Smythe began visiting the baker’s shop during that period and was just getting to know him. One day, she locked eyes with him as she entered the shop.
“How does one survive this? When will it end?” she recounted to Artie. “My anger was palpable. My protector part wanted so desperately to protect my mother, while my warrior part was at the ready to do battle against both my father and the medical establishment.
“Joao approached my table, placed a cup of coffee and two pastries down in front of me, and then asked to join me.
“I am afraid I won’t be very much company, but yes. I don’t know what to do.
“‘Let go. Do only that which you can, and leave the rest alone,’ the baker replied.
“That’s not what I want to hear right now. This—this is too much. I know what’s happening with him right now is not his fault, but damn it, enough is enough. He. Tried. To. Kill. Her. Fifty some years of marriage, and on two separate occasions of whatever this is, he tried to strangle her. Is this what her life has come down to? He has got to go into a nursing home, but it could be months before a suitable placement is found. Damn it!
“The baker just looked at me.
“I know this is a first-world problem. I get it, but it’s my first-world problem. It’s in my lap, and I don’t know how to protect either one of them—as if I should. He could be mistreated in a nursing home, and my mother? My mother has to lock her bedroom door at night because she is afraid he will shuffle up the stairs and kill her while she sleeps.
“‘Let go,’ the baker said again.”
As though examining her hands, Smythe said, “I looked down at my coffee cup and realized I had been gripping it so tightly.”
“What happened next with your dad?” Artie asked.
“A short time later, he had fallen again. Only this time, it did significant damage. Unfortunately, neither my mom nor I knew the extent until a few days later. Mom didn’t call paramedics during the last fall. She said he seemed ok. I was out of town, so I couldn’t assess him. But, within 24 hours, his health had deteriorated. My mom called and asked me to return to the valley because something changed in his color. I asked her to call the paramedics, but she was hesitant. I was a flight away and couldn’t catch one out until late that evening.
“It wasn’t until after I got there and started to ask him questions that I knew something was really wrong. His speech was slurred, he couldn’t stand up without excruciating pain, even to go to the bathroom; he just looked like he was dying. So, I called paramedics, and he was rushed to the hospital. We were told he had broken his hip, sustained a hairline fracture to his leg, and had two brain bleeds. He survived the hip surgery, but he continued to hallucinate. I was told it was the result of the brain bleeds. After a week in the hospital, he was transferred to a rehabilitation center. From there, he was allowed to come home. He seemed to recover enough physically. But at home, he suffered a massive stroke. There was no hope. We had him transferred to a hospice center in the city where he died a few days later.”
Smythe took in a long slow breath and released it. The sun was rising into the morning sky, and she stared out her picture window, squinting to see through the partially opened blinds which offered her a modicum of privacy.
“That’s a lot.”
“It was,” replied Smythe.
Artie clenched her jaw and paused for a moment.
“Let me clarify. You, the daughter—the outcast from your family because you told your truth—were ultimately the one who became the caregiver for both of your parents.”
“Yeah, kind of. My furniture took forever to arrive, so I stayed with them for a hot minute, quite literally. There was just so much drama every day with my dad’s behavior.”
“How did you feel when you left? I bet it had to be a relief.”
“It was, but I also felt guilty. Really guilty. It was weird. I felt as if I were abandoning my mom to a life of misery, but I was also miserable.”
“You felt guilty?” Artie said incredulously. “She abandoned you when you told her the truth about your dad. You were considered the outcast in the family. If you ask me, it’s what she deserved.”
Smythe smiled slightly.
“That’s not really fair, Artie. I felt sorry for her. She was living with a husband she was hoping to grow old with, hoping to travel around the world with. For her, that all went up in smoke. I remember her saying to me one day, ‘Some retirement this turned out to be.’”
“Baby, I’m talking about the abuse. She abandoned you. She chose him over the knowledge that her daughter was telling the truth.”
Beginning to choke back tears, Smythe replied.
“She didn’t see it that way. I don’t know if she has changed her mind or not. Back then, she told me I was making it up. She said that I was ‘sick.’”
“What kid makes that kind of shit up?! No. I’ve done a thorough background check on you, Smythe; FBI even has a psychological profile on you. You’re not sick. What the hell!”
Artie paused, catching her own breath.
“You do know it’s not uncommon for mothers to take the side of their husbands and boyfriends. And it’s not uncommon that they accuse the kid of being mentally unstable. It’s the oldest trick in the book.”
Wiping away a tear, Smythe explained, “So long ago, I had to stuff it all away and find my own way back to normalcy, and I think I have. There are still shadows that emerge every now and again, but I’ve bounced back. I had to sit for a very long time with the question if I was making up the abuse. The answer was no. I remember. I remember flashes of detail, but then I’d stuff the memory down again. I just didn’t—and still don’t want to—remember.”
Smythe closed her eyes.
“Can… can we change the subject?”
“If that’s what you want.”
Smythe let out her breath.
“What I want is to finally feel safe and protected. Right now, this conversation is not making that happen. Given that you’re here under the circumstances—”
“Baby, you are safe. I got your back. You gotta know that, deep inside. I got you.”
Pursing her lips together, Smythe frowned. I hear you say that, but there is a piece of me that doesn’t believe it.
“I appreciate the sentiment.”
Artie sat both motionless and expressionless.
“Look, I’ve never shared this with anyone. No one! I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t add this little detail to the FBI profile of me. I’d rather not have this conversation end up in court. I can see the headlines now: ‘FBI loses case because wacko eyewitness tells lies.’”
“Stop it!” Artie reprimanded.
“Just kidding.”
Artie’s facial expression ran the gamut of disbelief to one of concern.
“No, you weren’t, Smythe. From where I’m sitting, you still haven’t worked out the lie your mother told you about the abuse. You still want to believe her rather than believe your own truth.”
“I’m not sure that’s accurate, Artie.”
“What part isn’t?”
Blood started to rush to Smythe’s head. Her heart began to race, and she clenched her teeth.
“I just want her to believe me. That’s the accurate part. Read between the lines!”
“There are no lines to read between,” Artie replied gently. “She tried to reframe childhood sexual abuse perpetrated upon you by your father by telling you that you were the lie. Baby, I believe you. I believe you. I’ve heard a lot of stories where the mother takes the side of the husband or boyfriend rather than the kid. But their disbelief doesn’t negate the abuse that happened. That’s on them. I believe you, Smythe. Yet, all the belief I have in you isn’t going to amount to a hill of beans if you don’t believe you. You stuffed this down so long—”
Tears filled Smythe’s eyes, and her throat began to close as she quietly began to weep. Artie moved over and pulled Smythe into her arms.
“Let it
out. That’s it. Let it all out,” Artie softly whispered into Smythe’s ear.
“Damn it! God damn it! I thought I had processed through all of this!”
“Abuse has many layers, baby, even when parents believe their kids. You have the added layer of a parent who did not believe you.”
“She-she has her reasons. I can’t fault her for that,” sobbed Smythe, her body tensing with each tear that fell.
“You mean you can’t, or you won’t?”
Sitting up slowly from Artie’s arms, Smythe stuttered, “What-what do you mean? Shit, they’re the same.”
“No. No, they’re not the same.”
Artie looked deeply into Smythe’s eyes with bottomless concern stretching across her face. She almost whispered her response.
“Can’t is a contraction of cannot. It is a disempowering word, baby. Won’t is a contraction of will not. Will or will not has the power of choice. You can choose to do a thing or choose not to, but you have a choice, nonetheless.”
Smirking a little, Artie added, “I was an English major in college.”
Smythe broke eye contact with Artie. She sat, absorbing both the grammar lesson and the implications of it in her own life. Did she feel helpless in her choice to not fault her mother for not believing her? Or did she simply choose not to find fault in her behavior? Did she feel helpless to understand her mother’s position, or did she choose to understand her mother’s position? And if she chose to understand her mother’s position, was it out of compassion and empathy, or out of fear of being an outcast member from her family yet again? Did she even understand “the position” her mother had taken?
“I’m not sure, Artie,” Smythe finally answered.
“Start with this: start believing in you. Start with believing that you are a tough yet kind, compassionate, smart as a whip, thoughtful human being with a lot to offer. Start with liking the little kid who was abused—”
“I do like her. I love her, in fact.”
“Then believe her and stand up for her. Just like I’m standing up for you, you stand up for that little girl. Just like I’m putting my life on the line for you, you put your life on the line for her. Start there.”
“How?” came the million-dollar question from Smythe.
“Don’t let anyone, and I mean anyone, tell you a different narrative other than your own truth.”
Smythe nodded, her eyes peering a hole into the bit of sofa that separated Artie from her. Artie gently reached for Smythe’s hand and tugged at it. Smythe took the hint and moved closer to Artie, allowing herself to sink into Artie’s arms. Artie moved to the edge of the sofa and placed her back against the pillows, pulling Smythe into her and gently holding her there.
After several minutes, Smythe spoke.
“I’m not broken, but I know there are walls that I’ve put up. I allow people to only get so close. I live in this made-up world in my head where I am safe and loved and cared for. Yet, when I look around, there isn’t anyone I trust. I don’t trust my friends. I don’t trust my family. There’s no one I trust,” Smythe mumbled into Artie’s chest.
“Yeah, I know. I see it. You’ve got this tough exterior thing going on. Buzzcut, muscular build, Malcolm X glasses. But you and I know it’s just a facade. Beyond the look—which, by the way, I dig—you can choose to be vulnerable anytime you want.”
“I’m unsure if I know how to do that anymore, and by the time I’ve decided to let my wall down, people have this expectation that I am somehow this put-together person. But I’m really not. I’m a mess, just like everyone else.”
“We’re all a mess. I’m a mess. My family’s a mess. If your friends expect you to be something that you’re not, perhaps they aren’t really your friends. Perhaps you may, at some point, need to find a new tribe. Or perhaps, simply show them the real you. Those who like the more vulnerable Smythe will stay. Those who don’t, won’t. Besides, you let me in, right?”
“Did I have a choice?”
“Yes, kind of. But the kind of part is that I can be very persuasive.”
Smythe smiled.
“Is there more?”
“Yes.”
Artie held Smythe against her body, feeling the tension in Smythe’s shoulders. Artie intentionally relaxed her body, signaling Smythe to speak when she was ready.
“When my dad was in hospice, it was me who went there every day. I remember waking up really early on the day after he was transferred by the hospital to hospice. All I could think about was that he was alone.”
“Your mom wasn’t there?” Artie asked.
“No. Not the first day. The second day, she was. But it was hard for her. She later said she didn’t want to see him like that. His face was somewhat contorted, and his breathing had become laborious. It was only a matter of days. And my sisters couldn’t come, at least that’s what they said.”
“So, you went.”
“Yeah I did. I went. And I sat next to his bed and held his hand and talked to him. I never told him that I forgave him. It wasn’t that I didn’t forgive him, because I had. It just seemed useless to hold that against him or bring up a past that he denied. In light of his current physical condition, it wasn’t important anymore.
“It’s been said that the forgiveness we extend to others isn’t for the other person. It’s for us. I wanted my behavior to demonstrate that I had forgiven him. I made peace with his behavior toward me, so I laid it aside. I just sat there and made one-sided small talk and told him I loved him and was there to protect him. He never moved or showed any sign that he knew I was there. Everything in me wanted to leave, but I had this picture in my head of being the better person—the better daughter who did the right thing, even though there were moments when I didn’t want to. I ended up staying half the day. And then I did it all again the next day, but that time I brought my mom with me. He died before I could get there on the last morning.”
“Why did you go?” asked Artie.
“Because I didn’t want him to die alone. He—he was still a human being. And I didn’t want to leave him alone. I really did love him. I was just afraid of him.”
Tears trickled down Smythe’s cheeks and onto Artie’s sweatshirt as she held Smythe tightly in her arms. Smythe could feel the musculature of her strength and felt herself releasing her body weight into the arms of Artie as she finally relaxed.
“Smythe. This thing happened to you, and it was traumatic. No one should have to endure what you did, but many have. One of the things I have learned is that an event or a thing is only that thing or event. Nothing more. In other words, it isn’t who we are. Yet, baby, so many people attach meaning to the thing. Please don’t define yourself by any event. It’s just that; an event. It’s just one thing.”
Smythe began to bury herself into Artie’s torso. She could feel Artie’s breast move with each breath she took. Smythe began to match her own breathing to hers as she listened to Artie’s heartbeat. After a few minutes, Smythe spoke.
“English major?”
“Yeah.”
“Far cry from FBI to attorney to security firm CEO.”
“Nah, it was part of the plan. I had to learn to write well if I wanted to go to grad school or, in my case, study law.”
“That makes sense.”
“I was a kid from the Bronx. My parents barely had a high school education, and they were bound and determined that my two sisters and I would not only have diplomas but go on to obtain college degrees. A certificate, at the very least!”
Artie chuckled at her last comment.
“Seriously, though. I like English. I find the English language as a whole, rather interesting. Slowly, I became a stickler about what people were saying. Words have impact. I’m not concerned about the pronunciation of the word, but I am concerned about the impact of the word itself. What words people use casually tell me a lot about what they’re thinking. In my line of work, it’s critical.”
“What do my choice of words tell you?”
“Why?”
“Because you end up with the short end of the stick, that’s why. Caring is good, but you need to exercise more self-care for Smythe, in my opinion.”
Smythe began to sit up, but Artie gently held her in place.
“I’d rather end up with the short end of the stick and less than optimal self-care, as you stated, than to have the opposite and not care at all for fear of self-absorption.”
“Why does it have to be caring or not caring? Can you hold both the caring and self-care?”
“I think I do both.”
“Do you?”
“You know, you’re startin’ to dance on my last nerve.”
“Oh my god. I haven’t heard that term since I left New York,” laughed Artie.
“It’s a black thing.”
“No, it’s a Bronx thing.”
“Well, I learned it from my auntie.”
“Well, my mother and father are straight-up Italian, and they used that phrase all the time.”
“They probably learned it from a person of color. My grandfather and grandmother are Navajo, and I heard him say it every once in a while.”
“So, you’re black and Navajo?”
“Yep. My auntie would always say I was part of everything. I never quite understood what that meant, and honestly, I just left it alone.”
“So that accounts for your skin tone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” This time she sat up and away from Artie.
“Hey, I meant no disrespect. As I said, I read your file, and listed under race is African American. However, when I started surveilling you, I thought there was more to the story than a checked box. America has this horrible habit of placing people into tidy little boxes when it comes to race. It’s just not that simple.”
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