Indescribable

by Candice Derman

  “Sarah, are you cross with me?”

  “Why are you always asking everyone that, Candice?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help it.”

  “That’s stupid and the more you ask, the more annoying you become.”

  I don’t get it. Why can’t people be gentle and kind and just answer, “Of course not Candice, you’re the sweetest girl in the world.” I’d say that to someone who kept asking, even if she wasn’t the sweetest girl in the world. I guess I’m a master liar. I try not to ask anymore but I have to know. I walk in fear and hate it and no one can help me.

  So my days are kept busy with wondering who’s cross with me, doing my homework, acting in plays and having fun. My nights are filled with fear and darkness, Dad’s “cuddles” and sleep that doesn’t come easily. Who said being a child was easy?

  ten

  The big one zero. Hello world it’s me, Candice Derman. I’m a tiny bit taller, my hair is a little longer, and my eyes, well, I’m not sure. I try not to look into them but they do seem bluer. Everyone tells me I’m blooming, and I’m becoming aware of how good looks can get you further in life. This is not going unnoticed by Dad and he is starting to enjoy the new me.

  “Candice, you really are going to be the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  The strange thing about being pretty is that it doesn’t really make me feel better. It’s not the same for Mom, who seems to enjoy her beauty, the compliments from women and looks from men. My mom dolls herself up with make-up, hair colour and beautiful clothes. Maybe one day I’ll understand this, but right now all my prettiness seems to do is make Dad want to hurt me.

  My relationship with Dad has gone from strength to strength.

  We have a few games we like to play:

  Grabbing my hair and banging my head on the table. I let him do it. I have no choice. It’s a bit of fun; Dad plays rough and I fight back. It’s damn sore but I laugh loudly and make him bang my head again and again and again. I get headaches, but I don’t show any pain in my face, I just smile. Over time the banging gets harder and my inner self now has a new dialogue: “You won’t get me,” I say, over and over again as my head hits the table. I laugh again. No one is winning; better that than if Dad won.

  Love bites. Dad starts by blowing raspberries on my neck and bottom in front of everyone. Over time the blowing becomes a private game of sucking and he sucks and sucks. I just laugh because tears won’t make him stop anyway.

  Drowning me in the pool. This is the worst game and I try not to let him do it. I am so scared of going under the water. Dad dunks me, holds me under and just as I start to gag he brings my head out of the water. I breathe quickly, desperately, forcing a fixed grin before he pushes me down again.

  “Please not again,” I gasp, “not again.”

  These games become part of our daily ritual.

  I’m learning new tricks to get through the darkness:

  Hold your breath till you can’t anymore.

  Pretend you’re dead.

  Count very fast.

  Keep telling yourself you’re stronger than this.

  Believe you are a princess and one day your prince will come.

  It’s not strange for a daughter to be alone with her dad, to go with him to his office, sit in his lap or go to the movies together. Nor is it strange for a dad to kiss his daughter goodnight, play in the pool with her or to take her for walks alone.

  What is strange is what Dad does to me during what he calls our special time.

  It’s an odd feeling to come from a big family and yet to feel so alone. I’m like a superhero with a mask, my real life unknown. No one sees the hiding; they see the clown, the joker and the comedian. I only have myself to blame; I hide my identity and my secrets so well, behind my heart, at the back of my brain and down in my spirit, which has become a dark hole.

  Is there a place where children don’t get hurt? My perfect ten-year-old life is being overshadowed by the danger of Dad. He has my whole family under his spell as they walk like zombies doing everything he says. My mom doesn’t see the signs; she doesn’t know what lurks behind her back. Mommy, my beautiful mommy, with her eyes tightly closed, has she fallen asleep?

  I have Dad’s penis in my mouth, so hard I want to choke. I hate him; maybe I could bite it off. I close my eyes, use one of my tricks to leave the room, leave this place, and leave Dad’s hardness in my mouth. I count and count and I hold my breath, pretend I’m dead. I get pins and needles and have to breathe.

  I dream of my prince, I see him; I imagine him and I feel better. My invisible tiara is back on my head.

  One day my prince will come, and until then I will:

  Dream.

  Wish.

  Pray.

  Play.

  Love.

  Hope.

  Act.

  I’m not trying to be happy or sad, feelings well up in me. I’m many emotions all squashed into one. I’m not just a girl who is broken; I’m a girl with a secret, but the secret is not me.

  I’m ten. The Devil sits at the end of my bed, but that doesn’t mean G-d’s not sitting with me too.

  Dad comes. He feels better.

  “Dinner,” Mom calls from upstairs.

  “Coming …”

  It’s Sunday night, and Mom and Dad are having friends over. Mom has prepared an amazing spread: meats, cheeses, breads and dips. It’s delicious. I’m starving.

  Romy, Kim, Mommy, Daddy, Gran and I sit like a happy family, joking and laughing. Their friends think we are the luckiest family in the world. We have each other, love, money, beauty, a house at the river, a luminous green Porsche Carrera, a Mercedes and a Jeep. We live in a mansion with tennis courts and wear beautiful clothes. We’ve got to be the luckiest family alive and I believe them: I am lucky, I have everything I could ask for.

  Next year I’ll be eleven and maybe that will be an even luckier year and Dad will stop the licking, the fingering and the touching. Maybe we will become a real father and daughter. That’s what I wish for, more than all the flowers in the world, more than all the stars in the sky and more than all the people on earth. I love Dad so much. I bite into my meat and cheese sandwich. I love this sandwich, all the different tastes and textures, the softness, the sweetness, the saltiness; I never want to stop eating it.

  I also hate Dad so much, more than all the flowers in the world, more than all the stars in the sky and more than all the people on earth. I look over at Dad, all talk and smiles, and I realise I’m so confused. I look at him long and hard; he doesn’t notice. It’s like I freeze him, I see his dark hair, each one in its place, his olive skin, his dark brown eyes, one with a freckle in the white of it, I see his nose hair, his ear hairs, I look at him and I decide I love him. He doesn’t mean to hurt me, and one day he’ll stop. I finish my sandwich and join in the jolliness. After all, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. Life in my kingdom can be fun.

  Tuesday night is Dad’s tennis night with his friends. Dad’s tanned skin shines against the white he wears from head to toe. The world is attracted to Dad; he is smart, good-looking and charming. Dad makes a man feel like a man, and a woman glow in his light. Dogs love him, cats love him, my mom and sisters love him and I love him. Tennis night gives Dad’s girls a chance to giggle. He is with his friends, working up a sweat, and Mom has a joy in her stiletto step as she prepares another spread that makes my tummy roar: bagels, cream cheese and caviar. Caviar is one of my favourite things.

  How could I hurt this perfect family?

  If I spoke the words, “Mom, Dad is touching me,” her world would come tumbling down, Mom’s fantasy would become a lie and I would lose her down the rabbit hole. Dad would go to jail, my sisters would be broken and it would all be my fault.

  If I spoke the words, “Mom, Dad is touching me,” I would lose control. I can cope with the lie but I’d go mad with the truth. I need to hide the darkness. I must put the evil away, it’s tenn
is night, my mom is the star, some of her girls are with her and we are one big, happy family.

  eleven

  He enters me, sitting on the tiles in the shower, me over him, my short legs on either side of his body. The pain is excruciating, his large, hard, long snake in my small tight hole.

  I am naked. I have no pubic hair and have not started growing breasts. His hands cup either side of my bottom and he pulls me up and down. The water is going in my mouth and eyes. We are on holiday in Port Alfred. Most of my family is here, running around somewhere in this huge holiday home. I can’t do any of my tricks: float away from myself, become an object or hold my breath. I am trying, trying hard but the pain is too sharp and I can’t run away from it. Dad is moaning silently, no one can hear, he looks in ecstasy. My face does not mirror his, I’m trying to make it expressionless. It’s difficult to do.

  I wonder if I’m bleeding, but I won’t look down; later I’ll know. It happens quickly; cruelty only needs a few minutes. He moves me up and down faster and faster and then his goo explodes inside me. He groans, his body goes limp for a few seconds and I just sit there on top of him, waiting, wondering what’s next, his hands still cupping my bum. He lifts me off him and his penis leaves my hole. Is my body still intact? He effortlessly puts me to one side of him. I feel as light as a feather, as see-through as plastic, my body feels as thin as paper.

  Abuse is cold, hard, out of control. It’s the wrong side of masculine and there is no sign of feminine. It’s muscle, it’s fat, it’s hairy, hard and sweaty, then cold all over again. It’s animal, there’s no kindness and no end; it’s the Devil or the Devil’s friend. Abuse takes without caring, there are no consequences and no rules. Abuse turns a man into an evil king, a crocodile, a vagina cannibal. Abuse has no taste buds, no colour, no sound. Abuse is a silent living hell.

  “Wasn’t that wonderful?” Dad mumbles.

  I’m speechless, I’m eleven, and this is the beginning of the rest of my life, this horrible, dark small life.

  Close your eyes, Candice, close them, I tell myself. Breathe, Candice, breathe, I tell myself. Pray, Candice, pray, I tell myself. To whom, I ask, as it doesn’t seem like G-d’s around; it doesn’t matter, I answer. I pray and it helps.

  Dad picks me up, hugs me and we step out of the shower. I’m drying myself. Any blood? I won’t look down, not yet, not ever.

  Holidays are the best: the beach, the sea, the sun, the sand, the happy holidaymakers, everyone is happy on holiday. All the happiness is neatly parcelled up during the year, ready for the holidays, and then unwrapped when Mom is tanning or when Romy and I are jumping in the waves, holding hands and laughing. Romy and I are as brown as berries and wear matching costumes. We love pretending we’re twins, even though she is older, taller and skinnier than me. We feel so complete when we’re together, I don’t feel jealous or hurt when Dad isn’t around. I feel like the two of us make up our very own family.

  I don’t kiss girls anymore, that urge has gone; but I still touch myself, that urge hasn’t gone. I start to notice boys. I know I’m young but everything started early for me. I now know first-hand about the birds and the bees and I’m hoping to meet a bee that loves me. I’m eleven and I’m on the lookout.

  My new wishes:

  To meet a boy. We run away and move to a caravan by the sea.

  Romy and I run away and live in a caravan by the sea.

  Romy will never know my secret and I don’t mind; I don’t want her to be upset or to feel bad. Anyway, all the laughing and playing helps me to forget, and loving my sister the way I do makes all the bad go away and life seem as lovely and as heart-warming as a cupcake.

  Mommy is still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and the older I get, the more people tell me I’m exactly like her. I am becoming happier about this because the more I look like her, the sooner I’ll catch my man and leave.

  Eleven is like being twenty, only you’re eleven.

  Things an eleven-year-old should be able to do:

  Leave school.

  Get a job.

  Have a boyfriend.

  Talk back.

  Be able to live alone.

  Eat whenever they want to.

  I think if a girl is being forced to have sex, there shouldn’t be rules. Dad makes me go to bed at nine o’clock, do my homework, doesn’t let me watch age-restricted movies. I’m not even allowed to have boyfriends or to sleep out. I’m silently starting to rage.

  I go to a lot of extra classes. You could call me a specialist in extra lessons.

  Extra Afrikaans.

  Extra maths.

  Extra spelling.

  Extra drama.

  Of course, I love the drama classes, but the rest suck. I’m not sure why I have to learn Afrikaans and who really cares about maths and so what if I can’t spell. The more extra classes I do, the more I switch off and start to daydream.

  My favourite daydreams are:

  I’m a famous actress and I can do what I want and say what I feel.

  I’m stuck in a sweet shop and eat all the sweets I possibly can. The colours of the sweets and the colours of the shop make me dizzy with happiness.

  Everyone in the world loves me, thinks I’m special, clever, beautiful and talented. That’s the world I’d like to live in, the “everyone thinks Candice is wonderful” world.

  My fanny is getting used to Dad’s penis. It’s not so sore anymore when he puts it inside me. The first few times the pain was extreme, like putting small tyres on a four-by-four, uncomfortable and wrong, but I’m learning that after a while everything can fit in life, even if it’s a push or a shove. You can get it to do what you want it to do.

  My whole eleven-year-old self feels like a push and a shove. I make friends but I feel like I’m pushing them to like me; I try to learn maths but I feel like I’m shoving the information into my brain. Nothing comes easily to me.

  Dad shoves his tongue in my mouth and pushes his penis inside my hole, more shoving and pushing. I’m lying naked in my mom’s bed, my pyjama pants crumpled around my ankles. The sunflowers on them were bright yellow once, large and proud, but not anymore; now they are squashed and faded and I can only just make out the yellow.

  “Candice, don’t feel bad, you know G-d understands my love for you. It’s so deep and I can’t help myself, you understand me.”

  What is he talking about? I hear nothing, I understand nothing, I look down at my pyjama pants and see the faded yellow. All I want to do is hide inside the sunflower and fade away with it.

  “What about Mommy?”

  “She wouldn’t understand; you can never tell anyone. You would destroy this family, I’d go to jail, and do you want me to go to jail?”

  Silence. “No.”

  “Good.”

  I imagine my face, my expression, my blue eyes. Are they watering? Are they cold? Why does Dad not see I’m broken?

  After he’s come I leave the bed, pull up my sunflower pyjama pants, put on my top and leave the bedroom. I bathe myself, although I can’t wash away the internal dirt, and get ready for my day.

  Dad’s got a movie planned. I can’t help myself, I’m excited: movies are my favourite and I love the smell of popcorn and icy raspberry drinks.

  “My treat, just the two of us.”

  I know his act of unkindness has been done so we will have a great day. I’ll eat all the popcorn I possibly can, and drink all my raspberry ice drink until my tummy freezes and I get that icky-comfy-full-yummy-yuck feeling.

  We watch Back to the Future with Michael J. Fox. He is so cute, the movie is great, and I end up having a wonderful day with Dad. He gives me lots of good attention; the kind dads should give their daughters. Everyone tells Dad how lovely I am and I see him glowing. That makes me glow, knowing how proud he is of me.

  “Not only is she pretty, but she’s so talented. One day she’ll be a well-known actress.”

  I blush. I love Dad, I love belonging to someone, and I love being loved so much
. Dad is definitely two people: the best father in the world and the worst father in the world. My mind is learning to separate the two; to love the good moments and to breathe through the bad, or simply stop breathing. I find either way works.

  Dad and I go home, full and happy. Mommy, perfect Mommy, is waiting for us.

  “Dinner is ready. Chutney chicken and rice.”

  Romy lives with us now and she is waiting at the dining-room table with Kim and Gran.

  I think to myself that I must be the craziest eleven-year-old in the world, because I get so down and mad and yet here I am sitting for dinner in my big house with my pretty, perfect family. All of us laughing, happy, innocent and naïve, while deep down far, far away, locked inside me I know I hate them all. I must be made of something bad because they are all so lovely. I lock the feeling away, breathe in my love for the only family I’ve got, the only family I want, the only family I know. I breathe out the bad me and watch my badness sail away past my family, over Dad’s head, out the door, and I hope never to see that me again.

  That me, the bad me, does go for a few weeks and I feel at ease, happy and carefree. Dad’s been away on business so there’s no nonsense down there. I can’t help wondering if dogs do it with puppies, sheep with lambs, cats with kittens or lions with cubs. These are questions I start asking myself, but as soon as I do, I feel an uncomfortable dread and push myself to think of other things.