What really happened--Part 2
Tuesday, Dec. 31, 2002, 2:26 p.m.

Drat! Again! Me and my stupid click-happy fingers! I managed to click on a link to another page and lost everything I'd started on here. Not that I'd gotten very far, mind you, because after a certain point, I copy what I've written into a Word document to keep it safe and sound. Anyway, Merry Christmas, y'all. :) Hope you had fantastic holidays with your families and focused on what it's really all about: the birth of Jesus and what that really means. (No, promise, I'm not going into any sermons.) And Happy New Year, probably, by the time I get this posted! Anyway, this was just a quick prelude to the previously scheduled program of "What Really Happened, Part 2". :) And onto the feature presentation:

Ok, so, for Christmas we go out to visit my Gramma (this is when I'm 15, not right now...), Larry is now working at home on the farm full time while my mom and dad work in town full time. I habitually sleep in the nude. (I'm not saying this to be overly explicit. There is a point.) I'd spent the time in California staying up as late as I possibly could, having girl-talk sessions with my cousin Jamie, just typically behaving like a 14 year old. So, needless to say, by the time we were back in Colorado, I was pretty exhausted. Mom and Dad had to go back to work the day after we got back, but Nicky and I still had a week of Christmas vacation before we had to go back to school. So we were blissfully sleeping in. After Mom and Dad had gone to work--minor rumblings in my nice warm cocoon--Larry came into my room. I just thought he was going to get my laundry or something. I didn't really think about it, since I was half asleep. At least, I didn't until he crawled into bed next to me and I found out that he was naked, too. That shocked me awake. Larry proceeded to tell me...I don't remember what all, but that he'd felt this way for a long time and then he told me that he wanted to make love to me. I cried. I didn't even really answer him at first. Then he asked me something to the effect of "will you?" and I shouted no at him and started sobbing in earnest. I remember him putting his hand on my head as he got up to leave. I flinched. He said, "I never meant to hurt you." I don't know, maybe he was sincere, but I couldn't help but think (and still feel to this day) that he didn't mean it, that he said it only to...keep it from sounding too bad if I said anything. To cover his ass, nothing more. I'm not sure. I was so upset at that point, I wasn't in any shape to read his inflections.

I don't really remember the rest of the day. I remember being in a haze, feeling dirty, unclean, crying for I don't know how long...and feeling like I couldn't say anything, afraid no one would believe me...and feeling like...it didn't really matter, because I thought the "no" would end it. Ridiculous thought, I suppose, but...he'd been like a father to me, even if we didn't always get along and there were awkward moments! And really, what I'd felt most when he told me he wanted to make love to me was betrayal. He was supposed to be a family member for crying out loud! Things like that don't happen with family members! Or at least...they're not supposed to. I was hurt and angry and felt as if there must be something wrong with me to make him look at me like that. But most of all, I felt betrayed by someone I should have been able to trust. I don't think I ever forgave him for that, not until just recently, even though I thought I had long since. There was never anything as blatantly wrong as the day he came into my room naked, but...there were other things, little things. When I was leaving or coming home and made the round of hugs and kisses, he'd pull me over so that he could kiss or bite my neck, and when I'd flinch away or protest, Mom would say he was only playing, and tell me to quit over-reacting. Larry would tell me that I'd like it when I was older. And I would just...shudder and think, I'll never like something like that. I'll always think of him and hate it. Or the times when we were all wrestling, and Larry would pin me down, lying on top of me, forcing my arms apart to the sides so that I didn't have any real defense, the times when I would get so frustrated and angry I managed to squirm away and Mom pinned down my legs so that I couldn't really move or get away, the times when he grabbed my thighs, too close to...just too close. Anytime I said anything, I'd get in trouble for "ruining the mood", and instead of everyone laughing and playing around, I caused glares and anger. I began to feel like it was my fault these things were happening. I thought maybe I was just being "too sensitive". That things like this were normal and I was just a freak for reading too much into it or not liking it.

I began to despise myself, my body for betraying me. I wore baggy clothes and hunched over to try to hide my breasts. It didn't seem to make a difference. And a 14-year-old girl wants to look nice to go out with her friends, so the few times we'd go out in the evenings and I wore something other than shapeless jeans and T-shirts...I felt like a slut, and when Larry would look at me, that's all I could see in his eyes. And of course there were the holidays where everyone was supposed to dress up...and there were times I got so tired of not being able to wear anything that looked nice...but then there would always be something that happened. Like my 15th birthday. I had this red shirt that was really pretty, it was kind of low-cut (not that it took much with my cleavage to qualify as "low-cut") with a little fringe around the sleeves. I was supposed to go out that afternoon, or maybe it was supposed to be the evening...and had dressed up in that and a pair of jeans that actually fit. We were having the regular birthday dinner...oh, quick side note. Family tradition: on birthdays, the person whose birthday it is gets to choose what the dinner should be. I remember feeling resentful because I'd asked for a fondue dinner--which had been granted--and been told that if I wanted cauliflower to be one of the vegetables, Larry wouldn't attend. Such a dumb thing, but it made me so angry that, even on my birthday, I couldn't have control over such a simple thing as what vegetables were going to be served for dinner. Anyway, I love mushrooms, so do my dad and Larry, so of course, there were lots of mushrooms. We were sitting and talking. Dinner was actually going fairly well. And then Larry took one of the mushrooms, aimed carefully at me, and shot it so that it went straight down my shirt. As irritating as it was, it wouldn't have been so bad if Mom hadn't refused to exuse me to get it out of my shirt. I had to sit there, in front of everyone to fish it out, and really couldn't even turn away much as I was in the seat of honor and the center of attention. I was so mortified. I brought the shirt with me when I went to school and threw it away. I couldn't stand it, I hated the sight of it. I don't know...it all sounds so very...petty when I write about it. Just as it did when I finally started to tell Anthony about all of it...It's hard to explain the control issues, the things I was never allowed to do for myself or the stupid rules that were never varied. And all the things I try to use as examples only sound more and more ridiculous. You'd probably just laugh if I told you that I had an 8:30 bed time when I was 15. A little odd, to be sure, but what's so horrible about that? Only allowed to talk on the phone for 10 minutes, you say? Well what a great idea to keep teenagers from sitting on the phone for hours! Stupid things...but the whole household revolved around whether or not Larry liked something. If he was in a good mood, then all was well, but if he wasn't...we crept around like little mice trying to be quiet and escape his wrath. And he would say the cruelest things...things he knew would cut straight to the heart. "Selfish bitch." That's what he liked to tell me I was whenever I screwed up. I didn't really get spankings except for once in a blue moon after I was 7. My parents figured out that for me it was soooo much worse to have them tell me they were disappointed in me. It would reduce me to tears in heartbeats to think I'd disappointed them. Spankings hurt, to be sure, but...they were over and done with in short order. Disappointing my parents, on the other hand, that was pretty bad. That meant that I hadn't just screwed up, I had SCREWED UP! It also meant that I would get these lectures. I don't know how long they were when I was younger--but to a 7-year-old, 15, 20 minutes is an enormously long time. I know that by the time I was 15, the lectures would go on for an hour, two hours sometimes... asking how I could do whatever it was that I'd done... and I'd pretty much just end up crying because most of my answers were either inappropriate or angry and that would only get me in worse trouble, grounded longer or lectured at longer. And at the same time as my grounding and getting lectured got longer and longer...my brother was getting punished physically more and more. My brother is mentally handicapped. Moderately so, I would say. Not completely unable to function on his own in the world, but he'd have to struggle awful hard to be able to do it, and would probably need some kind of help for the rest of his life. It was as if...I was the "smart one" so they talked to me, but since Nick wasn't...he got hit. At first it was just spanking...the same stuff they'd done to me until they figured out I preferred it to the lecturing, and I didn't think anything of it. I'd been bad enough a couple of times to warrant a spanking with a belt, so when that started with Nick, I flinched, but still didn't think it was that unusual. Until I noticed that pretty much all of his spankings were with belts. Somehow, it escalated to Nicky getting hit. I think it started because he hit a girl...at school? Or maybe it was me, I'm really not sure, and so he got hit back to teach him that you don't hit girls. And it just kept escalating from that...slowly, slowly...so that you almost didn't notice it.

When I started my Freshman year of high school, my best friend Liz and I were walking down the hall. An acquaintance of mine walked by and (I think) intended to put his hand on my shoulder as we passed, but I moved or he moved and he ended up putting his hand flat against my throat. It wasn't hard, but it was enough to make me feel trapped, pinned. I jerked away and wavered between rage and tears. He was oblivious. He apologized, patted my shoulder, and walked away. Since he had left, there was nothing left pushing me to rage and I collapsed in tears. Liz was, understandably, pretty astonished. She had known something was up, but I wouldn't tell her, wouldn't tell anyone, feeling like it was my fault, that, if I told anyone, all they would see is whatever was wrong with me and that they'd condemn me, leave me alone to face it by myself with no refuge. She dragged me into the counselor's office, summarily ordered them to let us use the empty conference room, snagged a box of tissues and closed the door behind us. She made me sit, gave me the tissues and ordered me to talk. In a way, it's funny. She's so mild-mannered most of the time, very acquiescent. If I hadn't been so wound up in my emotions, I'd probably have laughed to see her taking charge like that.

I gave her the whole story, punctuated by sobs and bursts of non sequiturs. She managed to put the story together from my mangled explanation. She asked if I'd told Mom. I told her that I hadn't been able to, couldn't figure out how. She told me I had to tell Mom, and I told her I didn't know how...She insisted we go talk to the counselor, then, and part of me felt like screaming with relief while the other part wanted to cower. I was so glad that she wasn't looking at me like I was filthy, that she still loved me, that she was going to stay my friend. I didn't want to risk going through the whole process again with someone else, someone who would probably say that it was my fault...and yet...I wanted to let someone with authority know about what was going on. Someone who could fix it, just make it all go away. So we talked to her, and...she didn't look at me like I was dirty, but...she wasn't very helpful, either. She told me I had to talk to my mom, also.

"Promise you'll talk to her tonight," Liz demanded.

"Ok," I mumbled.

The counselor would've been content to let it go at that, but Liz knew me too well. "Nope," she said. "Say the words. You have to say 'I promise to talk to Mom tonight.' I know you. You'll evade it by saying that you didn't really promise to talk to her, that you were just agreeing to something else."

Damn! Maybe we hadn't been friends for that long, less than a year, but boy did she know me! I balked at making the promise. For some reason, Mom was going to be home early and Larry was going to be gone. I think maybe he was out of town for a couple days. Finally, Liz said she'd call my mom when she (Liz) got home, tell her that I had to talk to her, that she had to just listen, that it wouldn't be easy for me to say what I needed to, but that she should be patient. I went home that day with, not butterflies, but insane fighter planes zooming through my stomach. I sometimes wonder what she thought I was going to tell her, if she worried that maybe I was pregnant or something normal for a teenage girl to have trouble telling her mom. Who knows...maybe she knew what I was going to say, after all.

I remember sitting at her feet in the living room, staring down at the carpet because I was too ashamed to look at her, picking at my hands and the nap of the carpet. (Wow! I've got my stomach in a knot, just remembering all this! Didn't realize how powerful all this was...) After many false starts and lots of stuttering, I managed to tell her.

"He...he came into my room, back when we came back for Christmas, and he...told me...he told me..." I felt my stomach heave and swallowed to keep from vomiting. "He said he wanted to make love to me."

"I know. He told me about it. I didn't think he'd told you. But I told him it wasn't ok." She shrugged, as if that cleared the whole matter up.

I looked up at her in shock. She knew? She KNEW? SHE FUCKING KNEW THE WHOLE TIME???? I couldn't think of anything to say. I think I cried. I don't remember. She got up, went into the laundry room and started folding socks and underwear, as if there was nothing wrong, as if everything was normal. And I was screaming at her in my head, don't you understand? All these things since then that have happened, things you told me I was over-reacting to...and you KNEW the whole time?

I went to my room shortly after that, but...I was just in shock...I was angry, and hurt, and I felt betrayed all over again...The next day, Liz found me first thing and asked if I'd told her, asked how it went. I remember looking at her dully, exhausted from crying, and told her, "She knew. The whole time, she knew. He told her..." I trailed off. I felt like I was in a haze, wandering through fog. Over the next few days, I found myself trying to rationalize it. To be honest, I could understand it. For one thing, it was terribly hard to defy Larry. It was surprising for me to realize that my parents were as dominated by him as I was, but...somehow not very unexpected. For another thing...Mom has always been so worried about our family. Something like this would break the family up, and I could understand why she wouldn't want to ruin everything. Some childish part of me thought that, when I told her, everything would, magically, fix itself. Reality stepped in to knock some sense into me on that score. But I had still hoped that...telling my mom would banish the monster. And I didn't know if the monster was Larry, or what had happened, or the way I felt...or all of it rolled into one. But I'd thought that somehow the whole thing would be resolved... like your mom coming in on a dark night, to turn on the light and cuddle you, peering under the bed and in the closet to reassure you that there is no boogey man after all, only your imagination, and then all is right with the world as she sits by your bed, and strokes your hair until you fall back asleep. I wanted it to be all gone, just like that. My imagination or something Mama could banish by standing guard. But...even if Larry had had to move out or something equally drastic...it wouldn't have all been gone that easily.

It went on like that for...oh, a year or so, maybe two...I never got up the courage to tell Dad. I was afraid...I was afraid that he knew too, and that I'd have to go through it all again, like I did with Mom. Maybe I didn't think it through consciously, but I knew instinctively that 1) Mama had pitched her lot with Larry, and 2) if it ever came down to a choice between me or Mama, my dad would choose mom in a heartbeat. So, obviously, Mom had already made her decision so dad's was made de facto. Whether he ever knew about it or not. I don't think Mom ever told him.

It's a roller coaster, you know...with peaks and dips, some places where it levels out and seems like it'll be ok, but then there will be some sudden drop, or a peak in tension and you're back out of control...

The peak in tension had been building slowly, slowly...imperceptibly rising. After the confrontation with Mom, I didn't go back to the counselor. Maybe if I had, things would've gotten resolved. But...if Mom wouldn't do anything, why would this stranger who I had no reason to trust? So I told her that I'd told Mom about everything and it had been taken care of. She never asked me any more than that. I don't know if she knew I was lying or not. Probably. I'm not very good at it. I don't think she really wanted to deal with it, to be honest. So I avoided that counselor, and things kind of went on as normal. Larry got back from his trip, and I guess Mom must've had some sort of talk with him. He acted weird for a little while, but then things went back to how they'd been before I said anything, except that...well, it wasn't as bad, not so blatantly obvious as it had been...but it didn't stop, the groping and the grabbing, the making me lay down next to him on the couch in the afternoons when I got home from school, sometimes with him naked, having to help him wash his feet in the shower, because his back hurt too much. And those happened sometimes even when Mom and Dad were home. I began to feel like it was just a part of the every day routine, that nothing would ever change and it would continue on like this for me and for Nicky. The gradual climb up the slope...

And almost a year and a half later, when I was 16, a little before Valentine's Day...on the way home, Nicky and I were bickering. Normal sibling stuff, and as we were walking up the driveway he was being a pain and I was being stubborn, and we fought. It wasn't even a big deal, whatever he had done, but I was so mad at him for defying me (Wow! Do we see a pattern here??? So scary...) that I wanted him to be in trouble. So, when we got to the house, I tattled on him. We were still outside when that happened. And of course, it was Larry who was home and Mom and Dad were at work. Larry sent me inside, but something in his voice worried me. I went upstairs and ran to a window. I looked out in time to see him either push Nick down or hit him hard enough to knock him down to the ground, I never was sure. But I do know that he started kicking him in the ribs after that. I started crying hysterically. It was my fault this was happening. If I'd just kept my stupid mouth shut... But I hadn't. Larry picked him up by the back of his neck so that he was standing, and then sat him down, hard, on the ground, pointing and shouting something at Nick, probably instructions for him to stay where he was. And Nicky was crying...So I started calling my friends, crying the whole time, damn near incoherent. I don't even remember what order I called people. I called Alicia, but no one answered. I called Liz, but she wasn't home, and I only talked to her mom. But I was so hysterical I told her pretty much everything. She asked if I wanted her to call the police. "Yes. No! I don't know! Something has to be done. But don't call the police, that'll only make it worse. I think he's coming back inside now. I have to go. Tell Liz, please? Bye!" I hung up hurriedly, moving away from the phone, and listened intently. No, he wasn't there. I looked out the window, there, by the barn. He was going from one bin to the next. Must have just been me being paranoid. I ran downstairs, opened the door and snuck out to Nick. I hugged him, and held him close to me rocking a little bit. "I'll take care of you, Nicky. I'll fix it. I'll make it better. I'm so sorry. Please don't be angry with me. I'm so sorry I told on you." And he just cried and hugged me back as hard as he could. "I have to go back in, now, baby. I'm going to make some phone calls. I don't want Larry to catch us." Nicky didn't say anything, just kept crying and let me go. I went back in, ran up the stairs.

Jolene! That's who I'd call. I rummaged around in my room, throwing worried glances over my shoulder. I came back into the computer room so that I could look out the side window, keep an eye on Nicky and look out for Larry while I called. The phone number's been disconnected! Oh, god, what am I going to do? Oh, look, there's her pager number. It's risky...what if she doesn't call back right away, what if she waits too long and when she calls back, Larry's in here. What will I do when she says that she got a page? But I have to, I have to do something. I paged her. I waited all of 10 seconds and then called my boyfriend at the time.

"Joe? Is Joe there? Ok...yeah, I'll wait. It's pretty important though." I was still crying, but at least I was somewhat calmer at this point. "Joe? Joe, oh, god...it's awful. He was kicking Nick, just kicking him and kicking him and kicking him..." I felt my voice rising in hysteria, heard myself say other incomprehensible things, but enough of it made sense to put Joe into an absolute rage.

"I'm going to kill him! If he touches you..."

"Joe, no, no. Please, don't."

"I'm coming out there. Right now. On my bike, if I have to, but I'll be there." (This was no mean feat, given that we lived about 20 miles from the nearest town, and probably about 30 from where Joe lived. And he meant every word.)

"Oh, god. Joe, don't do that! It'll make things worse. Please..." The phone beeped. "Look, Joe, Joe, I have to go. There's another call coming in. If I don't let it ring through, I'm really in for it. Please just...I'll talk to you later, ok? But don't go anywhere. I'll call you back. Ok. Bye."

"Hello? Oh, Jolene!" And I started sobbing. "Oh, this is so dumb! I'm fine. I'm fine, nothing's happened to me! I just can't stop crying. Larry...Larry..." and in between sobs, I launched into the story again, explaining what had happened, asking her for help, advice, something. She was the calm and collected presence I needed.

"Is your brother ok? I mean, is he having any trouble breathing or is there any blood?" I'm sure, now, that she was trying to make sure he didn't have any broken ribs, but at the time, I couldn't have told you what the sum of two plus two was.

"Yeah, I think he's pretty much ok. I mean, he's crying, but he's breathing ok. And I didn't see any blood."

"Ok, take a deep breath. There you go. We'll get this figured out. Ok, Tessa, I need you to call the police, ok?"

"Oh, no, no, no, no! I can't do that. You don't understand!" And I began sobbing yet again.

"Hey! Hey, it's ok. It'll be ok. Calm down."

I took a couple deep breaths, looked outside again."Jolene, I'm so scared. He's never been this bad before. I mean...sometimes he hits Nick but...never like this. He looked so angry. I didn't think he was going to stop."

"Tessa, you have to call the police. You really do. It's only going to get worse if you don't. You have to believe me, hon."

"O-o-ok," I said. "As soon as I get off the phone with you, I'll call. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bug you."

"Hey, NO! I am so glad you called me. Are you going to be ok? Are you feeling calmer? If you need me, just call me right back, ok? But please, honey, call the police."

"All right. I'll call you back later if I need you. Thanks. I mean, I know that sounds kind of, well, cheesy. But...thank you."

"Anytime. And I mean it, don't hesitate to call if you need me. Anytime."

I hung up the phone and stared at it. My head throbbed because of all the crying. I looked out at my brother. And then I looked at Larry walking up the driveway. It was a long driveway. Maybe if I hurried...and then I got scared. What if he came in while I was on the phone with the police? I wasn't supposed to be on the phone at all, and I was a lousy liar. He'd know in a minute that I wasn't just talking with one of my friends. I sat there, too long, indecisive, staring alternately at the phone, my brother, and Larry. He got to the door at the bottom. I rushed to hang up the phone, ran into my room and opened up one of my books to pretend I was working on homework. My mind ran in little circles, round and round...I have to call...I can't...I have to call...I can't... I don't know how much later it was. I was exhausted. Mom had come home at some point. And then someone said that there was a police car coming up the road. Mom told Nick--who was still in trouble, sitting in the living room getting his lecture--that they were coming to take him away because he was so bad. Then she came into my room and asked what I'd done. She was so angry.

"Why did you call the police?"

"I didn't! I didn't!" I repeated again, as she looked at me and glared, sure that I was lying. "I just called my friends. Mom, he just kept kicking him and kicking him--"

"Why didn't you call me? What made you think that this was a good idea? You shouldn't have called the police."

It was as if she hadn't heard me at all. And I thought, What difference would it have made if I had called you? What would you have done about it? Told Larry that it wasn't ok? Or would you condone his actions, too? But all I said was, "Mom, he went too far. It was too much!"

"If you thought he went too far, you should have called me! Why didn't you at least call me first? Don't tell them anything!" I sat there mutely, uncertain of what to say. She turned and left the room while I just sat there, staring at the doorway, unable to move, unable to speak, not knowing what to do or what was happening.

The police talked to my mom and Larry--Dad wasn't home from work yet--for a long time. At some point, Dad came home to see police cars in the driveway and had to be brought up to speed. I could hear them sometimes, the roller coaster again, rising and falling, holding steady at a murmur I couldn't really hear...and then they came into my room. A man and a woman. Almost stereotypical, actually, the man towered over everyone, probably 6 feet tall, almost as wide as Larry across the shoulders; the woman was short, dark haired, only an inch or two taller than my mom, small and thin.

They asked me a few questions, about what had happened. And Mom stood there glaring at me the whole time, daring me to say anything at all. "He just...he just...he misbehaved on the bus, that's all. He got in trouble when he got home." I shrugged, avoiding their eyes.

"And how did he get in trouble?"

"What do you mean?"

"How did he get in trouble? How was he punished."

"He, um...he just got yelled at." I looked up into the eyes of the male officer, praying he knew I was lying. Praying that he would ask to talk to me without Mom in the room. Praying he would ask the right questions.

"You're sure?"

"Um...yeah, yeah, I'm sure."

"So, what about these calls we got, the ones that said..." he consulted his paper, "that your brother, Nick, was getting kicked."

"Um...I don't know." I shrugged uncomfortably, hating myself, even as I said it. Some kind of sister you are. Great job of protecting your brother. Oh, god, make this better somehow. Please, something, something happen. Just ask me, ask me to talk with you alone. Please...

"Are you sure? Why would so many people think that was what happened?"

"I don't know. I guess...I guess it was just a misunderstanding. I guess they didn't really understand what I was saying. I was just saying that..." I faltered, thought about telling the truth, but made the mistake of looking up at Mom. Her eyes bored into me promising dire vengeance when they left if I didn't cooperate. And the would leave. They might take Nick away, if I told the truth, but...they wouldn't have any reason to take me. And I'd be stuck here facing them...I quailed and lost what little courage I'd gained by having other people there. "I was just saying that Nick was getting yelled at," I finished dully. I shrugged again, looking down at my hands. "That's all."

"All right, I guess that's everything, then." He turned around to leave, Mom playing the gracious hostess. Wait! I thought. Oh, please wait! You have to ask to talk to me alone! Wasn't it obvious that I was afraid of Mom? Oh, please, please, come back. Talk to me. Let me tell you what really happened. Let me save my brother... oh, god, they're not going to look into it anymore. That's all... they're really leaving... oh, god... what's going to happen now?

And then began the lectures and the shouting and the guilt trips. "What do you think it was like for your dad to come home to police cars?" Worst was the look of disappointment on my dad's face when he looked at me. So... sad, so... disbelieving that I could behave so badly. And recriminations and more shouting...

~~~~~~~~~~

Oooh...well, folks, it's 5:30 and time for me to go. I'm definitely posting this! Evidently, there will be a part 3 although I'd hoped to wrap it all up with this one. More soon, hopefully tomorrow.

last - next