Liv Unravelled

by Donna Bishop

  I got in my Volvo and headed back up to Twin Rivers, not sure of where I’d live or what I’d do, but I knew I’d never live in Portman again and I knew I’d never be the same.

  It was several weeks before I went to a doctor. I was very ill and quite sure I had a life-ending disease. The world had recently become aware of AIDS and I was fairly certain that’s what I had. Turned out, the lingering pain I felt was a massive bladder infection, much like the ones I got as a child. Uninvited intruders my body was unable to fight off. I responded to the antibiotics the doctor prescribed and when the results finally came in for the STD tests I had asked for, I was clear. A bit of a new lease on life was afforded me and I decided that yes, perhaps I did want to live, or at least not actively die.

  I have told no one other than that one police officer on the telephone about the rape, until now.

  Throughout Liv’s story, Celeste has been conveying her support with small empathetic noises, reaching now and then to touch her arm. Now she waits patiently to be sure Liv is finished. After a minute or so of silence, she turns off the tape recorder and moves over to sit beside her friend.

  “Oh, my poor Liv. I’m so sorry that happened to you. Those bastards. They got away with it. They should’ve been sent to jail for what they did to you. You didn’t deserve any of it,” she adds, tears welling in her eyes.

  Liv speaks slowly. Her racing heart has slowed, her face is pale, her eyes dull. “And what they did to me I’m sure they did to others. I’ve always felt guilty for not reporting it. Imagine, I’ve felt guilty and ashamed for ten years, and they have probably not had a twang of regret or guilt.”

  “You tried to tell the police. That cop made you doubt yourself. He’s as guilty as the rapists. You can still report it, you know.”

  “I don’t know. One part of me wants to punish them, to make sure people know what monsters they are. But I also recognize that the time for making a strong case is long past. It just makes me so angry that these guys felt entitled to violate me. It seems worse that they are privileged, middle class guys with every opportunity in the world. It’s easier for guys like that to get away with crime.”

  “You know, things haven't changed much since the time of Moragh. If you’d had a knife, like Moragh did, they probably would have overpowered you and used it against you because you were drugged. They committed more than one crime that day and I hope their karma catches up with them. You’re the strongest person I know! To survive that and to do this incredibly hard work of healing.”

  “After all these years, when I hear a hockey game on TV I can’t look at it, and the sound of the sporty fanfare and dimwitted commentary gives me flashbacks to that night. People think I’m being un-Canadian! One day, I’d like to speak out about this, to help other women and girls, and to bring it out in the open that being on a sports team can make guys feel like they have the right to harm people. Parents need to know that, so they can teach their boys it’s not okay.”

  “I will absolutely be there to help with that. You’re right, though — the first step is to heal yourself.”

  They sit in exhausted silence for a few moments. Liv leans back on the sofa and shuts her eyes. Then they open again.

  “That was ten years ago and it’s been hanging over me since then, locked away in the same place as the childhood abuse,” she says, her voice rising with the sudden realization.

  “You know, Liv, because your father violated you, you weren’t able to experience emotions in the same way as a person who's been able to develop healthy boundaries. Anger about what happened and the ability and drive to reach out for support were foreign concepts to you. It’s no wonder at all. It’s good to hear some anger in your voice now when you talk about how you feel about the rape. And it’s really awesome you’ve been able to finally reach out for support. Some people are never able to.

  “Yes, I am angry. I’m sure it affected every decision I’ve made since. It took me a couple of months to recover enough to do anything, and then it seems like I put whatever lifeforce I had left into burying the past like a dead thing. But it was alive and bleeding.

  “After Christmas I went back to college. I took a sociology class with Ross and we got together shortly after that. I think I saw him as a chance to start a brand new, happy life, away from my home town, safe from the shame and fear that would haunt me if I returned. What I didn’t know was that geography changes nothing when it comes to matters of the wounded spirit.”

  “Marriage to Ross was your barrel,” Celeste offers. “If you hadn’t been assaulted, your life would have unfolded differently.”

  “You’re right. I might have had a thing with Ross, but I wouldn’t have been so eager to settle down. It was because of the rape. It wasn’t enough to stuff my pain deep inside, I suppose I felt I needed to put myself in a container of some kind — marriage felt safe.

  “I was physically healed by the time Ross and I got together, but I couldn’t make myself tell him about the rape. Fortunately for our relationship, Ross’ passion was far more intellectual than sexual. Despite my attraction to him, I wasn’t able to enjoy sex or even have an orgasm for many years, but he was always gentle and undemanding in the bedroom — kind of old-fashioned. I’m sure he would’ve understood and been supportive had I told him.

  “We conceived about the third time we had sex and began planning our life together. I think I convinced myself I was madly in love with Ross and with the idea of being a mom. I’m not offering this up as a recommendation for other women who have been sexually assaulted, but somehow in my case, that little bean growing inside of me was a lifeline. Carrying a child inside of me gave me a fresh and all-consuming focus and made me feel clean again — joyful, really. Being pregnant and knowing I was going to be a mother actually seemed to transform my negative karma into something beautiful. My spirit became shiny again and I became strong. Strong for my child, if not for myself.”

  19

  ~ Shadow Monster ~

  Racing around the house trying to make herself look presentable for the first time in ages, Liv locates her cleanest blue jeans, sets up the long-ignored ironing board to give her lacy white blouse a once-over. She rips through her pottery bowl of jewellery to locate her turquoise and coral beads from India to add a splash of colour around her neck. Even though it’s November, she’s sweating, partly from racing and partly because she’s nervous about tonight. She knows it’ll be a lot of laughs and she loves being with her girlfriends, but she’s pretty sure she’ll drink too much and act like a lunatic. She’s feeling vulnerable, as it has only been a few days since she shared her story of being raped with Celeste. I don’t think I’m ready to share this with all my friends yet, but I do feel like I could share it now given the right circumstances.

  Liv’s telling of the rape has turned it into just that — a story rather than a nightmare she’s repressed. Her marriage and her move to rural Little Mountain seem like a reasonable, intuitive choice — a soft landing, rather than a mistake.

  Tonight is “Ladies Night” at the local bar, featuring an Australian comedy troupe that’s passing through town. Her friends thought it’d be a perfect thirtieth birthday celebration. Ross is overnighting somewhere and she’s needing the kids to be good, eat dinner and co-operate, so, sensing this, they are being jerks and not co-operating at all. Leah is feeding her chicken burger to Ruby, who is waiting under the table. Micah won’t come upstairs at all as he’s so focused on dismantling an old lawn mower in the basement with his dad’s tools, which he isn’t allowed to use. Molly is arguing with Liv because she can’t get their usual, wonderful babysitter and has to settle for someone they don’t like nearly as much.

  “Why don’t you just not go?” Molly pleads.

  “Because I haven’t been out in months and it’s my very belated birthday party,” Liv answers and then thinks to herself: Why am I justifying myself to my seven-year-old?

  “You’ll be fine with Melanie. I need you to help with Micah, okay
?” Last time Liv had left them with this sitter, he’d hammered a screw driver into the log wall of their living room.

  Hearing the beep of Kat’s horn, she calls the kids together and gives them a hug and a goodnight kiss, tells them to be good for Melanie, who walks in the door looking like a sad sack. Liv thinks to herself, For crying out loud, can’t she at least pretend to be enthusiastic? (Years later, Liv learned that Melanie had been beaten and abused by her stepmother. She felt bad for not being more interested in the girl’s life and the source of her sullenness.)

  This rare night of being out with her female friends is transcendent for Liv — to have the unfettered freedom to drink wine and swap stories without interruption makes her feel free. She is a valued member of a beautiful, vibrant pack of women capable of anything.

  The comedians are outrageous. At one point, Liv’s eyes well with tears of mirth — she looks around the table and sees her closest friends, all senseless with humour, and she feels so embraced by community that she is overwhelmed. She catches Celeste’s eye and they beam at each other across the table.

  The male comedians join the group of six Little Mountain gals at their table and the conversation is lighthearted and flirtatious. The women all agree they need to explore Australia one day, if all the men are so funny and sweet. One young man pays a great deal of attention to Liv, saying “I can’t believe you’re thirty years old with three kids and a farm — you’re a beaut.”

  It’s what she needed to hear — that that part of her is still alive and attractive. It’s what she needs to tell herself. It doesn’t matter what happened ten years ago or that her marriage is failing and her husband no longer desires her.

  Ross will not ruin my life, she realizes with a start. My father didn’t ruin my life. That hockey team did not ruin my life. I’ve nothing to feel guilty or ashamed about. I have, I can and I will start over again, and again if I have to. I won’t have the weight of painful secrets dragging me down.

  Their next hypno-therapy session is a few days after the comedy night and Liv tells Celeste she feels ready to explore the past life she’s been avoiding. There have been recurring nightmares starring Liv as a Nazi soldier. Celeste agrees to help her go there and believes Liv will be able to look at this possible past life without taking on the guilt or trauma of it, so they proceed.

  Session No. 10 transcript, Nov. 12, 1987

  Detlef, 1943

  He’s riding a bicycle across an arched stone bridge that spans a canal — it’s rural, probably in Europe. He’s in his late teens, maybe eighteen or so, and he’s wearing a uniform — khaki-coloured with a red swastika armband. Oh my God, this is the past life I’ve had nightmares about since I was a little girl.

  I’m feeling reluctant, but at the same time know I need to force myself to look at this experience of my soul. I’m not sure why.

  The countryside is lovely and pastoral — stone fences and pastures dotted with sheep and black-and-white dairy cows. It’s late afternoon — the sun is low in the sky, beaming through a bank of clouds. The shadows are long and deep. Two golden palomino horses run up a hill in the distance and are silhouetted against the azure sky.

  He passes old farm houses painted white, neatly decorated with brightly coloured wooden windmills and weather cocks, as if lifted from the pages of an idyllic, quaint children’s story book. But, just like a Grimm’s fairytale, I have a feeling this charming setting will belie an ugly plot!

  His name is Detlef. I hesitate to allow my spirit to merge with a young man who’s clearly enlisted with the notorious Nazis. There it is, though, the luminescent thread that ties my soul to his. I see that it is not a pure blue — it has a faded, muddy grey hue.

  Damn! I knew something like this was going to rear its head. I swear he’s smirking at me as my soul observes him.

  Detlef is whistling a song. I recognize it.

  I love to go a-wandering, my knapsack on my back.

  And when I go, I love to sing, my knapsack on my back, fallerie, fallera…

  He stops in the shade of a roadside oak and leans his bike against its rough bark. He lights a cigarette, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small round mirror. He looks at himself with a direct, appraising eye. Then he pulls his mouth into a smile — he’s pleased with the way he looks, proud of his uniform and the idea of belonging, of being powerful.

  Before he returns the mirror to his pocket, he turns it in his hand and runs his thumb over the smooth ridges that form a pattern of Cloisonné flowers. It’s a strange thing for a young man to carry, but I sense it’s a memento — or perhaps a trophy? The mirror inspires a flash of pride in Detlef.

  He resumes his ride and, as if in response to my curiosity, he calls up a memory — a jostling crowd of children lined up to enter their school. A young Detlef, maybe eight or nine years old, stands slightly apart. His clothing is threadbare, his trousers too short. He feels panicked and trapped. He’s a poor student and dreads feeling stupid in front of the other children. A girl around the same age comes up beside him, smiles and says hello. Shoshanna. He lingers over the sight of her, standing there clutching her books, gazing at him with her deep brown eyes. Shoshanna’s face is round, her complexion fair, her skin almost translucent. Her smooth dark hair is pulled back into a low ponytail held by a scrap of yellow silk ribbon.

  Her simple, friendly act puts Detlef more at ease — he gets carried away with the idea that perhaps she likes him in a particular way, but he can’t bring himself to ask.

  ~ ~ ~

  Now a little older, Detlef has filled out and is looking muscular and strong — handsome in that Eastern European way, fair hair, cool blue menacing eyes. Just like my dad’s. His round face reddens as he exerts himself and I focus in and see him beating up another boy in the school yard. With each blow, each kick, Detlef vents his rage — the boy is “an idiot, a gimp, a dirty gypsy, a lying thief.” Detlef’s pen has gone missing and he’s certain this boy had taken it. The smaller boy flails back at Detlef, but soon he’s knocked to the ground. He gives up and curls into a ball with his arms wrapped around his head. Detlef lands a kick to his ribs — and then Shoshanna pushes between them, shouting at him to stop. She bends to attend to the gypsy boy, then helps him to his feet and back into the school. She casts a glance at Detlef — he reads disgust.

  How dare she judge me? Detlef’s temper surges at the insult. That look from Shoshanna reminds him of the dismayed expression on his father’s face when Detlef is rude to his mother. Stupid, cowardly man. Detlef will have to find another girl to fantasize about — one that is blonder, with a more ample bosom. More of a true German.

  ~ ~ ~

  Back to the present. Detlef’s legs ply the pedals of his bike rhythmically along the country road. He’s been unable to find a job, so he works on the family farm. He hates it — considers it drudge labour, far beneath him. He has no respect for his parents, who have spent their lives in the dirt and the muck and are still no better than peasants.

  The only farming chore Detlef enjoys is the slaughter. Even as a young boy, he took pride in his own ability to exercise power over the farmyard creatures, sometimes kicking a cow unnecessarily as he walks past, or withholding food just to see them bawl and beg. Today he killed one of the boars, cut its fatty throat and watched its red blood gush. He looks forward to ham and bacon. They do eat well on the farm — although his mother had cooked the offal from the pig today, which he didn’t like. Typical peasant farmers, making do with guts while conniving Jews live in big houses and amass fortunes. He’s learning a lot at about the problems in his country from his Hitler Youth meetings. He’s found others who share his ideas and it’s an outlet for his anger.

  Maybe Shoshanna would prefer a weakling like his father, who kowtows to his wife’s every command. Men like him will always be the peasants of the world. Detlef will never be like him — he’s strong, he’ll take what he wants. If that means girls like Shoshanna won’t like him, then so be it. He smiles to himsel
f. There will be no shortage of girls for him when he’s a decorated soldier in Herr Hitler’s army.

  She’s is just a lowly Jew, a Kike, who has to wear a star on an armband. Even if she were to beg him, he thinks, he would reject her — still his penis hardens at the thought of taking her against her will.

  Oh my god, I hate this guy so much! There’s no way I can relate to him in any way! I don’t know if I can stay here and watch this Nazi pig.

  “Liv, would you like to come back from this past life now?”

  No, I’ll stick with it. I remember in one of the books you lent me, Buddha said that in our past lives we have all been the murdered and the murderer, the victim and the perpetrator. There must be a message here somewhere.

  With each pump on the bike pedal, the mirror in Detlef’s pocket taps solidly against his leg, reminding him. He knows he shouldn’t carry such an item around, but he couldn’t resist today — he wants it close to him. Tomorrow he’ll leave it hidden at home.

  He acquired Shoshanna’s mirror the night before. His memory plays the scene in his head — he’s marching with five of his Hitler Youth cohort in formation down the dark city streets, accompanying the SS on a special mission. Detlef’s pride soars as he marches with his peers, well-dressed and more powerful and purposeful than he ever felt as a farm boy. Their route takes them into the Jewish section. In his training, Detlef has learned from his superiors that the Jews are destroying Germany and must be forced to leave, beginning with the rich Jewish families who have a great deal of influence in their community. He believes this is an absolute truth.

  They stop at Shoshanna’s house — her father is a successful jeweller in Munich, but they live in this smaller village in a large, stately home. The officers bang loudly on the door and Shoshanna’s father opens it. Detlef watches as he’s dragged onto the street. Soldiers burst inside and soon emerge with her mother, who is weeping and calling to her husband. The commandant shouts at them, demanding to know where their children are.