by Nikki Sex
His brows furrow as he considers this. “Are you saying he did this on purpose?”
“Absolutely.”
“Yes,” he says, with a sigh. “I think you’re right.”
“I actually feel sorry for your sister, Betty Jo. It’s hard to be a daughter, knowing your father doesn’t love you. She must’ve been jealous as hell your dad liked you best. No wonder Betty Jo hates you. I can hardly blame her.”
His mouth twists into a frown of dismay. “Yes. There’s something distinctly unhealthy about being the family favorite.” He shakes his head. “Looking back, I figure he treated me more like a mistress than a son.”
Chapter 15.
“We are asleep until we fall in love!”
― Leo Tolstoy
~~~
Renata Koreman
“After Timmy died, I was an only child,” I say, placing the first cooked pancakes on a plate.
“I’m so sorry about what happened to your little brother.”
I sigh, then put more butter on the griddle, coating it evenly over the pan. “My brother, Timmy was a wonderful baby brother, the absolute light of my life. My mother was depressed and often in bed. My father was a ticking time bomb when he drank, which was most of the time. My mother and I were constantly on edge, watching and waiting for anything that might trigger his violence.”
He turns to me after setting the silverware on the table. “So no confusions or uncertainties about your dad when you were a child?”
“None,” I say, pouring four more circles of pancake batter onto the pan. “I knew he was dangerous. I knew I had to stay away from him.”
Grant’s compelling gaze meets mine as he swears a soft oath. “When I think of what he put you through, I could kill your father,” he mutters quietly.
I grin. “So says the man the police want to convict for his own father’s murder.”
We both burst out, choking with laughter, loud and long. I bend over, gripping my stomach it’s so damn funny—in a sick and twisted way. It feels good to laugh, especially about this.
The threat of Grant being hauled off to jail was a complete nightmare that hung heavy over us for too long. Now that we know there are more suspects, the heat is off. Who knows how many people have a motive to kill his father? What once was a source of extreme stress, has settled. Amen.
“Anyway,” he says, once we stop laughing and both sit down to eat. “After my childhood, the idea of love or getting close to anyone made me break into a cold sweat. My father, a man I adored—deceived and betrayed me. Love. Affection. Connection. These topics were disturbing. I never trusted my emotions, I had no idea what love was.”
“Makes sense,” I say. “Pass the syrup please, will you?”
Handing me the pitcher, he grins like a crazy man. “So, I figured it out this morning. It really wasn’t hard. It’s surprising, considering it’s a subject I’ve avoided like the plague all my life.”
“Figured what out?”
“What love is.”
I lean back in my chair, put down my fork and lift my eyes to meet his intent gaze. “You know what love is?”
“Yes,” he says, his features bright, one brow arched in an oddly teasing yet serious manner. “I learned it from you.”
My pulse kicks up, my face heats. “Oh?” I say, tentatively, not committing myself. He learned love from me? This is satisfying to hear, but where he’s going with it?
Grant’s confident male energy fills the whole kitchen. This upbeat version of him is dynamic, strong and imposing.
What does he see in a scared little mouse like me?
Shut up negative thought. Screw you.
“Love isn’t fear,” he says. “It isn’t self-serving or manipulating others for one’s own interests or gain. It’s not trying to buy someone off, or placate them in the hope they won’t hurt you. It isn’t being so completely in awe of another’s power over you, that you knuckle under, and fawningly strive to please them as much as humanly possible.”
I study him speculatively. “You’re so right. I’ve seen apple polishing behavior before—it most definitely isn’t the result of love. Is that what you did with your father?”
He nods. “Fear was the basis of everything, followed closely by what I perceived as love. Other than my curiosity and innocence as a child, fear and vulnerability to my abuser was how the whole thing started.”
“Fear is a common denominator in all forms of abuse,” I murmur.
He slants me a meaningful look. “Yes, I see that now. Yet, my love for him and his lavish attention kept it going. To my mind, my father loved me and in a frighteningly intense manner, he needed me. He didn’t want to stop our games and I couldn’t bear to hurt him. I was never very good at denying him anything he wanted.”
“How did it finally end then?” I ask. “Who ended it?”
“I did,” he says, with a faraway look in his eyes. “I guess that’s something. One day, after I was old enough to realize what his ‘games’ were, he asked me to come into the den with him. Instead of blindly following him there, I stayed put and just stared into his eyes. He immediately saw I knew. I simply shook my head and walked away. From that point on, I made sure Alex was never alone with him either.”
“Good for you! That had to be hard after a lifetime of never saying no. How old were you?”
“Maybe thirteen.”
“What was his reaction? Was your dad mean to you after that? You know, kind of as payback for rebelling against him?”
“No. He pretended nothing had ever happened. I did too. Not dealing with it was easier than trying to make sense of it, or forcing myself to think about the unthinkable.” Grant shakes his head. “No, if anything he treated me better than ever. Looking back at it now, I wonder if he might have been a little afraid of me. You know, in case I ever told anyone, but I never said a thing. To this day, no one in the family has ever talked about it.”
He hesitates and while his features seem composed, there’s sadness behind his eyes. He sighs. “I loved my father, but he used that love against me.”
“I’m sorry,” I say helplessly.
“Don’t be,” he says. “You’re helping me get through this. Until you and André came along, I was drowning in a sea of shit. It’s hard, but you’ve helped me face the truth. There’s a light at the end of this tunnel. That’s because I’m not trying to find my way out of this alone. You’ve been holding my hand, and even carrying me over the hard parts.”
His words touch me deeply. “You’re so sweet. Thank you, but I couldn’t carry you if I tried,” I say with a teasing smile.
“But you do, and you still are,” he says, with a boyish grin. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I grin back because despite his moment of melancholy about his past, I can see he’s OK.
“None of this was your fault,” I tell him again, as I’ve told him many times before.
“I know. I’m beginning to believe it, too.”
I take another bite of pancake, slowly chewing as I consider everything he shared with me.
It’s terrible to imagine something as pure and innocent as the love of a child, can be twisted into a trap a child willingly falls into. The disparity in power between an adult and a child is an important consideration. Grown-ups are so much bigger and stronger. They wield so much influence. Even the best parents can frighten their offspring into silence and submission, simply by becoming angry in their presence. Such is the nature of abuse.
“You told me what love isn’t,” I observe, raising a brow. “Did you figure out what love is?”
“I think so,” he says, his gaze intent.
The attentive, searching way he stares at me makes me lightheaded. My breath quickens. My throat feels thick. I just know he’s going to say something so beautiful I’ll burst into tears.
“Let’s hear it,” I manage to choke out, fighting for control.
Grant reaches across the table and takes my hand. “First and for
emost,” he says quietly, “it’s safe to be yourself with the person you love. Love is when you trust someone so much, you can say anything to them, absolutely certain that they’ll accept what you say and still care about you. Love is when someone trusts you so completely they know they can say anything to you. When the person you love feels low, you lift their spirits. And when you feel low, the person you love will bring you up and be there for you. Everything in life is better with the person you love.”
His features are ardent, the look in his eyes compelling. “You taught me that.”
My heart is filled with so much joy. Somehow, I manage not to cry. I squeeze his hand. “Well, then…I definitely love you.”
“I love you, too,” he replies gruffly. “I’m grateful every minute of every day that you’re in my life.”
Chapter 16.
“Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.”
― Lao Tzu
~~~
Grant Wilkinson
Renata and I finish breakfast, then go sit in the living room and play games with Mitten. I even feel at ease cuddling and chatting with Briley when he wakes. Last night was a huge breakthrough. My fears seem far away today.
I still write in my journal daily, as André instructed. The way I’m going, soon it will be book size. What if I got it published? Lord, it would be a ‘worst’ seller for sure. Who wants to hear about my lifelong struggles with madness and abuse?
“You’re very good with him,” she says, when Briley giggles in my arms.
“I’m not afraid of you anymore, am I?” I coo at Briley.
I was afraid at one time, though. Terrified, really. I didn’t want to damage him. When you know you’re a monster, you cut yourself off from everyone—especially children. How could I risk harming others with my negative influence?
It took effort to get over it, but now I’m able to be myself with Briley. I’m a good person, I remind myself. I’m free to love my brother’s child with all my heart.
Mitten rubs against my legs, then jumps up onto the couch for a neck scratch. Renata looks at me meaningfully, acutely aware of the thoughts running through my mind.
She raises her chin. “Grant, there’s no evidence to show that a child who has been abused will grow up to become a child molester.”
No, she isn’t a mind reader, I reassure myself. I just think she knows me.
I smile at her. “So André says. I used to worry about that. Lord knows why because the idea of treating a child that way makes me sick. I finally realized my fear of children comes from the fact I was abused when I was a child. My mind made the association: A child equals sexual abuse. Therefore, it’s best to keep away from children.
“Oh, that makes perfect sense.” Renata nods. “Anyway, child molesters have specific character traits. They’re super-selfish, passive-aggressive sociopaths that smile while they stab a person. Behind the scenes they sulk, withdraw and manipulate. They express their ongoing hostility covertly, often through biting sarcasm or backhanded compliments. Then they pretend innocence and say, ‘Can’t you take a joke?’ You’re not anything like that.”
I grin at her. “Amen.”
Once, abuse defined me. Now, it feels safe and right to love. My past doesn’t constantly intrude on my present. Thank God, I can look forward to the future.
Love. Connection. Affection… and sex!
Who would have thought I could have it all? I must call André and tell him of my progress. He’ll be overjoyed with my progress. He explained to me that personal growth progresses gradually in stages, while important steps can’t be missed.
‘When one wishes to go to the highest floor of a building, they must enter from the ground floor, yes? An individual travels from the ground floor to the first floor and so on. This is merely common sense.’
Most of my life I’ve been stuck in the basement, unaware of the upper floors. Right now, I’m confident I've advanced beyond ground level. In fact, I feel as if I’ve not only moved through the first floor, but I've climbed even further, plateauing on the second.
“Hey, how did it go at AA last night?” she asks, shaking a colorful rattle in front of Briley, who reaches for it with a gurgling laugh.
“Pretty good,” I say, sitting on the carpet beside her, my back against the sofa, my legs stretched out in front of me. Mitten crawls onto my lap, accepting my generous pets, as is his due. Reaching over, she scratches him under his chin.
Mitten’s immediate loud purr makes us both laugh. The people he owns (namely us), have made him the center of attention, which is as it should be.
“I got together with my sponsor, Bobby and Danny Berdeaux afterwards,” I tell her. “I’ve been hung up on the twelve-step program. One of the steps suggests I make a list of all of the people I’ve harmed, and make amends to them. Also to make direct amends with those people wherever possible, except when in doing so would injure them or others.”
“Who have you harmed?” she asks with a frown. “I don’t see how that step relates to you.”
“It doesn’t—but it does. Danny and I have obtained a list of the Boy Scouts who attended when my father was one of the troop leaders. Also the church youth group, gun club and golf caddies at the country club. We’re going to ask them if they received a picture.”
“Jesus, do you think that’s wise?”
I shrug and smile. “I guess we’ll find out. Danny wants to help because he says remembering what happened to him has changed his life for the better. I feel responsible, because when I was growing up I never told anyone about my abuse.”
“What your father did is not your fault.” Renata puts the rattle in Briley’s hands and turns toward me. “You’re being very hard on yourself. Statistically, not telling is the norm. André says it often takes many years for a child to remember, or to learn how to face their abusive past. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty or even fifty years can go by before these secrets come out.”
I nod. “It’s been over twenty years since it first began for me.”
“There you go,” she says. “Victims are burdened by traumatic stress that blocks events out. Or they’re in denial, they blame themselves, or they’re too ashamed to tell. One in four women and one in six men will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime, but these statistics are based on the cases we know about! The real numbers are much higher. It’s estimated eighty percent of all sexual abuse goes unreported. These predators are never held accountable for their actions. They move on, free to abuse other victims,” she finishes vehemently.
Frowning, I stare at her in surprise, but say nothing. She’s knowledgeable, determined and passionate on this subject. Given her history, that’s no surprise.
Renata throws up a hand in a self-depreciating gesture. “Sorry,” she says with an apologetic smile. “Uh… I’m liable to get carried away sometimes. All abuse is terrible, but abuse against children particularly riles me.”
“I understand perfectly.”
She continues, “I love that you want to find and help these people, but I worry you’re trying to take responsibility for something not of your doing. The sins of the father do not fall on the son. None of this was your fault.”
“I know, I know, and I appreciate your concern, but this is important to me,” I explain. “Now that I know about Danny, I have to find and talk to any others who’ve gone through this hell. He was my father. No matter what the physical, financial or emotional cost, I have to try to make it right. Danny wants to work with me on this. He wants to help.”
“Danny is as sweet as his sister, Sally Ann,” she says with a sigh. “After experiencing abuse, it takes time for a person to gather the emotional strength and courage necessary to take action. Initially, a victim is isolated, thinking they’re the only one who has been through anything like this. They wonder why it happened to them and feel guilty, ashamed and respon
sible. They don’t understand how many others there are out there, people who have also been sexually abused. At the very least, they should feel better when you talk to them and realize they’re not alone.”
“You know, until I spoke to André about my past, I never considered the possibility of my father molesting others,” I murmur, recalling those dark years of shame, blame and self-hate. “I thought I was a monster. Sometimes, I still do.”
“You’re not a monster! You’re the most honorable man I know,” she says ardently.
“You’ve only seen my good side,” I quip, minimizing the nameless, unreasoning fear I sometimes feel about who I am. The monster still has the power to disturb me.
Renata grins at my joke. “I’ve seen every part of you,” she smirks. “Trust me, all of your sides are good.” She leans over and gives me a brief, yet sensual kiss.
We stare at each other for a long moment, cherishing that familiar sense of connection that fills me with joy and wonder.
“Thank you,” I say, with a smile. “I do love your kisses. If I’d never been abused, I’d never have met André. If I hadn’t met him, I would’ve never found you.”
“Silver linings,” she says. “The world can’t only be clouds.
“Yes,” I say, then frown. “I just wish I’d spoken out years ago.”
“I don’t know if it would’ve helped back then, even if you did tell someone,” she says. “Your father was a very influential, powerful man who had his bases covered. While I think of it, if you intend to do this, you should talk to your brother, your sister and your mother about your father’s abuse. They deserve to know.”
I feel as if a bucket of ice cold water has just been thrown in my face. I shudder at the thought.
“Jesus Fucking Christ! I can’t do that.”
“Tough one, huh?”
“I’ve only told three people what I did with my father; André, you, and now Danny. If I get the nerve, I may be able to mention it to my brother, Alex—after all, he was there. But to confide such a terrible secret to my sister? My mother?”