Do you remember?”

  “No,” I said. I didn’t want to believe her.

  “That was before Amber, Dee-Dee and Christopher were born,” Mama said. “Supporting a family of seven is a lot of responsibility for one man to handle. And having to work two jobs has been hard on him.”

  “You’re just making excuses,” I said angrily, and stalked into the laundry room.

  As usual, the hamper was full. I opened the cupboard to get more detergent to start another load and found the whiskey bottle. My blood ran cold. Was Mama a secret drinker?

  I shoved it back in the cupboard, afraid to think about what that bottle of amber liquid meant.

  When summer vacation came around, Mama started working full time. Our neighbors, the Boyds, moved out and another family moved in. They had a teenaged son named Eric, who was tall, with wavy dark hair, and a killer smile. He was only a year older than me, and soon we became friends.

  Eric would come over after Mama went to work, and usually didn’t leave until just before she came home. Amber went to day camp, and Bobby would disappear for hours on end, hanging around with his friends. I’d send Dee-Dee and Christopher out to play, and Eric and I would play house. It was fun.

  Eric would bring over a couple of his parents’ beers and we’d sit on the couch and drink them. I liked the taste, and I knew I could handle it. We’d been doing this for about a week when, after our second beer, he put his hand on my breast.

  “You feel nice—soft,” he told me.

  “Don’t do that, I said, and slapped his hand, jumping up from the couch.

  “Why are you so mad?” he asked, sounding totally confused.

  “Because, you’re just like every other man! There’s only one thing on your mind.”

  “Can you blame me? Come here,” he said, and led me to the bathroom, making me stand before the medicine cabinet’s mirror. “Look at yourself. You’re beautiful.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are,” he said, and turned me to face him. “You have beautiful blue eyes, and blonde hair. And you’ve got a great body. I’d be crazy if I wasn’t madly in love with you.”

  “In love?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  Then he leaned forward and pressed his warm full lips against mine.

  I wasn’t sure what I was feeling, but when Eric kissed me again, I didn’t want him to stop.

  We were back on the couch kissing and fondling one another when Chris came in from outside. I buttoned my blouse and hurried into the kitchen. Eric played video games with him for a while before he had to go home. And as I started making supper, I kept thinking about the new intimacy we’d shared.

  Soon Eric and I were doing more than just necking when the little ones would went out to play. Eric bought a package of condoms at the drug store and together we learned how to use them.

  I was afraid Bobby would tell Mama about Eric and me, but Eric swiped some of his mother’s cigarettes and bribed Bobby to keep quiet.

  When the school year began, Mama went back to working just evenings, and Eric and I would make love in Mama’s bed after I put the kids to sleep.

  Eric made me feel so special. He made me feel loved, something that I hadn’t felt in a long time—maybe never.

  We made plans for the future. In a year or so Eric would go work at his father’s used car lot, and he’d get me a job there, too, as the firm’s secretary. Then we could be together all the time.

  Everything was perfect until I missed my period in October. I kept waiting for it to come, and as every week went by I got more and more scared. I told Eric, but he said not to worry. We’d always used condoms and everybody said they worked ninety eight percent of the time.

  In early November, I bought a pregnancy test and sat in the bathroom and cried when it came out positive.

  How could this have happened to me?

  Bobby banged on the door. “Hurry up! I’ll be late for the bus. Mama, Emily’s hogging the bathroom!”

  “Emily—” Mama called.

  I opened the door and ran for my bedroom. Dee-Dee was still on the bottom bunk, playing with her dolls, and Amber was getting dressed for school. I threw myself on my bed and cried.

  “Mama, Emily’s crying,” Amber yelled down the stair well.

  Mama came charging into our room. “What on Earth’s gotten into you?” she asked.

  “I feel sick. I can’t go to school today,” I said.

  “Well, then go back to bed for a while,” she said, and took the girls downstairs.

  I cried for most of the day, and when Mama went to work that night, I called Eric on the phone. “I’m pregnant,” I said.

  “You can’t be.”

  “Oh yeah, you want to see the pregnancy test?”

  “It has to be wrong. We used protection every time.”

  “What if one of the condoms had a leak in it? What if—”

  “I’ll buy another test. The one you had was probably defective.”

  But when I took that test, it, too, came out positive.

  “Shit,” Eric spat, sounding a lot like my father. “This is gonna screw up my entire life.”

  “What about my life?” I cried.

  “Hey, you knew the risks.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “That if you tell anyone it was me who knocked you up, I’ll deny it. I’ll tell them you’re a tramp—because that’s what you are!”

  With that, he flew out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  I’d never felt so lost or alone. And I felt so ashamed. I’d made the same mistake as my mother. By wanting to feel loved, she’d ended up pregnant too many times. Having Amber, Dee-Dee and Christopher not only ruined her marriage, but it ruined her life.

  I didn’t want that to happen to me.

  The kids were in bed when Mama came home. I was all set to tell her, but she was obviously exha
usted and made a beeline for the booze. She was drinking heavily these days—saying it was the only thing that relaxed her.

  I went to bed and cried myself to sleep.

  The next day, I used the pay phone at school to call the local family planning center to make an appointment for an exam, then skipped out to keep it.

  “Yes,” the doctor told me, “I’d say you are at least eight weeks pregnant. What do you want to do about it?”

  There was only one decision I could make.

  “I want an abortion.”

  The doctor shook her head sadly. “Are you sure?”

  I nodded, tears flowing down my cheeks. I told her about Mama and Daddy’s separation—and both their drinking—and our whole dysfunctional family. I told her about Eric, too. Then she told me about my rights.

  In our state, minors could have abortions without their parents’ permission, but she urged me to talk to Mama about it. She even offered to do it for me, but I shook my head.

  “Mama would be so ashamed of me,” I said. “And she works so hard to support us. I can’t ask her to take on yet another responsibility.”

  “There’s always adoption,” the doctor suggested, but I’d already made up my mind.

  I made an appointment to have the abortion the next day, and skipped out of school again.

  Afterwards, I came home as though nothing was wrong. I had awful cramps and just wanted to be left alone, but Bobby wouldn’t watch the kids and somebody had to do it.

  Even though I was exhausted, I couldn’t sleep that night. I remembered the joy I felt when I’d first held three-day old Amber. Silent tears burn my eyes. I had ended my own baby’s life. It was the right decision, but I knew it would haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Finally, I cried myself to sleep, vowing that I’d never have sex again. But I also dreamed about Eric, the way his hands caressed me, the way he made me forget about my crummy life. He had truly made me feel beautiful.

  I got detention for skipping school, and Mama was angry with me when I wouldn’t tell her how I’d spent the day.

  “You’re grounded,” she said, but since I had to help out around the house and never went anywhere anyway, it wasn’t much of a punishment.