“That’s an extreme example. That’s not fair.”
“I know,” she says, offering me a small smile. “I’m just trying to get us to address the root of things. To help you as you need to be helped.Everyone is capable of desiring violence. What exactly is it about your situation that needs to change?”
She’s right. She’s always right. “I need to be confident that I can control myself.”
“And how do you think we do that?”
“By unpacking where my lack of impulse control comes from.”
“And how do we do that?”
“By talking about my past.”
“And?”
“By talking about my mother.”
“And?”
“By talking about what my mother did to my dad.”
19
Before
The hours after the fall were like a surreal pantomime. The humanity switch seemed to flick back on in our father at the sound of our collective screams and the sight of my little body in a heap. He ran to me, scooped me up in his ham fists, poking and prodding through tears, asking if I was okay. I was not. But beyond a cut lip, it seemed the worst damage that was done to me was psychological. At least, he hoped it was.
My father was no doctor, and my mother, a part-time nurse whose split brow was gushing blood into her eye, was determined to get me in to see one. That humanity wavered in Dad then, and he raged, screaming blue murder about Mother trying to get him “done in.” But when the conversation was dropped, when it was agreed my mother knew enough to know I was okay, that we wouldn’t be going anywhere, he was all apologies, tears, and kisses again.
It wouldn’t happen again.
He was so sorry.
He wished she wouldn’t drive him to the edge like this, it killed him.
She’d heard it all before. Although to my young ears, it sounded likemaybe he meant it this time, that he was capable of change. After all, the way Dad would cuddle me, toss me in the air, play dinosaurs with me…he couldn’t be a bad guy, could he?
My little brain and bruised body didn’t know how to compute these thoughts, and I just screamed, as did Claire. Screamed as he tried to hug us; screamed as he set down ice-cream bowls adorned with our favorite sprinkles; screamed as he waved our most-played-with toys before us and tried to get us to engage. With Mother little more receptive to his attempts, even the gentle dressing of her injuries, he eventually gave up, wailed that we didn’t love him, and left with a slamming of the front door.
I took my little sugar-sick belly over to Mother, who was still cowering on the floor. She’d hardly moved from where she’d fallen at the foot of the stairs. She put her arms around me and pressed her nose into my hair.
“Ouch, sweetie. Not so tight there,” she said, pulling my tiny arms loose from her waist.
“Are you okay, Mommy?” I asked. In retrospect, I know how stupid a question that was, but I didn’t know which other questions there were to ask.
“Of course, baby. Mommy just might need you to watch Claire for a few hours, and maybe get the two of you something from the fridge to eat at dinnertime.”
I blinked. Watch Claire, dinner. I’d watched Claire plenty and helped Mother with dinner before, but this was the first time I was being charged with both on my own. I simply stuffed a small fist into my mouth and nodded.
Looking back, I’m not quite sure how we managed it, but Claire and I spent the next couple of hours, and then days, looking after ourselves and looking after Mother, too. I couldn’t cook anything for us,but I managed to find some bread buns, crisp packets, and chocolate, which tided us over for the first day. And when that ran out, I messily cobbled together some bowls of cereal.
Mother had crawled to her room on the first night and stayed there since. Claire and I would run in to check on her, but she didn’t want to speak. This was and wasn’t new. I was used to Mother sometimes hiding in herself when Dad’s screams were in her ears and his hands were on her body. That vacant look in her eyes always told me she’d gone away. I slowly learned that this disappearance was pain relief; she let someone else take the blows while she went elsewhere. Eventually, I would learn to do that, too. It helps, I think.
On the third day, life began to leach back into her. She came downstairs, still slow, still wincing, but she came down all the same. Her bruised eyes took in the chaos, the stream of crumbs and souring milk on the floor, the scattered pages and broken crayons. Neither Claire nor I had bathed, and we both looked as dirty as the room smelled. We had been doing our best, but we were still so small.
Mother straightened a little at the sight of us. Early-morning sun was flooding the living room, illuminating our sorry states.
“Right, girls. Let’s get you a proper breakfast and then bath time.”
