Shadow Heart (Broken Bottle Series Book 1)

by Taeuffer, Pam

  Maybe I'd dress like the women at the railings—in short shorts and a tight T-shirt. Then, when he saw me, if his reaction was the same as he gave to all the others, I'd know he was either joking or his only mission was sex. Walking among all the breasts and butts that flashed the ballplayers would allow me to find out if his promises were empty.

  Would he look me up and down like he did the other women?

  Would I be part of his “assembly line?”

  If I were one of many who were on his "conveyor belt," then I'd know I could ask him to help my family without dating him. It would mean he only wanted sex and as the rational man I believed him to be, I was certain he’d admit to everything when I caught him.

  And then what?

  Maybe I'd explore sex with him regardless of how he reacted.

  What’s wrong with that? You’re going to college anyway . . . you'll try new things, let your hair down . . . what’s the difference?

  I couldn’t carry out my plan alone. No, I wasn’t brave enough. I needed a partner in crime. The next morning, I called Jerry.

  “Hey Jerry, this is Nicky.”

  “What’s up Nick-Nick-bow-bick-fanana-fana-fo-fick-fee-fi-mo-mick . . . Nick?”

  Ooh, he’s feeling playful. Good, because I have a game to play.

  “Do you want to go to the Goliaths game with me? I know I’m asking last minute, but . . .”

  “Sure, I’ll go. Are we going as friends or what, lady?”

  “Or what,” I flirted.

  “You know what I mean.” His voice dipped in the way I was coming to know with males when their desire was rising.

  “Today, I just want to be with the buddy I’ve always known,” I said, reassuring myself as well as my friend.

  “When are you going to soften to me?” Jerry asked.

  “I’ve always been soft toward you.” My twin was feeling frisky.

  “Should I pick you up?"

  “I’ve got a few things to take care of first, so let’s meet at the Bay Gate, Jer. I’ll get the tickets. Bleachers, right?”

  “Right. See you soon. Hey, Nick?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I like you soft. See ya.”

  Cutting the legs off an old pair of jeans so they fell just below my butt, I paired them with one of Jenise’s T-shirts—extra tight, of course, to emulate the ballpark women.

  I was ready for my experiment.

  Some part of me burned to reveal my deepest mysteries and crush my biggest fears, but I wasn't quite ready to uncover myself that way. So I dressed the part, revealing myself physically as I never had before.

  Freedom was so close I felt as if I could reach out and grab it.

  Urges to change in ways I never considered started to show themselves.

  I was tired of behaving.

  I wanted to shed my good girl persona.

  Jenise and I seldom got to be children while growing up. If we didn’t walk silently, everything shattered and the next wave of darkness came. We wanted to run, scream, and yell like little girls. Instead, we carefully stepped over the debris of our family. In many ways we were robbed of innocence.

  Survival—we focused on it every day.

  How?

  We stayed out of our father’s way

  We made sure we didn’t make too much noise, always reminded by our mother to be good girls so we wouldn’t upset dad.

  We guarded family secrets and stuffed our emotions down.

  Fears and feelings were things we seldom talked about. We knew the negative consequences if we did. Chastised, spanked hard, sometimes whipped, hit with a broom or a brush handle, screamed at, or worse—our feelings never acknowledged with love or compassion. Sometimes our mother even seemed to take on dad’s fury, as if she’d been infected by his sick rage.

  My parents never admitted they had a problem loving their children or with their anger. Any issues they had in loving each other were never acknowledged. My sister’s withdrawal after she was raped? They didn’t want to deal with her.

  The way I shut myself down and kept busy?

  They knew.

  As long as we seemed okay, in our parents' eyes we were okay. They could stay numb—just like their children. No one broke the toxic agreement we’d silently made with each other.

  I felt especially slighted by my mother. She didn’t actually pour alcohol down her throat, but she let it drown her anyway.

  Why couldn’t she see her daughters?

  Why didn’t she do something except making excuses for our family, as if trying to glue our broken pieces together?

  Why didn't she get help or mount an offense?

  Why was she stuck, dragging us all into the muck with her?

  We swept our dark secrets under a mountainous carpet of twisted mistakes and sadness, year after year.

  Nothing changed . . . until it did—until we did.

  Even though my Evil Twin was born, I wasn’t brave enough to go to the ballpark without wearing something over my tight clothes. Somewhere in my head, the voices of childhood—"fatty, porky, hippo, tubs,"—they reached back to me. I still saw a troubled girl in the mirror. These voices, along with my belief that if I dressed inappropriately I’d become another victim of violence like my sister, made me ashamed to show myself.

  I put on my Goliaths jersey and left it unbuttoned all the way down the front. Hell yes, I was uncomfortable. I felt as if I'd compromised my values.

  Even so, I needed to prove a point.

  I'd convinced myself I’d catch Ryan flirting, probably arranging his evening date. When he saw he'd been caught, he’d drop the, "I'm waiting for you" act and everything I needed to know would reveal itself. We could just be friends and he could help my family.

  “Good morning!” I rushed down the stairs and into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

  It was about 10:00 a.m.

  My mom and sister sat at the table. Jenise busily took notes as she studied. My mom read her book.

  “Morning.” Mom quickly looked up from her reading material. Her surprised look and quick glance that took me in from head to toe said it all, but she never commented about my attire.

  My sister was different. She wouldn’t let anything go.

  “What the fuck? Why are you dressed like that?”

  “I can wear what I want. You wear this stuff all the time.” I felt my toes reach to the floor as if anchoring my feet.

  “Yeah, but you don’t. You never date, you’re prudish as hell, and all of a sudden you’re with Ryan Tilton and dressing sexy? He’s not out for your kisses, Princess Nicky.”

  “I know that.” Gift of pointing out the obvious, sis?

  “This is so unlike you,” Jenise interrupted. “A professional ballplayer—what the hell are you doing?”

  I turned away. My plan is already falling apart. I can't even make it out of the door without being embarrassed.

  “Everything falls just right for her. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing, and Ryan comes her way. It's so unfair, Mom.”

  "Listen, I—" I was about to tell my sister off in a very direct and pointed way, when I glanced at Mom. Our eyes met. She shook her head at me quickly. I got her message. The relationship with my sister might never have mended if our mom hadn’t been there. It was one of the many quietly powerful things she'd done, while staying in her co-dependent role with Dad. I was going to spout off about the thousands of hours I’d put in helping at school on dozens of class committees, studying, and volunteering, instead of trying to understand my sister’s challenges. It was spiteful of her to say the things she did that morning, but I was only beginning to realize her fight was very different from mine.

  “Nicky has her reasons, just leave her alone.” Mom's voice was so dull that I wondered if she lived only to keep things level and even. Was that her only role now? “And watch your mouth.”

  "Well . . .?" Jenise tapped one foot on the floor.

  “I don't know. We’ll see.” I was only repeating t
he phrase I’d heard for so many years from my parents when they were too uninterested to give us a firm response . . . a way to stay in their malaise.

  “We’ll see?” Jenise mocked. “What the hell does that mean? What the fuck do you need to think about? He’s cute, has a rockin’ body, he’s into you, and makes good living—duh!”

  “Jenise, your mouth.” Mom repeated.

  “And did I mention that body?” She stuck her tongue our at me. “Hey, is that my shirt?”

  “Yeah, I’m borrowing it. So what are you up to today?” I changed the subject quickly and tried to get her off my back.

  “Sean and I are going to Golden Gate Park for a bike ride. What are you doin’?”

  “Going to the Goliaths’ game.” Instantly she made me regret telling her the truth.

  “Oh yeah, we’ll see, she says.” My sister's tongue rolled as if she were a star in her own private comedy club that day. “Right. You’re going so you’ll be near Ryan, aren’t you? Making sure all those girly girls aren’t eyeballing your sweetie pie and flashing their bodies at him?”

  “I’m just trying to have fun with Jerry before summer slips away.” And my friends all go their separate ways.

  “Wait. You’re playing with two boys? Cockteaser!”

  Crap, why didn’t I just sneak out?

  “Jenise, that’s enough with your mouth,” Mom chastised.

  “But that’s what she is,” my sister whined. “You don’t go after any boy, and now you have two? Guess being a prude works! Make up your mind for shit sakes.”

  “There’s nothing going on with Jerry." Not yet. "He’s been my friend a long time. And like you said, it’s not like I went after either of them.” I'm trying to convince . . . someone. “Besides, how do I know what kind of man Ryan is? He could be a total douchebag. All those athletes have big egos. Even when we were little, we saw all those girls go after them.”

  “I don’t know about an ego, but you sure hope he has a big something,” Jenise roared.

  “Jenise!” Mom firmly scolded her.

  “Big ego, Ha!” My sister had set her table and now enjoyed her buffet. Nothing stopped her when she began teasing.

  “What are you doing today, Mom?” I’ll change this damn conversation myself.

  “Grocery shopping, paying the bills, nothing too exciting. Your dad wants garlic spaghetti tonight, so if either of you girls are around, you’re welcome to join us.”

  Every night our mother hoped we’d be together for dinner.

  Every night Jenise and I hoped we’d see our dad come home sober.

  Most nights, all of our hopes were smashed to pieces like those broken bottles of whiskey, forgotten long ago in our basement.

  We pushed our hopes forward even as we remembered back, wishing for the father we used to know. Sometimes weeks or even months went by without any of us speaking to him.

  We were all lonely—individually and together as a family.

  Between four and five years old I experienced his darkness for the first time, drinking with a friend—Ernie—in the living room.

  Sometime between six and eight years old, I began to question the reasons my father drank.

  At eight I saw him shove my sister's face into a bowl of creamed corn, his anger taking him over.

  By the time I turned ten, I was certain he needed the comfort of addiction—comfort his family couldn't give.

  When I was eleven and my grandmother came to stay with us, I understood more about his upbringing and the addiction that ran through his family. I did it by eavesdropping on conversations between my parents and my aunts and uncles. They mentioned her dependence on pills.

  At twelve, I saw Dad punch Mom in the stomach, backing her against the wall, ready to continuing his violence.

  Most nights, he’d sober up after we'd gone to bed and go to the kitchen for some of the dinner my mother had prepared hours earlier. It was more peaceful that way.

  If he ate with us when he was drunk, it would almost always result in some argument, generally involving my sister.

  When I was thirteen, on one of those nights, everything blew.

  Chapter 22

  “Hidden” Evils

  When darkness in our house came down, it was thick, like the darkest sky on a moonless midnight.

  Many of our family dinners ended in screams of sadness.

  One of them almost ended in death.

  * * * * *

  Dad props up his head with his hand, his mouth open, and his red face sagging from alcohol’s depressive addiction.

  I sit in between my father and sister on our triangular-shaped, blue vinyl booth in the kitchen.

  Passive—I know that's how I have to stay in order to keep the peace. Even though I am a little girl, my family depends on me in ways that no one else sees . . . do they?

  The argument begins the same way.

  Dad makes another rude comment about my sister’s friends, her clothes, her hair, her grades, or her acne—whatever comes to his blurred mind. Eventually the insults become barbed—those are the hooks that are difficult to remove.

  Although we understand it’s senseless to argue with someone who’s drunk, sometimes we can’t help ourselves. The pressure of holding back our feelings—bottled up for days, weeks, months . . . years—is finally too much. We burst.

  Dad gets up to put his plate in the sink and flips one hand across Jenise’s shoulder. It’s not for anything specific that she’s said or done. He only wants to get enough of a reaction that he will continue to engage and provoke her.

  Perhaps he wants us to be as miserable as he is and this is his invitation to get down in the mud with him. Maybe it’s the only way he can interact. No one tells him they love him anymore.

  Tonight, Jenise answers him in a way she never has before— she’s fearless now, recovered from her rape, and through therapy is unafraid to speak her mind.

  Dad's been too numb to see who his daughter has become.

  Jenise doesn’t care that he’s drunk.

  Neither of us completely understands the stranger Dad's become.

  No one in my family really knows the other any longer—even though we live in the same house—we've changed, morphed, gone inside, and we hold secrets—except my sister.

  She’s had enough.

  Jenise screams.

  Dad yells.

  Their voices escalate.

  The slaps, prods, and pokes to their bodies intensify.

  Another flip becomes a slap at the chest or the face. A threatening finger pokes a cheek, shoulder or neck, and worse, the hateful words begin.

  They stab all of our hearts.

  The children of alcoholics know them. The physical stuff is frightening and hurts our bodies. But the insults that can never be withdrawn are the things that tear through us. It’s like we’re hit with poison-tipped spears.

  Except for my father—his body is already poisoned and the insults go right through him.

  Even more frustrating—with alcohol, the veil of forgetfulness will cover him. We know he won't remember any of the hate that will fill us from this night. Dad seldom remembers the fight. He's numb in his body and in his brain.

  “Speak up.” He flips me on the arm, trying to bring me in. For now, I stay away and I don’t bite—not yet. I don't even change my expression. I won't give in.

  Words vomit from my family: “No good sloppy drunk, ugly red-faced fucking slob, your children hate you, you're ugly, fat, and useless.” These are a small slice of the venom-filled pie we've baked over the years and it's crumbling.

  Our hate is love in reverse.

  I want to stop the evil from moving forward.

  I want to shout out, "Dad! Stop! I love you! We all love you! Please stop!"

  But I don't.

  I can't.

  I don't have the right words—yet.

  I dare not enter this circle of violence beginning to take shape in our kitchen.

  We try in every way we know to
discourage our father from taking another sip of his bottle, so he doesn't kill himself, another person—or us. Do we have any real messages of love and concern? It seems we’ve lost those skills.

  Instead we’ve become experts at keeping secrets and talking in sarcasm—the way we communicate now. It’s so twisted that we can’t see the deep hole into which we’ve fallen.

  I watch all of us connecting and disconnecting, screaming, our voices cracking, tears forming in our eyes.

  As I detach, I finally understand—my family is the definition of madness.

  We deal with our father the same way, day after day, expecting a different outcome. We insult him and he us.

  We know it doesn't matter, he won't remember, but still, we explode. Perhaps it's just to affirm that yes, we are alive. Somebody help us! Someone . . . hear us! See us! We're all sick.

  At our kitchen table that night, amid all the volatile emotions, my sixteen-year-old sister reaches her breaking point. I see her body tense. Her fists clench at her sides. As she squeezes her eyes shut, I know she’s had enough of our father’s drunkenness.

  “Shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Dad tells his oldest daughter. “I’ll slap your fuckin’ face.”

  What is my mother doing? Why isn’t she reacting?

  The ebb and flow of their argument heightens in its intensity.

  Is Mom detached like I am?

  Dad and Jenise almost quiet down, but then a spark lights again.

  I can feel it.

  Everything sharpens.

  The demons circle.

  They pull on our hatred.

  The “Terror” is coming.

  Why don’t they stop?

  Can’t they feel darkness falling?

  It’s too electric in here—the hair stands up on my neck.

  It’s different.

  This is serious.

  Drifting . . . our family enters into the next level of disease and once again, I begin focusing on my surroundings. The kitchen cabinet doors Mom painted so long ago . . . what a talent she was. That little girl and boy dancing through the garden, she carrying a basket of flowers and he a bucket and—screams jerk my head. More yelling. Daring. They challenge each other.