Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (12 page)

“To achieve
your dreams, sometimes you must first face your nightmares.”

—André
Chevalier

~~~

Renata
Koreman

This is just a
dream!
I tell my sleeping self. I’m not a child anymore!

Knowing this
doesn’t help. Transported back in time—I go through it all again, that cruel,
frightening, bittersweet memory of the day that changed my life forever.

It’s utterly
real—too real, I’m
there.

I think, hear,
see and feel everything from the point of view of when I was a child. I re-live
every breath of what ripped open my heart, causing it to bleed a never-ending
waterfall of tears. It begins…

~~~

I jerk awake,
terrified.

This is how I
open my eyes every morning. It’s how I spend every day. Everything scares me.

Rain thumps
loudly, echoing on our metal roof. Today’s my birthday. I’m twelve. It doesn’t
feel any different than being eleven did.

I’m wearing
the same clothes I wore yesterday and the day before. I sit up, pull the thin
curtain back and look outside.

I frown. Crap.
Some of the things I washed are out in the rain. I don’t have anything else to
wear.

I turn my
head, listening carefully.

Nothing.

Outside in the
street, cars and trucks roar by and a dog barks in the distance. These are not
scary sounds. These sounds are OK.

I hop off my
bed and it hurts. My body shakes as I remember why. I rub my back. Bruises. I’m
sore from the last beating my father gave me. He caught my wrist and held me.

I hate that. I
hate being unable to get away.

I wasn’t fast
enough.

I should have
hidden the second he got home, but he was smiling. That’s not normal for my
dad. Sometimes he brings me candy or a little present. Sometimes my father is
nice, but not often.

Then daddy
found out Mommy didn’t have any beer in the fridge and it made him mad. I can
still hear what he always says to me: “Stupid little bitch! Shut up! Stop
crying!”

The sound of
his voice in my head cuts through me. I’m very quiet now. I don’t cry anymore.
I never make a sound.

He hits me
harder if I cry.

I hope mommy
goes out and gets beer today. Does she have money? Maybe she won’t get out of
bed. Mommy takes special pills the doctor gave her. I hope she gets better
soon.

Daddy hits
her, too.

If I run and
hide fast enough, he doesn’t hit me—he hits her instead.

I feel really
bad about that, but I’m not brave.

I’d rather he
hit her.

I don’t want
to hear anything. I don’t want to see anything. I don’t want to feel anything.

My eyes move
up to where I usually hide, in a cardboard box in the closet. It’s safe there.
My dad never finds me in there. I love the darkness in my box. I love the
quiet.
Sounds are muffled while I'm in my box. I block everything out. I
pretend I'm safe. Everything’s OK when I'm in there.

“Shut up or
I’ll give you something to cry about!”

I flinch as I
remember. I've heard him say that to me a million times. He means what he says.
It's best not to make a sound… no tears, no noise at all. I try to become
invisible. I try to disappear. I wish mom would do that too. I hate it when he
hurts her.

I listen again
until I’m sure we’re alone. Daddy’s gone to work. Mommy will be in bed.

Shush! I have
to be quiet. I tip toe over to see my baby brother. He’s on the floor in the
bassinet the Salvation Army people gave us. He’s still asleep. I smile when I
see Timmy sucking his thumb. His baby skin is so soft. His hair is soft, too.

Soft and
yellow, just like my hair.

He looks like
the picture of the baby Jesus the nice Salvation Army lady gave me. I keep that
picture in my school bag. It reminds me of my little brother.

I love Timmy
more than anyone or anything in the whole world.

I want to grow
up and have lots and lots of babies. I’m going to marry the school librarian,
Mr. Brand. He doesn’t yell. I never say anything to him, but he doesn’t mind if
I don’t talk.

I won’t marry
anyone like my father.

Mr. Brand
smiles at me a lot. He speaks really slow and low. He knows my name. He says,
‘Thank you, Renata’ if I help him put away the library books. He also says,
‘You’re a good girl, Renata.’

When he says
this, I feel all tingly and happy inside. Mr. Brand is really, really nice. I
love Mr. Brand.

“I… I l-l-love
y-y-you t-t-too,” I say to my little brother, even though he’s asleep. My
whisper is a stutter. I always stutter when I speak—but it isn’t safe to talk.
It’s better to say nothing.

“Shut up! Shut
up! You have a st-st-st-stutter stupid!”

I close my
eyes to make it go away when I hear daddy’s voice in my head.

I’m scared at
home. I’m scared at school. I’m always scared.

They tease me
in class and in the playground. If I’m very quiet and hide, no one bothers me.
I don’t have friends, but that’s OK. Mr. Brand likes me. He smiles when I help
him.

“Stinky!
Stinky! Stupid, stinky, stutter girl!”

That’s what
the other kids call me. I’m stupid and I stink and I forget how to talk when
anyone looks at me. I’m afraid of people, but my little brother loves me and
Mr. Brand says I’m a good girl.

The best thing
about school is my father is never there. I can also go to the library.

I like to
read. I read all the time. Right now I’m reading, “Harry Potter and the
Half-Blood Prince.” I wish I knew magic. Sometimes I imagine I’m Harry Potter,
even though that’s silly, because I’m a girl.

When I marry
Mr. Brand, Timmy and I will go away with him. I’ll have babies of my own and
we’ll live happily ever after, just like in fairy tales.

I go to mom’s
room. It’s dark, but I can tell she’s in bed.

“Mommy?” I
say. I open her bedroom curtains to let in the light.

“Go away,” she
says.

I go away into
the kitchen. There’s only enough powdered milk for the baby. I make a bottle
for Timmy. I know exactly how to do it. I shake up the powder until it’s just
right.

I get down a
carton of corn flakes from the cupboard and pour them into a bowl. Because I’m
cold, I put hot water on them. I sit down in the only wooden chair that isn’t
broken and I start to eat.

Corn flakes
aren’t too bad without milk.

A girl at my
school, Cindy Basset, always throws most of her lunch away so I’ll eat that
later. I’m quiet and I’m sneaky. She doesn’t know I watch her. When she throws
her lunch in the trash can, I take it out. I eat her food.

Cindy throws
tons of stuff away—a half a sandwich, an apple and cookies. Everything’s all
carefully packed up.

Cindy Basset
is so lucky.

Timmy begins
to wake up. He makes a sniffing noise that sounds so cute. When I hear him
waking, I feel lucky too.

I take the
bottle in to him. When he sees me, he smiles. I get that tingly feeling again.
I’m so happy!

Timmy needs
me. Timmy loves me.

I love him so
much it hurts, but in a good way.

I pick him up,
sit on my bed with him on my lap and I feed him his bottle. This is the best
part of my day. I love to hold my little brother. I love being with him. On
weekends, I get to be with Timmy all day long.

When he
finishes his bottle, I pick him up, walk around and pat his back until he
burps. He smiles at me and his chubby hands pull my hair. He is soft and warm
and he smells so good. He has a special baby smell that only babies have.

I change his diaper,
but I can’t stay. I have to go to school or the social worker lady will be mad
at my mom. I take Timmy in to her because she has to wake up.

Mommy’s pulled
the curtains closed, so it’s dark again. Darkness is safe, but something about
this blackness scares me.

Something bad
is coming. I know it. It’s coming!

I’m OK. I’m
OK. I’m OK. I’m OK… I chant inside my mind.

~~~

Fear is in every
beat of my heart. The sound of it thumps loud and fast in my ears. Panic and
terror shoot through me. I feel the sensation of a hand grabbing me, shaking my
shoulder.

My mouth opens. I
want to scream! I need to scream—but I can’t.

“
Ma petite
,”
a quiet French voice says. “Wake now, little one. It is only a dream. I promise
you are safe.”

I jerk awake like
a trapped and frightened animal. I snap back to the present and instantly
orient myself. How did André get in here? He shouldn’t be here! But after the
terror of the dream, I’m glad he is.

Thank God, he
woke me.

Last night I
slept in Mitten’s cardboard box. First, I put the box into the large wardrobe.
I crawled inside the wardrobe and then inside of the box. Then I shut the
wardrobe door.

I felt safe
there.

André opened the
door and found me. He shows no surprise, disgust or irritation from finding me
in my hiding place. His smile is kind, his touch gentle. The moment I wake
fully, he takes his hand away.

My skin tingles
with sensation.

It’s the first
time he’s touched me.

I struggle with
the loss when he pulls away. I’m a tactile person. I love hugs. That’s why I love
the intimacy of sex—it makes me feel needed, wanted and loved. There’s an
emptiness and a hunger inside of me that’s eased by skin-to-skin contact with
another person.

I’m a freak that
longs to be normal.

I want love the
same as everyone does in the books I read. I assume that's what real people
want, since they write so much about love.

André treats me
as if I’m a real person. A normal person. It’s so strange. I haven’t worked out
what it means or how I should feel or act.

I crawl out of
the box and jump up. The smell of bacon’s in the air.

André’s brought
me breakfast. Mitten’s eating from his bowl of cat food already.

“It is well,
ma
petite?”

Frozen once more
to sudden stillness, I nod.

“
Trés bon
,
it means very good,” he says. “You did not answer the door when I knocked and I
feared you had left me in the night. Now you know I have a key to your room. I
am the only one with a key. Are you very angry with me?”

I shake my head,
‘no.’

Truthfully, I’m
relieved. I’m so glad he woke me up. I know what comes next in that nightmare.
I never want to go there again.

“Good,” he says.
“I think you have had a bad dream. Do you wish me to stay?”

I shake my head
again, ‘no.’

“Bon
. I
shall return for the dishes.
Adieu,
ma petite souris.
It means
farewell, my little mouse. We French adore nicknames. You will learn French if
you choose to stay with us, yes?”

He laughs and
quietly leaves.

I love the calm
patience in his voice. His laughter takes my fear away and makes me feel
lighter.

This strange Frenchman is
so kind and generous. He reminds me of my school librarian. The kids in school
saw me as a skinny girl with dirty clothes. A weird girl who never talked.

I’m sure the other
kids were right—I was ‘stinky, stutter girl.’ In the entire school, the school
librarian was the only person who treated me with respect.

Mr. Brand never
wanted anything from me. He was thoughtful and understanding to the frightened
child that I was.

For a moment, I
consider what he might be doing now. Is he still a school librarian? I find myself
wondering. Does he have any idea how much his caring manner helped me? Could he
know the happiness his smiles and kind words gave me?

If I can, someday
I want to see him again. If I do, I’ll thank him.

For a moment, I
ponder the actions of every single person in this great big world. It seems to
me nothing is inconsequential. Mr. Brand changed my life and he doesn’t even
know it. Does anyone understand or appreciate the difference they can make
through simple acts of kindness?

If he managed to
catch my eye, he always smiled. It was such a small thing that made such a big
difference! Mr. Brand gave me a safe place to be and a love of reading. I lived
for his encouragement, acceptance and approval.

I’m not positive,
but I’m beginning to believe André may be just like him.

“A child,
without toxic interference, will naturally become the person they are meant to
be.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Renata
Koreman

I taught my cat,
Mitten, to do tricks.

Everyone finds it
unbelievable how obedient he is. Most people think it’s impossible to train a
cat, but they just don’t know how.

Mitten can “sit,”
“lie down,” or “stand” on his back legs and walk on my cues. Standing on back
legs with his forearms outstretched, he gives “hugs.” When I pat my shoulder
and say “up,” he’ll jump up onto my shoulder without clawing me. If he’s in the
right mood, he’ll even follow my command to “fetch.”

It’s easy to
teach a cat. All you have to do is love him and praise him whenever he does
something good.

You never,
ever
punish a cat.

Instead, you must
unconditionally adore him with everything you have in your heart. For a cat,
you need to give them tons of special treats, cuddles and lots of love and pats
all along the way.

I think that’s
the best way to teach a person, too.

While I was
training Mitten to do tricks, André taught
me
how to be human.

I’m pretty sure
Mitten was much easier to teach.

I was a tough
case, especially in the beginning. André Chevalier has to be the most patient man
in the whole world. He left me alone for weeks when I first came to stay, until
I finally got up the courage to come out of my bedroom and mix with others.

He took away my
cardboard box and gave me a small, dark, and much more comfortable padded
wooden box to hide in. It's my place to feel totally safe—no matter what’s
happening.

Dark and quiet
inside, the box blocks out external sounds and stimulation for those moments
when I feel overwhelmed by reality. It helps me feel more in control and gives
me what I need to gather my thoughts.

I spend time
there every day. I relax and feel more myself when I’m alone in the snug, black
silence within my box.

Whenever things
began to overwhelm me, André always noticed. He'd kindly ask, “Do you wish to
go to your safe place,
ma petite
?”

Going to my ‘safe
place,’ my quiet box, was effective.

André never
talked down to me. He spoke to me as an equal, or even at times, treating me as
a superior. He warmly praised any improvement I made, no matter insignificant it
seemed. Another thing I loved was he was always, always honest with me.

“You suffered
neglect, which is one of the worst types of abuse,
ma petite,”
he told
me. “Violence is another. You were a parental child, taking responsibly upon
your young shoulders, when you should have had none.
Oui, oui,
I fear
your upbringing is a very great obstacle to overcome, and yet—you
are
overcoming it.”

When I felt
frustrated by not being able to speak, smile, or meet André’s gaze, he’d say,
“Life is therapeutic,
ma petite souris.
Only poisonous people or
poisonous situations prevent a person’s normal journey toward personal growth
or healing. For many years, your natural instincts were crushed. In
time—without even trying—you will return to yourself. This I swear.”

I had the run of
his place—André let me do anything I liked. He never judged or admonished me.
He trusted me, supported me and fully accepted everything I thought or did.

I spent many
hours in the kitchen with his French chef, Pascal, and Pascal's wife, Anne.
André must’ve told them to ignore me initially. When I began to get used to
being around them, they finally began to approach me, but only occasionally and
very carefully.

Pascal’s a very
passionate man. I know he has a temper. Yet, whenever I was nearby, he always
kept his voice soft and low.

In time, he and
Anne taught me how to speak French… as well as how to cook. I became a decent
cook—light years away from the cornflakes in warm water of my childhood.

André had a
number of ‘mindfulness’ exercises he had me work through.

Mindfulness
is a tranquil state that can be achieved by focusing all of one's awareness on
the present. Mindfulness allowed me to identify, tolerate and learn to master
my mind and body.

At first, André
had me sit with my eyes shut in a room with him while he worked at his desk.
The idea was to “
be in the present,”
with him, while calmly
acknowledging and accepting my feelings, thoughts and bodily sensations.

It sounds easy,
but it isn’t.

My eyes shut; I
rested comfortably with my feet flat on the floor. I'd focus on what I felt and
heard while trying to be in the
now.

I became aware of
my body, like how my feet felt resting in their shoes on the floor, the
pressure of my buttocks and back against the seat cushions, the feeling of air
against exposed skin. I'd listen to my breathing and feel my chest rise and
fall. I’d hear my heart beat.

Even in apparent
'silence,' there's a surprisingly large amount of things to feel, smell, sense
and hear. Countless details go unnoticed every day.

Once I began
these exercises, I discovered that I spent almost all of my time focusing
inward. Even when I observed others, my thoughts constantly ran away with me.
It’s difficult to be centered here and now. Often I found myself dwelling on
negative past events, or upon fears about my future.

I learned to
notice the images and ideas that flitted through my mind—not with a need to
change them—but just to be aware of them with interest and curiosity.

Mindfulness
showed me how many disturbing events from
my past
were
in my present,
on a moment-by-moment basis. It’s a genuine talent to really
be
in the
present.

It was incredibly
difficult at first. I squirmed, I struggled, and I felt an urgent need to flee.
I tussled with my thoughts and I fought my body. It was a battle to learn how
to ‘be there’ and to become comfortable just ‘being there.’

I came to realize
for most of my life, I purposely blocked things out. I didn't want to hear the
scary things that happened around me. I didn't want to feel my bruises, my empty
stomach and my heartache. I wanted to shut down and withdraw.

Mindfulness was
the opposite of what I'd trained myself to do, in order to cope with life.
Thankfully, André's presence and support helped me become brave enough to
overcome these self-imposed barriers I never knew existed.

During each
exercise, after fighting and battling with myself, there came a point where
everything became peaceful. I was in control of my body and my mind. Quite
honestly, it was a real high.

Once I got past
that hurdle, he had me sit in the kitchen and do the same thing. I can’t tell
you how many hours I spent with my eyes shut while learning how to ‘be there.’

Then I taught
myself
to look
at people. This, I think, was the most difficult
challenge to overcome. André made me spend even more hours, meeting the direct
gaze of himself and his staff.

His warm
encouragement over any tiny improvement, was always over-the-top, making me
feel tingly, happy and warm inside.

I loved hearing
André’s compliments and praise. I hungered for it, starving for warm, loving admiration
and approval. I wanted to make him happy and to feel as though I did something
right for once.

As a child, I
didn’t hear positive things about what I did or who I was. I was insulted and
teased. I wasn’t good enough, smart enough, brave enough or pretty enough…

Only my childhood
crush, Mr. Brand, thanked me and said I was a good girl. He and my foster
brother. I would’ve been lost without Jamie.

André never,
ever
got annoyed with me. Patient and smiling, he never lost his temper.

Once I got the
concept of mindfulness down, André gave me hours of counseling. Together, we
worked through the events of my childhood. Facing the demons of my past daunted
me, even with Andre's help and support.

I couldn’t have
done it alone.

I didn't know how
to enjoy myself before André. I could never let go of my fear and pain enough
to appreciate anything except close physical contact. I don't remember laughing
either, except with my little brother. How sad and wrong is that for a child?

André makes me
laugh and smile all the time.

If he wanted to,
André could train a cat to do tricks, too.

It would be easy
for him.