Sister of Silence

by Daleen Berry

  And I couldn’t say a word about it. Because if I did, things would get even uglier.

  By April, the tension between us was so thick I felt like I was choking, ready to pass out from the acrid air around me. I tried to find ways to scrape and save whatever I could, just to get us from one day to the next. The children always had food, even though it wasn’t as healthy as I would have liked, although I sometimes went without so they could eat. The loss of a steady income was taking its toll, and it seemed the kids and I were paying the price for Eddie’s mistakes. We were going to visit his parents one Saturday afternoon, when the short trip turned into a verbal abuse session. Something set Eddie off, and he began shouting and spewing obscenities, leaving us just sitting there in silence.

  Later that week he shoved me, twice, because I wouldn’t stand still and listen to more of his abuse. The second time occurred when I tried to wake the children in the morning. They were still sleepy, so we curled up together in my bed. Eddie was there in a heartbeat, shouting like a madman.

  “Get out of bed, you lazy bitch! I want some breakfast!” With that, he jerked me as I half-fell, half-climbed from bed, trying not to hurt the kids as I did so. Eddie stood there shouting and I heard my children’s terrified sobs behind me. A minute later, he walked away. I gathered them into my arms, trying to calm them—and wondering when we could escape. I was torn between the damage they would sustain by not having a father around, and what his abuse would do to them if we stayed.

  It wasn’t long before my young daughters took a stand, trying to defend me after Eddie started yelling at me one day. “Leave Mommy alone!” they shrieked, which only made them bear the brunt of his violence.

  In return, he kicked Gabby twice as she was trying to hurry into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Although she wasn’t even four, she didn’t even cry.

  She’s burying her feelings. Oh my God, just like me!

  I knew then I could no longer trust Eddie to put the kids to bed while I was away working, especially after I arrived home earlier than usual one evening. I was tiptoeing up the stairs when he began yelling. Eddie hadn’t heard me come in, so I watched as he literally slammed, first Trista, and then Gabby, down onto the bed where Mileah was already lying in bed, her eyes tightly closed. Not that I doubted their tales, but I knew then the children hadn’t been exaggerating, when they filled me in about their evenings with Daddy.

  I swept into the room and sat down on the bed, and they jumped up and began hugging and kissing me.

  “Mommy’s home.” “I love you, Mommy.” “Will you read us a bedtime story?”

  I kissed each one in return, gathering them around me as I asked what story they wanted to hear. When Eddie started to speak, I gave him what I hoped was a look that would wilt him. I’m not sure if I succeeded, but something he saw there must have caught his attention. A minute later, he went downstairs, leaving us alone, caught up in the pages of a fairytale where nothing bad happened, and all children were cherished and never got hurt.

  By the time summer arrived, I felt just like those women I had passed in the supermarket aisle all my life—the ones who looked so beaten down and worn out, they barely had the energy to smile as they pushed their carts by. Or those whose men dogged their very footsteps, keeping an eye out for any sign of “disloyalty” or perceived “unfaithfulness,” lest their women should acknowledge a stranger’s nod or greeting in public.

  I realized I was emotionally battered, being repeatedly told to shut up, frequently not allowed to speak, and ridiculed and humiliated.

  But whenever I looked into the bathroom mirror, I didn’t see that.

  Instead, I saw fire in my eyes and a firmly set chin that was determined to defy the rigid rules Eddie tried to use to control me.

  But it was the feelings that surfaced I saw reflected there that really surprised me. I saw a woman who knew she deserved respect and honor, because she was a hard worker and a good wife and mother, who had taken his crap for years.

  It dawned on me that I hadn’t seen the old shame and sadness for quite awhile. I wondered why. Maybe it was because, by dressing up, and doing my hair and make-up, to sell cosmetics, I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t at all: a successful saleswoman.

  “Fake it until you make it,” my manager once told me. From the reflection in the mirror, I knew I was well on my way to making it. Seeing that gave me an inner calm Eddie couldn’t take away, not even when he continued picking fights over small things, without provocation and apparently for no reason at all.

  I thought his new job might be the reason for his anger. After deciding he wasn’t cut out to work construction, and with no sign the coal industry might rebound, he went to work for a family friend who owned a paving company. The pay was less than he made in the mines, but more than he did doing odd jobs. It was demanding and he worked the hours of a man possessed, but that was nothing new.

  By then I was used to functioning as a single parent. From sunrise to sunset and beyond, Eddie was gone. I often wondered what drove him. I had reached a turning point in my life, accepting that Eddie would probably always be a workaholic. I couldn’t fathom why his children weren’t more important to him—but then, I wasn’t sure he knew, either.

  I just knew he was one unhappy man. Whenever he was home, it was horrible for everyone. He yelled and sulked around, or showed his unhappiness and discontent in other ways. I tried to buffer the kids from his verbal attacks, but it was impossible. Eventually I learned to be thankful he was so driven. It kept him away from home, giving us the peace we desperately needed. For that I was grateful.

  Winter came and went and the kids continued getting bigger. The only change within the fabric of our marriage, if it even could be called a marriage, was that we hardly spoke to one another by then. For years, we would fight and make up. It was characterized by a petty argument here or there, followed by a period of semi-bliss. Then the whole process repeated itself. A good month was when we only fought once or twice, but they were woefully few.

  In the meantime, I dreamed of the day when I would have more time for myself. It seemed I would no sooner get up from a night’s sleep than it would be time to go back to bed again, only to repeat everything the next morning. I had learned to hold my tongue, and rarely mentioned my feelings, but I still wondered if things would ever change. Surely we couldn’t keep up the pretense of a happy family life forever.

  Then came tax time, and things got even worse. To help cut costs, I did the preliminary work, itemizing receipts and sorting and tallying expenses. After putting the kids to bed, I worked until three a.m. trying to finish paperwork I had to take to the accountant the next day. It was almost April 15 and I had searched all over the house for Eddie’s self-employment records, only to find half of them were missing. He wasn’t good about keeping receipts, so it had taken me twice as long as it should have. After gathering up all the paperwork, I went to see the accountant and, at Eddie’s insistence, left the kids with him. When I returned a couple of hours later, he accused me once again of deliberately leaving without feeding them.

  I walked in the door and Gabby and Trista ran to me, flinging their arms around me. “Daddy says you’re lazy. You didn’t feed us, Mommy, and we were hungry.” I heard their childish accusations as they hugged me. My heart sank. I had hoped he would stop putting me down in front of them, but instead it seemed to be getting worse.

  Great! Now, they’re repeating his nasty remarks.

  I kneeled down to hug the girls, breathing deeply of their warm bodies as if they could renew my strength. “Oh you kids know Daddy gets grumpy and says things he doesn’t mean. Don’t pay any attention to him,” I said, laughing.

  Then I slowly stood, set my satchel down and went to find him. He was in the kitchen, cleaning up.

  “What’s this about being lazy, Eddie?”

  “Well, you know what they say about ‘if the shoe fits.’ You aren’t lazy though, are you? Why you only left me four starving childre
n to feed—why didn’t you give them lunch before you left? You hadn’t been gone for five minutes before they started whining to be fed.”

  “They did eat before I left. We had a late breakfast while you were still sleeping. And when I left, no one said anything about being hungry—or I would have fed them. Again.” I sighed. “They’re your children, too. What’s so hard about you fixing them something to eat?”

  “Only that it’s not my job, that’s all!”

  “Oh, and doing the taxes is my job, is that it?” I could hear my own voice rising to meet the anger and sarcasm in his, but I didn’t care. I didn’t notice until too late that the girls were standing a few feet away, listening to our every angry word.

  I forced my voice to a level of calm my emotions didn’t match. “You kids go play. Your father and I are talking,” I told them.

  “It doesn’t do any good to discuss anything with you. You never listen to anything I say. Oh yeah, you put on a good show when we go out in public. In front of them you’re always ‘Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes,’ but at home it’s another matter. Well you better be careful, or I’ll leave—and take the kids with me. Then you’ll learn your lesson!”

  My head snapped around sharply at his words.

  Take my children? Would he? Could he? How dare you threaten me!

  But another part of me knew he was quite capable of keeping that promise—if he grew desperate enough. Suddenly, every last ounce of energy within my body felt like it had been sucked out. I shook my head slowly, more tired than I had been for a long time. “Go ahead, if you think you need to. But while you’re at it, don’t forget I also stayed up half the night trying to figure out the taxes from the bookkeeping mess you left me. And then I had a meeting with the accountant. Don’t forget that,” I said.

  He threw the dishrag across the room and stormed out cursing. I saw Mileah and Gabby run after him, crying. “Let him go,” I told them.

  I hope he never comes back.

  The minute the front door slammed, the girls came running to me. “You made Daddy leave. You shouldn’t have yelled at him,” Mileah cried.

  “Now he won’t come back,” Gabby said, smacking me on the leg.

  I looked down and saw the anger and pain in her eyes, and was horrified she was imitating his bad behavior.

  What next?

  “Listen to me, Gabriella.” I bent down and gently turned her head toward me, seeing the tears in her eyes, and the thumb in her mouth. “I want all of you listen to me. It is not acceptable to hit other people, especially people you love. Do you understand me?” I watched, observing every nuance on their faces, the way their little bodies said what their mouths would not.

  Their anger is like a fuse, ready to go off any second. God help us all when it does.

  I gathered them close, touching each one with a stroke on the head, or a rub on the arm. “I did not make Daddy leave, and he will come back. That much I can promise you.”

  Yeah, because he can’t go without having his sexual needs met.

  “Look, kids, I know it was wrong for Daddy and me to yell at each other and I’m sorry. It’ll be all right, though, because he’ll be back before long, when he gets over being angry. And then everything will be fine.”

  It seemed to reassure them and they were about to go and play when Trista spoke up. She was the only child who hadn’t seemed bothered by his departure, and who hadn’t rushed to his defense. “Daddy said one day he would hit you so hard you’d end up in the hospital,” she said sadly.

  I stared at my five-year-old, not knowing what to say. My mind went blank, leaving only anguish to fill the void.

  Why does he have to subject us to this? Why won’t he stop?

  I rushed to reassure her. “Oh Sweetie, people say lots of things when they’re angry. But he didn’t mean it, really. Daddy was just upset.” Still, a look of uncertainty filled her eyes. I hoped it didn’t reflect what was in my heart. “Listen. I promise you that Daddy will not hurt me. I won’t let him!”

  She smiled then and hugged me tightly, before running off to join her sisters.

  I sat there, wishing I believed my own words. If only I could. I looked around the room, seeing all the visible signs that told me it might only be a matter of time before he tried to make good on his threat. There was the wall opposite me, with a large, gaping hole in the drywall. In a fit of rage about six months ago, Eddie had put his fist through it. At the time, he told me it was a good thing it wasn’t my face. Then there was the wooden dining room chair. Its mate became the victim of his violence on another occasion, when he threw it across the room. It had landed with a hard thud, breaking into pieces as it fell to the floor.

  I absently rubbed my leg. The bruise was still visible, and I couldn’t help but recall the tennis shoe Eddie had thrown at me. It happened several months ago, late one night when I had done something to displease him. I tried to defend myself, but it was useless. Without warning, Eddie stooped down and picked up a shoe, and the next thing I knew it was flying through the air toward me. When it struck my leg, I felt a burning pain. The dark purple bruise I found the next morning was about half the size of the shoe itself. It had since turned into a broken web of capillaries.

  At the time, the only thing I could think was how fortunate I was that it hadn’t hit me in the face. Of course Eddie claimed it was an accident. I had just stared at him, saying nothing.

  One day practically ran into the next, and planting season was upon us. I had planned all winter for a garden. After Eddie broke up the hard ground using a neighbor’s rototiller, I took the younger kids and went outside. The rich, black earth moved easily under my fingers. Mileah was in school, but Trista, Gabby and Slade all gathered around to help by dropping tiny seeds into each row. The day was sunny and beautiful. As we knelt there, working the soil, I thought how good our homegrown vegetables would taste. Spring—what a wonderful season! With it came the last remnant of dirt and dying. Everything was reborn, and I felt a strong desire to work my marriage, just as I was working the soil. I expected it to produce good results, in that Eddie and I would be happy again, and our children wouldn’t face the turmoil of living in a house divided.

  I stood and gathered up my gardening tools. Handing each child something to carry, we headed toward the house. I glanced back to where the sticks stood at the end of the long rows, empty seed packets hung so we would know which vegetable to expect. I paused long enough to think about the day when the tiny green sprouts would begin to poke their heads through the black dirt. Maybe, just maybe, with a jolt of hard work from both Eddie and me, our marriage would yield equally rich results. I knew then I had to try again. Harder this time.

  A letter—I would write Eddie a letter and tell him how I felt. Maybe that would do the trick. I put the children down for their naps, reading them a story and trying not to think about all the things I wanted to say to him. I was too anxious to sleep myself, so when the last one began breathing easily, I tiptoed downstairs, pen in hand.

  But I was unsure of what to say or how to say it. Then, suddenly, the words came pouring out. Before long, I had written two full pages. I read it, trying to see what might upset him.

  May 11, 1987

  Dear Eddie,

  Lately our relationship has been getting progressively worse. Perhaps if I tell you how I’ve been feeling, maybe you will at least understand my viewpoint.

  These days, all I hear from you is how tired you are, how little time you have, how much you need. Ever since the first layoff in 1982, you make sure you get your wants and needs fulfilled before anyone else’s. You aren’t like this all of the time, and I know you do work very hard. I feel for you when you come home late, too tired for anything but sleep. Ever since we got married, you’ve worked at such demanding jobs you have nothing left for your family.

  Looking back, I see you were very kind, generous and helpful—to my mom or your family, even complete strangers. But to me you were just demanding and selfish. Not that
you didn’t treat me with kindness, because sometimes you did.

  Honestly, when we first married, in a strange way, I was happy. Then, whether by coincidence or just bad timing, our relationship quickly disintegrated when you lost your job. I was pregnant with Gabby, and very depressed, but all I heard was how my actions caused you problems. Your uncooperativeness caused a certain bitterness that has grown until now.

  Three days after her birth, all I got was static—about dinners not being fixed on time, or the house being dirty. You were oblivious to what was happening, leaving me in despair.

  So I kept trying harder. I read the Bible and anything else I thought would help improve our relationship. Time and again I begged you to do the same, to no avail. We seemed to get closer, but then we would end up worlds apart.

  And yes, I know you don’t drink, and I appreciate that. But I’ve put up with much more than any wife should. As far as beatings go though, let me tell you that after all your verbal abuse, a physical beating sounds mild by comparison. At least then you could see the scars. Instead, you have no idea how I’ve felt after you berate me—and I keep it to myself. That’s one thing I’ve learned. I now realize you cannot possibly be interested in my feelings. Still, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

  Things aren’t getting better. In fact, last year you were self-employed and you still worked long hours. Now you work for someone else and it’s the same thing. I’ve noticed a change, however, and this is what worries me. When you’re around the kids now (which isn’t often), you ignore them or find something better to do. Your fuse is even shorter than before, and you can’t be around them for very long or you explode. And yes, you do show Slade attention—but the girls need some, too. Especially Mileah. She’s at the stage where she needs a father who truly cares about her. I can tell by her actions and speech that she’s rapidly becoming attracted to other boys and men. I don’t want that to happen. I went down that path and it’s not one I want for our children.