The sky was pale and cloudless, warning of a hot and humid day. This would be my day, my formal introduction into Milda’s family and a picnic was planned to celebrate my arrival. I was euphoric and the feeling coursed through me like a drug. I craved recognition and praise in the same way others needed air to breathe.
I watched, giddy, as the first guests made their way down the long gravel drive. Dust billowed up from under the car’s tires and hung in the hot Midwestern air. Picnic tables decorated with red and white checkered cloths whose edges ruffled in the hot air were set up just beyond the covered patio.
My father’s good looks and southern charm shined as he welcomed each new arrival with a handshake or a hug and I was bursting with pride as I met each family member. Milda worked all morning preparing food and cleaning the house until everything was undeniably perfect. Dickey and I did our best to greet family members and guests. About an hour after the last car was parked and everyone was there, Dickey and I stood outside adjacent to the horse corral.
“Hey Dickey, can we take the pony out so the little kids can ride?” I asked.
The pony belonged to our landlords who lived in the house next door. Dickey looked toward the barn, his cowboy hat pulled low to shade his eyes.
“Okay,” he replied. “I guess I could do that. I’ll ask dad.”
Dickey came back with the pony and tied her to the fence while he saddled her. He hefted the saddle onto her back and pulled the cinch that ran under her belly to secure it. He then quickly lifted his knee and struck the pony hard in the stomach. The pony let out a whoosh of air like a burp.
“Ohh, Dickey!” I gasped at his blatant meanness.
“She holds her breath,” Dickey muttered. “So she can make the saddle loose and cause the rider to fall. Don’t you, you stinking mule,” he said to her.
Sweat glistened thin and slick on his upper lip as he tightened the cinch again. Dickey had the same thickly lashed brown eyes as Milda. He played football and kept quiet most of the time. Milda had beaten him his whole life. “The best thing to do is just drop your head and let her go till she tires out” Dickey advised me weeks later. “Don’t fight back. It just makes it last longer.”
Dickey and I took turns that day leading the pony so the kids could ride. When we were finished, Dickey took charge.
“Give her to me and I’ll tie her up,” he huffed.
I watched as he tied her bridle strap to a post.
“I’m just gonna leave her saddled in case someone wants to ride her later,” he said.
Soon after, Milda marched toward me while I played on the swing set. Her face was tight with agitation. Her anger looked like sparklers on the fourth of July pulsing around her body. The pony had gotten loose and somehow it was my fault.
“How could you be so selfish, so stupid!?” Milda shrieked. “Somebody could hit that horse and sue us. Your daddy and me could lose everything! What in the hell was you thinkin?!”
I froze.
Milda continued her tirade and moved closer.
“You had better pray, your Daddy finds that horse, little girl,” she threatened.
Then she slapped me so hard across the face, my ears rang. I lost my balance and fell to the ground. She yanked me across the pasture by my hair.
In those first few seconds, inside my ears, my hair sounded like grass being yanked from the ground by its roots, making a popping sound as each follicle let go. I stumbled and lurched like a rodeo clown and tears filled my eyes.
Milda dragged me into the barn where it was dim and all you could smell was horse sweat, hay, and dirt. She spun me in a circle, and my head banged against the stall with a sharp sting. She came at me, her fists pounding my face and back. Handfuls of blonde hair flew out in all directions. Even though I knew she was hitting me, it was like she was hitting someone else.
Surprise and shame were the only things I felt, and then somehow, I was hovering outside of myself watching the spit fly from Milda’s mouth while she gritted her teeth and beat me. It was eerie.
I could see all around the barn, there were no edges or corners, no barriers to block what lay behind me. I could see myself and Milda below.
A stench, like the smell of a trapped and frightened animal filled the air. My stepmother’s labored breath huffed out in clouds of hate. I could feel my heart banging against my ribs, but I was not inside my body as Milda hit me so hard it made her arms ache with fatigue. I knew what she felt, not just in her body, but in her mind too. I understood intuitively why she was losing control and yet, the nine-year-old child that I was still experienced shock, shame, and fear. It was like the knowing belonged to someone else residing somewhere within me, waiting for me to grow up and understand. Milda’s rage blinded her and she was disconnected from her own actions—there was a vacancy within her. I could hear a high-pitched scream that came from inside her mind and just like that, I was back in my body.
Milda stopped beating me as abruptly as she started. It was then that I saw a dozen shocked faces peering at me. No one spoke. No one moved. No one came to my aid. I thought the beating was acceptable and maybe somehow, I had it coming.
As everyone stared at my wild hair and the bloody snot that oozed from my nose, embarrassment rushed through me and my skin burned, red with shame. What would they think of me now? I wondered as I sat bewildered in the dirt. My father was nowhere to be seen. I couldn’t stop my tears and my body vibrated with revolt.
Milda’s family members gathered around her attempting to calm an out of control and hysterical woman. While “out of my body” I experienced what Milda was feeling, confusion, fear and explosive anger and I knew in a weird way that she couldn’t help herself. I was reminded of what I’d seen and felt while camping only the week before.
The knowing I experienced when I went “out of body” in the barn, was the same knowing I felt when seeing pictures. Strangely, the knowing that I felt with the readings with Angie differed slightly. When giving readings or repeating what I’d heard in my mind, I was unable to hear thoughts of the other person, like I could when having pictures or being “out of body.” Instead, I would feel their feelings. I understood the most basic aspect of the knowing, like what Milda felt. But the deeper message of why an event occurred at all was beyond my emotional scope. That part of the knowing would assist me in understanding the whys of things and allow me to forgive years later in life.
I knew I wouldn’t live with my father and Milda forever because I’d heard it from the voice. “Don’t worry” it said. “You will be okay, it won’t last forever. There is another life waiting for you.” I couldn’t see the other life, or feel it, but I knew it was there.
I believed what I heard and knew, but I had no words for it. Still, the beatings brought feelings of shame and remorse. I knew that what was happening to me was somehow preplanned and felt weirdly familiar. I was not able to explain or reconcile this information.
After a year passed surviving Milda’s rage and violent outbursts, Maggie and Isla came to visit that next summer. At summer’s end, Maggie stayed and lived with us for a year. What occurred during this time created an unbreakable bond between Maggie and me. When they arrived with our father from the airport I squealed with delight!
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I cried, jumping up and down at the door.
“Me too, me too!” cried Maggie excitedly. Isla was not as happy to be here, she came because our mother made her.
“C’mon you guys, I’ll show you our room.”
We ran like thunder down the hall.
“Look,” I said, “You have your own beds and you can put all your stuff here.”
I pointed with pride to a white dresser.
We sat with our backs against my bed as Maggie and Isla showed me photos
of all I had missed. Isla pulled a snapshot from the pile and held it under my nose. In it was a giant dog.
“His name is Rory, and he’s an Irish wolfhound.” Isla said. “And he is the smartest and sweetest dog in the world. When he jumps up, I put his paws on my shoulders, and look how big he is.” she purred as she handed me a new photo. “And you can see what he’s thinking by just looking into his eyes. You’re so sweet aren’t you,” Isla said to the picture, planting a wet kiss on it.
Isla had gifts of her own. She communed with animals. Like the Koi fish years before, the Clairs manifested for her through animals so that Isla could hear them in her mind and feel what they felt. She assumed for most of her life that everyone could hear them and understand them like she did.
The happiness of our reunion was short-lived because, before two weeks had passed, Milda exploded at Isla. I was in the backyard when I heard shouting-turned-shrieking. Ragged breath fogged the glass of the door, as I cupped my hands at the sides of my face to peer inside.
Milda stood over Isla screaming and grabbing at her flailing arms. Isla lay in a tight fetal position on the floor, waving her arms trying to cover her head.
“Get up, get up off that floor! I’m not through with you,” Milda shrieked.
“No! Don’t hit me! Don’t hit me!” Isla cried. Her face was so red, she looked sunburned. “No!” Isla screamed. “Stop it!”
Milda grabbed Isla easily by her long, golden, hair and yanked it upwards while she threw punches with her free hand. Isla screamed, “Let go of me!” She kicked her legs like a wild horse.
Maggie ran to the phone and called the police and I slipped inside through the glass slider. Ten minutes later there was a knock at the front door. A police officer stood alone on the front stoop. He bent at the waist drawing my attention to his smooth brown eyes. “Are you alright, missy?” The officer asked.
Screams and curses rang out and tumbled onto the porch.
“Yes,” I squeaked through my tears.
In one motion, the officer gently pushed me aside and went in the house. I ran blotchy-faced and crying to my room, diving on my bed while the fighting escalated. The soft, cotton quilt was cool and smooth against my legs, but I found no comfort there. My hands spun and gripped the fabric, God, please make them stop, please. I listened to the conversation drift down the hall.
“She’s my stepdaughter an’ she ain’t quite right. You know what I mean?” Milda said breathing hard. “You have no idea about this one. I can’t control her, she just falls to the floor screaming, in hysterics,” Milda lied.
“That may be, ma’am, but I can’t leave her here. She says, you beat her and she wants to go home. I’ll have to take her into protective custody until we can get this thing sorted out,” the officer explained.
A few minutes later, Isla came into the bedroom, still crying. Her face had bright, red blooms that were starting to swell. She grabbed some clothes and threw them into a suitcase and left with the police. She didn’t say good-bye. I wouldn’t see Isla again for a year until Maggie and I would be taken home too.
My father didn’t acknowledge the incident. I would find out later, that the beating, now documented, held valuable leverage for Maggie and our mother, because they had a plan.
My parents didn’t have a formal custody arrangement and our father did not support his children financially. Their contentious relationship barred any communication or agreement on what might be best for us. My mother learned from Maggie that letters she had written to me over the past year were intercepted by Milda. I wouldn’t know it for years. I thought my mother didn’t love me or want me because she never wrote.
“Is this all the mail?” I’d ask flipping through the pile on the counter, hoping for a letter from my mother.
“Aint nothin in there for you. She don’t care nothin about you honey,” Milda would say.
Our mother was furious at Isla’s beating and wanted Maggie to come home. “It’s time to come home Maggie,” our mother said into the phone. “They’ve brainwashed Nita so just come on home.”
“I’m not leaving, Nita here.” Maggie said. “I don’t care if I have to stay; I’m not coming back without her.” Maggie stubbornly replied.
So Maggie stayed until we both could go home together.
Milda beat Maggie only once in that time she lived with us. Maggie was more than Milda bargained for. On the single occasion that Milda tried to beat her, Maggie fought back.
The new school year began and it was only weeks after Isla’s beating when our father was invited to go frog gigging, something popular with his crowd. The men would hunt giant frogs in the pitch, dark, shining bright lights at the frogs to blind them long enough to impale them with a three pronged spear. The legs would be removed, deep-fried and consumed as a delicacy.
“I want to go too, Dell. Why can’t I go?” Milda’s voice was strained and emotional from behind their bedroom door.
“Because.” he said, “you’re not goin. It ain’t for women, Milda. It’ll be cold and muddy, baby. You don’t want to go.”
Milda argued further, “Yes I do, Dell. You know I don’t care nothin’ about the cold or mud.”
“Jesus H Christ, Milda, I’ll be back in a few days” he said.
My father slammed out of the house leaving Milda and her anger behind.
Milda began to drink heavily and pouted like a sullen teenager.
“I’m goin out tonight,” she said. I don’t need your daddy to have a good time. No sir, I don’t.”
She lifted her cigarette to her lips and drew in the smoke. Her foot bounced nervously as she leaned into the round, lighted, makeup mirror and drew dark, liner around her big eyes.
Maggie fluttered around the kitchen watching Milda. She had been receiving letters from our mother through the counselors at school and Milda resented being outsmarted by Dell’s ex-wife.
Milda began taunting, Maggie. She hurled degrading remarks about our mother. Her speech was slurred as she began her tirade, “You know your mother is just a useless bitch, right?” Milda said as she gazed in her mirror. With a nasty smirk, she looked up at Maggie, the mirror’s yellow glow reflecting on her face, creating pinpoints of light in her dark eyes.
Maggie did not reply but glared at Milda with open disdain.
Milda continued, “In fact, I think she is a pig! Yes, a pig!” she screamed.
Milda lurched from her chair and moved inches away from, Maggie’s face, “Call your mother a pig!” she shrieked. She stabbed her index finger into, Maggie’s chest causing, Maggie to step back with each tiny shove. “Right now, I said to call her a pig!”
I sat at the kitchen table, opposite of where Milda was, mute with fear. Glancing at Maggie, I was struck by her eyes, hard and blue as marbles. She had a soft spray of freckles that spread across her high, cheekbones, framed in curly, chestnut hair. Maggie and I looked remarkably alike, with the exception of our hair color. She had no response to Milda’s rant except the tightening of lips, and balling of fists, which hung motionless at her sides.
Milda slapped Maggie across the face with each new verbal assault.
“Call your mother a pig.” Slap. “Say it!” Slap. “My mother’s a pig!” Slap.
Maggie’s back was pressed tightly against the wall. Suddenly, Maggie screamed,
“No, I won’t! You’re the stinking pig!” Her face was red and in that moment, Maggie changed. Her hatred was so pure I could feel it in the air, a density that covered her like a shield.
Maggie punched Milda hard in the chest and then shoved her backwards.
Milda lost her balance, banged against the kitchen table and knocked over a chair, which sent her sprawling to the floor.
Maggie did not stop. She reached over
Milda and grabbed a knife from the counter. She lunged at Milda, gripping the knife tightly in her hand.
Milda cowered on the floor and Maggie warned her, “If you ever come near me again, I will cut your throat! Do you hear me? I will cut you while you sleep!”
Her voice shook with vengeance, and her lips curled in a deep snarl, and Maggie’s eyes said she meant it.
Silence filled the kitchen.
I never fought back and I was completely stunned and uncertain what to do. I had never seen this side of my sister before and I was astonished at the anger that exploded out of Maggie.
With the knife still clutched tightly in her hand, Maggie fled into the night. She would not come back for days.
Milda pulled herself up from the kitchen floor and herded me into the pick-up truck to search for my sister. Babbling to herself, she made threats as we drove. “Wait till I get my hands on you, girly. I can’t believe I put up with this shit! Juvenile delinquents! Just wait and see what happens, just wait!”
Maggie was smart enough to keep to the ditches at the side of the roads and, while I could guess where Maggie would go, I did not tell. After driving randomly for a time, Milda headed to Teresa’s house. Teresa was Maggie’s best friend.
Teresa knew Maggie from school. She lived alone with her mother in an old house on a lot of hard cracked dirt. The only sign of life was a giant tree that grew in the middle of the barren sprawl.
Milda swung the truck under the tree bouncing over the curb. She stumbled when she stepped down from the cab and made her way to the front door. She banged on it.
“Well, my God,” Teresa’s mother said, as she opened the door. “It’s kinda late, ain’t it? What’s wrong?”
Teresa’s mother was in her nightgown, her hair ratty. She was a large woman and her multiple, chins quivered as she spoke. She knew all about Milda-- the letters to school-- the drinking—the whole story. She knew, too, that Maggie was sitting high above our heads in the tree, but she pretended not to. It was late and very dark outside and, Teresa’s mom did not turn on the porch light.
The Knowing: Awake in the Dark Page 5