by WC Child
Chapter 12
Back at Big Mama’s House
When I returned to Big Mama’s house, I had no age identity. I was no longer a child, but not yet a woman. My mind and body didn’t agree. I struggled to find myself somewhere in between who I wanted to be and who my body forced me to become. Even though she told me she was thankful I was there, Big Mama treated me differently. She looked at me, but it appeared she never actually saw me. She desperately wanted to see the child she sent away whole and full of joy. The spirit of that child vanished when I left the Greyhound bus station. What returned was a fragmented, soiled woman/child. Other times she looked at me and fought a losing battle with the tears that found their way to freedom and escaped down her cheek. I wasn’t sure if she was crying about me or for me.
The first few days back were hard for me. I was a bundle of emotions. My mind never calmed down long enough for the magic of sleep to bring peace and comfort to my troubled soul. I felt so ashamed of my current condition. I feared Big Mama thought less of me for losing the change in my pocketbook. After all the conversations we’d had about that precious commodity, I couldn’t hold on to it. How would she be able to look at me the same when there was undisputed evidence of the virginal betrayal that had undoubtedly occurred? I wanted to remain in solitary confinement in my room so no one would be constantly reminded of a consequence that resulted in such pain and tears for all of us. Big Mama gave me my space for a few days, but decided it was time to confront the problem head-on. We needed to clear the air between us.
The creaky floors that concealed my presence during my snooping expeditions were not so kind to Big Mama as she made her way to my room. Without speaking, she sat on the bed, pulled me into her bosom and gently rocked me. “He hurt me big Mama” was all I could get out before I began to cry uncontrollably. I babbled unrecognizable syllables that only I could decipher as I tried to tell my story. I wanted so much for her to know that I was a good girl and that I didn’t want any of this to happen.
Big Mama continued to hold me and softly said, “I know baby. Your mother told me everything. I know he raped you.”
Hearing those words helped me gain control of my emotions. Those words acquitted me from feeling like I had contributed to the actions of that rapist. Finally, the tears stopped and my breathing returned to normal as it transitioned from hiccup-like spasms to deep cleansing breaths. After I calmed down enough to continue our conversation, Big Mama once again began to help me truly understand the depths of the assault that occurred on both my mind and my body.
“It was an ugly violent crime over which you were powerless. You were an innocent child. He forced you into a womanly situation long before your mind and body were ready. None of this was your fault. I understand the actions your mother took. She wanted to protect you from the courts so she told them he was caught cheating in her own house. The police called it a crime of passion and indeed it was. It was her passion for you that caused her to take the law into her own hands. Thank God your Big Daddy didn’t get to him. When he learned what happened to you, the first words out of his mouth were, “Is he dead?” When he learned what your mother did he said, “That’s even better…Saved me a bullet.” Her actions had cost her dearly, but maybe you will be able to understand the depths of a mother’s love in the very near future. Pretty soon we have to decide what to do about this baby you are carrying. You are gonna have to decide if you want to keep it or put it up for adoption.”
A blank stare greeted Big Mama. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to think about any of it. I just wanted my mother.
Chapter 13
A Defining Moment
The room was again quiet and still after Big Mama tucked me in bed and insisted I get some rest. I closed my eyes, but my mind continued to replay our conversation. RAPE. That was the word Big Mama used to describe what happened to me. It was such an ugly word with an uglier meaning that justly identified the act. For such a small word, it was very powerful. The dictionary had its definition, but I had my own. It couldn’t be summed up as one singular event. It was continual and represented more than the physical act. It took years for me to truly understand the power of that four-letter word. I found that it will haunt you, challenge you, taunt you, ridicule you, dismantle you, shame you, and in my case, impregnate you. It will hold you captive until you become strong enough to break free. Both my physical and mental musculature was too underdeveloped for something of that magnitude.
The frame this crime crafted surrounded many portraits of unwilling subjects, seeking to define their existence and to occupy a place of prominence in their lives. Its victim’s gallery constantly had showings of new members of all shapes, sizes, colors, ages and descriptions. It didn’t discriminate or pacify and gleefully welcomed all patrons. If one portrait dropped out of the frame, another new one took its place. Some portraits had been there for decades and showed signs of feathering as life took its toll on those who couldn’t break free. Others turned to liquid or powdered courage to survive. They would never be content until their showing ended and they were finally at eternal peace.
I didn’t want the rape to define me. I didn’t want to feel victimized forever. I wanted my portrait removed from that frame. This wrong would not be easy to right and I didn’t know where to start. I wasn’t big enough or strong enough to confront my abuser. I had plenty of rage and anger to fuel my battle for freedom, but I didn’t know how to channel it. My mother released some of her anger and sought retribution by mutilation, but I wasn’t convinced she considered how my life would be without her. Being raped wasn’t supposed to have happened to me or anyone, for that matter. I didn’t realize how long it would take to claim victory over that one defining moment.
Chapter 14
Baby Mama Drama
Conflict raged inside me regarding the passive intruder and never allowed me to have any peace. I didn’t feel like an expectant mother, but more like a baby dispenser. I did not like this “thing” and I knew I could never love “it”. How could I bond with or love something that was sourced from evil? It represented all the things I had lost in my life. I didn’t want to be constantly reminded of those unwanted changes.
My vision would always be distorted if I looked into its face. It would be watermarked with the letter “R”. Without a doubt, I knew its features would remind me of the biological person who donated to its unwanted existence. If I chose to love it, those actions would represent disloyalty to my mother and everything she sacrificed for me. But wasn’t this her fault as well as his? Deep down, she knew something about that man was not right; she threatened him before I arrived. I blamed her for not protecting me. If I wasn’t important enough for her to choose me, and she really loved me, this “thing” would never have a chance. I didn’t want or need it. Without a doubt, I didn’t think I could ever love it.
My body continued to change as it accepted nature’s version of the truth. I could no longer conceal from my reality certain thoughts and feelings. My tender breasts ripened even more and roundness continued to fill out places in my face and hips. I had convinced myself that without proof of life, the whole “with-child” status was not real; it was just a theory. I was not sure if I really believed it, but I clung to that thought as a survival technique. The longer I could put off this reality, the better. I needed to protect my sanity. But like a cruel puppet master, fate decided to prove who was in charge.
The sensation of life’s proof was like nothing I ever felt before. The faint flutter inside my core felt as if I had swallowed a butterfly, whose wings rapidly flapped against my insides, trying to find space to fly. To my surprise, I giggled in amazement at the thrill and recognition that another human was actually attached to my insides. Someone was totally dependent on me for survival. Neither I nor my body could ignore this miracle. All the changes to my body contradicted the desires of my heart. I had no choice but to wait and accept what nature had in store for me.
C
hapter 15
Freedom
My sleep was interrupted by twinges of pain similar to those that accompanied my monthly visitor. Because I had no reference point, I thought it was just part of being pregnant. The intensity of the pain increased and became more frequent. My mind searched for explanations for this foreign sensation.
I tried desperately to find a spot in the bed that would somehow make the pain less noticeable. Those attempts were futile. The ripples of pain in my back and abdomen caused my body to go into the fetal position. I screamed at the top of my lungs for Big Mama while I protectively clutched my protruding abdomen.
I felt an uncontrollable urge to push that could not be denied. After doing so, I felt my secret seeping out of me as the warmth of its lifeline spread beneath the spot where I lay. The creaky floors of the hallway emphasized the quickness of her response to my anguish. It was all over before Big Mama could respond to my cries for help. She found me laying there confused and conflicted about the spontaneity of this new truth. As unceremoniously as this life started, it ended in the same abrupt manner; without warning and without taking my feelings into consideration.
I knew what I felt in my body, but I did not want to acknowledge with my eyes the aftermath of the natural selection process. Big Mama helped me remove my soiled garments. Everything was wrapped up in the sheets before she helped me make my way to the bathroom to get cleaned up. I was glad to leave that room. If I never looked back at the last remains of “it”, I could leave all of this behind me. Maybe all my sorrows would be wrapped up and tossed away in that sheet as easily as it had been to replace one sheet with another. By tomorrow it would be a bygone memory and I could start my life over again. I could reset my life and push “play” at the happy place it had been before I left the safety of Big Mama’s house and went to live with my mother. I was not sure that would happen, but I was willing to try.
Big Mama put it best when she said it was just the Lord having His way. I was confused by my reaction. Although I said I wanted no part of “it”, turmoil brewed inside. I wondered how it would have felt to be a mother. I knew what kind of mother mine had been while my father was alive. Hurt and sadness took over and transformed her into someone I didn’t recognize. The most powerful role model in my life abandoned me.
I knew what I thought would have been the embodiment of a great mother. At first, I was sure I could have lived up to that standard. The flaws in my theory surfaced the more the pregnancy advanced. The first time I perceived any features to be those of its father’s, I was not sure my actions would have been appropriate for a loving mother. That would have required an inner strength I had not yet developed. But still, I continued to get stuck on the “what ifs”. What if it was a boy; would it know how to love or would it become a predator, just like its father? What if people asked questions about its paternity and I had no plausible explanation? What if I gave “it” away, would it somehow find me? What if I was unable to let go once I saw its face? What if my father was still alive?
Chapter 16
Funeral Procession
No one in town knew about my pregnancy and Big Mama intended to keep it that way. Small towns had few secrets and this was one that never needed to see the light of day. There would be too many questions from too many strangers. The last thing we wanted was any correlation between my condition and the infamous actions of my mother. A doctor’s visit was never an option. Instead, Big Mama called her midwife friend who verified what we already knew was true; I was no longer an expectant mother. I was physically free, but still emotionally bound.
Being the woman she was, Big Mama’s morals dictated we give the unborn child a proper burial. She insisted that all life was sacred and throwing away the baby like a piece of garbage was an insult to our maker. Both I and the baby were innocent victims in this tragedy. Neither of us needed to be punished further for our existence or these circumstances.
I dreaded our appointment with destiny. I didn’t want to participate in the reverent sham. I didn’t understand how they could honor the memory of something whose life had no value and represented such pain and suffering for me. No one asked me if I even wanted to be there. But no one ever asked me anything; not my mother, not that man and certainly not this “thing” that continued to make a mockery of my existence.
My life had been ruined and I was forced to celebrate the object of the discord in my life. I felt my family betrayed me and overlooked how I would be impacted. Since I had no other option, I would dutifully stand there, but I would refuse to speak or feel anything. I wasn't supposed to care. I now had my freedom. I was burying a painful part of my past and that was exactly what I thought I needed.
We went deep in the woods on the back part of the property to find an appropriate gravesite for “it”. At the base of a random tree, we stopped and prepared the earth to receive its homecoming gift. The cross that was carved on the tree would be the only outward source of recognition that life would ever have. It could never be spoken of or celebrated beyond that moment. I hoped the makeshift ceremony would exorcise some of the demons that lingered inside me. I was anxious for everything to be over. Surely the finality of these actions would mark the start of the carefree teenage years every girl should enjoy before the heaviness of adulthood caused them to buckle under the pressure.
When the first bit of dirt settled on the shoe box, it felt like a ton of bricks settled on my chest. My mind flashed back to the day ceremonial dirt was placed on my daddy’s casket. I remembered the sadness in everyone’s eyes. In contrast, I was faced with a loss about which I wouldn’t allow myself to feel anything. Although I witnessed the next shovel full of dirt go down into the hole, it felt as if the dirt covered my face. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. Sadness embraced me like the hug of an old friend. I gave in to the awkwardness of an unexpected avenue of relief. I closed my eyes and let it comfort me for as long as it wanted. Joy and grief competed for my mind. It was hard to tell which one had the upper hand. The screaming I thought was only in my head actually came from my mouth. The shrillness and the volume interrupted the burial ceremony. Anxiety and panic gripped my body and my eyes wildly searched for an exit strategy. My legs started moving. I didn’t realize I was running until I stumbled and fell on debris along the path. Pain radiated from my scraped knees and hands. I quickly got up and willed myself forward. My ultimate goal was to get as far away from that tree as possible.
When I stopped running, the trail of tears didn’t. I made my way onto the porch swing, rested my head against its back and tried to catch my breath. Big Mama found me sitting there staring into space, looking at nothing in particular. She didn’t say a word; she just sat down, held my hand and stared too. Before long, we both were soothed by the rhythmic sounds of the creaky swing that had been our special place during my youthful days. Slowly I made my way into the safety of Big Mama’s arms where she hummed songs that spoke to me even though there were no words. Peace found its way to my fourteen-year-old mind. I was finally able to take a deep breath. That night, I slept like the baby I was. I was home, safe and free; just as I had been 143 days ago.
When I returned to Big Mama’s house, I felt like the China doll that had been taken out of its protective box, played with unmercifully until broken, then cast aside. Since I had been freed of those unwanted obligations, I wanted a new beginning. One Sunday afternoon, Big Daddy came out and sat beside me on the porch swing. He was not as vocal as Big Mama, so when he spoke, I knew it was important that I listened. He put his arms around me and said, “One of our biggest regrets is that we sent you back to your mother. If we had known she was living with a man, we never would have let you out of our sight.” I saw the pain on his face as he struggled to convey the right words. “No child should ever have to experience the awful things you have gone through. But, if you keep moving forward, the past will always be behind you. Don’t make it more important in your life than it is.”
He looked off into the d
istance and said, “You are such a special child. You remind me so much of your father. You’re a fighter, just like he was, and smart as a whip. You got that from him too.”
I smiled in admiration about the comparison to my father. I was honored by the compliment.
Big Daddy took his index finger and softly tapped my temple. Then he told me, “Knowledge is power. If you get it in your head, no one can take it away from you. All the rest of the nonsense can wait.”
I hugged him hard then curled up closer to him to receive all the love and support that emanated from his being. I hadn’t heard positive affirmation from a male in such a long time. To have it come from him meant more than he knew. I really missed my daddy, but was grateful Big Daddy was there for me.
Chapter 17
Why Me?
After all the events of the last few months, I was happy when school started again. I was ready to keep the past behind me and move toward the future. I needed to reconnect with people my own age. I was forced to be isolated and alone when I was “with child”. After being hidden from the world, I needed to be set free. I observed old friends from my younger days and was anxious to model their innocent ways.
For the next three years or so, I was content with the mundane existence that went along with high school life. I was a good student and welcomed the distraction I found in textbooks and regimented schedules. It made me feel as close to a normal teenager as possible. The distance grew wider between old heartaches and the hope for my future. But try as I might, I never could shed the restrictive cocoon of fear that constantly surrounded me. I feared someone would figure out the secrets of my past and my lies would be exposed to the world. I found it easy to welcome exchanges from the girls, but was terrified by any boy who looked at me too long. I didn't want that kind of attention. I tried to hide myself from the world. I wore baggy clothes and avoided any male contact. Any lingering glances brought back memories of other unwanted stares. I cowered under the perceived inappropriate advance. I knew what could happen if I looked too good. My only goal was to survive. I was sure my actions were as attractive as insect repellent to mosquitos and as juvenile as a fifth grader. But I didn’t care. All I cared about was moving from day to day without incident.