Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (60 page)

“Life is a
series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them; that only creates
sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever
way they like.”

― Lao
Tzu

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

Renata and I
finish breakfast, then go sit in the living room and play games with Mitten. I
even feel at ease cuddling and chatting with Briley when he wakes. Last night
was a huge breakthrough. My fears seem far away today.

I still write in
my journal daily, as André instructed. The way I’m going, soon it will be book
size. What if I got it published? Lord, it would be a ‘worst’ seller for sure.
Who wants to hear about my lifelong struggles with madness and abuse?

“You’re very
good with him,” she says, when Briley giggles in my arms.

“I’m not afraid
of you anymore, am I?” I coo at Briley.

I was afraid at
one time, though. Terrified, really. I didn’t want to damage him. When you know
you’re a monster, you cut yourself off from everyone—especially children. How
could I risk harming others with my negative influence?

It took effort
to get over it, but now I’m able to be myself with Briley. I’m a good person, I
remind myself. I’m free to love my brother’s child with all my heart.

Mitten rubs
against my legs, then jumps up onto the couch for a neck scratch. Renata looks
at me meaningfully, acutely aware of the thoughts running through my mind.

She raises her
chin. “Grant, there’s no evidence to show that a child who has been abused will
grow up to become a child molester.”

No, she isn’t
a mind reader,
I reassure myself.
I just think she knows me.

I smile at her. “So
André says. I used to worry about that. Lord knows why because the idea of treating
a child that way makes me sick. I finally realized my fear of children comes
from the fact
I
was abused when
I
was a child. My mind made the
association:
A child equals sexual abuse
. Therefore,
it’s best to
keep away from children.

“Oh, that makes perfect
sense.” Renata nods. “Anyway, child molesters have specific character traits.
They’re super-selfish, passive-aggressive sociopaths that smile while they stab
a person. Behind the scenes they sulk, withdraw and manipulate. They express their
ongoing hostility covertly, often through biting sarcasm or backhanded
compliments. Then they pretend innocence and say,
‘Can’t you take a joke?’
You’re
not anything like that.”

I grin at her.
“Amen.”

Once, abuse
defined me. Now, it feels safe and right to love. My past doesn’t constantly
intrude on my present. Thank God, I can look forward to the future.

Love.
Connection. Affection… and sex!

Who would have
thought I could have it all? I must call André and tell him of my progress. He’ll
be overjoyed with my progress. He explained to me that personal growth progresses
gradually in stages, while important steps can’t be missed.

‘When one
wishes to go to the highest floor of a building, they must enter from the
ground floor, yes? An individual travels from the ground floor to the first
floor and so on. This is merely common sense.’

Most of my life
I’ve been stuck in the basement, unaware of the upper floors. Right now, I’m
confident I've advanced beyond ground level. In fact, I feel as if I’ve not
only moved through the first floor, but I've climbed even further, plateauing
on the second.

“Hey, how did it
go at AA last night?” she asks, shaking a colorful rattle in front of Briley,
who reaches for it with a gurgling laugh.

“Pretty good,” I
say, sitting on the carpet beside her, my back against the sofa, my legs
stretched out in front of me. Mitten crawls onto my lap, accepting my generous
pets, as is his due. Reaching over, she scratches him under his chin.

Mitten’s
immediate loud purr makes us both laugh. The people he owns (namely us), have
made him the center of attention, which is as it should be.

“I got together
with my sponsor, Bobby and Danny Berdeaux afterwards,” I tell her. “I’ve been
hung up on the twelve-step program. One of the steps suggests I make a list of
all of the people I’ve harmed, and make amends to them. Also to make direct
amends with those people wherever possible, except when in doing so would
injure them or others.”

“Who have you
harmed?” she asks with a frown. “I don’t see how that step relates to you.”

“It doesn’t—but
it does. Danny and I have obtained a list of the Boy Scouts who attended when
my father was one of the troop leaders. Also the church youth group, gun club
and golf caddies at the country club. We’re going to ask them if they received
a picture.”

“Jesus, do you
think that’s wise?”

I shrug and
smile. “I guess we’ll find out. Danny wants to help because he says remembering
what happened to him has changed his life for the better. I feel responsible,
because when I was growing up I never told
anyone
about my abuse.”

“What your
father did is not your fault.” Renata puts the rattle in Briley’s hands and
turns toward me. “You’re being very hard on yourself. Statistically,
not
telling
is the norm. André says it often takes
many years
for a
child to remember, or to learn how to face their abusive past. Ten, twenty,
thirty, forty or even fifty years can go by before these secrets come out.”

I nod. “It’s
been over twenty years since it first began for me.”

“There you go,”
she says. “Victims are burdened by traumatic stress that blocks events out. Or they’re
in denial, they blame themselves, or they’re too ashamed to tell. One in four
women and one in six men will be sexually assaulted in their lifetime, but
these statistics are based on the cases
we know
about! The real numbers
are much higher. It’s estimated eighty percent of all sexual abuse goes
unreported. These predators are never held accountable for their actions. They
move on, free to abuse other victims,” she finishes vehemently.

Frowning, I
stare at her in surprise, but say nothing. She’s knowledgeable, determined and
passionate on this subject. Given her history, that’s no surprise.

Renata throws up
a hand in a self-depreciating gesture. “Sorry,” she says with an apologetic
smile. “Uh… I’m liable to get carried away sometimes. All abuse is terrible,
but abuse against children particularly riles me.”

“I understand
perfectly.”

She continues, “I
love that you want to find and help these people, but I worry you’re trying to
take responsibility for something not of your doing. The sins of the father
do
not
fall on the son. None of this was your fault.”

“I know, I know,
and I appreciate your concern, but this is important to me,” I explain. “Now
that I know about Danny, I have to find and talk to any others who’ve gone
through this hell. He was
my
father. No matter what the physical,
financial or emotional cost, I have to try to make it right. Danny wants to work
with me on this. He wants to help.”

“Danny is as
sweet as his sister, Sally Ann,” she says with a sigh. “After experiencing abuse,
it takes time for a person to gather the emotional strength and courage
necessary to take action. Initially, a victim is isolated, thinking they’re the
only one who has been through anything like this. They wonder why it happened
to them and feel guilty, ashamed and responsible. They don’t understand how
many others there are out there, people who have also been sexually abused. At
the very least, they
should
feel better when you talk to them and
realize they’re not alone.”

“You know, until
I spoke to André about my past, I never considered the possibility of my father
molesting others,” I murmur, recalling those dark years of shame, blame and
self-hate. “I thought I was a monster. Sometimes, I still do.”

“You’re
not
a monster! You’re the most honorable man I know,” she says ardently.

“You’ve only
seen my good side,” I quip, minimizing the nameless, unreasoning fear I
sometimes feel about who I am. The monster still has the power to disturb me.

Renata grins at
my joke. “I’ve seen every part of you,” she smirks. “Trust me,
all
of your
sides are good.” She leans over and gives me a brief, yet sensual kiss.

We stare at each
other for a long moment, cherishing that familiar sense of connection that
fills me with joy and wonder.

“Thank you,” I
say, with a smile. “I do love your kisses. If I’d never been abused, I’d never
have met André. If I hadn’t met him, I would’ve never found you.”

“Silver linings,”
she says. “The world can’t only be clouds.

“Yes,” I say,
then frown. “I just wish I’d spoken out years ago.”

“I don’t know if
it would’ve helped back then, even if you did tell someone,” she says. “Your
father was a very influential, powerful man who had his bases covered. While I
think of it, if you intend to do this, you should talk to your brother, your
sister and your mother about your father’s abuse. They deserve to know.”

I feel as if a
bucket of ice cold water has just been thrown in my face. I shudder at the
thought.

“Jesus Fucking
Christ! I can’t do that.”

“Tough one,
huh?”

“I’ve only told
three people what I did with my father; André, you, and now Danny. If I get the
nerve, I may be able to mention it to my brother, Alex—after all, he was
there.
But to confide such a terrible secret to my sister? My mother?”

“I didn’t say it
would be easy.”

Floored by the
thought, I avert my gaze and swallow with a very dry throat. Logically, I know she’s
right.
Talk about cruel and unusual punishment.

I can hear my
mother’s response already, ‘
Oh, Grant, how can you make up such terrible
tales about your poor father who isn’t here to defend himself.’

If there are
other victims out there, I wonder if they’ll take a class action lawsuit
against my family. I can hear my lawyer now, admonishing and advising at the
top of his voice,
‘Admit nothing!’

Renata exhales a
deep breath. “Deciding to tell this kind of secret is like taking a book out from
the bottom of a pile, isn’t it? Everything up above falls down. And
falls
down
is kind of an appropriate way to look at it. Can this kind of thing be
hidden?
Should
it be hidden? How will your life be affected by the truth
coming out?”

“I don’t know,”
I say. “Wouldn’t telling people about my history of incest be a form of social
suicide? Disclosure can’t help but cause disgrace. Most people really don’t
want
to know, and I can’t blame them. I had sex with my father as a child. The images
it conjures up are enough to disturb even the most stable mind.”

“You did nothing
wrong!”

“As far as I can
tell, skeletons are kept in closets for a reason.”

“But they
shouldn’t be! Good or bad, virtuous or evil,
every
human activity should
be open for discussion between intelligent adults—this should be particularly true
concerning taboo topics. What’s
‘proper’
or
‘improper,
’ is a
matter of values which change over time,” she says. “There was a time slavery
was legal, women weren’t allowed to vote, and sodomy was against the law.”

I frown.
Why
does she keep bringing up sodomy? Does she know of my twisted fantasies? Someday,
when I work up the nerve, I’ll ask her.

Shrugging, she
adds, “Maybe if people learn you, a genuine war hero, have a history of sexual
abuse, then it will give them the courage to come forward and tell their own
stories.”

“War hero?” I
question doubtfully.

“Don’t make me
want to bitch slap you, Grant,” she says. “You loyally served your country. I
know what you are, even if you don’t. What I’m saying is, societal values differ
over time. Maybe it’s up to us to push for change.”

“Maybe.” I nod. “But
honestly? I’d forget about the whole thing except for the twelve-step program.
Coming forward to seek out others for restitution feels right. I know I didn’t
abuse anyone, but he was my father.”

“What kind of
amends are you talking about?”

“Well, I’m
sending Danny to André.”

“Good plan,” she
says with a smile, “But what if you find twenty, or even a hundred others out there?”

I cringe with
the thought. “I don’t know what I’ll do if there are, but I doubt there will
be—at least I hope not. I’ve another important motivation. As self-serving as
it is to admit it, I’m glad Danny was sent a photo of himself with my father. If
my father molested others, they could be suspects.”

I don’t want
the police to arrest me for my father’s murder. Not my brother either, even if
he did it.

Her brows draw
together in concentration. “I wonder who sent Danny that picture. And why now, after
so many years?”

“It could’ve
been another victim,” I say. “Or even a perpetrator. I’d hate to think that any
of this shit is up on some disgusting website for sickos to get off on.”

“Oh,” Renata
says abruptly. “That reminds me. Something came in yesterday’s mail and I
forgot to give it to you. You distracted me with that delicious kiss.”

Our eyes lock, I
smile. Just like that, a current of sexual energy buzzes between us. Will we
ever get enough of each other?

She laughs,
breaking the spell. Her lips are full, her teeth white. God I love her mouth!

She gets up,
walks into the kitchen, returns with a letter and hands me a standard, 4 x 6
envelope. My name and address is written in simple block letters. There’s no
return address.