I miss Dale, his smell, his lanky body and his freckles. I miss myself with Dale; I liked who I was and I wonder if I’ll ever be happy again.
I fall asleep quickly, a deep sleep. Dale comes to me in a dream and I know he is looking out for me. I never told Dale about Dad, but now I guess he knows and this brings me comfort.
The next few days in Mozambique pass slowly; every day is much the same: sleep, eat, go to work with Dad, sit around, read, feel sad and feel lonely.
Dad has sex with me once or twice a day, but I don’t care right now; I am tired of my tears, of fighting with myself, of feeling broken. He can have my body, poke wherever he wants to, lick, suck, pinch and bite any part of me. I am not my body, I am not my vagina, my breasts, my toes or my nose.
Since the dream, a numb calmness has come over me and deep down I feel strangely strong. I know he can’t really have me, not my soul. I know this will pass and I will be living my own life in a place of hope, love, healing and imagination. I know, because I have had so many good days in between the bad, and even in my darkest moments I eventually fly to the light. And I know because there is no other way for me.
Dad can drown me and bang my head on the table, he can curse and shout, but he has nothing of me. Not the Candice that Dale showed me, not the Candice I’ll one day become. I’m not a victim. There is more to me than this pain, this raw rubbing. I am more than all the moments Dad has taken from me.
This anaesthetised strength eases the pain. Tomorrow I might feel different, maybe I’ll be crazy sad, but today I am okay. So, Joe di Bivar, you don’t know this, no one does, but I’ve signed a contract with myself that, no matter how dark my life is now, one day I will be happy. I will find love and you will be a distant memory.
Perhaps I signed this contract with G-d before I arrived in Mozambique, maybe I signed it today, but however it came about, I know there will be an out.
Dad uses me a lot this holiday. He does me every way, every angle, every moment and then it’s time for us to go home.
My home is an empty shell full of crap. I am bitter and angry, but I am also fourteen, so in between the contract, the numbness, crossness and a bit of confusion, there is lots of play.
I start dating boys again, too quickly for anyone’s liking, even my own, but I don’t really care if they are judging me; I judge myself. Nothing is serious with anyone, but I have nothing better to do. If I stop, I will see that everything around me is rotting. I’m failing at school, life and being a good daughter. Luckily I have looks on my side, and Valentine’s Day to reward me.
I arrive home with a bag full of goodies, cards, teddy bears and balloons. I’m a girl in demand and I feel good.
“Look what I got Dad.”
I turn the bag of goodies upside down and the cards fall to the floor.
They say: “Be my Valentine”, “For someone special” and “You’re the one”.
I’m glowing with all the love and my cheeks are rosy pink from all the affirmation.
“What’s all this?” Dad asks.
“They’re my Valentine’s cards,” I say, with a little apprehension. I know Dad isn’t going to like the attention I’m getting.
“Boys only want you for one thing, Candice.”
My cheeks are still rosy and my enthusiasm at an all-time high.
“Whatever!”
“What did you say?”
“Whatever!!!”
“Oh, so now you’re a big deal. You think because you’ve got all these gifts and cards, you’re something special.”
My glow is still visible but anger is setting in. Why does Dad always want to spoil my fun? I turn my back, not wanting to look at him, not wanting him to take away my high.
“Don’t turn your back on me.”
I don’t reply, I can’t reply. What can I say?
Dad turns me around, grabs my arm and looks down at me, fury in his dark eyes.
“Don’t ever turn your back on me again.”
I look at him defiantly. I want out, out of this so-called father–daughter relationship, out of his tight grip.
“Don’t ever get too big for your boots, you hear me?” Dad is still holding on to me, shaking me, slapping me over and over.
Finally, he looks over at my cards of love. He gets down on the floor and starts tearing my cards into tiny pieces, one by one.
My cheeks are no longer flushed, my glow has faded and all love has gone. Dad tears up my cards, rips my teddies and pops my balloons, which drop to the floor, lifeless.
“That will teach you. Now tidy this mess up.”
Dad leaves the room. One by one, I begin picking up the pieces with tears streaming down my face.
One moment I was loved, the next it was gone. I’m nothing more than my cards, all torn up. I look together but I’m not. I’m broken, pieces of me just rattling around inside my small frame.
Why doesn’t Dad take me and really break me? Why does he leave me only a little bruised, intact on the outside but internally broken?
I gather all the rubbish and throw it in the bin. It shouldn’t have meant so much to me. If I hadn’t had the cards, none of this would have happened, so from this day on, I ban Valentine’s Day: You want to love me? Make it every day.
The dark days are lasting longer and the kind Dad is harder to find. Business is not going well and I think Mom and Dad are in trouble financially. They argue a lot and Mom always ends up in tears with Dad always the triumphant winner. Mom later apologises and things go back to normal.
Dinner is served to our king: oxtail with roast potatoes, followed by mango pudding and ice cream. With everything laid out perfectly, we all sit and eat our feast. I look around the table; what a lovely lie. How did we get here?
I suck the oxtail bone and put the marrow on a piece of bread and thank G-d for the food, because a good meal always makes up for a bad day. I look at Dad and smile, Dad smiles back.
I HATE YOU. I smile, but my eyes have no expression. I hope he can see my hate. I am the Rambo of girls, that’s me, although no one knows it. In some moments I believe I’m tough, in other moments I believe I’m weak. My life is a pendulum of emotions as I struggle to cope with Dad’s Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.
I fail standard seven, which is not a surprise. I repeat the year not remembering anything I learned before. It’s like the first time I’ve been in this class, the first time I’m learning all these subjects. Where was I for a whole year? What scares me is that no one asks why. I guess it’s easier to believe I’m slow, naughty and conceited. Imagine thinking her dad might be a paedophile and the only learning she is doing is survival training.
Almost seven years have gone by and nothing has eased, other than during the times when he is away. Even then he has started to call and ask if I’m missing him, missing what we do. Somehow he forces a “yes” out of me; even though he is so far away, I’m still terrified of him.
“Do you miss me?”
Silence. “Yes.”
“Do you miss my touching you?”
Silence. “Yes.”
I want to vomit and all I can do is respond with a weak, sickly “Yes”.
“Write me a letter. Tell me how bad.”
“Dad.”
“Come on, Candice, I hate being away from you. Do it for me.”
Silence.
“Okay. I’ll get Mom on the line for you.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too, Dad,” abuser man.
My letter goes something like this:
Dear Dad, I miss you so much. I miss playing our games. See you soon. Love me.
I write it because he told me to, I write it because I think there is no way out, I write it because I’m scared not to, I write it because I don’t know why I write it.
still fourteen
I’m growing frustrated and angry. Everything feels like it’s coming to a head, a pimple that needs to be squeezed. I am so alone, winded by life, dead but not. There is blood coursing through m
y veins, wet in my eyes and panic in my body.
Something is burning in me. I don’t know why or where it is coming from but I want to meet my real dad. I don’t care that my memories of him aren’t packed with fun. I’m desperate, ready for him to deliver me from evil and save my soul. I’m not really sure how to handle the situation, because Mom hates Lionel and doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. Loving him may mean I don’t love her. Kim and I aren’t close so I wouldn’t discuss it with her and Jodi is on her own mission, so I choose to speak to Romy.
“Rome, I’ve been thinking.”
“Yah,” she is kind of ignoring me, studying for her history exam. Maybe Napoleon is much more interesting.
“It’s a secret and I don’t want you to tell anyone.”
She looks up at me; I manage to get more of her attention.
“A secret?”
“Yah, there is something I want to tell you, but you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone.” Now I have her full attention. Napoleon is out the door and history where it should be.
Romy looks concerned, I’m not sure why. Her golden locks around her angel face somehow look like they’re dropping. Her beautiful electric green eyes start turning a dull, stained yellow. She stares at me. Silence. I’m worried, confused; what does she know? We stare at each other and I recognise her expression: a dark, sombre look. I reflect the same look back at her.
“Candice, what do you want to tell me?”
“Well …”
“Just tell me.”
“Okay, it’s …”
“Has Joe done something to you?” There is terror in her voice.
What? Oh my G-d! Where did that come from? My heart feels like it’s been punched, the air rushes from my lungs. I start to float.
“Has he touched you? Candice, I asked you a question.”
I can’t answer. This is not where I was going, not what I wanted to face, not now, not ever. Get me out of here body.
“Candice!”
I can’t answer her, I won’t answer her, but somehow from deep inside my belly, from the back of my throat, a “yes” forces open my tightly shut mouth. My evil body has deceived me. I wanted to leave but she has forced out the ugly truth.
“Yes.”
This voice is not mine; it’s old and has kept a dark secret for a very long time.
It feels like the “yes” echoes around us. Oh my G-d, how did that come out? A secret I’ve been carrying for a childhood eternity has just left my body. I’m stunned. I’m looking at Romy and Romy is looking back at me. There is a deathly silence.
“When did it start?”
I am a robot, dutifully answering her questions.
“Before Mom and Dad got married.”
“How often?”
“Nearly every day?”
“Has he done more than touch you?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“You know.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Rome, I can’t really talk about this.”
“Candice, you have to.”
“He has sex with me.”
“Oh my G-d!”
Romy looks terrified and she starts to cry. Tears fall on her history notes and smudge her neat handwriting. We don’t talk for what seems like hours. I’m so confused by this voice from deep inside that has escaped its jail, like a convict who breaks out and creates havoc. We sit paralysed, speechless. I’ve said too much and my world has been turned upside down. I’m spinning inside myself.
Romy and I sit for a long time. I keep looking at her slowly changing expressions. I wonder how I’m going to get out of here, how I’m going to escape the truth. Eventually we decide to go for a walk. We need to move our pain away, get some fresh air and walk awhile. We find ourselves sitting under a mulberry tree. She is full and green and dressed in all her spring wonder. I pick mulberries, we talk, sit, hold hands, hug and cry. I take out my Lip Ice and laugh, it’s mulberry flavoured. Everything is so funny. This moment, our situation. Funny because it looks so pretty, two curly heads sitting under one of G-d’s trees eating mulberries and chatting about the horror of abuse.
Romy tells me Dad’s touched her down there. Nothing more but nothing less.
I explain how Dad has had sex with me for many years. I tell her about the blow jobs, the drowning, the fear. We talk so much and talking helps. It doesn’t take away the rawness but it eases the pain.
“Candy, I’m so sorry.”
It starts to get dark and we walk home, to our house of evil. I feel too full of dirt and conversation and go to the toilet and vomit. Vomit mulberries and pain, secrets and cum, fear and loathing.
Romy tells me we have to tell Mom. This frightens me so much. How did it get to this? For years I lived a lie and now I am untangling this web of deceit and I am frightened. Dad’s in Mozambique but he’s coming home soon. I’m so confused, what have I done? I love him?
What’s going to happen? He’ll tell everyone I’m a liar. What’s Mom going to do? What’s she going to say? This is too much to bear. Dale’s gone and soon Dad will be gone. Is this all my fault? Am I bad?
I’m sinking, sinking. This feeling is worse than Dad forcing himself on me. At least when Dad is on me I can escape. I taught my head to fly, but now there is no escape. I’m desperate and I don’t know what to do with myself.
TICK. TICK. TICK.
I’m stuck; time passes so slowly.
TICK. TICK. TICK.
Romy tells me we’ll tell Mommy tomorrow and goes to visit her boyfriend. She has somewhere to go, a shoulder to cry on, a safe place to hide. I am left alone with my ticking. My fragility is disabling.
TICK. TICK. TICK.
Maybe I should run away and then I won’t have to face this. Maybe I should kill myself and all this will be over. Maybe.
TICK. TICK. TICK.
Mom comes home. Oh my G-d. She’s just been to the hairdresser. I must hold back my tears. I stand in front of her and stare at the mom I love so much, the mom whose life is going to change in the blink of my eye. She looks perfect. Thick bob, heavy fringe, eye shadow dark and sexy. My mom, a modern-day Cleopatra. I am so sorry.
TICK. TICK. TICK.
“Your hair looks beautiful!” I put on a forced smile.
“You think so? I hate it.”
“Mom, it’s perfect.”
Tomorrow she won’t be thinking about her hair. Oh my G-d, I’m so sorry.
“What do you want for dinner?”
“Nothing, I’m not hungry, I’m going to bed.”
“So early, are you okay?”
“Yes, just tired.”
TICK. TICK. TICK.
Dad’s been abusing me for years. How am I going to force those words out? How am I going to live afterwards?
“Sleep well, love you.”
“Love you, Mom.”
I walk along the passage, tears filling my eyes, down the stairs past Gran’s bedroom, Romy’s bedroom, Kim’s bedroom and into mine. I am blinded by my sorrow. I shut the door, fall into my bed and tears come pouring out. I’m crying from exhaustion, crying for Dale, for my mom, for Dad and for what’s to come. This is the most frightened I have ever been. I cry myself to sleep.
Romy returns home early. I can’t eat. My body is shaking. I’m feeling weak. She tells Mom we have to talk.
“What about?” asks Mom.
“It’s serious Mom, we can’t talk here. Let’s go for a drive.”
“You’re worrying me, Romy.”
“Mom, just wait.”
We all get into our Kombi and drive to the park a few minutes away from the house. I am still shaking. Nausea overwhelms me and I think I’m going to faint. My mom switches off the engine and turns to face us.
Everything is about to change. Please G-d, protect my mom.
Romy starts, “Joe’s been having sex with Candice.”
Mommy goes white and the pretty olive colour drains from her face. Shock. Please faint, please
faint, I beg my body, but Mom’s asking questions and I’m forced to answer.
“When did it start?”
“When I was eight.”
“Oh my G-d! Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know, I just …”
Mom interrupts me.
“What are you talking about? Is it still going on? You mean Dad’s been putting his penis inside you, inside your vagina?”
“Yes?” You fucking idiot, don’t you think I know what I’m talking about?
Mom is hysterical. She’s spitting tears and saliva. I watch a myriad different emotions pass through her. She’s angry, sorry, shocked. I’m a rag doll. Every bit of power has left my body. Romy has been silenced. Wiped out.
Mom asks more questions. I answer. She gets louder, madder, more distorted. I watch the mascara leave her lashes and fall onto her cheeks, down her chin and onto her white shirt, which is now stained with black tears. This is my mom’s new life: a life of black tears, tears of mascara, of desperation and loss. We are in the Kombi in our own world wanting so badly to escape each other, but we can’t. We’re here, facing our worst fears, facing each other.
It seems like a lifetime passes. We are still sitting pretty, pretty knocked out. This emotional crash has affected our heads, hearts and souls. No one will come to our rescue; no one will know that we have all been internally amputated. I don’t recognise Romy or my mom, they have become broken pieces of the Kombi.
I had put what Dad was doing to me in a coffin that we lay in secretly together. Now the spotlight is on the story of my abuse, and I don’t know what to do. I knew how to compartmentalise the different parts of me, but now I am a molten mass of Candice Derman, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find a part of me to love.
I am fourteen and I feel so old. This is a scary life, a scary, scary life.
“Mom, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault Candice,” she whimpers.
Romy tells Mom what Dad did to her but by this time, Mom’s almost flatlined.
We drive home, silenced by too many words. I’m hoping Mom will keep it quiet and not tell Dad. Not yet, anyway. I’m hoping Mom will work out what we’re going to do logically and silently.
What was I thinking?
Indescribable Page 7