by Anna Quinn
She opens her eyes and turns to him. Caught somewhere between past and present.
“Nora, I was saying Fiona seems to have an incredibly strong separate self.”
An incredibly strong separate self. Nora thinks of a time not too long ago when she and Fiona had been shopping at Macy’s. Fiona had stopped in front of a full-length mirror, flexed her muscles like she’d often seen Paul do, and said, “I’m really strong, aren’t I, Mommy?” and Nora had smiled and said, “No question about that, darling! You’re a warrior goddess!” Fiona had walked a little closer to the mirror, brushed her wispy blonde bangs to the side, and said in a surprised voice, “And my eyes are so pretty,” her breath leaving a tiny blur of steam on the mirror. Nora had stood behind Fiona then, wrapped her arms around her. Her daughter so confident, so different than Nora had been as a child.
“You are the most beautiful little girl in the world, baby.”
“Mommy!” Fiona said, “I am not a baby!” And Nora had been startled, filled with sadness, realizing that indeed, Fiona was no longer a baby, that someday she would lose her.
David waits for a response, but when there is none, he says, “And the fact Paul had no qualms about me interviewing Fiona without him in the room is also a positive sign. He was really hurt by the accusation, that was clear, but I have to tell you, most of the abusive parents I’ve had contact with rarely allow an interview without protest or court order. Most will do anything to keep their inner circle private, protected.”
Even though she hadn’t believed Paul would ever hurt Fiona, right now in this moment, she trusts David’s perceptions more than her own. And James is with Fiona now too—he will know if something is wrong, he will watch out for her. She turns to look out the window, blinking away tears of frustration and confusion. The city lost in the blizzard—she can barely see two inches in front of her. Most will do anything to keep their inner world private. Protected.
And then, suddenly, her father, in her mind. How he didn’t believe in play dates; birthday parties; slumber parties; Halloween, with its masks and trickery; friends coming over. Not that she had any. Not that anyone in their family had any. Definitely no one had a “sense of a separate self.” She remembers too, how, except for the hours he worked and she attended school, she only wanted to be with him. A collage of images then: her in pajamas, sitting on the green porcelain bathtub watching him shave, so handsome in the mirror, the familiar smell of him; her organizing his tools in the basement while he built things—him lifting her up on the workbench to hang his wrenches, screwdrivers, and hammers on the pegboard; dancing after dinner in the living room to Patsy Cline while her mother washed dishes; him singing “Tennessee Waltz” to her while she played in the bathtub—her father’s voice singing, “I was waltzing with my darling,” as he dried her with a big white towel, him kneeling, then humming, humming into her ear, drying her back, her tummy, then breathing, breathing, loud breathing, the towel between her legs, then no towel only hands, his hands touching her. Her hands stiff at her sides. She is him. Her eyes closing. Private. Protected.
From far away, David’s voice, “You are safe. I am here. Let the images come, let them come.”
Her father’s voice whispering, “Our secret, our secret, our secret,” the hands rubbing between her legs, hard and fast.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
February 12, 1997
The snow has finally stopped, and the city lays silent and vulnerable, covered thickly in white. An occasional car or person negotiates the steep, frozen hill. Skyscrapers, like icicles, vanish into cumulus clouds. An Ivar’s billboard on top of the Nordstrom building reads clam chowder worth surfacing for! Slices of Puget Sound glimmer between the buildings. Someone is crying down the hall. Someone is always crying down the hall. If the windows weren’t nailed shut, she could smell the ocean salt in the air. It is dusk of her tenth day in the psychiatric ward.
“Kind of a pretty picture,” David says, as he reaches down to pick up his thermos. He loosens the top and trickles coffee into his cup. He wears what he always wears, jeans and a black T-shirt, except today he also wears a black cardigan. She has on jeans, a slate-gray sweater, and her gray wool slippers—items Paul dropped off the first day she’d arrived. Six days ago, and he hasn’t come back since. Perhaps the doctor or David discouraged him, told him she needed to rest. Perhaps he’s furious about the accusations. Still, it seems a husband would insist, find a way to see his wife.
She sits there, in the space between sentences, trying to stop thinking about what she knows, but she can’t stop thinking about any of it. She’s had a nightmarish sleep, images of long fingers, purplish and hard, filling up spaces, making it hard to breathe, waking her in a sweat, the cries and screams of other patients in the background, and she hadn’t known then what was real or what was imagined or if someone was dying or not.
He leans forward and looks at her for a moment. “You must be exhausted. This is hard. Really hard.” He pauses, says, “And, you released a lot. But give it time, okay? This isn’t a process you can rush.” He takes his glasses off and cleans them on his shirt hem, puts them on again. “That you even faced the memories indicates a tremendous step forward.”
The flashbacks yesterday had terrified her, felt more painful than she thought she could handle, more than she could contain. And yet, she’d survived. Weary and exhausted and strangely lighter. A young woman carrying two grocery bags tramps up the hill. Nora wishes she were the one carrying groceries home, making dinner, Fiona at her side. Can I go home now? Can I trust myself not to run blindly into the street again?
“Do you want to talk about yesterday, or would you rather just rest? We don’t have to talk about anything today.” His voice is cautious.
She looks at him, her hands folded in her lap on top of the little yellow notebook, the pen stuck into the spiral. She plucks it out, opens the notebook, and writes: I would like to be alone today. I’d like to look out this window. I’d like to sleep.
“Okay,” David says and stands up to leave.
But then she remembers and has to know, scribbles fast: Did you tell Paul about Margaret?
David reads her note, runs a hand through his thick white hair, and looks at her. Sits back down. Finally he says, “He didn’t take it well.” The lines around his mouth and across his forehead are deeper than she remembers.
After a moment, she writes: He thinks I’m crazy—like Sybil. It’s true, admit it.
She knows by David’s expression she’s right, even though he says, “Paul just needs time. This on top of the accusation, I don’t know. It’s a lot to deal with. And it’s not unusual for a spouse to shut down or find fault with the person in crisis. Your pain may have brought up some pain of his he doesn’t want to deal with, or he might be someone who’s ashamed of having an imperfect life, I have no idea. He didn’t want to talk about it.”
Down the hall someone plays the radio, a country and western channel. She turns her face to the window. Outside, a man in a red stocking cap and long wool coat stands in the snow and plays a guitar with fingerless gloves. Next to him sits a ruffled Irish wolfhound. The wolfhound faces the musician, its head held high. A small crowd has gathered, and the wolfhound’s eyes never leave the musician. Nora wonders if they are listening to the music or just interested in the massive size of the wolfhound or its attentiveness to the musician or all three things.
“Do not for a minute doubt yourself. You’re a hero,” David says. “You’re walking right into the flames to save a self. Your self. Do not doubt that for a minute.
“James listened carefully,” David says. “But he didn’t want to talk about it. He wants to talk to you.”
She can see James listening to David, his arms folded across his chest, his face concentrated, trying to understand, trying not to judge, the way he looks at art and things in life he doesn’t understand.
She writes: I need to see all of them. Paul. James. Fiona too. I can’t be away from her any longer.
“Oh, Nora. Jeez. You’re taking on a lot. You don’t want to wait until your voice comes back?”
I need to see all of them. I want to see Paul first, though—alone. Please. Can you arrange this for me?
“I have to tell you—this may be very difficult. Because Paul isn’t in a great place he may lash out, he might trigger something in Margaret. And James—if you decide to talk to James about this, it may be—well, he may not believe you. It was hard to read his face. And sometimes when siblings …” he hesitates. “More often than not, siblings turn against the one who breaks the secret—make her feel guilty, crazy, call her a liar. They need to get rid of the ugliness … and you’re the one who brought it. You’re the messenger of a dirtied legacy—”
James wouldn’t do that.
“I’m just saying he might feel he has to protect himself. Just be prepared.”
Protect himself from what?
“From the fact that his father was a child molester.”
I want to see him. I don’t want to talk about anything with him right now. I just want to see him.
“Okay, okay. I’ll arrange for a visit. And Paul?”
She is silent for a few moments, then writes: I want to see him.
“Nora, you’re in charge here. If you really want to see him, that’s okay. I’ll talk to him.”
She mouths, “Thank you.”
David gets up to leave but remembers something. He pulls a photograph from a file in his backpack, hands it to her. “James asked me to give this to you.”
She holds the photo with both hands. A little girl with blue eyes looks out at her. The girl wearing the Valentine’s dress. Nora gasps as if she’s just had the wind knocked out of her. She has never seen this picture before.
“She was born with a sacred sense of trust,” David says.
Nora stares at the girl for a long time. The blue eyes of her. The truth of her.
“Nora, you did nothing to cause his horrific behavior. You could have danced around naked in front of him, and he shouldn’t have touched you. He abused you because of the way he was, not because of you or your behavior. This isn’t about sex. It’s about power. It’s about control. His lack of power. His need to control. He derived power from taking what he wanted. He needed that power. And you were an easy target. He didn’t just cross boundaries. He obliterated them.”
She sets the picture on the windowsill. Picks up her notebook and writes: She could have run away. She was smart. Why didn’t she just run away?
“Why do you think you didn’t?”
I don’t know. I was terrified. Where would I go?
She realizes she’d written I instead of she.
“Nora, I’m going to ask you something. You don’t have to answer it if you’re not ready.”
She fixes her eyes on him.
“Do you remember how your father’s eyes looked—when he hurt you?”
His eyes. His blue eyes.
It was as if he didn’t see me. As if I wasn’t there.
David takes the note and reads it. “You weren’t,” he says. “In short, you didn’t exist while he hurt you. As profoundly sad as it is, you were invisible to him.”
Invisible. To the man most important to her. Her father.
“He was in his own self-absorbed world. You were—and I know this is hard to hear—”
Nora nods for him to continue, nervous she’ll split into Margaret. She wants to hear this for herself.
“You were an object. A way for him to satisfy his need for control, a way to dominate. Even if you had cried out, told him to stop, he probably wouldn’t have heard you. He didn’t see you. He had no awareness of your pain.”
Sweat under her arms, her breasts. Loss kicking her hard in the stomach.
“He broke into your body and stole your sense of self. You knew something was wrong, you knew it felt horrible, but you also knew your father wouldn’t do anything horrible to you, so the obvious thing was to blame yourself. To think something was wrong with you and to doubt yourself. He took away your power to trust your own assessment, your own judgment.”
He broke into your body and stole your sense of self.
Large, cold hand curling tight around the skin of her throat. Heart beating as if she’s running hard. Now David’s voice calling her name and Carol’s voice saying, “Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Brown,” and she opens her eyes to see both of them standing above her stricken.
David putting his hand lightly on her upper arm. “It’s all right,” he says.
Carol smooths her bangs, holds a paper cup of water to her lips.
Nora sips the water. Something on Carol’s belt buzzes.
“You okay now, Mrs. Brown?”
Yes, Nora nods, and Carol leaves them there.
David strokes the back of her hand a bit longer and sits back down on his chair. For several moments, they sit quietly. “And yet,” he says as if nothing had just happened, as if he was going to say this no matter what, “and yet, you created Margaret. With your last little bit of power, you created her. You created her to feel in control—to feel safe. You did that. Even as a child, you found a way to keep yourself safe.”
She looks at the picture again. She had only gone where no one would find her.
“You are the child trying to heal right now—the child who is waiting for you,” he says, his voice fading then, sounding farther and farther away until she can hardly hear him at all, until she must close her eyes, until she is gone.
Margaret brings her hands up to her face, covers it. “Fiona’s safe?” she asks in an anxious whisper.
“Margaret?”
“Yes.”
He slides his chair away from her, which is very nice of him, but she will keep her hands over her face just in case.
“Yes,” he says. “I believe she is, but we will keep a close eye on her, and keep talking to her.”
“But what about the princess words Paul said?”
“Margaret, I’m sorry, but I can’t hear you. Do you think you could move your hands away from your face? I promise I will not move at all.”
“Promise—not even a bit?”
“I promise.”
She opens her hands slightly and makes just enough space for her words to get out. She will pretend to be brave. “But what about the princess words Paul said to Fiona?”
“Margaret, lots of daddies call their little girls princesses, but they don’t hurt them. It’s okay to say those words, it really is.”
She doesn’t know if this is true, but she will believe him because he has believed her.
“Margaret, do you know why Nora isn’t talking?”
“It’s not her job to tell the bad things.” Margaret closes her eyes and pushes away the scary feelings. “It’s my job. I did the bad things. She is the good one, and I’m the bad one.” She wipes her eyes. Begins to rock.
“Margaret. Listen. I’m going to keep telling you this until you believe me. You are not the bad one. Nora is not the bad one. Your father did the bad things. Very, very bad things. You and Nora are the good ones.”
Now she is rocking hard and crying hard and tears run down her arms into the sleeves of Nora’s sweater.
“May I give you a Kleenex?”
She nods her head, and through her talking space she hears him walk to the sink and pull a tissue from the box. She stops rocking and listens as he walks toward her, her heart beating hard in her ears. He stands right next to her. He will not hurt me. She watches as a tissue floats onto her lap. She waits until David is back in his chair. She grabs the Kleenex and presses it to her tears, trying to dry them without him seeing her face.
“I’m scared. I’m really, really scared.”
“Wh
at’s scaring you?”
“Valentine’s Day is in two days, and something really bad is going to happen. I know it. I just know it.”
“Margaret, you are safe. I promise nothing bad will happen. I would never let anyone hurt you or Nora.”
They are silent for a moment, Margaret shivering.
“Margaret, do you think you could help Nora to speak?
“H-h-how?”
“You’ve done so much work. You’ve helped so much, and you’ve been so brave. I wonder if you could let Nora be in charge for awhile—just rest a bit and let her take care of you? If you could trust her.”
Margaret is quiet. She tugs at her bangs with both hands. “Yes,” she says through her fingers. “I will trust Nora.” And then, slowly, Margaret opens her hands all the way and brings them to her lap. Folds them. Looks straight into David’s eyes.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” she says. He will not hurt her. She will not be scared.
“Margaret,” he says, his voice catching. “I am proud of you.”
“Oh.”
“You have opened a door to where the secret was kept for a long time. You have let in the light. And I know at the deepest place in my heart, Nora will take good care of you and Fiona. You will never ever again have to do anything that hurts you. Ever. We will all keep you safe. I promise.”
She whispers, “You will call for me if you need me, right?”
“Yes. Yes, of course we will. And Margaret?”
“What?”
“Paul is going to visit Nora soon. I’m asking you to let Nora take care of herself when he comes, okay? The nurse will be right outside the door. And I am only a phone call away. Can you do that?”
She nods her head up and down, vigorously.