CHAPTER THREE

 

 

Your eleventh birthday passed in the hospital. They allowed us extra visiting time and I escaped early from work so we could bring you presents. Some new books, a soduku magazine, a catalogue of word games. Nothing really exciting but all we could do in your current situation.

For the past week you had been contrite. Happy to see me even. Much calmer.

The hospital staff began to discuss your trip home. You had lucked out of time in juvie, as Jacob wouldn’t press charges and even the deputy realized that you were not in reality when you assaulted him.

I feared your arrival. Jacob had suffered permanent damage to his leg and barely functioned with his cane. He was so susceptible to you. Your physical violence. Your manipulations. The lies you put in a bowl and spoon fed him.

But the time was coming.

We readied the house. Put the sharp objects back under lock and key. Moved your bedroom furniture around so that all your windows were fortified. Hid the medicine, chemicals, even our razors back in the cabinet over the washing machine that was held together with a combination lock.

I had wanted to embrace that girl-inside, but you wouldn’t let me see her again. Instead I got the daughter blessed with a forked tongue, the girl-pretending to be super tough but who was dying inside for a hug and any kind of love she could find, your depraved side, the one that caused me to retch in the bathroom at work.

Jacob handled you; I was home briefly for your welcome back and then absorbed in work. This was my toughest season, where I drew up contracts for summer camps and went searching for business to keep our dining halls full all summer. I was on the phone day and night, negotiating. Setting in motion the next several years of the business that kept hundreds employed. Entertaining camp directors, their colleagues, the pretty wives who always wanted me to escort them on a shopping spree.

The longer I was away the worse you behaved. Jacob phoned twenty times a day, and you were always in the background frantically screaming. He hauled you to your psychiatrist, who said we were doing the right things, to your psychologist, who said we were doing the right things, and at least once a week to the ER, where they felt sorry for him but nothing was ever done. We had to bear with you.

Which Jacob did. I about came out of my skin. Watching you pace around the house, edgy and defiant. A six minute homework assignment taking at least an hour of argument to complete. Everything a confrontation. Each second in your presence a wrecking ball that we had to dodge just to stay alive. Never a moment of peace until you finally fell asleep for the night.

Which I could no longer do. After the third death threat letter you left on my pillow I stopped going upstairs to bed. Instead I kept vigil on the couch, catching small naps here and there, ensuring you didn’t creep downstairs and try to find a weapon. To kill us. Me. Or hurt yourself.

I had to make dollars, I had to earn quota. Without the summer camp money the dining services would not survive and the long discussed sell out to Marriott or another business would be imminent. I called the Bible-thumpers, the writing groups, the basketball coaches. Jerry had a fellow to do this type of work for him, and he could have helped me as well, but I refused to ask. I had succeeded for eight years and didn’t plan on failing yet.

But the stress was unimaginable.

One month earlier I had opened a new door for us and started a catering business, run on the side through our graduate dorm. I had chosen the management team at this location because of their creative dynamic and knew they wouldn’t let it flounder. Kyle, the manager, held a part-time post at the country club and was great at event planning. He knew his employees well and had empowered his team to run the operation without him. Judy, the production manager, had fantastic foresight when it came to menus and budgets and saving every dime she possibly could. And Kaitlin, the service manager, was so creative Kyle sent her on almost every event that required set up work and a bit of panache to make it memorable. I had seen her work and was instantly envious of her talents.

While you were in the hospital I had been able to devote myself to this new venture. I canvassed the campus for business, worked endlessly with Kyle to develop menus and prices, put our sign out and announced that we were ready to rumble. The University liked to keep its money in house and we scored so many receptions right off the bat I couldn’t believe it. The Education Department, the Orchestra, the Library…all signed up with thousands on the table the first day. The First Day.

I had scooted past Jerry’s office that afternoon, my head swelling. Not that he’d asked about my ventures, not that he cared. But just knowing that the next meeting I would be able to announce that I had gambled and won dramatically kept me going.

So I worked. Brought home a healthy paycheck. Put food on the table. Afforded repairs for the damages you had done to the house.

Not that you appreciated any of it. Not my Jessie. Not the pre-teen who was given new jeans and came home the next day with them covered in black marker graffiti. Not the girl who gave away her bike because she didn’t care about it, not the one who would give up video games for months rather than turn in her homework. Not you.

But it was my own group that I had hired for our adoption reception, despite my misgivings. I was terrified of the gossip that would abound after my employees were exposed to you. Your colorful choice of words. Your hostility. Your possible breakdown on what should be one of the best days of all our lives.

I agonized over my decision. Fretted non-stop.

I hand-picked the employees who would cover the event, sat them down for twenty minutes and told them about you. Your background (to an extent). Your post traumatic stress disorder. The non-stop rage that was your #1 personality trait. The vicious way in which you responded to me. The asshole called RAD that kept you from forming bonds with us and amped up your behavior to where it was so bad for so long that no other family had kept you past six months.

Jacob and I were truly worried about RAD and his appearance at our adoption. Reactive Attachment Disorder had impaired you more than any of your other issues. Because you had been so neglected during your formative years, you were intolerant of emotional bonds as you grew older. Your birth mother’s abuse and the death of your sisters had marred you so deeply you (understandably) never wanted to suffer such pain again. The doctors all said you had one of the worst cases of RAD they had ever witnessed, but that it was a survival mechanism you could not control even if you had the maturity to do so.

We had only just begun to recognize RAD in you, and it was greatly centered around the times you and I spent alone. The movies. The zoo. Volunteering at the soup kitchen. We had had some awesome times together only to suffer The Day After, when you exploded with anxiety and hatred and aimed every ounce of it at me.

Adoption Day proved a delight.

At first.

You were glowing with pride. I didn’t have to tell you forty seven times to hop in the shower. Your hair was clean, brushed, and you even allowed me to curl it for you. The dress I had purchased fit beautifully and we spent at least ten minutes posing for Jacob as he snapped photos of his girls using the computer webcam, since we didn’t own a camera.

My parents drove down for the ceremony and reception. I did not invite them to stay at our house, citing your discomfort with virtual strangers as the foremost issue. They were wary of meeting you, having that attachment to a young woman full of promise and freshly killed skunk, drawing you into their arms with the full understanding that you kept poison pellets behind that flash of pearly whites you showed them.

Of course, I could say the same about them. But I didn’t.

Out loud.

Jacob’s mother also arrived. You knew her well, knew her as Grandma, the gift-giver and dog lover that called you every Wednesday night to see how your week was going. When she found us she stood on the sidewalk with arms wide spread and you ran to her, jumped into her embrace, whispered about your love while she held you.

My mother didn’t move.

We attended the court house proceedings and you were so chipper I couldn’t believe it! You stood up in front of the judge and told him how much you loved us and wanted us to be your parents. Jacob and I hadn’t known what to expect, but the positive energy you brought to our day certainly shocked us.

My catering team had prepared a small, unused dining room usually reserved for group meetings or get-togethers for our party. While the adoption itself was private, Jacob and I had invited almost fifty people to this event. I held your hand as we entered the room, our neighbors in full attendance. You hurried over to talk to some of the kids and I started the procession of hugs and handshakes through the throng of guests.

“We’re so happy for you!” The father of one of your schoolmates said as he patted my back. He lived two blocks from us and had visited me at work one day to see if there was anyway Jacob and I could still ‘get rid’ of you. He had caught you, red-handed, harvesting all of his tomatoes and throwing them at the side of his garage for a bit of target practice.

I had paid him heftily for his trouble and apologized for your intrusion into his yard.

Jacob had invited him to our reception.

I watched you (as always) from my periphery and was pleased with your exuberance. You loved your new dress and twirled in it for all to see. The eye makeup I had applied was a hot topic with Grandma, as you wanted to share how mature you felt.

I was worried about your proximity to the buffet set up, the sterno already lit and heating the bottom pan full of water. I asked to have the food brought out to distract you from this grand opportunity and fought myself from taking over the management of my own reception.

I observed you and you kept your eyes on the kitchen door. Food was often foremost in your mind. We couldn’t allow you to get very hungry or you would break down. Freak out that you would be back in the basement, starving. Eating bugs and cobwebs. Smelling your sisters as they slowly decayed in your dungeon.

You watched the buffet line and then the door. Empty dishes to promises of food to come. I could sense your anxiety rising and called Jacob over to distract you.

We stood as a family and thanked everyone for coming while my employees loaded the chafing dishes. I spoke of my life long desire to have a daughter and how fortunate we were to have you in our lives. Jacob made several jokes and wrapped his arm around you, while you fell against him.

I announced that you got to load your plate first, as you were the guest of honor, and was shoved aside as you hurried over to the buffet line. We had chosen the menu as a family, with at least one favorite food from each of us. Jacob had fried chicken. I chose manicotti. You had requested baked potatoes and macaroni and cheese.

With the sides and dessert bar to come, it wasn’t a bad menu. You picked up three chicken legs, your potato (with all the fixings. We couldn’t skip that.) and paused in front of the macaroni, the serving spoon stuck in your hand.

Perhaps God was nudging me. Giving me a good slap awake.

Or maybe it was all my own doing. I had watched you juggle the rotten melons and didn’t have faith that you could keep them all in the air. I had held my breath. I had secretly been waiting, agonizing over what you would do this time or how you would embarrass me.

When it happened, I was almost relieved. To breach the violence. The newest episode. The humiliation that was bound to come.

“Where the fuck is my Velveeta?” You hollered, your forehead pinched with anger.

“Jessie….” Jacob began.

“Don’t be an asshole. Shut up. Bitch, I was talking to you.”

And you did.

The whole crowd went quiet. I could feel the heat of the spotlight as it focused on us, as all eyes were riveted to this new drama. The whispers started. The condescension of all our neighbors and friends, concentrated on me. Your glare gave my insecurity bloom and I entered Wonderland, shrinking in shame yet becoming monstrous with indignity.

The neighbors watched.

My employees stared. Open mouthed.

My parents listened. Loved the gossipy nature of your crime. I could see Mom lean in and put her hand against Dad’s ear. No doubt they were talking about my poor parenting abilities.

Kaitlin was fast. While you went on about how stupid I was to give you baked macaroni and cheese rather than “the only reason I let you fucking adopt me” Velveeta you had on your mind, she capped the sterno fuel so your fit wouldn’t end in fire.

“God, you’re an idiot.” You looked back down at the serving spoon in your hand and flung the macaroni at me.

“Jessie!” My blood roared, my ears pulsing with the sound of it, my face burning from rage and the hot cheese sauce that dotted my skin.

Before I could reach you ,you were back at the buffet. Grabbing handfuls of the pasta. Flinging it at my employees. Screaming as if someone had perched you on a meat hook and left you to slowly die.

“Goddamned idiot. Fuck you. Fuck you Fuck you Fuck you Fuck you Fuck you…..”

My heel caught on some macaroni and I went sliding into you, the two of us falling under the banquet table, the chafing dish of pasta catapulting onto Kaitlin as she let loose with an agonizing scream. Before your fist found my face I saw her pulled into the kitchen, the others rendering first aid as her skin burned from the hot food.

I am a woman of manners. I eat with my mouth closed (unlike others in our household), I am exceedingly polite even when wearing my most hostile delicates, I always let others go first unless it is an emergency or business situation in which I need to step forward. I wash my hands. I pass my gas in private. I even sleep in my bra.

When your hands closed around my throat, it wasn’t that I was afraid. I instantly thought it rather humorous that a twelve year old would try to kill her mother in such a manner on her own adoption day. If I had been able to breathe I might have even laughed.

But my heart was racing. My anger rising. And I was well aware that we had an audience.

If I flung you to the side, would they applaud? Should I allow you to injure me out of deference to your age? Did no one realize that your vehemence belied your eleven years and I might actually be hurting?

I didn’t want to embarrass myself anymore than this incident already had. I was so afraid they’d judge me as a bad mother. The worst ever. One that lets her daughter douse her employees with hot macaroni. One that has no control. No emotion. No sympathy for this kind of behavior.

I took the mild route and slapped your arm. Not even a hit that would leave a red mark on your skin, but one that redirected your emotions and got you to back off my neck.

“You hit me?” You scooted away from me. “Why would you hit me?” You touched the spot I had slapped. Gave me your most innocent eyes.

“Jessie, you were strangling me. I had ever right to….”

“Holy fuck. Holy fuck. You hit me?”

A few people worked their way out of the room. I could hear Kaitlin crying in the kitchen, Jacob on his cell phone with the caseworker, gathering advice.

“Bitch! You hit me?”

The wailing started. Your purple faced, never breathing, crack the windows and bring down the plaster screeching that was certainly a crowd pleaser.

“Sarah, don’t let her catch you! Sarah, I’ll keep Mommy away from you!” You kicked me.

My employees ushered the rest of the guests outside. I caught sight of Jacob’s face, the tears coursing down his cheeks. I hated to disappoint him.

“Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommy….” You raced around the room. Blind to the world around you.

This time I just didn’t have it in me to care as much. I refused to cave like my husband and let you rule us with your bad behavior. Being abused doesn’t give anyone the right to hurt other people. And you never gave a flying fuck about those who got in your way when you were mad.

Mad over baked versus Velveeta. What a crock that one was.

You just couldn’t be happy. Couldn’t let us have one day. One day.

I walked over to your personal tirade and slapped your face as hard as I could. I heard Jacob in the background pleading with me to stop but I couldn’t help myself.

And I understood her. Your birth mother. Her anger. The frustration that drove her to hit you. My blood pressure had exploded to where I could taste my own fury, my own blood in my mouth, like it was dripping from my teeth and down my chin.

I wanted to hurt you. Your screech was a siren, pulsing. I looked at your stupid squished up screaming face and wanted to rip out your eyes. Your vocal chords. To tie your hands over your head and flog you like a Roman peasant, let your past pain leech out your fresh wounds.

I swallowed my hostility but just watched you, amazed. Thought about taking the fire extinguisher to your head and pounding your skull until your face was silly putty, flattened to the floor. I could feel the power of that moment, the heart pounding frenzied pace of raising my weapon and listening to the crack of your bones as it found purchase and your eye sockets exploded. I wanted to give you something to cry about. Something other than my choice of pastas for you to tantrum over.

But I’m better than you.

With my own mother out of the room I was able to get a tighter grip on myself. Rise back up. Accept your never ending challenge.

Win.

Pity and exhaustion overwhelmed me, helped my heart slow down.

“I hate you!” You reminded me. Again.

I refocused. Jacob had caught your attention, was working some of his favorite-parent magic on you, and I took my turn sitting down.

Glaring at you for a change of pace.

At the macaroni decorating the dining hall.

Slow, deep breaths helped me calm down. Minutely. But enough that my adoption day presents didn’t come wrapped with a hefty prison sentence.

I pictured the revolver, my good friend. His name was Jazz. We had spent more and more time together as your RAD rose to the top of your skin and overwhelmed all angles of our life.

I felt the steel in my hand. Listened to your persistent moaning. Resented your need for constant attention, be it positive or negative. Your love of a good fight. Your absolute refusal to take ownership of your life and control yourself.

Your basement home was easy for me to approach. Peeking through the windows I saw walls lined with old glass bottles, most of them broken with lots of dangerous points jagging out. You crouched in a corner, muttering to yourself. The stench of you was enormous. Even your feet were coated in the same shit that streamed down your legs.

I didn’t care anymore. Didn’t give a rat’s ass where you had come from. Didn’t give a flying fuck about The Great Birthmother that had destroyed you. I had just signed a life-long binding contract making you my forever daughter and I wished I could light that albatross afire and watch it illuminate the night sky.

Basement girl gone wild. Her New Mom, who couldn’t stand the simple stress of non-stop battle.

I hadn’t asked for more shame.

I hadn’t asked for more rejection.

I got all Jazzy. Felt the steel in my hand. Pointed my finger at you and aimed.

Let you see that my intentions weren’t all filled with flowers. I even winked when I fake shot you.

After the trip to the ER I went to check on Kaitlin and face the humiliation of work. Went home to load my gun. Flipped off your empty bed as I walked past your door.

Then cradled my husband as he bawled and declared his undying love for you, the little girl who had survived the darkness and grown up to make our lives a living hell.

 

FOUR

The University splurged and sent me to a food show. Seven hours from home.

I paid for my own room and left a day early. Drove alone, fueled by some Opera Trance music I had just discovered, my legs dancing to the beat, my body aching for a good run. I enjoyed the drive but hated sitting still for so long.

Five hours into the trip I noticed the sign. Edisonville. Exit in two miles. The town itself, thirty more going west.

My decision was instantaneous, curiosity taking a quick turn on the wheel. I had taken this leisure day simply to calm down, put on my professional airs, get ready for the big show. But now here I was, heading toward Edisonville. Your home town. The setting for your personal horror story.

The population sign stated 30,000, but looked decades old. The drive to town was spotted with new gas stations, a porn store, a family owned ice cream shop. Then the decadence began- row after row of unfilled store fronts, their windows broken, graffiti coloring the old brick walls. A motel was half burned but still touted their nightly rate in numbers dangling off the road side sign.

This was not where I wanted to jog. Run, maybe. Run with my purse clutched to my chest and Jazz gripped firmly in my right hand.

When I entered a cleaner area I stopped and asked a convenience store clerk for directions to the library. Found it first try. Popped in and talked to the librarian about my situation.

“I remember that. How dreadful. That was one of the worst things to ever happen in our Eddie-ville. Poor child.” She looked at least twenty years older than I felt, her hair braided intricately and landing on the small of her back.

“I was hoping to find the house where she was kept. Do you have any idea where that might be?”

I didn’t have a game plan, but this seemed like an excellent idea.

“I can do you one better. Leslie? Leslie, are you still at the front?” This librarian wasn’t concerned with quiet. All the patrons stared at us as she wormed her way back to the main desk and the woman standing behind it.

“Leslie here lives just a couple blocks down the street from that awful place. Can you tell this woman anything about the house where that horrible woman killed her little girls?”

I left, a stack of articles printed off the microfilm machine, the name of a woman who said I could tour her home after Leslie made the call for me. Her directions were flawless. I stopped briefly at the CVS for a disposable camera and met Barbara at her front door ten minutes later.

“I’m so sorry for the intrusion. I hadn’t really planned on doing this today. But, here I am.” I put my hand out for a shake and followed my new friend into her living room.

“I made us some iced tea. Do you need sugar?”

We chatted. First about Edisonville, her house. Barbara had only been living there for four years, as it had sat unattended before her purchase.

“No one wanted to live here. Everyone was afraid, you know. I bought the house for five grand.”

The tea was delicious. Barbara skirted around you for awhile, hesitant to ask if you were okay.

“Jessie has an overload of emotional problems. If she can survive her past she’ll be the CEO of her own company one day. But it destroys her.”

Barbara filled me in on some of the dirt: your mother-the bad one, the one you love- had once been a cheerleader in high school. Like you, she had unlimited potential. She applied herself, got good grades, was exceedingly popular.

“Then she got pregnant,” Barbara whispered. “Her Momma kicked her out. She lived with her baby’s daddy for awhile, but he hooked up with someone else and didn’t want nothing to do with her after that.”

Pregnant with sweet Sarah. The sister who tried so hard to look after you. The six year old who you saw in every child’s face we passed.

“I heard she moved in with some old man after that. She got pregnant again. But by that time she was already addicted, you know? Her friends from high school didn’t talk to her. She had a whole new set of friends. Ones that didn’t care if your baby had a daddy. Ones that didn’t care if you took a shower. Friends that only wanted one thing from her. Men.”

Barbara lit a cigarette, which surprised me. I hadn’t noticed a smoke smell in the house, let alone seen an ashtray.

The rest of the story was unsaid. A young girl, saddled with two kids she didn’t want, an unfinished education, relationship issues, who was strung out on drugs. How to get more drugs? The same way you got more babies. Why use more drugs? Because of the way you paid for drugs.

“Do you want to see it?” Barbara asked, breaking our silence.

“See what?”

“The basement?” Barbara tilted her head. “I don’t go down there often. It still creeps me out. Thinking about their dead bodies and all.”

I got the camera out of my purse and followed her to the door.

“You can see where they used to scratch at it.” Barbara pointed at the backside of the wood, almost closing the door behind us. I thought I might scream if she did.

It looked like it had been attacked by wolves. Scratched at it? More like clawed at it with barbed wire fingers.

Barbara swung the door back out, leaving us with a wide eye view at the top of the stairs. I felt my lungs reinflate, the moment of panic I had swallowed passing as I lowered myself into your childhood home.

I took photos. I don’t know why; I certainly wasn’t going to go home and hand them to you as a special treat before naptime. But if I had wanted to see this wretched place, I was sure that one day you would want to witness it as well.

The windows were still boarded over, rectangular solar eclipses with sunlight framing each rotten piece of wood, a thin, crisp ray of hope letting you know another morning had greeted the outside world.

“That’s where they found the bodies.” Barbara pointed to the corner. “They had an old stack of magazines they used to lay on, like a bed. All three of them. Together.”

I left the house and found a park. Put on my running shoes and warmed up for about six seconds before hitting the trail.

I was alone, on a path that circled a rather large lake.

Feeling followed.

My pace quickened. That pain near my heart constricted. But I just wanted to get away. To absolutely and totally flee. To fucking disappear.

I heard you again, begging for food. You had done that to me a couple of times over the years and at first I didn’t understand about flashbacks and your dissociation. When you were in those states I could hand you a picnic basket brimming with your favorite treats and you would keep asking. Mom, will we get dinner tonight? We’re so terribly cold down here. Could we have a blanket? Do you have water you could share?

Mothers.

Fucking bitch-assed mothers.

My legs moved faster. The sprint familiar, my dreams filled with this constant motion.

The fear was one thing when it was your room I saw. The terror was my own ass being ripped to shreds when it was mine.

My feet hammered the ground. I could hear him, behind me. The squeak of my bedroom door. Ever so slight. So insidious. Brutal.

How many years had I been running like this? Always on high alert. Waiting for his arm to appear from between the trees, clotheslining me. Looking backward, sideways, so rarely forward. Relying on an all out, full-throttle relay of my senses to keep me from attack.

Your mother didn’t open the door. She couldn’t face it. Maybe at one time she had loved you all, maybe she had felt so ashamed of herself after the addiction drove her to raise money in ways no mother should consider- maybe she couldn’t cope with her sins.

My mother found herself above such thoughts. What happened to me was really of no concern to her. My problem was age old. Ancient. The same secret that every woman but Eve carried.

He first found me when I was nine. Didn’t even try to hide it from her. I screamed until he cut off my oxygen with his hand, the full force of him pinning my head to the bed. The headboard was making an awful noise, a freight train hammering against the wall where my mother slept. I thought for certain she would come rescue me. Run into my horror, tear him away, wrap her arms around me and never let him even see me again.

Instead, I became a runner. Instead, I became so guarded and cold I didn’t know how Jacob ever understood me.

Instead my mother greeted me in the bathroom when I finally found my legs again and grimaced.

“Here. Wipe your face up.” She pointed to the sink. “And grab a washrag. You’re going to have to clean his junk out of you. That’s disgusting. You’ve even got it on your back.”

I was in the shower for fifteen minutes before she started yelling at me for wasting all the hot water.

The trail circled but I hit it another time. Passed a young man and his dog. Tripled my pace to get as far away from them as possible. Sprinted until my legs became noodles and I fell at the base of a tree, only able to drag myself back up again when I heard the dog barking.

In the car my panic died down. Once I was alone. Again.

As always.

My next stop was Catholic Charities, the foster agency that brought you to our home. Although you had started your journey with this group, you had been transferred all around the state and had had more caseworkers than I had had jobs in my lifetime.

I had proof of adoption, your case file, but it was all at home.

The ladies were quite friendly and I explained my situation.

“I think Joanie was the one that took her case first, but she’s been gone for years.” Nikki told me. “Of course, Anne was here then, too. Let me call her.”

After conferring with my agency, Anne was pleased to talk about you.

“She was the worst case we’ve ever had. It’s great to hear she’s been adopted.”

“Yes. We love her, but every day is an absolute challenge.” I forced a smile.

“I can’t imagine. It was unreal, what her mother did to those girls.”

“Can you tell me anything?” I sipped the coffee her assistant had brought, wishing it had more sugar.

“I honestly don’t know much. None of the girls had ever been to school and the neighbors had never seen them, so we didn’t even know they lived there. Their mom was a meth head. Apparently she first locked them in the basement because she and a group of her so-called friends decided to start cooking in her kitchen. It went downhill pretty fast from there.”

I hated to pry, but had so many questions. “Was there every any involvement from a father?”

“Not with any of the girls.” Anne shook her head. “The saddest thing is how many people knew they were locked down there and no one reported it.”

“Probably because they were felons themselves.”

Sarah had died from starvation. Libby from being “watered”.

“Excuse me?” I thought I’d heard her wrong.

“That’s what their mom called it. She got sick of listening to them plead for drinking water. Libby happened to be at the top of the stairs when she opened the door and threw an entire pot of scalding water onto her. “

“Jesus.” I thought of you, lying witness to such inhumanity. And Libby, whom I had never known, punished in such a gruesome manner. I wanted to hug her. Let her know she could be loved.

“Yeah. That poor child lingered for several days after that. I can’t imagine her suffering. Nothing brings me to my knees like a child in so much pain.”

We discussed your mother’s suicide. “When she sobered up, she couldn’t live with herself. Not that it’s any loss. Does Jessie know?”

“No. It will be years before we tell her. She doesn’t even comprehend that her sisters aren’t alive.”

Anne completely understood this concept. I enjoyed talking to her.

“Anything else I could tell her? Does she have grandparents? Aunts and uncles? Anything?”

“Well, they’re alive. But certainly not what I’d call relatives. Not one of them came to see her in the hospital. I work with families a lot, and usually there’s at least one or two people who are pretty decent and want to help care for an abused kid. But not in this case. At Christmas that first year some long-distance cousin called, but Jessie didn’t even know who she was, so she just asked about her health and then hung up.”

“Wow.”

We exchanged work numbers. Anne said that every year around the anniversary of your birth from the basement, the local authorities who had helped on your case gave her a ring to talk about it. She was happy to share the news of your adoption with them this time around.

I found my hotel, checked in. Thanked God in my silent manner that I would have one evening alone, free from hatred and tantrums, to just roll into myself and heal.

Like that would happen.

I kept imagining Libby, her Freddy Krueger face, screaming as her skin boiled and melted. I could see you attending to her, holding her hand, singing any of the random songs you girls had made up while locked away. Trying desperately to make her feel better. Thankful, in a way, that it wasn’t you in such God-awful pain.

I could hear Libby’s whimpers and then realized they were my own.

He was in the room with me. I could smell him. Hear the sickly siren song of my hinges. Wish I had the gumption to slash my wrists and get it over with.

Just opening the door made everything sticky, my world so humid I could barely suck in oxygen, the walls weeping where I could not.

My eyes stayed closed. His approach was always the same. Knee on the edge of the bed, the hated but familiar “now be a good girl and roll over” chalking up the dark as the bed springs protested his weight.

I turned, as always, to the wall. The same position I still kept at night.

Then his hand wrapped under my nightie and pulled at my nipple until I was yowling from the pain.

I jumped up. Snapped on the swimsuit I had packed. Snuck past the night clerk and into the pool, putting in forty five minutes of constant laps. When she noticed me and yelled I hurried to the room to dress in my sweats and take a quick turn in the exercise facility. Not even a five minute break and I was back to work.

Two hours later I could barely walk. I shut down the equipment and my legs kept moving, sliding out from underneath me as I tried to step off the treadmill.

I hit my room, drank so much water I spewed it all back on the floor by the nightstand, then opened the cooler for my secret stash of Gatorade once my stomach had died down.

Sugared beverages have always been one of my downfalls. I curled around the bottle and lay naked on the bed, the wee hours nudging me every so often as I half-dozed, half-wept my way into morning.

When the alarm went off I tried to stand. I was professional, diligent, performing under the highest integrity, but my body was so exhausted I had to crawl to the toilet. I figured my decision had been made at least a dozen hours beforehand. The sheets beckoned. I joined them.

Skipped the first day of my conference.

The darkness was not kind to me. I wallowed all day in the draped-off room, thinking of you, of Agnes, of my own mother. If I had been nurtured by a woman who was able to feel true love, would I be able to handle your emotions? To just let it wash off me when you battered me with name calling and hours upon hours of your rantings? Would you be able to love me then? If I had been loved?

Rarely did I concentrate on my own childhood. My memories were not pleasant.

“Why don’t your parents ever come down to visit?” Jacob had asked once, maybe six or seven years ago.

“Why would they?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Because you’re their daughter. Because you work too much to go see them. I just wondered.” He shrugged his shoulders sarcastically.

“I invited them to our wedding.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“What? That’s it? They only live a six hour drive away. What’s it between you guys? You never even call your mom anymore.”

“The older I get, the less important they are in my life.” I put my fingers to my temple.

“You know, sometimes you seem so cold. But that is just amazingly frozen. How would you feel if we had children and they never called you?”

So I reopened that door. Jacob never noticed how I practically vomited after conversations with Dad, his beer breath tormenting me through the phone. How I almost jumped through the handset to rip out my mother’s eyes, but instead kept my fists tight and my teeth perfectly gritted as she chastised me for being a bad daughter. For not calling. For not visiting since my graduation from college. For never sending a birthday card.

My mother. The Hated One. The woman who helped with the camera sometimes, like it was nothing. A five minute chore.

“Sharon, honey, come in here. I need your help with this.” I heard him call her, thirty years later. She was washing dishes. I could hear her turn off the water, her entrance nearly silent, her presence in the room that of apple scented dish detergent, hovering while I was in so much shame.

“I want you to stand there by the wall. Take it from my backside.”

Mom got the Kodak. Moved my bean bag chair so she could press against the closet door. Took a picture of just the two of us. A Scenecti family portrait.

Because he was so proud. Of his angle. Of his ball sack, so perfectly poised on my chin.

Dear Dad. He posed my hands on his butt cheeks, my fingers spread. I hadn’t been able to breathe for so long I was certain my face was blue. Not that anyone could see it.

But the tragedy was drawn by the cold, shriveled fingers that had just left the sanctuary of the kitchen sink.

I could not see her. But I felt it. Her hands, drawing up my knees. Placing each leg to the side. Opening up my softest spots for all the world to see. To have a better picture. One more people would buy.

To show everyone what Dad had done to me.

“How do you think he bought me that new car?” She had asked when it was over, her roll of film ready to be developed.

In my hotel room I spun the decades, placing you in my insanity to see how you’d react. With your Dad’s dick up your ass would you still tell Betty, the Girl Scout leader, to fuck herself because you only joined the group to bake cookies, not to do some stupid art project that absolutely nobody cared about but her? Would you be a Good Girl or get suspended from school again for beating a boy with your lunch box because he called you fat? How would you do in my place?

I had been Daddy’s, I had been a little bit of everyone’s, and then I had married Jacob. Sweet Jacob. Passionless but trustworthy. A stone in bed. Literally.

“You do all the work. I just want to lay back and enjoy it.”

Not the way to turn me on. I had survived that routine and couldn’t handle it again.

I thought of my lost years. If my employees had any idea the young woman I had been in my twenties, they would never be able to reconcile that image with my role today. Except for Agnes. She understood me. Knew the child I was, wishing for the world to dry up and end. She had pulled me from the ashes and then watched me fall deeper into the pit when I rebelled further. Watched my garb change from hippie to punk to grunge and back again as I worked through college.

My spirit had been anything but free. A butterfly shackled with Daddy’s balls and chain. A red fox, luxuriant and bound by the trap that half-severed my foot. A young girl whose thighs rippled from her mother’s touch as the flash went off like lightening in the room.

Illuminating everything I did not want to see.

I decided to spend some money. Managed to stand up and walk, put fresh clothes on. In the bathroom mirror I caught site of my shoulders, the tattoos of black fairies fluttering around my bra straps, the gargoyle that creeped Jacob out staring from between my shoulder blades.

“He protects me,” I had told my husband when he first saw my artwork.

“That’s great, honey. I just never want to see it again. It freaks me out.”

Marriage brought a different dishonor to my body. Where I found my backside to be beautiful, my husband asked that it be covered.

In the mall I got my hair dyed. Eggplant. The stylist cut my bangs into a perfect Bettie Paige, my locks left down for the first time in years. I always wore it wrapped up in my Food Service Do, a bun or barrette easy to strap on a hairnet, not having to bother with mousse or spray.

And I never wore polish.

The manicure was long overdue, a splurge I would have taken you for if you didn’t keep your nails cut to the quick. I matched my fingers to my hair, a purple so dark it rivaled black. At a teen boutique I found eye shadow and mascara to complete my look.

The bill totaled over three hundred dollars. For the clothes alone.

But I felt wonderful in them. Were I not saddled with you, or my job, or Jacob, I would be this girl again. Dark. Brooding. Seductive.

I powdered. My arms, my legs, my shaven girl parts. An old-fashioned dusting that left me smooth and scented.

Put on my leggings. Sans underwear. Slid them over my hips and admired the black and white swirl pattern.

Hefted the girls up with my new purple lace bra. Loved the pockets on my hundred dollar pleated bondage dress, the choker with the metal studs leaving me virtually wet with power. Practically came as I stood in my thigh-high platform buckle boots, my gloves matching, the heavy foot armor pushing my outfit into the three bill range.

I never allowed myself such luxury. But this was a celebration. A relinquishment. A weekend without you.

Jazz joined me. Ventured out of the suitcase. Became my newest lover.

He pushed into the top of my dress, his authority making my nipples stand at end, his coldness sending chills down my spine. I had the lights out and ran him over my body, down the length of my new boots. He loved them. Loved the way my tattoos showed when I moved my hair to the side. Envied my strength, my abandonment.

He found my everywhere. My everything.

I wondered why it had taken me so long to befriend Jazz. Because he was a gift from my father?

I couldn’t think about that. It ruined my power trip. My self-seeking.

My self love.

I had never been so wet. So porn- queen bondage- babe fuck- me- hot since I’d been in college.

I had missed me. This me. This rave girl. This gothic chic.

The ammo was my last purchase. I hadn’t even considered needing it on this trip, since you weren’t here.

But you and me, we’re one in the same. In sorts. Of ways. Only I’m polite, and you….well, you’re just an asshole. I’m pretty sure I’ve hated you for quite some time.

Just like that little girl in all those pictures. My pictures. My shame.

I took a bullet and added some color. This one was for me. Not you. I swirled some polish at the end, blew on it and then added a second coat for good measure. I’d never had the courage until now. I’d never been able to follow through, to just let my world explode, to shower the walls with the rotten egg stench that shot out of my head when I pulled the trigger. But you had brought me here.

Back to Daddy.

I went to the bar.

I had asked the hotel clerk for a sweaty room with a dance floor. Preferably industrial type music. Loud. Crowded. And close by.

“I know of some place, but… you wouldn’t fit in.” He told me over the phone. I had my make up on and felt about ten feet tall. I was certain no one would recognize me, not even Jacob. Certainly not you.

“I don’t care. Where is it?”

“Seriously. Its…a leather bar.” He hesitated.

“Awesome! As in biker? Or gay?”

“Gay.”

My excitement rose. “Even better.”

The bartender looked at me three times when I sat down.

“Listen, I’m going to be dancing a lot, but I also want to get shit-faced drunk. I like whiskey but I don’t drink much, so you’ve got to make it somewhat foo-foo for me to handle it. Okay?”

I tipped him well, downed the first glass with ease, and headed out for the dance floor.

What ecstasy. What a come around. What a pleasant change for me to not be working, or baby-sitting a foul mouthed cat killer, or enduring some idiotic political presentation or sports event with Jacob.

What a wonderment to just be me.

The music kept me alive. Pulsated. Pounded. Drove me into constant motion. I loved the heat rising from my skin, the sweat pleating my hair and running down the back of my neck. I didn’t care that I was the lone female in the bar, or that several of the men had expressed discontent over my attendance, my show under the flashing disco light.

Each time I stepped forward a fresh drink awaited me.

“It’s been paid for.” The bartender waved aside my money.

“Please tell him thank you.”

I couldn’t remember my last meal. The whiskey went straight to my head, made me giddy in an instant.

“Oh, my, but aren’t you delicious?” A young couple approached me, shared the dance floor.

They sandwiched me, the taller man facing me. The smaller one smelled of Eternity and we instantly became one body as he swooped behind me and put his hands on my hips, pulling my ass against his groin.

“I just want to eat you up. You even smell good.” He snaked his hands around my waist, put his lips to my neck. I leaned backward, welcomed his touch.

“Are these babies real?” His friend zoomed in on my breasts, squeezed them a little.

“Of course they are. Can’t you see how fine they move?” The guy behind me said, then shoved both hands down my bra. My back arched.

“Let me see!”

In an instant I was flashing the whole bar. My dance partner pulled the front of my dress down, letting the girls escape out of my new bra and into the open air.

“Oh, honey. I just love real tits.”

They pressed against me and we writhed, the three of us. I was so turned on I could barely get my boots to move, the hard cock poking into my backside a reminder of things not to come.

How I had always loved gay men. The absolute erotic relationship I could have, with no threat of sex. In another bar I would be worried about my behavior. Here I was perfectly safe, even from myself.

After my fifth drink my new best friends made a phone call. To their girlfriend. Sheena.

She arrived an hour later, when I was struggling to keep my vision level and wishing I had eaten earlier. But I couldn’t miss it when she walked in the door. The other patrons whistled. I caught her eye and instantly forgot that anyone else was in the room.

Sheena was Cher, just a bit shorter. And certainly not as plastic.

I drooled over her long face, so perfectly chiseled. Her gait was a strut, her legs long and well muscled. Sheena looked maybe twenty or twenty five. Did they realize I was nearly twice her age?

She joined us and asked me my name. Put out her hand in a very dominant manner. Escorted me to the dance floor.

My buckles applauded as we walked.

We put on quite the show. Danced like we had been performing together for years, our bodies like oil and vinegar, sea salt and a shaker of pepper.

When Sheena kissed me the men cheered. I had never experienced such lust and hung onto her lips like long lost treasure. In all my years of marriage I couldn’t remember my toes responding to Jacob’s touch on my elbow, his breath against my neck.

We moved into the bathroom, where so many other couples copulated. In my alcohol haze I could still see in the dark and was momentarily horrified by the sanitary conditions of the sink, the floor, even the wall where Sheena pressed me in. I could hear the sounds of the men rutting, licking, swallowing all around me. I started to squirm. This time not from pleasure.

Daddy was still so close by.

“I have a room just down the street,” I whispered into her ear.

I missed the throbbing music the second we stepped outside, the intensity it offered, the way it propelled me. But at the same time my body perked up when the chill wind hit my sweaty skin.

We never turned on the light. Entered the room, closed the door, never made it to the bed.

Sheena pushed me against the wall, her kiss so dominant I couldn’t get any air in, her hands roaming my every curve. I pulled her skirt up. Yanked her panties down to mid-thigh. Eased my hand in and gave her all the passion and love I had always wanted from Jacob.

“Do you come here often?” She asked at dawn.

“Never been here before. Doubt I get back. I….work a lot.” This was not my life. Not an affair I could pursue or even share with Jacob. When I returned home I would have to take my cookie cutter and reform back into the mold I was.

“That’s a shame. I like you. You’ve got spunk.” Sheena stood, put her clothes back on. Made a quick call from her cell for someone to pick her up.

Spunk? No one had ever given me such a high compliment. Usually people called me reserved, an over-achiever, very much the lady. That one word made me shudder. What in my life had I missed?

With Sheena gone I faced my facts. Packed the boots away, possibly to wear on Halloween. Dressed in my black linen slacks and red blouse. Stopped on the way to the conference and got haircut #2. What Jacob would call a dyke job, almost military short, all my length lying on the floor around me. Put on my name badge. Walked around the enormous center, tasting new products and exchanging business cards with those whose small sales pitch impressed me.

Drove home.

Greeted Gertrude as she jumped on the front door, welcoming me.

Handed you a piece of chocolate someone had given out as a sample.

Listened as the two of you rambled about my lack of hair.

Wiped the evidence off Jazz as I packed him back into his steel cage.