Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (59 page)

“Trauma? But
yes, it changes us, of course. Yet, I am persuaded such struggles expose the
heart and liberate the soul. When we come through the night we appreciate the dawn.
Embrace your trials,
mes amis.
Triumph over suffering and pain.
Darkness? Such is as much a part of life as is light.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Renata
Koreman

I wake at dawn,
lay very still and wonder what woke me. Briley was up early this morning for a
bottle, so I don’t expect him to rouse for a while. Mitten’s probably outside
already.

Blinking the
sleep out of my eyes, I turn to regard him in the shadowy light. Deep in heavy
slumber, his breath is slow, steady.

Careful not to
disturb him, I ease out of bed.

Grant is
sleeping in! This
never
happens. He wakes first, gets up, does his daily
exercises, goes out for a run and returns home, usually all before I’m even out
of bed.

I stare at this
complex, compelling man, pleased to see him resting so peacefully. He has such
a stranglehold of control on himself, he rarely lets go.

I examine his facial
scars, pink and white against the tan of his lean athletic features. Lord, he’s
beautiful. While he’s asleep, worry lines don’t mark his face. There’s no visible
tension. He seems so much younger.

Last night, he remembered
how his abuse began. His father initially used fear of death, ridicule and
intimidation as part of the grooming process. Feelings of confusion and love
were mixed up in there, too.

This is a significant
step toward recovery. After a lifetime of blaming himself for engaging in these
acts, as well as for any pleasure derived from them, he was overwhelmed by
guilt and shame. Hopefully, now the associations he has between kissing and
oral sex and feelings of dread and panic will disappear.

Trauma changes
who we are as people, but not necessarily for the worst. As terrible as it
sounds, I feel I’m a better person for all I’ve been through. Once I get over
my own sense of panic and take back my self-assurance, André assures me I’m
going to be a powerhouse—a force to be reckoned with.

I smile,
recalling his soothing voice of confidence.

André has
always believed in me.

Once more, my
eyes are drawn to him. An indifferent sleeper at best, this rare restful
tranquility is a good sign. A thrill of pleasure shoots through me. I helped
him to achieve this calm. It warms me and fills me with love to see him like
this.

I wonder how
knowing what his father did will change him. Ever since our first time, we’ve
had nothing but incredible chemistry and mind blowing sex. Our sheets are on
fire when we’re in bed. Could our love life get even better? If so, it will
definitely be the death of me!

Chest bare, the
covers rest along his flat stomach. I
never
have the opportunity to see
him like this, so it’s hard not to stare. For a moment, I admire the tough,
corded strength of his upper body and his colorful tattoos. One look at him,
and I’m already short of breath.

I lick my lips, picturing
exactly what he can do with that smoking-hot body of his. Images flash through
my mind of him, his big cock deep inside of me from above…
Yes!
As well
as from below…
yum.
And from behind,
oh yeah.

Jesus, when
did I become such a nymphomaniac?
I simply can’t get enough of Grant.

Down girl—let
the poor man sleep.

Deciding that I’ve
been peering at him long enough, I quietly slip away.

I wash my face
and hands, brush my teeth, grab the baby monitor and go downstairs to brew some
coffee.

Placing the
monitor on the counter, I think of how sweetly Briley smiles when I come into
his room for his middle of the night feedings. How would Grant act if Briley
was his? For a moment I imagine Grant's reaction if I were to ask him to marry
me, or—better yet—someday in the future, when I tell him I’m pregnant with our
first child.

After last night
and the closeness we felt, I can’t help but think he’d be happy about either,
or both of these fantasies.

Today, I’ll make
pancakes, with yogurt and fruit. Grant and Mitten both adore bacon, but having
it for breakfast every day isn’t exactly healthy.

Mitten likes
plain yogurt, so he’ll be happy.

I switch the
morning news on low as background noise, but don’t really watch it. Grant bounces
down the stairs, arriving in a flurry of excited motion. He’s already showered
and dressed. He looks happy, rested and sexy as hell.

“Morning,” he
says brightly. He takes my face in his hands and presses his sensuous lips
briefly against mine, with lavish enthusiasm.

I grin. “Good
morning. I made coffee.”

“I could smell
it from upstairs,” he says and heads toward the kitchen cupboard, pulling out a
mug. With a broad smile, he pours himself a cup. “I slept in.”

“So I noticed. Will
you have time to do your exercises before you go to work?”

“No,” he says,
his smile curved up into the same shit-eating grin he’s worn since he came
downstairs. The man is supercharged and happy.

“This is
different,” I observe.

“Other than when
I was injured, this’ll be the first time I’ve missed my daily workout for probably
ten years.”

Ten years?

I blink, shocked
by a decade of steadfast self-discipline. The man's a virtual machine. No
wonder he looks like he does. Of course, genetics have been kind to him, as
well.

“You don’t seem
too upset about ruining your record,” I say.

“Not in the
least.” His smoky gray eyes seem very blue this morning. His lips form a
satisfied smile. “Exercise gives me a feeling of peace and control, but I don’t
need it today. I had the best sleep of my entire life and I feel fantastic.”

“Is that right?”
I ask, looking down to stir the pancake batter.

I knew this
already. Grant is a restless sleeper, usually tossing and turning all night,
often tangling himself up in the blankets. But last night, he slept
church-mouse quiet.

I lift my chin
and our eyes meet. His gaze sends shivers of pleasure down my spine. My stomach
flutters, I’m no longer hungry. All I need to keep living is to be near
him.

What a
pathetic sap I’ve turned into. I’m hopeless.

“The
best
sleep ever,” he reiterates. “I also called work and told them I’m not coming in
today.”

“Really?”
I sound like a kid who’s just been told Santa’s coming.

“Cross my heart.”
His eyes sparkle. “I also realized something else first thing this morning. Do
people do that after a particularly good therapy session? It’s as if my
thoughts are snowballing, but in a good way.”

“Sure. That’s happened
to me a few times. What did you realize?”

“Throughout my
childhood, I used to attend church every Sunday. Back then I was in awe of God.
He was omniscient. He gave us the world, the people, plants and animals. He
loved us. Of course, there was also the whole Hell thing which was pretty scary.
When I was a child, I
feared
God more than I loved him. I realized that
out while I brushed my teeth.”

I laugh. “A
person can get some good thinking in while brushing their teeth. Tell me more
about that,” I say, spooning circles of batter onto the griddle.

He grins. “I know,
I’m not making much sense.”

“Yes, you are. I
just need more information, in order to
fully
comprehend what you’re telling
me.”

Grant shakes his
head. “Oh, you’re good. Very tactful, counselor.”

“Thank you,” I
smirk. “I do my best.”

“As a child, I
thought I loved our Lord—but in actual fact, I think I was taught to be afraid
of him. I’m sure the minister had that in mind when creating sermons,
‘Bless
those who fear the Lord,’
stuff. It’s relevant because my father was God-like
to me as a child. I was completely in awe of him. He was all-powerful, he held
my life in his hands, know what I mean?”

“Yes, of
course.”

“How I felt
about God, was actually similar to how I feared, yet revered and loved my
father. I'd had him up high on a pedestal, unable to see his flaws. When it
came to my father and God, I think I confused
love
with
fear.
It's
as if I thought they were the same thing
.
To be 'loved,' I had to be
both God-fearing and
father-fearing
. When it comes to my father, what I
thought was love
was actually fear.”

“Wow, that makes
perfect sense,” I tell him.

“Does it?”

“Sure. God and
your father, both had magical super powers that eclipsed your own. Of course
you’d feel dwarfed by reverence, fear and wonder. As a child, or even as an
adult, those feelings can be easily confused with love.”

“Yes,” he says
eagerly. “I did love my father and in a warped way I think he loved me. My dad
wasn’t wicked
all
the time, which really messed with my head. André said
a consistently cruel parent is much easier to deal with—the child simply hates
them. My confusion was the result of two opposing forces, ‘Father is good’ and
‘Father is bad.’ André says such a child must then live a lonely life of bitter
uncertainty, constantly moving back and forth between joy and despair.”

I quickly flip
the pancakes with my spatula, and spin back toward him. “So there was joy?”

“Oh, yes,” he
says with a half-shrug. “For the longest time, I was happy—or at least I
thought
I was. I didn’t know anything else. I was his favorite, the one he’d take with
him horseback riding, shooting and camping. He built me up, generously praising
my marksmanship in front of his friends. As a child I didn’t question it, it
was just the way it was.”

“What about your
mother?”

Grant purses his
lips. “She’s a mystery. Kissing was ‘dirty’ and she was certainly never
affectionate. She fed us, made us do our homework, and insured we looked good for
the rest of the world to see. Other than that, she was cold, cut off and
distant.”

“What about your
grandparents? Did you know your mother’s parents? And what about his your
father’s parents?”

“No,” he says. “My
mother’s parents died before I was born, and my father’s mother died before I
was even five years old, I think. My dad’s father was in a nursing home with
early-onset dementia for ages. He passed away two years ago.”

Then Grant's
maternal grandfather had to have abused his granddaughter, Grant's mother, I
bet. It’s one of those sad truths that the cycle of abuse continues this way.
Children who are abused, if they never face their past, tend to find and marry
abusers. That’s another reason why it’s so important for a victim to receive
counseling.

“What about the
rest of the family?” I ask.

He winces. “My
father wasn’t always nice to Alex, which made me feel uncomfortable, nor did he
have time for Betty Jo—or even my mother for that matter. His devotion to me
eclipsed everyone else in the family. Father liked
me
best.”

“Ouch,” I say.
“That no longer sounds quite so attractive. Abusers cut their victims off from
others, so they’re dependent and easy to control. Your father isolated you,
purposely setting you up so the rest of the family would resent you. He
manipulated the entire household so that the love and attention you needed only
came from him.” only."

His brows furrow
as he considers this. “Are you saying he did this on purpose?”

“Absolutely.”

“Yes,” he says,
with a sigh. “I think you’re right.”

“I actually feel
sorry for your sister, Betty Jo. It’s hard to be a daughter, knowing your
father doesn’t love you. She must’ve been jealous as hell your dad liked you
best. No wonder Betty Jo hates you. I can hardly blame her.”

His mouth twists
into a frown of dismay. “Yes. There’s something distinctly unhealthy about
being the family favorite.” He shakes his head. “Looking back, I figure he
treated me more like a mistress than a son.”

“We are
asleep until we fall in love!”

― Leo
Tolstoy

~~~

Renata
Koreman

“After Timmy
died, I was an only child,” I say, placing the first cooked pancakes on a plate.

“I’m so sorry
about what happened to your little brother.”

I sigh, then put
more butter on the griddle, coating it evenly over the pan. “My brother, Timmy
was a wonderful baby brother, the absolute light of my life. My mother was
depressed and often in bed. My father was a ticking time bomb when he drank,
which was most of the time. My mother and I were constantly on edge, watching
and waiting for anything that might trigger his violence.”

He turns to me
after setting the silverware on the table. “So no confusions or uncertainties about
your dad when you were a child?”

“None,” I say,
pouring four more circles of pancake batter onto the pan. “I knew he was
dangerous. I knew I had to stay away from him.”

Grant’s compelling
gaze meets mine as he swears a soft oath. “When I think of what he put you
through, I could kill your father,” he mutters quietly.

I grin. “So says
the man the police want to convict for his own father’s murder.”

We both burst
out, choking with laughter, loud and long. I bend over, gripping my stomach
it’s so damn funny—in a sick and twisted way. It feels good to laugh,
especially about this.

The threat of
Grant being hauled off to jail was a complete nightmare that hung heavy over us
for too long. Now that we know there are more suspects, the heat is off. Who
knows how many people have a motive to kill his father? What once was a source
of extreme stress, has settled.
Amen.

“Anyway,” he
says, once we stop laughing and both sit down to eat. “After my childhood, the
idea of love or getting close to anyone made me break into a cold sweat. My
father, a man I adored—deceived and betrayed me. Love. Affection. Connection.
These topics were disturbing. I never trusted my emotions, I had no idea what
love was.”

“Makes sense,” I
say. “Pass the syrup please, will you?”

Handing me the
pitcher, he grins like a crazy man. “So, I figured it out this morning. It
really wasn’t hard. It’s surprising, considering it’s a subject I’ve avoided
like the plague all my life.”

“Figured what
out?”

“What love is.”

I lean back in
my chair, put down my fork and lift my eyes to meet his intent gaze. “You know
what love is?”

“Yes,” he says,
his features bright, one brow arched in an oddly teasing yet serious manner. “I
learned it from you.”

My pulse kicks
up, my face heats. “Oh?” I say, tentatively, not committing myself. He learned
love from me? This is satisfying to hear, but where he’s going with it?

Grant’s confident
male energy fills the whole kitchen. This upbeat version of him is dynamic,
strong and imposing.

What does he
see in a scared little mouse like me?

Shut up
negative thought. Screw you.

“Love isn’t fear,”
he says. “It isn’t self-serving or manipulating others for one’s own interests
or gain. It’s not trying to buy someone off, or placate them in the hope they
won’t hurt you. It isn’t being so completely in awe of another’s power over
you, that you knuckle under, and fawningly strive to please them as much as
humanly possible.”

I study him
speculatively. “You’re so right. I’ve seen apple polishing behavior before—it
most definitely isn’t the result of love. Is that what you did with your
father?”

He nods. “Fear
was the basis of everything, followed closely by what I perceived as love.
Other than my curiosity and innocence as a child, fear and vulnerability to my
abuser was how the whole thing started.”

“Fear is a
common denominator in all forms of abuse,” I murmur.

He slants me a
meaningful look. “Yes, I see that now. Yet, my love for him and his lavish
attention kept it going. To my mind, my father loved me and in a frighteningly
intense manner, he
needed me
. He didn’t want to stop our games and I
couldn’t bear to hurt him. I was never very good at denying him anything he
wanted.”

“How did it finally
end then?” I ask. “Who ended it?”

“I did,” he says,
with a faraway look in his eyes. “I guess that’s
something.
One day,
after I was old enough to realize what his ‘games’ were, he asked me to come
into the den with him. Instead of blindly following him there, I stayed put and
just stared into his eyes. He immediately saw I
knew.
I simply shook my
head and walked away. From that point on, I made sure Alex was never alone with
him either.”

“Good for you! That
had to be hard after a lifetime of never saying no. How old were you?”

“Maybe
thirteen.”

“What was his
reaction? Was your dad mean to you after that? You know, kind of as payback for
rebelling against him?”

“No. He
pretended nothing had ever happened. I did too.
Not
dealing with it was
easier than trying to make sense of it, or forcing myself to think about the
unthinkable.” Grant shakes his head. “No, if anything he treated me better than
ever. Looking back at it now, I wonder if he might have been a little afraid of
me.
You know, in case I ever told anyone, but I never said a thing. To
this day, no one in the family has ever talked about it.”

He hesitates and
while his features seem composed, there’s sadness behind his eyes. He sighs. “I
loved my father, but he used that love against me.”

“I’m sorry,” I
say helplessly.

“Don’t be,” he
says. “You’re helping me get through this. Until you and André came along, I
was drowning in a sea of shit. It’s hard, but you’ve helped me face the truth. There’s
a light at the end of this tunnel. That’s because I’m not trying to find my way
out of this alone. You’ve been holding my hand, and even carrying me over the
hard parts.”

His words touch
me deeply. “You’re so sweet. Thank you, but I couldn’t carry you if I tried,” I
say with a teasing smile.

“But you do, and
you still are,” he says, with a boyish grin. “Thank you.”

“You’re
welcome.” I grin back because despite his moment of melancholy about his past,
I can see he’s OK.

“None of this was
your fault,” I tell him again, as I’ve told him many times before.

“I know. I’m
beginning to believe it, too.”

I take another
bite of pancake, slowly chewing as I consider everything he shared with me.

It’s terrible to
imagine something as pure and innocent as the love of a child, can be twisted into
a trap a child willingly falls into. The disparity in power between an adult
and a child is an important consideration. Grown-ups are so much bigger and
stronger. They wield so much influence. Even the best parents can frighten
their offspring into silence and submission, simply by becoming angry in their
presence. Such is the nature of abuse.

“You told me
what love
isn’t,”
I observe, raising a brow. “Did you figure out what
love is?”

“I think so,” he
says, his gaze intent.

The attentive,
searching way he stares at me makes me lightheaded. My breath quickens. My
throat feels thick. I just know he’s going to say something so beautiful I’ll burst
into tears.

“Let’s hear it,”
I manage to choke out, fighting for control.

Grant reaches
across the table and takes my hand. “First and foremost,” he says quietly,
“it’s safe to be yourself with the person you love. Love is when you trust
someone so much, you can say anything to them, absolutely certain that they’ll
accept what you say and still care about you. Love is when someone
trusts
you
so completely they know they can say anything to you. When the
person you love feels low, you lift their spirits. And when you feel low, the
person you love will bring
you
up and be there for you. Everything in
life is better with the person you love.”

His features are
ardent, the look in his eyes compelling. “You taught me that.”

My heart is
filled with so much joy. Somehow, I manage not to cry. I squeeze his hand. “Well,
then…I definitely love you.”

“I love you,
too,” he replies gruffly. “I’m grateful every minute of every day that you’re
in my life.”