by N. K. Smith
“Your father beat him. He was already sick.”
I moved my hands to the arms of the chair and nodded.
“What was the result?
My breath hitched as my chest tightened. I clutched the chair. “J-J-J-J-J-Jo-Jo-Jossssssseph ss-ssss-sst-st-stopped b-b-breathing.”
I felt sick. My head throbbed and my fingers ached.
“G-G-G-God t-t-took the w-wwwwwrong ssssson. That p-p-punishment b-b-b-belonged t-t-to mmmme.”
“Please focus on your breathing. Slow down. I know it’s difficult, but you must remember that you’re safe inside your home. There is no one here who will let harm come to you.”
I tried to do what he said. Eventually, my breathing slowed and I was a little calmer. It took some time, but finally, I felt a little better.
We sat in silence for a while and I basked in the relief I felt in the respite.
It didn’t last long enough. “Why was your father so intent on purifying that night?”
I shook my head slowly. I wasn’t going to give him that kind of information. That was mine and I couldn’t imagine telling anyone. There was only so much wickedness people could tolerate and I wasn’t about to show him, or anyone, how wicked I was.
“Elliott, did your father call an ambulance for your brother?” The use of my name drew my attention back.
I shook my head. Obviously not.
“Did he try to resuscitate Joseph?”
I shook my head again and pinched my eyes shut, hoping it would help lessen the pain in my head.
“What did your father do when he realized Joseph wasn’t breathing?”
“Hhhhhhhhhhe w-w-was upset that I t-t-t-t-t-tricked G-G-God.”
“Yes, I understand he was upset. What did he do when he realized your brother was no longer breathing?”
My head throbbed, the pain radiating throughout my body now.
Dr. Emmanuel’s voice was quiet and patient. “Elliott?”
I took in a shaky but deep breath. He was asking me a question and he expected an answer. It was the unspoken rule of therapy, and I didn’t want to break it. “T-t-t-tried to p-p-purify mmmme.”
“How?”
I felt sick again. I wanted to go to my room. “I-I-I-I’m r-r-really t-t-tired.”
“Will you tell me how he tried to make you pure?”
I shook my head. I didn’t want to tell him and my rapid breathing and stuttering voice would’ve prevented me even if I’d wanted to.
“I w-w-w-wwwwant R-R-Robin.”
He was quiet and didn’t speak until I raised my eyes to his. “I respect your attachment to her, but she won’t be able to help you with this.” He paused. I changed my position on the chair and my right hand moved to my mouth.
At first I just nibbled on the thin skin over the knuckle of my thumb, but somehow ended up biting down on the heel, shoving it so far back that even my molars were clamped around the flesh.
“Your panic attacks are real, but you can control them. You need to force your body to override your mind’s instinctual protective measures.”
I wanted to be in my room, away from this. I knew I had been the one to tell him about my dreams. I knew I didn’t want to have them anymore, but I didn’t want to think about these things. I’d spent years avoiding them. I’d spent years telling myself that I was over all of this.
But I wasn’t.
I couldn’t breathe and my muscles were so tight I thought they’d snap.
“I need you to concentrate on breathing. Just a slow in and out to the tempo of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.”
Instantly, I heard the song in my head, the slow, slow beginning.
“Good. I’m going to stay in this chair and I’m not going to move. I want you to visualize something that calms you.”
I didn’t want these panic attacks anymore. I didn’t want to be that guy who freaked out so badly that the EMTs had to be called or Stephen had to resort to sedation. I slowly did as he asked and visions of Sophie cycled through my mind while Beethoven played.
Sophie sitting by the stream. Sophie surrounded by fallen leaves. Sophie in the snow. Sophie in the bookstore. Sophie in my room. Sophie smiling. Sophie laughing. Sophie touching me. Sophie holding me. Sophie kissing the scars on my back. Sophie’s dripping words on the foggy bathroom mirror.
When I felt a little calmer, I opened my eyes. My body was still tight and anxious. I willed my jaw to relax and I pulled my hand from my mouth.
“Very good.”
I retrained my eyes on Dr. Emmanuel. His first name was Benjamin. I occupied my mind by accessing the information about the Benjamin in the Bible.
“B-B-B-Benjamin w-was the ssson of J-J-Jacob and R-R-Rachel. Hhhhe w-w-was the only f-f-full b-b-brother of J-J-J-J-J-JJJJJoseph. J-J-J-Joseph g-g-gave him fffive t-times the g-g-gifts hhhhe g-gave his o-other b-b-b-brothers. B-Benjamin w-was the youngest of the t-t-twelve.”
“Is that so?”
“My hhhead hurts.”
Dr. Emmanuel’s eyes had softened; his gaze was just a bit kinder than ever before. “Please do one last thing for me, and then you may go.” It wasn’t a request.
Relief flooded me. I would be able to walk away from this room soon.
“Please write down the answer to my earlier question. Please tell me your father’s method of purification the night your brother passed.”
The relief fled.
Dr. Emmanuel picked up a book and read while he waited for me to write what he’d requested. It took me a half-hour to muster up the courage to pick up the pen and another thirty minutes to write down a few short sentences.
Before I left, I had a sudden and nearly violent urge to shred the paper. I hated that the words were now written on yellow paper in black ink. I hated the concreteness of it. I hated that he would read the words I wrote. I hated what the words said. I hated that the words were a memory of something that actually happened.
I fought back the urge to destroy the paper since I knew in the long run, Dr. Emmanuel would ask me to write them down again, or worse, speak them out loud.
I left the paper on the thick arm of the overstuffed chair and left the room without saying anything further.
“Damn, what did you do to your hands?”
She already knew that I bit them. She’d seen me do it when I was sick. There was no use in hiding it. “I b-bit them.”
“Why?”
I shifted on the bed, facing her and closing my eyes. “I d-d-don’t kn-know w-what else to do.”
“But I like your hands,” she said quietly.
“I w-wish I didn’t, but I c-can’t hhhelp it.”
Her hands moved to my hair and I sighed.
“Every time you’re frustrated or afraid or upset, kiss me.”
I opened one eye and saw her smiling face.
“And when you’re happy and excited and confident and secure, you can kiss me, too.”
“Ssssso p-pretty much a-anytime I hhhave an emotion?”
The smile widened and she nodded. “And times when you don’t have emotion. I’ll be happy to accept kisses then, too.”
I brought my lips to hers. I wanted so badly to show her how much I loved her. I wanted to make love with her and have it be more than she’d ever experienced, and much, much more than I ever had. I wanted to make her feel how much I needed, craved, loved and worshipped her with every movement of our bodies. I wanted to feel how much she loved me.
Also, as a teenaged boy, I wanted to have sex with her because I was pretty sure it would feel fantastic.
When the kissing became too much, I pulled away, pressing my head back into the pillow, but I didn’t force her to stop touching me. She unbuttoned my shirt and since her lips were free, she was kissing my sternum. I had becom
e somewhat desensitized to her touching most of my body. Not that I didn’t feel the sensations, because I most certainly did, but it was much easier to tolerate now without panicking.
Her mouth moved up to my neck. She threaded one of her hands through my hair as the other rested low on my stomach. My hands were tightening and loosening rhythmically, grasping at the fitted sheet on my bed.
Beethoven’s Third Symphony Opus Fifty-five was playing in my mind, which was about as fast as I was breathing. My skin tingled and I felt anxious with nervous energy.
Her hand moved to pop the buttons of my jeans.
I forced myself to remain relatively still. I breathed in, and breathed out.
Her long hair tickled me and I felt as though I would jump out of my skin.
Her mouth was at my ear, sucking and nibbling. The sound of her breath made me feel out of control, but I focused on her hand in my hair.
Her other hand moved down between our bodies and I gasped.
“It’s okay,” she said against my skin. “It’s okay.”
I shut my eyes tightly and focused completely on breathing in and out. She was just holding me, but I blocked out everything except for the sound of my own breath and the sensation of pulling oxygen into my lungs.
After a few short moments, I thought I was fine, but then she moved her hand. It was subtle, but it was enough for my brain to shout to my body, “Make it stop.”
I sat up quickly, bringing her with me onto her knees and her hands on my chest. She looked worried.
I shook my head. “I’m ssssssorry.”
“One of these days, you’re going to let me make you feel good and it’ll be awesome.”
I watched as she moved off the bed. I wondered if she was frustrated. Her movements and expression didn’t seem to show frustration, but I knew that Sophie liked sex and it seemed as though I might never be able to give that to her.
She moved to my iPod and switched the songs. Otis Redding came on and she turned to me with a smile. “Dance with me.”
It took me a moment, but I stood up and took her hand, bringing her close. She fit so well in my arms. My body was made to hold hers.
When her head was pressed against my chest, I said, “I lllllllove you.”
She took a deep breath.
“I... I... I know.”
During my next session with Dr. Emmanuel, I thought for sure that he would make me talk about what I had written down on the paper, but it seemed like he wanted to talk about my parents.
“Most people in this country marry out of love, or something they think is love. Do you think your father loved your mother? Do you think he was capable of loving someone?”
I had no real idea if my father loved my mother. If he did, it was twisted, like his mind. He never behaved like he loved her. I saw how Stephen had been with Kate and how he was with Robin. That was love. How my father treated my mother was ownership.
“He lllllloved JJJ-JJJJoseph.”
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and then refolded his hands on his lap. “Did he love you?”
I shook my head. It was clear that he did not for obvious reasons.
“Why not?”
I recalled the many things my father had told me about myself. “W-w-wwwwhen I w-was b-born, I b-brought the D-Devil into the hhhhouse.”
“How did you do that?” Dr. Emmanuel’s voice was even. It didn’t even seem to hold curiosity, even though he was asking a question.
“I w-was m-marked. I c-c-corrupted mmmy m-m-m-mom a-a-and then the d-demons t-t-took her. Then J-J-J-Joseph...”
When I forced my mouth closed, he asked, “What about Joseph?”
“N-nothing.”
He didn’t press me to continue. “So everything bad in your house was because of you?”
I shook my head. “B-b-because of the D-Devil.”
“By whom you were marked?”
At my nod, he asked another question. “I’m not sure I understand how you were marked. Did your father ever explain this to you?”
I nodded and tugged at my short locks. He always said I looked too much like my mother with her Devil red hair.
“Do you believe what your father said about you?”
“I d-did.”
“But do you believe it now?”
“Sssssss... m-maybe.” It was hard for me to determine exactly what I believed currently. My whole life seemed upside down and I couldn’t really figure out which way was up.
“Did Joseph believe that?”
He kept asking about Joseph and it was wearing on me. “Mmmmy hhhead h-hhhurts. C-can w-we b-b-be d-done?”
“We’ve only been talking for a few minutes. How are your dreams?”
I supposed that was his way of blowing off my request. I guess I should’ve felt lucky that he wasn’t making me discuss my father’s method of purification.
“I-I-I ssstill hhhave them.”
“I’m sure you know that they won’t go away quickly. It will take effort and time.”
Everything took effort and time.
“Let’s talk a bit about anger.”
I looked up from my lap. I couldn’t believe I kept being surprised when he changed topics abruptly.
“I think if you asked most people who knew you, they wouldn’t say that you’re an angry person. Yet if one looks at all of the things that have happened in your life, it’s hard to understand how you wouldn’t be. Are you angry at your mother for taking her own life?”
I shook my head. Why should I be upset with her for making a choice about her life, no matter how big or small? It didn’t matter if I had dreams about it. It didn’t matter that she left Joseph and me alone with our father when she knew his need for order and purity. It was my mother’s choice and I loved her. She loved me. I couldn’t be mad at her.
I noticed that my hands were gripping the arm of the chair tightly, so I loosened my hold and tried to relax by listening to music in my mind.
“What about your father? Are you mad at him for what he did to you, to your brother, to your mother?”
My father couldn’t help who he was, anymore than I could help who I was.
“I-I-I don’t w-want to t-talk about this.”
“What do you do to release your anger, Elliott?”
I shrugged and shook my head. I didn’t do anything to release my anger, because for the most part I was never angry.
“If my mother left me alone with a man who split my back open with a belt on a regular basis, I would be angry with her, and I would hate him.”
I denied his words with another shake of my head. “The B-B-B-Bible ssssssays...”
I couldn’t articulate the passages of Scripture that ran through my head. There were so many of them about turning the other cheek, about what befalls the wicked, about forgiveness, about the honoring of elders and parents.
My body felt like it was shaking, but when I looked at my arms, they were still.
“Anger is normal.”
I still said nothing.
“I understand that you have trouble expressing yourself, but I want to impress upon you that it’s important to find an outlet. You are already so gifted musically that I would think it would be a natural way to express your feelings of anger, love, hurt, or any other feeling you’re having. What you should understand is you were not allowed to express things the way other children were. You might be unable to recognize everything you feel, and you might be unable to put words to them, but music could be a way to get them out there.”
I understood what he was saying. “I p-p-play sssssongs f-f-for mmmmy g-girlfriend.”
He smiled. “Are they meant to show her how you’re feeling?”
I nodded.
“How is your g
irlfriend?”
He could have just been asking about Sophie’s welfare, but I was pretty sure he was asking about how my quest for sexual intimacy with her was going. He very rarely asked about it and when he did, he was always very sly.
“G-g-g-good. Sssshe makes me hhhhappy.”
“Are you composing amazingly jovial pieces of music then?”
He was definitely being sly. By asking me if I was writing joyful music, he was asking me if I had succeeded in making love with Sophie.
“K-kind of.”
At his quizzical look, I elaborated. “The sssssongs a-a-are b-being c-composed, but they’re n-n-not ffffinished yet.”
My next session with Ms. Rice went well. I was proud of myself for inching closer to having a fluid conversation with her. After school, once again, Sophie was waiting for me with Jane. I had compartmentalized my relationship with Jane now. She existed almost entirely as Sophie’s friend and someone who shared my house, but there was nothing more.
The only time there was deviation from this setup was when she cut herself. It was happening more frequently and a part of me felt incredibly responsible, but every time she came to me and showed me what she had done, she stated that she was still mad at me.
I would clean her wound as carefully as I always did, but would end it by telling her that I was still upset with her as well. I wondered who else knew that she was doing this. It was obvious that Trent knew and was keeping her secret. He would place his hand very lightly over her abdomen and look into her eyes as if silently asking if she was okay. The sweeps of her room conducted by Stephen and sometimes Robin always yielded nothing, and Jane was very careful to wear shirts that wouldn’t ride up and show her secret.
While I missed the closeness I’d shared with her, I wasn’t Jane’s to control and I wouldn’t be made to feel that I was wrong because I chose something that was right for me. Jane still thought I was being uncaring. Had she really been on my side, she would have understood why I couldn’t go to the funeral and offered to help me deal with it all.
I didn’t hate Kate.
I didn’t even dislike her.
