Talk

by Rachel Zachary

  Dad.

  I didn’t tell Mary what I was thinking, I didn’t know if she would try to stop me or if she would try to hurt herself again.

  It made my skin itch. How could I call him? Part of me would have rather lost the apartment, lost everything then call him for help. The other part of me, the rational sane part knew that Mary needed the stability of a roof over her head, that she needed to know that somebody in this family was willing and able to take care of her. I would do whatever I had to make sure she had that, even if it mean calling our rapist.

  The way I saw it Dad owed us.

  The week after payday (I self garnished my check, half went towards my bills and groceries the other half went towards paying off Mary’s hospital bills) I went out to a bar, drank two beers (I thought it might help me keep my courage up) and called Dad from a payphone on the corner.

  I was terrified.

  The phone rang, and rang. Dad picked up.

  “Hello?”

  I hung up, stepped outside to catch my breath and then tried again. What was I doing? Was I actually going to ask Dad, ask a pedophile for help?

  I dialed Dad’s number again.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Dad,” I said trying to sound cheerful.

  “Hey baby,” he said. I could hear the radio playing in the background. “Long time no see. What have you been up to? Everything okay?” he asked.

  My stomach turned. I’ve been trying to keep a roof over our heads, I’ve been trying to get Mary the help she needs, I’ve been trying to keep her from killing herself because of the things you did to her. I had to check myself into a hospital because of what you did to me. I wanted to die.

  “The usual,” I said.

  “Oh, okay.” Dad said. “I’ve just been worried.”

  “To tell the truth Dad things have been really rough the past few months, “I said aiming for semi honesty. “Mary was in the hospital for awhile, insurance covered most of it but the bills really piled up. I’ve been trying to help her, she’s staying with me now but I don’t know what to do Dad. I’m paying off my own bills too and they’re just piling up.”

  “Oh my god,” Dad said. “Is she okay now? What happened?”

  I took a deep breath. “Mary tried to kill herself.” I made myself say it as flatly and as clinically as possible.

  “Oh god.” Dad said.

  “She’s doing better now.” I said.

  “You said you were in the hospital too?” he asked.

  I cursed under my breath angry that I had let that slip. “It was nothing Dad,” I lied. “Just a kidney thing.” I would not say it, I would not say it.

  “Jesus,” he said. “At least you’re okay. Did she say why she tried to do it?”

  I thought about how to answer. “She wasn’t in a good place,” I finally said. Neutral, easy, blameless. It disgusted me.

  “She always had a few screws loose,” he said. “Took after your mother in that department. But you, you took after your old man.”

  Everything turned red.

  I am nothing like you.

  I didn’t want his help anymore. I didn’t want his money. I couldn’t believe he was actually going to shift the blame for what he had done to Mary, to me onto anything else. He blamed Mom, her nonexistent parenting, he said Mary needed a firmer hand (and how his mother had spanked him whenever he was bad and he turned out fine) that the food she ate was full of bad chemicals which messed with her brain and that the city was full of pollutants and other chemicals.

  I couldn’t list to this man for another second.

  “Mary was talking to a therapist about what she was going through,” I told him. “She gave her her diary before she tried to kill herself..” Mary had written a diary but I had never opened them. I already knew what they would say. I had thrown it out in a dumpster, but Dad didn’t need to know that.

  “Have you read it?” he asked quickly.

  I didn’t answer, I let him squirm.

  “It needs a key,” I lied. “I’m thinking of breaking it open though.”

  “Don’t,” he said.

  “Why not?” I asked him curiously. “There may be something in there to help Mary or to explain why she tried to kill herself.”

  “Can you stop saying that?” Dad snapped.

  “And I think you should respect your sisters privacy,” he said. “She wouldn’t want you to read that.”

  “She called me before she did it you know,” I lied going straight for the jugular. “She told me why she was going to kill herself. How she couldn’t live with what happened to her anymore.”

  “That girl has been a liar all of her life,” he shouted. “I never did anything to that girl.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I never did anything to hurt her.” he said. “I never meant to hurt her.” he said quietly.

  Don’t wake your sister.

  I let my head hang and held onto the walls like a anchor.

  He did it I thought numbly. The bastard did it. I didn’t even have to say anything, I hadn’t even accused him of doing anything yet and he had basically admitted to it. He sounded guilty and I didn’t know why he would be because I hadn’t implied anything. I took a few deep breaths and pressed my hand against my stomach. I could taste vomit on the back of my tongue.

  “What are you talking about Dad?” I asked him.

  “Why would you say that?” I asked him.

  “Let’s just forget about that. How much money did you girls need?” he asked me panicked.

  “Why did you say that?” I steamrolled over him. “Why did you say you didn’t mean to hurt her?”

  “What did you do Dad?” I asked him.

  Don’t wake your sister.

  “WHAT DID YOU DO?”

  “Listen you can’t believe anything your sister says,” Dad said quickly. “Now I know you’re upset but don’t take that tone with me young lady I am still your father.”

  “Or what,” I asked him wiping my nose on the back of my hand. “You’ll pull my pants down and spank me?”

  Dad was silent.

  “I don’t want your money,” I said angrily. My eyes were burning I could barely see through the tears. “I want to know what you did to us. I want to know why. I want to know how you could do that to us.”

  “Susie,” he whispered.

  “How could you Dad?”

  “Susie,” he said. “I never meant to hurt you.”

  Me, not Mary. I wanted to vomit.

  I remembered sitting on his lap as he read me bedtime stories. I remembered when he would sneak me a little chocolate bar because I couldn’t go trick or treating. I remember playing with his hair when I was laying next to him in bed. I remembered holding the nails for him when our house had burnt down. Now I knew why.

  I didn’t feel anything but rage. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to kill him.

  “Bullshit,” I said. “You fucking liar, you fucking liar. You ruined us, you hurt so many people. How could you? You were our father. How could you!”

  “I tried,” he said. “I tried so hard to stop myself, but I couldn’t. I love you. I’ve always loved you. You have to believe me, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

  “I hate you.” I whispered. “I hate you.”

  “Susie,” he said. I knew what he was going to say. You’ll always be my girl. I slammed the phone down and walked out of the booth.

  ***

  I found myself standing on a subway platform, I didn’t know how I had gotten there or how long I had been standing there. All I knew was that I wanted to jump. I remembered Dad’s hand on my thigh, I remembered how he would come into our room. How familiar it was to have an orgasm because of him.

  The crowd moved forward as the train came barreling down the tunnel, and I took a few steps forward to the every edge. I raised my foot out over the platform and let it hang in the air. The wind blew and I knew that in a few seconds everything was going to be okay it w
ould be over.

  I pulled my foot back.

  The train stopped. The doors opened. I took a seat in the back by the window and thought about that night in December just a few weeks before Christmas when I had woken up with my underwear on backwards. How quickly I had gotten drunk and passed out. I thought about how easily Dad had given me the money for my abortion. I started crying. The phone call had given me some closure.

  I didn’t expect or want anything else.

  It was over.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Surprisingly the hardest part was cutting ties with Mom. I had been right about her. She knew, and she had let it happen. I’ll never know why she did it. Maybe she needed Dad more than us. I thought about how she would push me on him, how she wouldn’t let us ask any questions, how we couldn’t wear underwear.

  She had been worried enough to tell me to be careful around him but not to leave. I had so many questions. She had to have known when I asked her to leave Dad, she had to have known what he was doing to us and she let it happen. She prepared us for him.

  Mom knew what Dad was and she had covered for him and lied for him she was still lying for him. Dad was a monster but Mom with her constant denial was even more dangerous.

  I couldn’t forgive my mother for not protecting us, for moving on with her life as if nothing had happened, for calling the abuse we went through sick fantasies and having a tantrum any time I tried to talk to her about it.

  “Did you talk to him?” I asked her.

  “You know I can’t.” she said.

  “Oh Mom,” I said. Her dog was running around the kitchen as she made tea.

  She had never confronted Dad, not in person or by phone, even though we had worn her down all these years later and she had finally admitted that something had happened but nothing specific. Even though I had asked her to. Begged her to.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It won’t change anything.” Even though it would have changed everything. It would have meant that she cared, it would have meant that she listened to us, it would have meant that she acknowledged that we had been abused. But that would have mean accepting some responsibility and she had already pushed off all of the blame on Dad.

  I had left Dad, or he had left me years ago.

  I had come to see if there was anything worth salvaging, but there wasn’t.I listened to her talk about the cookies she was baking and how much Bob loved fly fishing, normal life, she just didn’t get it.

  It was time to say goodbye to Mom.

  It was time to Talk.