Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (52 page)

My mind returns
to a time I spent with André. We were in a tent and he was drawing a bullseye
to represent my life.

“Here, I
think, is the start,” he says, tapping his pencil on the bullseye. “Right now,
together we explore only your life. How your childhood affected you, how it
colored the emotions, the behavior and attitudes toward yourself and others. We
focus on you and consider in what manner we can bring you back to yourself.
Back to the true man you are inside—to who you were meant to be.”

I nod.

“Once
emotions, thoughts and goals have been explored and you are stable and happy,
then you can go further. These other circles I use as an example, you
perceive.”

He points to
the second circle, the next size up moving out from the center of the bullseye.
“Your father, he created oh-so many negative effects on others. This circle may
represent your brother, your sister and other family members, do you see?”

“Yes.”

“Bon. I
continue with my illustration.” He points to the third circle as it moves out
from the center. “If the center represents you, and one ring out from the
center represents your family… then this ring, the third ring, represents
others who are not in your family.”

“OK.”

“Your father,
his unchecked power and influence was most wide-reaching. Did you ever
consider? He may have abused others—people not in your family?”

Fuck.

I’ve spent my
life, so self-absorbed in my own misery I’ve never considered this possibility.
A tremor begins in my hands. My palms are sweating, so I tightly grip my
thighs.

My father was a
powerful man with a voracious sexual appetite. Of course he would have
interfered with other children! He was perfectly safe to do so. Who would dare
to stop him? And who would possibly believe such evil about a pillar of the
community like my father?

I suddenly
remember his beloved Cannon camera.

Jesus, he
took pictures?

“… that’s
another reason why being gay seemed like such a terrible sin,” I hear Danny
say. “It’s incredible! As soon as I saw that picture, it all came back to me.
Now I remember everything!”

Inhale.
Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. …forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven. I count my
heartbeat, I count my breaths as I tried to calm down.

Danny doesn’t
seem to be conscious that for a moment there, I tuned him out. With an almost
vicious effort, I manage to tune back in again.

“I knew it was
wrong, even as a child, I knew,” he says, gesturing excitedly with his hands.
“Somehow I forgot or subconsciously buried it. Maybe, because I couldn’t face
what happened. All I was left with were nightmares and guilt. I felt sick and
twisted! I’ve always been overwhelmed with such shame and guilt, yet I never
really knew why!”

I nod with
complete understanding.

Guilt was the
loudest demon to torment my soul.

“How could I
look for love when I knew in my heart I was some sort of pervert?” he asks.
“But it’s not the same when you have sex as an adult! It’s different when you
have consent.”

“Yes,” I say.
“Sex by choice, with love, friendship or at least honest, mutual lust, is
completely different. Not with a child.
Never
with a child.”

“Yes,” Danny
agrees.

“Do you remember
who the man in the picture is?” I ask with trepidation.

Danny tilts his
head and studies me. There’s a look of surprise in his features. “Of course, I
do,” he says. “It’s your father.”

A long period of
silence passes while I sit utterly motionless. My gut twists, but my features
are a mask of composure. I don’t know what to say.

This is
terrible! It’s all so terrible!

He was
my
father, so I can’t help but feel responsible. The police know about me now, or
they will soon enough. I have to tell Danny. I have to confess.

“I’m so sorry,”
I tell him. “My father molested me too. Unlike you, I remembered it—all of it.
I couldn’t forget it if I tried. If I’d known he’d also done that to you…”

My words trail
off and I stare down at my hands. I consider how I might have acted, if I had
known about Danny’s abuse. I was an angry teenager, full of hate and despair.
Yet, as screwed up as I was, I realize with certainty and relief that even back
then—even before I knew André, I would have done
something.

Honor would have
demanded no less. A painful memory stabs at me.
I wasn’t able to save my
brother.

I loudly clear
my throat and my gaze lifts. “I promise you, Danny, I had no idea. If I did,
I’d… like to think I’d have found some way to stop it.”

“I know,” he
says. “You’ve always protected me, but now it seems we were both stuck in the
same fucked-up boat.”

Danny doesn’t
blame me.

A wash of utter
relief douses the flames of violent, guilty heat burning inside of me.

“I know you
would’ve stopped it,” Danny says, absolving me of guilt. “That’s the kind of
man you are.”

André, Sally
Ann, Renata and Danny. Why do they all have a better opinion of me than I have
of myself?

I stare at Danny
and he stares back at me. Neither of us say a word, but we’re not
uncomfortable. We understand each other. This poignant silence that rests
between us is strangely intimate and companionable.

We’ve separately
shared time in the same hell.

Two survivors,
both connected by the arrogant, depraved, self-indulgence of one man.

Alex makes that
three of us, but his secrets are not mine to tell. It strikes me then, if there
are three of us—why not four? Or five? Or even more?

André’s shrewd
words echo in my mind:
“Your father, his unchecked power and influence was
most wide reaching. Did you ever consider? He may have abused others—people not
in your family?”

How many
children endured my father’s perverted attentions? All of these victims must be
like me—burdened with shameful secrets and nightmares from their past. How
could I have been so utterly unaware of what others around me were suffering?

No one knew
about me either,
I remind myself.

Who sent Danny
this photo?

Who else knows
of the monster behind my father’s public facade? Another victim? An observer?
Or worse… another
perpetrator?

The solution to
my problems with the police suddenly becomes blindingly obvious.

Alex and I
are not the only ones with a motive to commit murder.

At this point, I
can now name three people who would have wanted my father dead. If I look into
his activities as a Scoutmaster, surely I’ll discover even more victims. It’s
terrible to imagine. I can hardly face the truth. Yet, I can’t help but see the
silver lining behind this cloud.

I won’t go to
jail for murder… and neither will my brother.

The knot in my
stomach loosens as my dread begins to slip away. This time when I smile, it
isn’t forced.

This time, my
smile is real…

End
of Accuse

“Nearly all
men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him
power.”

―
Abraham Lincoln

~~~

“You did
what?”

“I did exactly
what you told me to do—I got rid of the evidence.”

“But you kept a
copy, correct?”

“Are you
kidding? I don’t want to wake up dead someday when I least expect it. That’s
not on my top ten list of things to do. You told me to get rid of it, so I got
rid of it. With a job like this, the less I know the better.”

“You idiot! I distinctly
told you I needed a copy. What if there’s more than one set of pictures or film
clips out there? How will I know exactly what was on Chester Wilkinson’s
computer? How will I know who else might be a threat?”

“Oh.”

“Oh? That’s all
you can say? The only thing I’m
sure
of are the photos he took of him
and his son. Thank God the district judge is a member of our group. He was able
to warn me when he was asked to approve the subpoena for Grant Wilkinson’s
therapy records. Why Chester Wilkinson kept incriminating pictures from over twenty
years ago, I’ll never understand. The problem is, back then, Chester also took
photos and videos of others in our group—including me. What are the chances he
kept those? Now I have no way to find out, thanks to you. This is seriously
fucked up.”

“It’s gone.
Everything’s gone. You’re worrying over nothing.”

“I don’t think
so.”

“Why don’t you look
through your own pictures and videos? Whatever Chester Wilkinson had, you have,
right?”

“How the hell do
I know? This went back
years!
Do you have any idea of just how many thousands
of images of child pornography I own?”

“Oh.”

“Yes, ‘oh’ is
right.”

“Sorry… um…” The
man cleared his throat. “I can’t exactly get back what I destroyed. What do you
want me to do, Senator?”

“Damage control.
You’re our fixer and we can't afford loose ends. I’m not worried about
Detective Bronowski—he’s being watched, and the District Attorney will do as
he’s told. Get rid of the tech guy who found the stuff. He’s seen it.”

“OK.”

“And frame Grant
Wilkinson for his murder.”

Smiling. “
That,
I can do.”

“Curiosity
will conquer fear even more than bravery will.”

— James
Stephens

~~~

Renata
Koreman

Grant came home
early this afternoon and let me borrow his car. His endearing housekeeper,
Maria, is taking care of Briley so I’m free to go out.

I avoid going
out on my own for any great length of time, so I’ve made an appointment at a
spa for a facial and a massage. This way my excursion is as pleasurable as it
can possible be.

Since this is my
own time, I wear my favorite blue flared dress, a soft feminine sweater and
heels. My ensemble makes me feel poised and pretty, which adds to my
self-confidence.

Lord knows, I
need all the confidence I can get.

Making a foray
into the outside world—in this case, the local mall—is always a bit stressful.
I think I could easily become agoraphobic, never leaving my home. André advised
me to continuously face my fears, ruthlessly forcing myself to travel outside
of my comfort zone. I make a point of doing so at least once or twice a week.

Today, my outing
feels completely different.

It takes a while
for me to notice.

A young woman
walks by holding hands with a child who I assume to be her daughter. The small child,
who is perhaps of kindergarten age, is pointing at something and pulling her mother
along enthusiastically.

Our eyes meet
while she struggles to keep up with the little girl. The woman’s lips curve in an
indulgent smile. It’s an expression from one woman to another communicating,
‘Kids,
we know what they’re like, right?’

Uplifted, I grin
back at her.

It dawns on me—I
just shared a 'moment' with a stranger. It felt good and natural. I'm warmed by
this brief but significant connection with someone I don’t even know. I'm proud
of myself.

Quite often, while
in busy or crowded place, I keep my gaze downcast and my shoulders slightly
hunched. Have I been using my posture and closed off manner to keep people
away? It’s a startling thought.

Today, I find
myself standing tall and actually looking at everyone. I boldly meet their eyes
and you know what? They’re not scary. Today, they’re just people.

Yet,
they
haven’t changed.

I have.

My heart is
lighter with this realization. Keeping my eyes lowered when in public was an
unconscious behavior. This small improvement is huge. Why can I face the world
so much more openly today? What’s changed?

I glance down at
my hands, noticing my pink fingernails. I never paint my nails, mainly because
they’re all chewed to bits. It’s a nervous habit of mine I’ve yet to master. I
only painted my nails because I thought Grant might like them that way.

Grant.
Just
the thought of him makes my breath catch and sends my heart into overdrive.

I’m self-assured
when I go out with him. His protection and support makes me feel safe. Being
with him has transformed my world. I hope this new-found confidence sticks and
I’m able to build on it. So many good people believe in me, yet sometimes I still
find it difficult to believe in myself.

Do I feel braver
because he’s so courageous? Or is it because of this euphoric, life-changing love
I feel for him? Maybe it’s
his
love that makes me strong.

Grant loves
me.

Sometimes—not
often—I fear once he heals, he won’t need or want me anymore. These are stupid
self-doubts, but such insecurities are typical for me. I try to ignore my negative
thoughts.

All of my life, I’ve
hungered to be needed and important to someone. Grant fills that desire, the
desperate longing I’ve known ever since I was a child. After Timmy died, I felt
so alone. He’s opened my eyes.
He
is the change.

Despite the disturbing
circumstances with the police suspecting him of murder, as well as what we
learned about his father molesting Sally Ann’s brother—we’re both incredibly
happy.

Something about
being with him has helped me to become stronger, more fearless and alive. I
can’t wait to see him and to share what I’ve realized.

As I drive up the
street toward his house, I recognize the white Range Rover in his driveway.
Fuck.
With an immediate and unconscious instinct for survival, I speed right past.

Fuckity, fuck,
fuck! Betty Jo has come to visit.

Grant’s sister
inherited the Wilkinson family’s good looks. Always elegantly dressed and
aggressively confident, she has thick brunette hair, and dark blue eyes. Her
sharp, photogenic cheekbones complement her determined and somewhat petulant
mouth.

Sadly, her
beauty is only skin deep, while her ‘wicked witch’ ugliness saturates
all
the way through. I can’t stand to be in the same room with the woman.

Mitten doesn’t
like her either. I smile with smug satisfaction. I trust my cat's opinion—he's
a great judge of character.

Betty Jo hates me,
and she doesn’t like Grant. Why did she come? All she does is try to make him
miserable.

Betty Jo treats
me with a mixture of disdain, irritation and disregard. I make an effort to
look everyone in the eyes, but that struggle is wasted on her. Superior and ice
cold, she lifts her chin and stares over my head as though I wasn’t there.

As Briley’s
nanny, I’m merely ‘the help,’ which puts me beneath her notice. It reminds me
of when I was homeless. Then, I was invisible and less than human to others.
Around Betty Jo, I feel as though I’m right back on the street again.

Betty Jo’s contempt
and the way she looks down at me are huge triggers. I spent my childhood
feeling worthless and unwanted. My first fourteen years feeling that way was
more than enough for a lifetime.

Now, I make it a
point to avoid abusive, toxic behavior, in all its forms.

I park further
down the street, put my phone on silent, grab my purse and stealthily sneak
into the house. Hiding and being silent were skills I learned in childhood. I
can slink around with the best of them!

I could use a
bit more ‘me’ time anyway. I need to recover from the shock of knowing Betty Jo
is here.

My safe haven,
my little box is upstairs. It’s too risky to try to get that far without being
detected, so I simply step into a downstairs closet. I’ll stay hidden until she
leaves.

I throw a light
jacket on the floor and sit down on it, curling up happily in the dark. Once
I’m settled, I realize I can hear Grant and Betty Jo talking. They’re in the
kitchen, right next door. In fact, I can hear everything.

Briley gurgles loudly,
making me smile. He tends to be quite vocal, making the funniest sounds. He’s
going to talk his parents’ ears off once he learns real words. Grant’s
housekeeper, Maria, murmurs something to him.

“It’s not your
fault, darling,” Betty Jo coos with false sweetness, obviously addressing
Briley. “Your father married a moron, but no one blames you.”

“Betty Jo,”
Grant growls disapprovingly.

“It’s true,”
Betty Jo says. “Alex married Sky and look where that’s gotten him. He lost
custody of his own child, he and his wife are both drug addicts, and the court has
ordered them to attend rehab. What a loser. Now Alex is stuck with an
uneducated woman, a moron who doesn’t even have a degree.”

“I will take the
baby upstairs to change his diaper,” Maria murmurs, in her thick Spanish accent.

The conversation
is becoming heated, so I’m not surprised Maria’s making a quick exit. Years of
working for the Wilkinsons must’ve honed the housekeeper’s survival instincts.

Betty Jo speaks
in a maliciously gleeful tone. She absolutely adores getting under his skin. Provoking
him is a much loved pastime. It comes as naturally to her as a baby alligator
cracking out of its egg, then immediately and viciously ripping into meat—only
she rips into people.

Grant was the
‘special one,’ the child daddy ‘loved’ best. It makes sense for Betty Jo to be
jealous, so I try to make allowances. From what I understand, their father favored
his sons.

Would Betty Jo be
as resentful if she knew he had been molested as a child? How would she feel if
she discovered her father was a pedophile, and her brother had been ‘favored’
only to be groomed and conditioned for abuse?

“Sky makes Alex
happy,” Grant says, his voice strained and gruff, as though it’s an effort for
him not to yell. “And she isn’t an idiot,” Besides, lots of people with college
degrees are still fools, while not everyone has the time or money to continue
their schooling. I haven’t completed my degree, either.”

Betty Jo laughs
sarcastically. “Well, I wasn’t suggesting
you’re
a catch.”

I’ve never met
anyone quite like Betty Jo. She’s apparently highly motivated and capable at
work. When it comes to her personal real estate sales, she’s shrewd, scheming
and a complete success.

Despite her
outer façade and ability to manipulate people, inside she’s the essence of
negativity—a bitter, resentful and hypercritical woman, who wouldn’t know
happiness if it bit her on her tight, perfect ass. She continuously violates
the rule,
‘If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.’

In my opinion
she’s miserable. Miserable people prefer everyone else to be miserable too.

“You’re not involved
with that nanny of yours, are you?” Betty Jo accusingly asks her older brother.
She spits out the word ‘nanny’ as if it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Of course not.”
The lie rolls off his tongue with such ease you’d think he practiced it.

His prompt and
easy rejection hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. Shock rips through me.
My eyes well with tears. Grant doesn’t love me?
Nobody loves me.

I literally stop
breathing as terrible childhood memories vividly whirl through my mind, like
malevolent ghosts.

Between one
heartbeat and the next, I'm suddenly back there again. On the fringe, disempowered—a
helpless target of bullying and abuse. That’s me, a shy, frightened little
mouse.

Shut up, you
stupid little bitch.

Stinky!
Stupid, stinky, stutter girl!

My newfound confidence
disappears. I’m left feeling cold and empty with a head full of insecurities.

You’re not
involved with that nanny of yours, are you?

Of course not.

Why would he deny
our relationship like that? What does it mean? Is he ashamed to be with me? My
throat feels thick and tight. I can’t believe the anguish that explodes inside
of me.

It’s unbearable!
No amount of pain killer could ease this ache.

“Can you say
trailer
trash
?” Betty Jo quips, using her most snarky tone.

It’s true, a
nasty, inner voice whispers. I didn’t even have a trailer, I lived on the
street. No family. No connections. No money.

The darkness in
my closet seems darker than ever. A heavy silence fills the air in the room
next door. I can feel his black fury scorching right through the wall. The man
is a powerful force of nature.

Moments pass
while I imagine his inner turmoil. Grant is a protector of women—it’s who he
is. Yet, if he were going to impulsively strike, now would be that time.

“Don’t be
stupid,” he snaps back at her. His words snarl out viciously, like the growl
from an enraged guard dog. “You’re a real bitch, Betty Jo, you know that? No
one says
anything
shitty about Renata, not in my presence—not if they
want to keep breathing. I’m lucky to have her here to care for Briley.”

I love that he stood
up to his sister for me. That knowledge gives me comfort, despite his disavowal
of our involvement. He’ll always protect my honor.

I suspect
Grant’s manner or expression has scared Betty Jo, because she backs down
immediately, her tone becoming practical and persuasive. “I’m simply suggesting
it’s not a good idea to fuck the help.”

“You’ve seen
Briley, now it’s time for you to go,” he says, his voice deceptively calm. I swear
I can feel his hostile vibes. I can’t see him, but even from the depths of this
little closet, I know he’s about to explode.

I turn my head, straining
to hear but can’t pick up any words. I suspect he’s already marching his witch
of a sister out the front door. Good riddance to bad rubbish, but the damage
has been done. Grant’s denial of our relationship echoes in my mind.
Thankfully, the other words he said do as well.

No one says
anything shitty about Renata, not in my presence—not if they want to keep
breathing.

Doubts continue
to assail me. Feeling sick, I curl tight into myself and whisper my mantra.
I’m
OK, I’m OK, I’m OK.

Hot, silent
tears run down my cheeks. I know Grant cares about me, but why did he deny our
involvement? I’m afraid I know why—I’m worthless. I’m a failure. Who would want
me
?

These are ridiculous,
repetitive thoughts I’ve often used to beat myself up with over the years. I’ll
just have to work through them.

It’s been a long
while since I’ve had a complete meltdown like this. Feeling unloved or unwanted
makes me want to curl up and die. Or run away. Or wish I could remain in this
closet forever.

I feel so sad.

How could I have
deluded myself into believing a guy like Grant returned my feelings? Maybe he
only stood up for me because he's a gentleman. It's his Southern upbringing.
Did I read our entire relationship wrong? I'm such an idiot.

Stupid,
stupid, stupid.