I had remembered Gary and Curtis, a marriage gone bad, a husband in jail, and the birth of two children. I had refreshed my memory of the heaviness of Rhonda’s first nineteen years.
I could see how and why Rhonda thought she was a victim. I could see how she ran from one place to another, trying to get away from some place else where she had been victimized. I could see why she thought she was ugly, unlovable, destined to hurt and be hurt forever. I felt sad for her. I was not as sad about what had happened to her as I was about the fact that she could not see what was happening. I was sad that she could not see her pattern, and that there was no one available to point it out to her. She was embroiled in a destructive pattern of being hurt and moving on without healing the hurt, only to find herself in a situation in which she would be hurt again.
I could see clearly that Rhonda was living her own interpretation of what she had been taught by Grandma and Daddy. It was a pattern that had emerged in her childhood. She was young, wounded, and confused. Wounds and confusion beget wounds and confusion. Abuse and betrayal beget abuse and betrayal. Rhonda was attracting what she was because she had no idea that anything else existed. She had a pattern of running from what was without a clear understanding of what could be. I wanted to sing for her. I wanted to open my mouth and sing along with a chorus of weeping willow and poplar trees, blooming chrysanthemums and begonias. I wanted to sing a song for the abused, abandoned, confused little girl who was crying in my soul. The song that came to mind was Patti LaBelle’s “Somebody Loves You, Baby.” I was afraid that someone would wander up the trail and hear me, so I hummed as I turned around and headed back toward home.
It was an annual ritual that Rhonda and the children had been looking forward to all week. It was Sunday. Cartoons and pancakes for the children. Coffee and girl talk for Rhonda and Nett. It was also Nett’s birthday, so all of them bore presents under their arms. The children had made their own cards. Rhonda had saved for months to buy Nett her favorite perfume and two books that Nett had threatened to buy for herself. Rhonda was sure that she had beaten Nett to the bookstore. She was excited about that, and she was excited that she could drive up to Nett’s house in the car Daddy had given her for her birthday. Rhonda was also glad to have a few hours away from John, who had been in a foul mood all week.
She was in front of Nett’s apartment building, trying to lock the car door, when she looked up and saw John approaching her.
“Give me the keys,” John said. Rhonda was sure it was a demand.
“For what?” she asked. John didn’t like the tone of her voice, nor did he like the fact that she was questioning him.
“What do you mean ‘for what’? Because I asked for them, that’s for what. I’ve got to go by my mother’s, too.” Rhonda knew that John’s mood had not improved.
“I’ll only be here for a few hours. I’ll drop you off when I’m done here.”
“Look b——h, give me the keys!” John had never spoken to her like that before, and she did not quite know how to take it. She locked the car door and turned to walk away, ordering the children to hurry up.
“You’d better not walk away from me.” John was walking directly behind her. Something just didn’t feel right. Rhonda turned to face him, prepared to ask what was wrong with him. Had she been facing him all along, she would have seen it coming. His hand reaching back, then coming forward against her face. Had she not turned around, he would have hit her in the head, but it might not have hurt as much.
When John pulled Rhonda up from the ground, she didn’t realize he was trying to help her, so she started screaming. Rhonda didn’t realize that John was trying to kiss her, so she pushed him away, gathered the children, and ran before he could hit her again.
When Nett saw her face, she was furious. John knocked on the door, and Nett informed him that he was never again welcome in her house. After the door was slammed in his face, Rhonda and Nett stood with their ears plastered against it, trying to detect if he was really gone. When the telephone rang, they almost jumped out of their skins.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I will never do that again. I’m sorry. Do you believe me? Please believe me,” John sounded desperate.
“I’ll talk to you later” was the only thing Rhonda could say. The second call was an insincere attempt at begging. By the fifth call, John sounded as if he were crying. Two hours into the calling marathon, Rhonda didn’t care that he was crying, she just wanted him to stop calling.
The children each told Nana how their daddy had hit their mommy, then they ate their pancakes as if the incident had never happened. Nett was in favor of calling the police and having John arrested. She was also in favor of poisoning him. That evening, after they had eaten dinner, Rhonda decided that she would go to work and that she would figure out what to do about John at a later date. The last thing Nett said to Rhonda before she left the house that night was, “Once they hit you, they never stop.” For a very long time, it seemed that Nett would be proven wrong.
Rhonda and John worked together at the rehabilitation center. Rhonda was the only female counselor on the staff. John was a recovered heroin addict and the assistant director of the program. Rhonda knew nothing about the culture of drug addiction and even less about the process of recovery. John was her teacher. He had been on the other side of the table for eight years and on this side for the past five. He was a good teacher and quite protective of Rhonda during the first few months of her employment. They both worked the night shift and often ate dinner together. They ran support groups together. They spent many nights talking about clients and other things. John made Rhonda laugh. She helped him with his reports. It seemed very romantic. When the program director gave Rhonda a glowing review after her first nine months, Rhonda gave John a key to her house. That was one year before he hit her the first time.
When Rhonda got to work that night after he hit her, John insisted that he was sorry. “You made me mad,” he said. “You made me hit you.” That was his apology. He explained that he didn’t like it when Rhonda didn’t answer him. He didn’t like it when she turned her back on him. That, he said, was disrespectful and unnecessary. Rhonda peered at John over the rims of the sunglasses Nett had loaned her to hide her bruised eye. She thought she must be hearing things. Then she understood.
“You’re blaming me for making you hit me?” John didn’t like the sound of that.
“It is your fault. Every time you get around your mother, you act like you’re too good to talk to me.” He had a point. Rhonda was aware that Nett didn’t like John, and it probably did influence her behavior when Nett was around. But that was not the case this time.
“My mother was in her house when you hit me for not giving you the keys to my car.” John didn’t like the way that sounded, either. He stood up at his desk, towering over Rhonda. When she instinctively put her hands up to cover her face, John became sorry again and sat down.
“Please go home. Your eye looks so bad. I don’t want anybody to see you like this.” He sounded genuinely concerned, but Rhonda knew the truth. John did not want the clients or staff to see the results of his outburst. Eventually, John’s pleas got the best of Rhonda. “I promise I’ll never hit you again. Do you believe me? Please believe me.” John was still pleading when the taxicab pulled off to take Rhonda home.
When you think you love someone, you try your best to overlook their shortcomings. John had many shortcomings, some of which were glaring, most of which made him extremely insecure. Although he had been to college, he could barely read or write. John was six feet two inches tall and weighed two hundred pounds. That was not the reason he had one overdeveloped breast. The breast was the result of a glandular dysfunction that also altered his moods. It was the same dysfunction that caused his asthma. It was the asthma that incapacitated him when he became angry or upset. It was the frequent periods of incapacitation that led to the excessive machismo when he was feeling good.
Rhonda was grateful to John for all he had done for her. He
had paid attention to her when no one else had. He had taught her a great deal about the profession of counseling and the process of recovery. He’d helped her through the difficult time she was experiencing after Curtis disappeared. John knew all about Curtis and Gary; and he still treated their children like they were his children. Damon and Gemmia called John “Daddy.” It takes a real man, Rhonda thought, to raise another man’s children and let them call him Daddy. John was also the first man who had ever given Rhonda money to help her provide for her children. In the beginning, he had no problem turning over most of his paycheck to Rhonda for household expenses, child-care costs, and anything else that she needed.
Only a man who loves you gives you his money. Rhonda was so grateful to be loved that she was willing to do her best to return the favor. So grateful, in fact, she decided to have John’s child. And it wasn’t until she became pregnant that John started accusing her of being with other men. It wasn’t until after Rhonda told John that she was pregnant that someone had started calling the house, and when she answered, hanging up. One night, after several such calls, she decided to stop answering for the rest of the evening. When John came home, he went crazy, even though Rhonda explained to him why she wasn’t answering the phone.
“How am I supposed to know where you are? I thought something happened to you and the kids. Are you crazy?”
“John, it’s late. Leave me alone,” Rhonda answered. She pulled the covers over her head and tried to turn over onto her pregnant belly. John grabbed her up out of the bed and slapped her so hard she hit the floor. He snatched her up and slapped her again. Rhonda tried to get away. He straddled her. She screamed. He slapped her again, this time telling her to “Shut your f——g mouth!” Then he began his interrogation. “Where have you been? Who have you been with?” Each time she didn’t respond, he would slap her. When she did respond, he’d slap her and call her a liar.
The noise of furniture crashing and Rhonda crying woke the children. John ordered them back to bed and ordered Rhonda to shut up. Perhaps if he’d stopped throwing her onto the bed, picking her up from the bed and slapping her, she would have been absolutely quiet. When John felt the onset of an asthma attack, he slapped Rhonda one final time before retreating into the bathroom for his medication. Rhonda picked herself up, took her children back to their beds, and stayed with them until they fell asleep. Then she crawled into bed with the man who had just beaten her pregnant body and had sex with him. It made her sick to her stomach.
The afternoon breeze felt good against my face. It was refreshing, and I certainly needed to be refreshed. The walk back home always seemed shorter than the walk to the pond. When I opened the door, the dog greeted me. She is cute. A pain in the butt, but cute nonetheless. My husband was doing his favorite Sunday chore. Watching television. When he turned and saw my face, he tried to think of something to say. He couldn’t find the words, so he stood up, walked over, and gave me a hug. Feeling the strength of his arms around me, I started to cry. “This is so hard. I hate it!”
“You can do it. I know you can,” he whispered. “You have to do it. You won’t feel right until you do. Take your time. Just take your time.”
I had been at it almost four hours and I still hadn’t figured out why I needed to fire Karen. He made us some tea, turned off the television, and I shared with him some of what I was remembering.
Rhonda was staring at her battered face in the bathroom mirror when, suddenly, a woman appeared in the mirror behind her. Rhonda jumped! She spun around, but no one was there. Her face was a mess. Each time the children saw her, they cried. Her eyes, lips, and nose were swollen out of all proportion. John was so disgusted with himself, he didn’t come home for four days. On the third night of his absence, Rhonda had a dream about the woman that she had seen in the mirror. Her name, she said, was Carmen. She introduced herself as Rhonda’s friend, who had “always been there.” Her message was clear: “Leave this place! Leave the man with whom you are now living. I will tell you where to go and what to do. As soon as your baby girl is born, you must leave. If you do not leave, he will kill you. Do you trust me?”
For Rhonda, it was unusual to remember a dream. But she remembered this one. She remembered, but she didn’t listen.
Rhonda believed that John was reconfirming his love for her when he bought her a new washing machine. This was after he fractured three of her ribs and her jawbone when she was eight months’ pregnant. That, she told herself, was the reason she never fought back. You can’t hit a man who loves you.
“If a man is beating your brains out,” Nett screamed at her, “you can’t love him, and he can’t love you!” Nett had known for a long time that John was beating Rhonda, but nothing she said would convince Rhonda to leave him.
“I’ve got three children by three different men,” Rhonda argued. “Where am I going to go? I have no money and no education. The only things I can do are sew and dance. Who’s going to want me?”
“When he’s finished with you, no one will want you!” Nett yelled at her. “You’ll be a stark raving lunatic!”
Nett was afraid, disgusted, and angry. Rhonda was tired and confused and beat up. Everyone asked her the same question: “Why do you stay with him?” Gary’s mother lived next door to Rhonda. She, too, asked her why she stayed. She could hear the beatings through the walls and said she was furious with her son for not helping Rhonda get away. Gary’s mother thought he should at least take his son away. All of Rhonda’s friends asked her why she stayed. They would listen to her story, offer her advice on what to do to John while he was sleeping, and insist that she leave him. But no one ever went so far as to offer her a place to stay if she did leave. Rhonda guessed it was because everyone was afraid of John. It was Grandma all over again.
Baby Nisa was the spitting image of her father. That was the only reason John’s mother started being nice to Rhonda. By the time the baby was six weeks old, she’d begun calling Rhonda her “daughter-in-law,” which was a whole lot better than “my grandbaby’s mother.” The birth of Nisa seemed to calm John down as well. He didn’t come home more frequently, but when he did, he was at least civil.
Things will get better when we move, Rhonda told herself. John was busy trying to find them a new apartment, which she attributed to his new improved attitude. Rhonda had her hands full watching the children and packing up all their belongings for the move. It seemed that she had finally convinced John that she was not fooling around on him, so Rhonda allowed herself to believe that things really could get better. When John came home and announced that he had found an apartment and that they could move in the following Saturday, Rhonda was definitely convinced that things were going to work out.
John did not come home the Friday night before the move. Nett agreed to watch the children while Rhonda finished packing. On Saturday, when the moving van had not shown up by late afternoon, Rhonda realized that she didn’t know the name of the moving company. Late afternoon turned into evening, and she still refused to believe what she knew was happening. The telephone had already been disconnected, so Rhonda walked to the pay phone at the corner and called Nett to bring the children back. When Nett arrived, she took one look at all the boxes that Rhonda had packed for the move and began to cry.
After Nett left, Rhonda went back to the pay phone at the corner, children in tow. She called the landlord at the new apartment, who informed her that “her husband” had never made the deposit on the apartment. The landlord had already rented the apartment to someone else.
Somewhere in the back of Rhonda’s mind, a voice kept saying, Breathe! Just keep breathing! Rhonda could feel her tired body going numb. Back at home, she fed the children and put them to bed. She laid baby Nisa on the mattress on the floor and was trying her best to keep breathing. It finally hit her: This is not going to work. Breathe! Just keep breathing! Rhonda found a box marked BATHROOM, and opened it. She retrieved all of the medications she could find. Phenobarbital. Nytol, Tylenol, aspirin, and even
vitamins. She pulled out bottles that were so old she could no longer read the prescription or the directions. She brought the pills into the kitchen and put them in a pile on the floor. She swallowed them slowly, one pill at a time. Rhonda did not want to breathe any longer.
Acceptance or rejection of how you are treated by others is a function of how you feel about yourself. When you are wounded, you bleed. It is the bleeding that makes you feel bad. The way in which the wounds are inflicted determines how long and how badly you bleed. Superficial cuts will cause the blood to rise quickly, and though they are painful, it is easy to stop them from bleeding. When there is a deep gash, the blood takes a minute or two to surface. In the case of a deep wound, it often takes a while to recognize how much damage has been inflicted. If the wounds are deep enough, and the bleeding continues over an extended period of time, you can learn not to like yourself at all.
Rhonda had had some superficial wounds, but most of her life had been a series of deep, penetrating gashes that had never healed and were continually bleeding. She tried to stop the bleeding with food, cigarettes, and even sex. The blood continued to flow. It was oozing out of her mind, out of her heart, and spilling over into her life. She did not like herself. She did not feel good about herself. How could she? She was not even aware that she was wounded. Rhonda was just trying to survive. She had no idea that the only way to heal her wounds was to acknowledge them. She needed to remember how she had been wounded. She needed to look into her heart and make peace with those who had inflicted the wounds. But this was a pretty tall order for a twenty-one-year-old mother of three who only wanted a father for her children and someone to love her.
She heard the baby crying, but she could not get up. She couldn’t tell if the light in her face was daylight, the kitchen light, or some mysterious light that was making her feel warm and peaceful. Oh, my God, I can’t breathe! Rhonda saw people standing all around her. Sarah was there. The beautiful woman she’d seen in the bathroom mirror when she was a girl was there. Carmen was there. And a very large, very black man who was not wearing a shirt was straddling her body. The baby’s cry was becoming faint. Oh God, please help me! The next person Rhonda saw was herself. She looked absolutely beautiful. The woman from the mirror identified herself as Mary, and reached out to the beautiful Rhonda. Mary kissed Rhonda’s head and face. Then everything went black.
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