by N. K. Smith
Ever since I’d played the cello for him, we’d had our sessions in this room. It was helping me grow comfortable with music again. Dr. Emmanuel was forcing me to recognize how natural it was for me.
It was late July now and we’d begun to talk about being discharged from the hospital and continuing my therapy on an outpatient level again. The thought of leaving made me nervous. I’d grown accustomed to the routine and was even comfortable with John now. I still hadn’t spoken during group, but I was assured that the point of it wasn’t for me to push myself to speak, but gain insight from the stories of others.
In that regard, I thought it had been a success.
Dr. Emmanuel and I had spoken about not locking my bedroom door when I got back home, but I was sure that it was one aspect of my existence that wouldn’t change. I liked to feel secure, and even though Stephen had a key and someone strong could just bust the door down, knowing that the composite metal knob was locked provided me some peace.
I wasn’t going to give that up.
But my hands were healed. All that was left were scars.
When I stopped playing, I pivoted on the bench and laid my hands flat on my thighs. “I don’t w-want to go to Ch-Chicago.”
With a nod, he asked, “Why is that?”
It took me a moment to gather all of my thoughts into something I could share with him, but I wanted to say it in the right way. “I didn’t liiiike who I w-was there.”
“But you like who you are now?”
I sighed and turned back to the piano, my hands supplying the sounds of a jazz piece I’d listened to with Stephen last week.
Stephen liked jazz.
It suited him.
He visited twice a week now and we always came into this room and listened to whatever CD he’d chosen to bring. I’d never known what type of music he liked or how sophisticated his tastes were. It was nice to be still and focus on the music. He liked old bluesy jazz like Billie Holiday and I found that we shared an enjoyment of Nina Simone. He also liked Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk and John Coltrane.
I liked being surprised by that.
I didn’t wait until the song was completed to answer. “I like p-p-parts of who I am.”
“Such as?”
We did this a lot. He would ask me at least once every other session. I was tired of detailing the things that I enjoyed about myself. It seemed odd and felt uncomfortable, but I always gave him an answer.
“Being mmmusical. Understanding a-a-art and lllliterature.”
“What else?”
I rested my fingers against the keys. “I’m k-kind and I c-care about p-p-people.”
“And?”
“I ffffforgive p-p-people wwwhen they’ve...” I was pleased that my mind didn’t automatically supply a Biblical reference, but I felt more uncomfortable speaking this aloud.
“When they’ve what?” I could tell without looking at him that he was curious, since I hadn’t mentioned this one before.
“W-when they’ve www-www-wwwronged me.”
“The ability to forgive is a wonderful quality. Who have you forgiven?”
“Mmmy m-mmm-mmmmom.”
I was silent after that. I turned to face him, knowing that he would continue with this thread. “What about Joseph?”
My sigh was long and heavy. I started picking at the cuticles of my right hand with my left. Dr. Emmanuel cleared his throat and I looked up. Something in his expression told me that I needed to stop doing that.
I sat on my hands.
“I don’t know.”
He considered this and then nodded. “That’s fair enough. What about your father?”
I shook my head.
“So you definitely haven’t forgiven him. Why?”
I’d thought about this a lot. “B-because I d-don’t understand.”
I could rationalize what my mother had done. Her addiction had grown wildly out of control. While she was responsible for the choice of doing drugs, I didn’t feel I could hold her responsible for much else. I felt like she did what she could to protect us, but there was something keeping her from getting actual help. It could have been my father. There was so much I didn’t know about, but there were things that I was beginning to remember.
For instance, the times when my father hit my mother during dinner. There was one time in particular when I thought she was high and she said something to him; she must’ve talked back in a way he didn’t like. He pulled her away from the table by her hair and pressed her against the wall, squeezing her throat.
I remembered not understanding, but remaining silent just like Joseph. I cried while his hand tightened around his fork. I remembered looking at Joseph’s face and being frightened by his expression. I could now comprehend that if my father hadn’t killed Joseph, at some point Joseph would have killed my father.
The other time that stood out in my mind was when I was six or seven. I wasn’t sure, but it felt like it was close to the time she killed herself. She’d said something to him again, but he grabbed me instead. My memories of that were fuzzy and unclear, but I remember not being able to breathe and I remember her screaming. One of his hands was around my neck while the other was over my mouth and nose.
Somehow I was released and slid down the wall. When my eyes could focus, it was just Joseph and me in the kitchen. I could hear my parents upstairs. Joseph helped me up and when my legs stopped shaking, we cleaned up. My father’s nightly lesson would start soon.
I didn’t blame my mother for her fear or her addiction.
I could even rationalize most of what happened with Joseph. I hated thinking about it, but I could recognize that not all of his actions were things he could control. I’d come to understand that I couldn’t hold him to the expectations of “normal” people. His mind had been badly warped by the time my mother took her life. At that point, he’d had twelve years of conditioning and if my father or someone else did hurt him... molested him in the same way as Joseph had done to me, then it really wasn’t his doing.
It was the hand-me-down abuse of my father. Joseph was just the instrument.
I tried not to think of it too much. I didn’t know if my father even would do that. It could have been someone at church. There were times after the service when we would wait for my father and I didn’t know where Joseph was.
There was nothing concrete to even verify that something like that had ever happened to my brother, either at my father’s hand or anyone else’s. I would never know.
My father was different. I found nothing redeeming within him and I had no idea how a person could become that way.
I couldn’t forgive him if I didn’t understand him.
“What about Sophie?”
Dr. Emmanuel’s soft question shocked me out of my thoughts. Every time I heard her name I felt out of sorts.
“W-what?”
“Have you forgiven Sophie?”
“Yes.” I started playing the piano again.
“Was that difficult?”
I recognized that I was playing an adjusted version of Sophie’s song. I hadn’t played it in a while. “No.”
“Why is that?”
“B-because I lllllove her.”
“But you broke up with her.”
“O-only b-because I w-wasn’t r-r-right for her then.”
“How about now? Are you right for her now?”
I stared at my fingers against the black and white keys and stayed silent. The fear that I no longer mattered to her was swelling within me. I hadn’t seen her in a long time and I’d been the one to give her up, even as she begged me not to.
“I haven’t heard this one before,” he said of the song. I twisted around just enough to see him watching my hands as they moved. “There’s something hopeful
about it, yes?”
Of course there was something hopeful about it. It was a song for Sophie.
“P-p-people can int-terpret mmmmusic hhhhowever they w-want.”
“So it’s not meant to be hopeful?”
I shrugged, even though I felt as though it was. I didn’t want him to know that it was about Sophie and I didn’t want him to know the real feelings I had when I played it.
“Do you wonder about her?” His voice was casual and I glanced up at him again. He wasn’t looking at me.
“I w-worry ab-bout her.”
“Do you think she loves you?”
I’d thought about this more than perhaps I should’ve, but I was convinced that she had loved me. Whether she did or didn’t currently was still a mystery, but I nodded anyway.
“Let’s talk about your physical altercation with Sophie. Why do you think she reacted violently?”
I didn’t need to think. “B-because she was sssscared,” I replied, adding “like me,” in my mind.
I kept focused on the music, but felt sick. “I d-d-didn’t... I mmmmmean, I d-d-did b-b-b-but...”
I was thankful when he picked up where I’d trailed off. “She struck you and then what happened?”
I hated even thinking about it, but I knew I had to. “I g-g-g-grabbed her. I ssssshoved her into the w-w-w-wall and w-w-wouldn’t llllet her go. I w-w-w-wanted to mmmmake her b-b-behave.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“I w-w-was angry. She mmmmade mmme mmmad and I wanted her to just see hhhhhow sssssst..., how r-r-r-r, how d-dumb she was b-being.”
“What would have happened had she not pushed you away? Let’s say you kept her up against the wall, what then?”
I didn’t want to think about it. It made me sick. It was scary because I didn’t honestly know what I was truly capable of. I’d witnessed a lot of things in my life. Was I capable of doing any of them? I would’ve killed Anderson if David hadn’t pulled me off. “D-d-do you th-think I w-w-w-w-would’ve hhhhurt hhhher?
I felt sick and panicked, but kept playing. “D-d-d-do you th-think I’d b-b-be like mmmy d-d-d-d, father? That I’d...?”
I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
“What do you think?”
“No!” My denial didn’t make me feel better because how could I honestly know how far I could’ve gone in order to control her?
I had to remind myself that I did stop. I didn’t let it go any further, and I’d broken up with her to stop anything else from happening. I broke it off with her to protect her.
The room was silent, except for the sounds of the piano as the song drew to a close.
“I’m recommending that you be released at the end of this week.”
I pulled my hands from the keys and sat on them. “B-b-b-but I...”
What he said next didn’t lend me any comfort either. “I want you to think about visiting Chicago.”
“B-b-b-but... w-w-w-what if...?”
“Please relax and just humor me by saying you’ll at least think about it. That’s all I ask.
The house was incredibly small.
It was worn down and abandoned. I hadn’t realized that we lived in the bad part of town.
“Are you okay?”
Although I felt distant and somewhat removed, I turned to Jane and nodded. I knew I could do this. It was what Dr. Emmanuel wanted. He thought it could help me. Robin, too.
Neither one came to Chicago with me. It would have been strange for someone like Dr. Emmanuel to do that and Robin had other obligations. She would have come if I’d said I needed her to, but Stephen and Jane were enough.
It felt right.
Jane was from Chicago and needed to visit just as much as I did, and while he hadn’t been the one to take me out of the house, Stephen essentially saved me from my life here.
Jane held my hand as Stephen took a step toward the house.
I shivered, remembering how cold it was the last time I was here.
It took me a solid ten minutes to walk up the steps to the porch. I usually went in through the door by the garage. The front door wasn’t locked when Stephen tried it.
They both waited for me, but I pulled my hand from Jane’s.
I said nothing as I moved back down the stairs and went to the side of the house. The door was locked, but the pane of glass was broken, so I reached inside and unlocked it.
I took off my shoes and placed them neatly in the corner between the house and the garage. There were old leaves and sticks that had accumulated there, but my mind was focused on the inside of the house.
I stepped through, knowing that Jane and Stephen were behind me.
The house was completely empty.
I didn’t explore the downstairs at all. I moved quickly up the stairs and found my room.
The carpet was gone. The wood flooring in front of the door was slightly discolored.
I noted where my dresser once stood and I guessed where my bed had been. Then I went straight to my closet.
It was smaller than I remembered it. I sat down and wrapped my arms around my legs and looked out of the crack, remembering my mother’s hand.
As much as I thought I would panic, I didn’t.
I had no idea how long I was there, but when I’d had enough, I stood up and went to the window. I could hear Jane talking to Stephen but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.
This was the spot where I would sit and watch some of the neighborhood kids play. I watched the snow fall from this window. This was also the spot where I sat and watched Joseph die just feet away from me.
I didn’t linger much longer in my room. Instead I surveyed the hallway and bathroom, and then stopped by Joseph’s room. Pushing the door open, I peeked around inside, but didn’t enter.
I didn’t look in my parents’ room.
I made a quick pass through the downstairs, mental images of pain flashing through my head as I took in all corners of each room.
My father would be appalled at the condition of his house. The filth would have been too much for him.
My chest tightened when I caught sight of the door down to the basement. There was an alcove off of the kitchen. Straight through it was the door to the backyard and to the right was the door to the basement.
I took a step closer. If I got too scared, I could just go forward through the door and be outside, but if I felt courageous, I could turn to my right and take the steps down.
I stood still, the choice before me.
My heart raced.
My head pounded.
I couldn’t remember why I was here.
Everything was dark.
I turned right and took one step down, my eyes pinched shut.
I felt sick, like I’d been kicked in the stomach or a vise was being twisted down, clamping around my gut.
I forced myself down another stair, and then another, until the third step from the bottom. This was the point when if I looked around, I would be able to see the entire basement.
I sat down and thought of calming music. Of how the piano keys felt under my fingertips. Of my mother’s voice that sang so brightly.
I thought of Sophie’s smile.
While I no longer felt like throwing up, I could not go farther down the stairs.
I did not look around.
I had nothing to prove and I was finished exploring.
I took a step up.
This wasn’t where I lived anymore.
Another step up.
It was no longer relevant to my life.
Another step.
It was an empty shell and I refused to mimic it.
Another and another and another.
While I admitted that my
life had begun here, my life was not here.
Nothing was.
The last step up brought the light from outside.
This house was empty, but I was not.
Jane and Stephen waited in the kitchen for me. I took Jane’s hand and looked at Stephen.
“I want to g-go home now.”
I’d been feeling off all week, but it wasn’t until Tom was gone Saturday night that I really started noticing how hungry I was. But I couldn’t eat. I knew that hunger was sometimes mistaken for thirst, so I tried hydrating myself, but that only led to more thirst and a lot of peeing.
I’d slept through the day and I knew I should call my father, but I couldn’t seem to find the phone. It felt like hours before I remembered where it was and then I couldn’t remember the number to the firehouse. When I finally realized that it was written on the dry-erase board on the wall, I tried the number, but I couldn’t seem to get it right. Two people told me I had the wrong number and then the automated message told me to hang up a third time and dial again.
I gave up and thought I needed to eat, so I made a poorly executed salad. It took me twenty minutes to eat a few bites, but it came right back up. It was horrible. It wasn’t just like the vomiting that happened when I had the flu, it was violent.
When I felt like I needed to sleep, I crawled upstairs. My vision was blurry and I needed to rest my eyes. Tom would come home soon and I’d ask him to look me over.
I was asleep before I even felt myself hit the bed.
Tom woke me up and I blinked, trying to get a better view of the clock. “I’m hungry,” I said as I flopped out of bed.
“Soph, you don’t...”
“I need to eat, Daddy.”
“What did you say?”
My mind and vision were clouded with fog. His hand was wrapped around my arm, and his face was smooth and seemed to lack definition. It didn’t matter that I felt hungry any more, I just wanted to sink down onto my bed and be swallowed by the abyss of sleep. I just needed to relax and make my breath steady.
“Just let me sleep.”
“You called me ‘Daddy’.”
“No I didn’t.” I turned around and sat back down on the bed. I was only upright for a quick second before the rest of my body flopped down. Why would I call him “Daddy”? I felt his hand on my forehead and even though I didn’t like being touched, I didn’t flinch. “I wanna go to sleep, Dad.”