“Nope. I sent the fear of God through them, though. Imagine finding out your hit man is in the LA morgue with a meat hook in his neck. And John…well…I told you, I will never forgive him. I vowed as a nurse to never take a life, and that bastard took the one piece of identity that meant everything to me. He is the one who didn’t deserve to live. He was the scum…and he is right where he belongs.”
“Sharon, it was self-defense. You had no choice.” I attempt to console her, but she doesn’t respond. “Well, it doesn’t matter anymore anyway, does it? He’s dead now, and that’s the end of it.” I envision John in the hospital bed, thin and ravaged with the symptoms of AIDS, and I wonder if his family, his mother, was really there when he died, as I read in the newspapers. I wonder also if his mother prayed for him. That would have been a blessing, I think, warmed by my kindled faith in God that began in Asia. I feel an unexpected stab of sadness and pity imagining John’s last breaths on earth and am torn again by the anger that festers inside me.
My thoughts shift suddenly back to Sharon, and I remember another piece of information I read in the paper. “I understand that he was remarried. Is that true?”
“If you want to call it that. Misty Dawn? Ah-hem! It was the closest thing he could get to you. I’m sure of it!” Sharon raises her eyebrows and dons a sly grin. “I have no doubt why he needed to get married before he died.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had to have somebody there to make sure…well, ah-hem…you know…that it was still intact!” She looks away, her face in a frozen smirk, to stifle a belly laugh. “You remember, don’t you? He was deathly afraid someone would cut it off…as a trophy or something!”
“Yes…I remember,” I reply. “He made me promise him never to let anyone remove it from his body. He was insane over the thought that someone might mount his fame and glory on their wall or something. Too bizarre!” Such insanity surrounded John. I’m repulsed that my youth was consumed by him.
I shake my head, and my mind focuses on the years, countless days and nights, after I ran from him.
In Asia, sitting in my small ta-ta-mi mat apartment in Tokyo, I am obsessed with visions of violent rage, hell bent on revenge. I hate him because the angry, mean days of him were open wounds and all I could remember. For years, any mention or memory of his name or face has triggered my anger anew, sending piercing daggers of death from every inch of my being out into the universe to impale my image of him.
I have pictured myself many times, like a Samurai…standing between John’s legs brandishing a gleaming steel sword while he lies helpless beneath me. “Afraid were you?” I say to him. “Afraid someone might cut it off? I promised you I would never let that happen. Now what do you think?” Oh, how I wish to see him squirm. I relish the fear in his eyes. “So, do you trust me now? Like I trusted you? Did you keep your promise to never hurt me, John?” I raise the blade high above my head and come down swiftly toward his nether regions. “Heeiiiii-ya!” I scream at the top of my lungs into a blackness that, thank God, won’t let me go any farther.
I snap out of my bitter fantasy and think for a moment that I’ll tell Sharon about my fierce visions of vengeance. I stop…and change my mind. “I was really mad at him, Sharon. Mad for years. He took away my innocence, my trust…my heart!” Tears form in the corners of my eyes. “How could he?” Now a sense of self overwhelms me. “I survived him, Sharon, and survived a dangerous, lonely life after him. I struggled in Southeast Asia. My dad was there, but he wasn’t a lot of help. He made promises he didn’t keep and, well, let’s just say he gave me bad advice…and basically left me on my own. I managed, though—drank a lot of alcohol to get through it. But I did some amazing things too. I climbed Mount Fuji and sailed down the Malacca Straights in a monsoon. I speak Thai and Japanese well enough to travel comfortably among the locals. In Japan, well, some terrible things happened and I almost lost myself, but I found a connection with God and learned how to pray. Now, that saved me!” I stop myself, noticing the uncomfortable squint in Sharon’s face and remember how angry she has always been with God. “I have a certificate in gemology, Sharon! It’s not a big deal, but it’s an education!” Waves of raw emotion spill out as the floodgates of the last six years are released.
“Well, I always told you you had a brain.” She smiles kindly.
My heart is still audibly pounding as I exhale. “He never wanted me to grow up, did he, Sharon?”
“No. He was already threatened by you before you even turned eighteen!”
I shudder and look away. “Why?”
“He didn’t want to lose you…so he had to keep you…ahhem…below his level.”
I know she is right. Then in a softer tone, I whisper, “I’m better than that, Sharon. I’m simply better.”
“Yes, you are. We both are.”
“Yeah.” I’m worn out…tired of these memories that beat me down. “It hurt too much to hate him, Sharon. I had to do something. I was going crazy. It was while I lived in Japan that I was at my lowest. My insides were tearing me up. All those horrible memories haunted me. I almost couldn’t go on; I got so depressed. Then…I can’t explain it, but finally something lifted. The pain, that suffocating burden broke…kinda like a fever would…and my poetry came back to me again.”
“Well, they say that writing helps the healing process, and poetry is even better. You can’t blame yourself, Dawn. You reacted like any abused person would.”
“Yeah. I know. Ha! Well, if life is poetry, then this is my poem.” I laugh at the irony because I know my poems are scary, not joy-filled lyrics of love and light.
We are silent then. The bustling of the restaurant’s lunch crowd glides on around us, customers being seated, glasses clinking. I focus on John again, the time that has gone by since we last saw each other. I think about the conflict of my emotions toward John—loving him, hating him. The realization that now I will really never see him again hits me, and then I remember…the bus stop a few days ago…
Compassion fills me like a warm breeze as I recall the robin’s-egg blue of the sky that stands out in contrast to the large wooden crucifix of Saint Anthony’s on Third Street. I step off of the bus at my regular stop the morning of March 13, 1988. The sun is bright with barely a cloud for shade. Without warning, I hear the calling of my name, clear and sharp: “Dawn.”
I whip around to look toward the church—up in the direction of the voice. It is John’s voice…and distinctly he calls my name again. In the sky, directly above where I am waiting and staring, frozen to the sidewalk, is only the crucifix jutting up from the pointed steeple of the church. He’s not alive anymore, I whisper to myself. He is not on this earth. A flock of small sparrows darts up and to the right, and as an airplane’s thin streak of white smoke passes by, John’s voice cries out in a tone that can only be the pouring out of someone’s last words to earth: “Forgive me?”
John?
“Dawn. “The vibration of my name triggers every cell’s full attention. “Forgive me, Dawn? I’m sorry.”
The words catch in my heart. A sudden memory of the affection I felt between us envelops me, and I am overcome with the deepest sadness.
“I’m sorry,” his voice pleads again. Then—with those words—it is as if a veil of confusion lifts from me and I understand. I recognize the heaviness, the viselike pressure of pain and sorrow he carried these last several years. His suffering seems to sear through me, and I take on his identity for that moment, a vision of crippling remorse that tears at his soul and leaves him paralyzed with overwhelming helplessness. I see that his life had been consumed by fear, a tireless weight that finally drowned him…and now in death his bondage is ended and he is ready to move on.
Whether this is an illusion or real, to me there is no question what my response will be. No throat-clutching anger or old pain to halt me…Yes, John. I forgive you…
As suddenly as it appeared, the presence is gone.
Blares and whirrs of the nearb
y traffic on Third Street bring me back into the moment, and numbly I continue to my apartment in a daze about what has just happened.
At the door to greet me, my roommate has the Los Angeles Times in hand. “I’m sorry,” he tells me, pointing to the headlines. I know what he is about to say. “John passed away this morning.”
“I know,” I tell him, and he hugs me as I melt into his body and cry.
Sharon is stirring her tea compulsively after the long bout of silence between us. Awkward about wanting to share my experience, I decide to be brief. “He came to me at my bus stop on the day that he died, Sharon. Well…it was his voice, really.” I blush a little and continue. “He asked me to forgive him. And, well…I said yes.”
Sharon stops clanking her tea glass, and her face drains ghostly white. “He came to me too,” she says grimly. “But not like that!” She looks appalled.
“He did?”
Scooting straight up in her seat, she flattens her napkin tightly on her lap. “I couldn’t sleep…,” she begins. “You remember how solidly I usually sleep?”
“Uh-huh.” I nod.
“Well, that night was different. I hadn’t thought of him for a while, not other than briefly, but for some reason that night I couldn’t get him out of my head. I knew then it was going to be a rough night. I finally started to fall asleep around midnight when I distinctly heard screaming…an agonizing, pitiful scream. I sat bolt upright, scared to death! The screaming came from the closet and got closer…the most god-awful noise you’d ever want to hear. It was John. He came wailing from out of the closet, past the foot of the bed, toward the door to the hallway. There…was another door there instead. Not the bedroom door, but a large, round, vaultlike door.” She wipes the accumulating beads of sweat from her brow. “Wailing piteously, John was pulled through this door. And then it slammed shut.”
My heart is pounding. “Did he say anything to you?” I ask, horrified.
“Nope. Didn’t look at me either. Just crossed through the room…screaming. I’ll never forget that sound as long as I live.” She looks weary. “When I checked the clock…it was exactly one in the morning. Later, when I read the paper, I found out that was the exact time he died.”
“My God, Sharon!”
“I know. Well, there is no doubt to me where he is now. Hell. He made his bed, if you ask me…”
I swallow a gulp of air hard, picturing her sinister bedroom vision, and I shudder. How horrible…how sad. Can something like that be possible? Sitting still for a few moments, I shake the disturbing images off my psyche. John’s voice and presence were too real to me, too strong and sudden; I cannot deny it. What Sharon saw was her vision, not mine…and I’m glad. I don’t want to be caged by my hatred anymore. It’s sad that she is so inflexible and hard still. And John…he could have been so much more, I think. But instead…It’s just a pity.
“Well, enough about him,” Sharon interrupts, intentionally changing the somber mood. “That’s not all I came here for. I need to give you something.” She retrieves a package wrapped in bunny paper that she carried in with her under her arm. “Happy Easter!”
“Sharon! No. Really?”
“Well, Easter is coming up and, anyway, I decided we needed to celebrate.” Her smile beams with anticipation, and a nostalgic sense of old home startles me. I reach over to open the card.
Dear Dawn,
For these many years I have thought about you, wondering if you were safe, knowing that one day we would see each other again. I’ve had this on my wall since the day you left to remind me of you, and today I happily return it. We have survived some of the hardest times any person should have to endure and now it is time to enjoy each other in better days. I’m so glad to have you back in my life.
I love you,
Sharon
Unsure of how I feel, I don’t speak. Gingerly I peel the paper back from her gift to me. There, packaged ever so carefully, is my favorite signed and dated Stewart Moskowitz lithograph of comical penguins following a “trojan duck.” It is a gift originally from John and Sharon, given in what I call the good times. “I thought John destroyed this.”
“Nope. Not that.”
I stare at her dark-rimmed glasses and then into her brown eyes, and a well of emotion comes to me from across the table. I am touched. “I’m sorry, Sharon,” I say with a burning need to clear my conscience. “I…John always…I thought you, well, knew. I’m…so sorry.”
“No!” She breathes a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. I never thought he would stoop so low. To me…I just couldn’t imagine it. I should have known…but, I…it was something I couldn’t look at. It’s me who should apologize. You were just a kid. I only, well, again never thought he could…” Her words fade.
In my heart, I know she was aware of John’s inappropriateness with me—all along. But I know Sharon is doing the best she can to turn past mistakes around for the better…and so am I.
I try to remember, for the book’s sake, as much of the abuse as I can stomach. Several of the details are left dark and impenetrable for many self-preserving reasons. My throat constricts when I close my eyes and picture myself back there, and I feel frustrated. Many days, the need comes over me to hike up the mountains behind my house for solace. There is a trail I take in the summer months, and right now I can’t resist.
I bring my daughter to a friend’s, throw on my hiking clothes, and head up the path. My heart begins to beat louder as I make my way up. I can’t stop asking myself, Why? Why am I bringing myself to remember such terrible memories? I cannot remember my reasons for beginning to write my story with John. I know they were good reasons, but somehow I cannot recall any of them.
I begin to chant, “God’s will, not mine. God’s will, not mine,” as I steadily climb to the top of Table Mountain.
The top is my reward. I am breathless, and my mind is clear. Everything is beautiful, and all is right with the world.
I still cannot put words to why I began to write this, but I know I am right where I am supposed to be and I say a prayer out loud, out into the sky and the wind, for strength.
EPILOGUE
Who would have thought that twenty-two years later, Hollywood would make a movie called Wonderland? But I’m not Alice, even though I fell into a world I could never have imagined. I am Dawn. For all my wishing, it seems I was never able to wipe John’s name from mine after all, but it doesn’t matter.
As with all stories, this one has as perfect an ending as you can get. And, despite all its pain and sorrow, it is simply a true story—and nothing is better than real life…if we listen.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To GOD…for my life.
To Maria Morris, the mother of my heart, for encouragement, reading my early chapters, and grading me in the loving way only a fourth grade teacher could.
To Val Kilmer for launching this book by asking for my chronology and then praising my writing. For keeping a special place on his office shelf marked “Dawn’s Book.”
To Linda Pereira—songbird, rooster, lioness, and angel—who praised me for my courage, disarmed those who spoke against me, and called me every day to make sure I hadn’t given up.
To Rhea Sampson, the Angel Lady, who kept my spirits up by sharing the words of the Angels.
To my brother, Wayne, and my sister, Terry, for the many tears we shared back then and to the healing that still needs to happen.
To my mother, Edda, for teaching me strength.
To my father, Wayne, for serving his country.
To Paula Lucas, my friend and supporter.
To my counselors and support groups who brought me out of the dark.
To the Blue Mountain Writers (BMW) and all my writing mentors.
To everyone who supported and believed in me.
RESOURCES
Adult Survivors of Child Abuse
www.ascasupport.org
The Morris Center
PO Box 14477
San Francisco, CA 94114
>
info@ascasupport.org
Ahava Kids
www.ahavakids.org
PO Box 498
Old Saybrook, CT 06475
Toll free: 1-877-416-0050
1-860-760-0370
info@ahavakids.org
American Professional Society
on the Abuse of Children
www.apsac.org
350 Poplar Ave.
Elmhurst, IL 60126
1-877-402-7722
apsac@apsac.org
Covenant House Florida
www.covenanthousefl.org
5931 E. Colonial Dr.
Orlando, FL 32807
1-407-482-0404
733 Breakers Ave.
Ft. Lauderdale, FL 33304
1-954-561-5559
End Violence Against Women
International
www.evawintl.org
PO Box 33
Addy, WA 99101
1-509-684-9800
info@evawintl.org
FAIR Fund, Inc.
www.fairfund.org
PO Box 21656
Washington, DC 20009
1-202-265-1505
info@fairfund.org
Family Violence Prevention
Fund
www.endabuse.org
383 Rhode Island St., Ste. #304
San Francisco, CA 94103
1-415-252-8900
info@endabuse.org
Girls Educational & Mentoring
Services
www.gems-girls.org
1-212-926-8089
Love Is Respect.Org
National Teen Dating
Abuse Helpline
www.loveisrespect.org
1-866-331-9474
TTY 1-866-331-8453
National Center for Missing
& Exploited Children
The Road Through Wonderland Page 46