Indescribable

by Candice Derman

  To my husband, protector of my secret life and my joy in everything else. I love you.

  Indescribable

  adjective

  too unusual, extreme, or indefinite to be adequately described

  Contents

  eight

  nine

  still nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve going on thirteen

  still thirteen

  fourteen

  still fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  still sixteen

  epilogue

  eight

  My name is Candice Derman. I am eight years old and I live in Johannesburg, South Africa. Yesterday I kissed my girlfriend like I was a boy. My tongue went into her mouth. It felt wet. Naughty. Nice. Wrong.

  I like swimming parties, spare ribs and cats. My mom got divorced. My father moved out but I’m not sad. He was always cross and slept a lot. My mom’s getting remarried. I am so excited about my new dad. He gives me so much attention. The attention feels good when he’s not touching me there. I am eight. I love my sisters, playing and puppies. I know it’s wrong what he is doing. Tomorrow he will stop. I know it.

  * * *

  My mom, dad and four sisters and I are on holiday in Durban. Mom and I go for a walk on the beach. She is so beautiful with long dark hair and blue eyes. I’m so happy, just my mom and me. The sea goes on forever; I’m not sure where it ends and the sky begins. I love this moment, this life. I like being eight. I want to stay eight forever.

  I see a man sitting on a towel. He’s wearing a black Speedo swimming costume. He is tall, big, a little handsome and a little overweight. My mom stops to talk to him. I notice a slight touch of hands between them. They know each other and like each other. He makes her laugh. Her head goes back and her mouth opens. I see her perfect teeth, her tongue and the back of her throat. I like my mom like this – happy and laughing. She sits down next to him and I sit in between them. I’m being naughty and feel frustrated. They’re enjoying each other and not really taking much notice of me. Eventually they do.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Candice. What’s yours?”

  “Joe.” He smiles at me.

  “Want an ice cream?” he asks.

  “No thanks.”

  “Come on, have one!”

  I like this attention. “Okay, chocolate.”

  And so off we go to find ice cream.

  It is on this day on the beach, with the two people who will become my biggest influences growing up, that Joe and I begin our father–daughter relationship.

  “I need to wee,” I announce.

  “I’ll take you,” Joe says.

  “Ma, you take me.”

  I don’t want Joe to take me: this is girl business.

  “Let Joe take you.”

  “But Ma …”

  There is a self-consciousness about me already: I feel awkward but I say yes. He can wait outside for me and be my bodyguard.

  Joe takes me off to find a loo. We don’t.

  “Go behind the bush.”

  “No, people will see me.”

  “Come on, I’ll make sure no one comes.”

  “Okay.” Bodyguards are handy.

  I pull down my bikini bottoms and wee as quickly as possible. Joe smiles over at me, I smile at Joe. I like him. He got me an ice cream, took me to wee and has made my mom’s eyes glossy, more than what most dads do. I pull up my bikini bottoms and we walk hand in hand back to my mom, back to the towel. His hand is so big that my hand gets comfortably swallowed in his. I sit between them again, content. I fall asleep.

  It’s evening and I am with my dad and sisters in our beach hotel. My body feels bad. I don’t understand this feeling. I feel guilty because I had fun with Joe and I wish he were my dad. I feel guilty because I think my mom wishes Joe were her husband. Mom is tanned and beautiful and dressed to kill, with tight stonewashed jeans, big hoop earrings and shiny pink lipstick. Her top exposes one shoulder, showing off her bronzed skin; the other shoulder is covered, hiding her sin but her eyes are still shining with a secret love.

  My sisters are upset. They don’t know where we were all day and are jealous because they wanted to be part of the fun. My dad is cross.

  “Where were you two?” he asks me, the two lines between his eyes getting deeper as he talks to us.

  “Walking on the beach.”

  “Who with?”

  “No one,” I lie, my first real lie. I must protect my mom.

  Mom doesn’t seem bothered. “We just lost track of time. We had ice creams and lay in the sun.” She speaks in half-truths.

  Dad walks away: he knows something but we’ve said nothing. I start playing with my toys and the badness melts away. I am eight, I love dolls, putting on concerts with my sisters, and attention. It’s summer, we’re right by the sea, how bad can life be?

  The drive back home to Johannesburg in the Kombi is long, but I like it. My sisters and I sit snugly, side-by-side, row-by-row, chattering all the way. Dad and Mom aren’t talking and our chatter makes their silence seem even louder.

  The holiday is over, our tans fade and we are not sure what is going on with our parents. School starts, Dad goes back to work and Mom carries on being the greatest mom in the world. On weekends Dad sleeps or runs and Mom shops or takes us on picnics. Dad is strict and stern and Mom is outgoing and loving. His hair is getting greyer and thinner and hers is growing fuller and longer. Mom’s smile is wide and toothy and Dad stops smiling.

  My dad, sisters and I are around our breakfast table, and I’m tucking into my egg-in-the-middle toast.

  “Your mother and I love you all very much,” Dad announces.

  My sisters and I sit quietly, watching our grey father speak.

  “I’m moving out.”

  We are silent. I try to swallow quietly.

  Mom comes flying into the room. She has just been for her morning run and is glowing with beauty and perspiration. The sun told her he was in love with her and she believed him. Mom sweeps past all of us, leaving her glow behind.

  Dad packs his bags and takes his broken heart with him.

  Our lives are changing; I’m excited about the new. My mom, sisters and I are going to play full time, or at least when I get back from school.

  I am so scared, scared of the dark. It’s three in the morning and I’ve had a bad dream. I often have bad dreams and hear old women cackling. I can’t be alone in my room so I often sneak into my mom’s bed when she is sleeping. Tonight Joe is sleeping over. I tiptoe into my mom’s room, making sure I don’t wake her and Joe. It’s so dark I can’t see a thing, and I touch the walls as I try to find the bed. The darkness fills up my body and all I can hear is my beating heart. I’m worried: I don’t want my mom to be cross. I’m a big girl and shouldn’t be sleeping in her bed, but I’m afraid. What if my nightmares come true and nasty things happen to me?

  I slip quietly into the bed next to Joe, certain Mom won’t notice. I’ll be protected, my nightmares will become dreams and I’ll ride on unicorns, eat candyfloss and have mermaids as friends.

  Joe touches me down there. I hold my breath and move his thick hand away. The early morning is silent except for the sound of distant chanting coming from the church where the Indian people pray. I listen to my mom and Joe breathing. I hear my heart beating in my head. A few seconds later his hand comes back and I move it away. It comes back. I leave it. I hold my breath. It’s the first time I’ve held my breath for longer than a minute. I’m more scared of this than the dark. Is this a nightmare? He starts to play with me. I didn’t know a wee place was used in this way. I’m cold, I’m hot and I’m still. I’m paralysed.

  In this moment I learn I ca
n become an object. My body knows what to do without me telling it. It is in charge, I’m emptied out, I’ve disappeared. No longer a human being, I take on another form. I have no heart, organs, skin. I have transformed, I’m the bed, the mattress, and the foam inside the mattress. I’m not here, I’m there, I’m above me looking down, I’m nothing.

  Morning arrives. I fell asleep before I could sneak out without my mom noticing. She wakes me up and she’s angry.

  “Go and get ready for school. I don’t want you sleeping in my bed anymore, you are not a baby.”

  “Okay.”

  “Morning sweetheart,” Joe whispers.

  “Morning,” heart beating, I’m human again.

  Joe looks lovingly at me. “Go on, you don’t want to be late for school.” Perhaps he doesn’t remember what happened.

  Did something bad happen or not? I can’t remember, but I can.

  I’m a different girl from the one I was the day before. Something’s changed. I’m the same but different. There was a space in my head that used to be filled with the Muppets and Strawberry Shortcake. They’ve moved out and left a vacant spot that darkness has taken over.

  I am Candice Derman. I am eight years old. I go to Linksfield Primary School. My house is close to the school. It’s a big house with many rooms. My mom’s favourite room is the white room: it’s only used for special occasions and maybe one day I’ll get married there. Our garden is huge with old trees that look after us and a pool that is big enough for ten grown-ups to fit into. At the bottom of the garden there is a fishpond and a jungle gym. I often imagine fairies playing in the trees and fish talking to each other about their day. Most summer mornings, before school, my sisters and I jump into the pool. The water is always cool and crisp and gets us ready for our day.

  My sister Romy and I walk to school together. She cups my neck with her hand and tells me a story: “Once upon a time there were two sisters who loved each other very much …” And with that introduction Romy and I jump on our magic carpet of imagination. As we walk, the tall jacaranda trees that line the road drop their purple flowers on the ground and it’s a perfect setting for Romy’s story. Growing up in Johannesburg is wonderful: it’s like living in a colouring-in book that has already been coloured. Clear blue skies most days and green grass after the afternoon rains. I look up at the clouds passing above us in a slow lazy way. I wish Romy and I could lie in them. I imagine the clouds being cool and soft.

  “To be continued,” says Romy, and off we go our separate ways.

  I’m the school mascot. I do well in school. I can spell, make jokes and run. I’m happy, brave, naughty and nice. People tell me I’m pretty. I have blue eyes and short, curly, dark brown hair, and I’m the shortest girl in my class.

  I am not really involved in school today; it is boring and I can still hear the chanting in my head. I’m reading aloud to the class, only I don’t hear myself or see my friends. I’m here in my class, in my school uniform, but I’m not. I can’t wait for break so I can run around the playground, play rough with the boys and swing on the swing. I’m here but I’m not.

  My school day comes to an end. I’m happy but I’m not. Romy and I wait for Mom to pick us up. She’s late. She’s often late. She has three other daughters to fetch from school, and when you’re the last two in line, it’s to be expected.

  My sisters and I squash into my mom’s yellow Volkswagen Beetle, our tiny runabout. We sit in order of age: Karin in the front, Jodi and Kim in the back seat and Romy and I in the open boot.

  “How was school?”

  “Good.”

  “What did you learn today?”

  “Nothing.” Here I’m really telling the truth.

  Jodi hands Romy and me a burger. Everyone’s getting stuck in.

  The car smells of tomato sauce, onions, meat and Mommy’s perfume. This makes me so happy. I forget the badness that has invaded my body. I am full, excited and ready for all that life throws at me.

  Being part of a big family is fun. I like being the youngest in a crowd of girls. The problem is that now my mom and dad aren’t together anymore, we will no longer live as five girls in one house, and that spoils everything. Mom has told us that we are not allowed to sit on the fence and have to make a choice. Either we are with my dad or with my mom, no in-between. Of course I’ve chosen my mom. Romy and Jodi have chosen my dad. When they move out my mom thinks they don’t love her and closes her heart to them for a while.

  Karin is my oldest sister. She is eighteen. She has dark round eyes, curly hair and a chubby body. She is moving to Israel. I think she wants adventure in her life, or maybe she just wants to run away. She is going to live on a kibbutz. Mom tells me it’s a place where people work and live together and that they share everything. I think it sounds terrible; I hate getting hand-me-down clothes from my sisters. Karin and I are not close: she doesn’t play with me and she likes boys too much.

  Jodi is the second oldest. She is a runner, tall, skinny, with the longest legs you ever did see. She is smart and gets good marks at school. Jodi is Dad’s favourite; he is her running coach and they always watch Rocky together before a race. She loves our dog Lulu with all her heart even though she is small and yaps a lot. When she moved out to live with my dad she took Lulu with her. We don’t have a relationship; she’s too old, runs too much and is very serious.

  Kim loves all things girly and pink is her favourite colour. She is a ballet dancer and has leg warmers in all different colours. She lives with my mom, Joe and me. Sometimes we talk and laugh. Sometimes we don’t talk and just fight. Kim doesn’t like that Mommy and I are so close. She thinks I’m spoilt because I’m the youngest and I always get what I want. Mom sometimes takes me shopping and hides the clothes away from Kim so as not to upset her.

  And then there is Romy. She is the peacemaker of the family. She is kind and funny. She loves Michael Jackson more than anyone else in the world: I come a close second. She also loves to run. I tell myself that’s why she goes to live with Jodi, Lulu and my dad. Romy is three years and a bit older than me. She seems a lot older. I used to watch Romy’s every move. She’s good at everything she does. I love her. Everybody loves Romy; she’s too “all things nice” not to. When she moves out she leaves me with her doll’s house, the dolls that live in the house and the farm animals. I don’t want the house, the dolls or the animals. I want Romy but she has gone. Her bags are packed and my heart is broken.

  We are scattered, no more a kibbutz of a family. I see my sisters less and less, except for Kim, but all their roles in my life are small. Mom and Joe are my main attraction.

  I’ve joined the Cubs. Only boys are meant to go but a few of my girlfriends and I have become members. It is such fun. I love Cubs: all the activity, the khaki shorts and top, and the boys. I go on Saturday mornings. We swim, learn how to tie knots, learn about plants and animals. I love the Cub leader. He is kind and fun. Joe doesn’t like him much. I’m starting to realise Joe doesn’t like a lot of the people I like. This makes me confused but I also don’t really care. I’m hoping Cubs will teach me to be one of the boys and to be strong, and I’m hoping it stops the nightmares and the badness that enters my body.

  “You have to stop going to Cubs,” Mom announces.

  “Why?”

  “You’re not a boy. Some of the parents aren’t happy that a few girls have joined.”

  “But who cares?”

  “Candice, they don’t want you to go anymore. Stop asking questions and let it go.”

  “But I love it. Please, please let me go.”

  “No, enough. I’m sorry, Candice, there is nothing I can do.”

  I am so upset that I have to stop going. So upset because I have only been part of the team for a short while and I’m not tough or strong yet and I’m still having nightmares and Joe’s still touching me in my privates and I don’t have any badges yet.

  Joe wears his Father Christmas red jersey a lot and drives around in his old white Mercedes Benz.
His brown hair is untidy and that makes his handsomeness less. This isn’t working for Mom and she starts styling Joe. He gets a haircut, new shirts, jeans, suits, and some fancy shoes. Mom gets him a new car and a new diet, so his belly can go down. Joe’s feeling good; he is all puffed up and happy. Mom smiles at her accomplishment.

  I love Joe. Joe loves me. We play a lot, he puts me on his shoulders, swings me around, comes swimming with me and lets me eat sweets. I was being silly to think that I needed a Cub leader in my life: Joe is my Cub leader. He teaches me about things I didn’t know and gives me the guidance to help me grow.

  I’m excited about Joe and Mommy getting married; he’s going to be my new dad. I can’t wait. In the day he is very, very good and I try to forget about the night, when he is very, very bad. After the wedding he’ll stop because I’ll be his daughter. From this moment on I refer to Joe as Dad and my real dad as Lionel. That’s just what happened, I had no choice.

  My new dad tells me he always wanted a daughter and I am the perfect one. He tells me I’m smart, funny and talented. I tell him he’s the best, the best father in the world. We have connected and I’m excited. I’ve never felt this before. I don’t think my real dad loved me but my new dad does. I can feel it all the time, lucky me, lucky eight-year-old me.

  Between the love his fingers find their way inside my body. I’m sitting at my dressing table. He begins to touch me there. He goes inside me. I’m sore, it’s sore. I become the chair, the wood, the fabric and then I become nothing. In these moments, I know my nightmares are real, I know I’m bad and that G-d doesn’t love me. I know it’s wrong. His fingers are in my insides but I can’t stop him. I’m frozen and afraid, I don’t recognise him or me. I wish I were a boy; I want to go back to the Cubs. I’m lost and scared, I can’t breathe. He leaves my bedroom and takes his fingers with him. Mom comes to kiss me goodnight.

  “I love you.”

  “I know.”

  “Isn’t Joe perfect?”