Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (8 page)

“I would much
prefer to be sinned upon than the sinner. It is easier,
comprenez-vous
?
With the clear conscience one sleeps very
well. The sinner may deny it, but in his heart, he knows. He does not deserve
to be happy.”

— André
Chevalier

~~~

Grant Wilkinson

André gets out
his notepad. It’s his visual form of showing me something he wants to
communicate. On it, he draws a series of concentric circles. As a marksman, I
instantly recognize a bullseye when I see one.

“Much has been
achieved,
mon ami.
And so. Where shall we go from here? I have given
this some thought, and I wish to show you.”

“OK.”

Using his pencil,
he points to the center of the target. “You are here.”

I grin. I’m a
sharp shooter and André’s using a bullseye to represent my life. There’s a kind
of poetry in that. I feel an absurd sense of rightness with this perfect
parallel.

“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. “OK.”

“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 one 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?”

“OK.” I frown
because right now I’m not sure where André is going with this.

“You, your mother
and your siblings—each developed their own patterns of behavior in response to
the evils in the family, the pathology. You have told me your brother, Alex
takes nothing seriously. He makes jokes and is a cocaine addict. Your
sister—she is an alcoholic and is selfish and bitter. You, Grant, isolate
yourself from others, because you have always feared there is something very
wrong with you. And your mother? She is in denial. She ignores her family,
giving all of her attention and support to others, no?”

I snort. “Yeah,
that about sums up the Wilkinson family.”

“All people,
whatever they are doing, no matter how crazy or irrational it seems to you… it
is how they
need
to act—
from their perspective
. I do not justify
or rationalize an individual’s behavior—no. I simply tell you
there is
always a reason
.”

I consider this
for a moment, and it makes sense.

They say
pedophiles were abused as children themselves; and wife beaters had a violent
upbringing. My mother avoided her husband and children. Why she did is a
mystery to me. She spent all of her time ‘helping others’ who were ‘less
fortunate’ than we were.

Perhaps in her
heart of hearts, she felt she couldn’t help
us.

Did she have any
idea what was happening under her own roof? This idea haunts me. Denial is a
powerful force and an effective way to protect oneself. Maybe it hurt too much
to know the kind of a man she married. Maybe she decided to help others in
order to assuage her guilt—or to convince herself she’s a good person.

I don’t like my
mother and I’ve never fully understood why. She fed me, dressed me and made me
attend to my homework. She never abused me. My mother was a cold, proud and
distant woman who commanded respect—but she wasn’t into hugging or kissing her
children.

It’s a painful
yet, bittersweet memory when I recall that the only hugs I got as a child were
from my father.

There is
always a reason,
André says.

But not always a
valid excuse.

Minutes have
passed while I processed these thoughts. That’s OK. André never rushes me when
I’m reflecting on something. If I want to speak, I do. If not, he waits until
I’m no longer so absorbed.

When I finally
meet his gaze, he says, “You have been thinking very hard, my friend. Can you
tell me what your attention is on?”

I shrug. “My
mother.”

“Oh?”

“You said everyone
does things for a reason. I was trying to understand my mother. She’s in
denial—I get that, but dammit—I resent all the attention she gave to everyone
except us.”

“Ah,” André says.
“Did you know children of incest, abused by their father, commonly feel more animosity
toward their
mothers
than toward their abusers?”

“No, really?”

“It is true.
There are many theories. One is it is a mother’s job to protect their child.
Instinctively, children know this, so perhaps it can be considered a result of
genetics. The father abuses the child, yet the child still loves the father. It
is the mother they focus their hate upon.”

This makes sense
to me. “I don’t like my mother,” I admit. “It’s been another source of guilt.”

André grins.
“Very good!” he says cheerfully.

I have to laugh.
I’m not sure if he said “Good!” because he thinks it’s good I dislike my
mother, or because he’s glad I told him. Either way, it doesn’t matter, so I
just smile and shake my head.

“
Mon ami,
you are in good company with these most common feelings. But logically?” He
shrugs. “Your mother does not know why she abandoned her family. And if you
asked her? She would be unaware of such abandonment.”

“I’ve pointed it
out before,” I say. “You’re right, she can’t see it. She’s totally blind on the
subject.”

“Few are aware of
their irrational behaviors,” he says. “They do not know why they act in the
manner they do. And you? You have only just begun to understand why you isolate
yourself so fully.”

“Yes.”

“We know your
brother also suffered under your father’s hands, but you never spoke to him
about his, or of your own abuse.” André’s lips purse in disapproval. “The
father, he prevented such natural communication, intentionally leading your
family into a collusion of secrecy and denial.
Le père—
the father,” he
says. “Now, he burns in Hell.”

To my complete
surprise, right out of the blue, my counselor crosses himself. He does it
automatically, as some mark of respect to God, I guess.

Sometimes I
forget he was raised Catholic.

Our family is Evangelical
Protestant, and we attend church every Sunday. As long as I can remember our
father said, “The Wilkinson’s
always
set a good example to others.”

As a child, I
learned to fear God. As I got older, I realized I didn’t actually believe in
him. It’s another big secret.

The Christian
faith calls believers to love the sinner but hate the sin. When it comes to
sin, our Church had homosexuality near the top of the list. That was part of
the reason why I so feared my obsession with dicks—our church said it was a
sin.

Isn’t it strange
how completely your upbringing can mold you? Now, I believe my father was not
only a pedophile, but he also preferred men. Was the whole church thing his way
to hide what he was? Or maybe he genuinely believed going to church would
absolve him from his sins.

Love the sinner;
hate the sin.

I loved
and
hated
the sinner. I loved
and
hated the sin.

If my father is burning
in Hell, I figure he deserves it. He certainly made my life hell.

André notices
when he has my attention once more, and continues, “When you are strong and
stable, it would be in your best interest to expand into these areas.” His
pencil taps the ring one level out from the center. “Now, you are free to talk
to others of what happened. For your father, he has destroyed more than one
life, yes?”

No!

The idea of
discussing dad’s “games” just about makes my head implode. My breath catches as
ice water suddenly runs in my veins and my heart begins to hammer. Talk to
someone
—anyone
—about my shame?
No
! Not gonna happen! How could I
face
that
?

André’s eyes
widen as he registers the shock and dread in my expression.

I close my eyes
tightly as nausea churns my stomach. I can barely live with
myself,
with
what I’ve done. How could I speak to anyone else of such hideous memories? I
imagine anger, rejection and revulsion on the face of others.

I can hear my
mother saying to me,
“Grant, how could you? Why would you make up such
appalling lies?”

A wave of
darkness flows over me.

I feel as if I
may pass out.

“Il est bien,
mon ami,”
he says, and grabs my wrist, squeezing it
hard
before I
fall into a black hole.

When I open my
eyes, he lets go of me.

“Do not fear,
Grant. This move should not be taken—
must
not be taken—until you are
confident in yourself. Not until it is your wish,
n'est-ce pas?
Non,
non
,
non!
All must be right
for you
.”

As a gesture of
honesty, he puts his hand to his heart. “Never! I vow. Of a certainty, I do not
force you to do something you are not ready to do.”

I lay flat on my
back, trying to calm my galloping heartbeat and slow my breathing. I remember
then. André knows my past and doesn’t despise me. He’s OK with it. And he
understands the evils of this world. He’s heard it all before.

“Sorry,” I say,
when I’ve somewhat recovered from what could only be considered a momentary rush
of full-blown panic.

“There is nothing
to be sorry for. It is my mistake. I did not make myself clear. This,” he
points to the bullseye that represents my life, “the center signifies you. You
are the most important. All begins with you. It is
you
who has had the
courage to face your past.”

He taps the tip
of his pencil on to the bullseye again. “You alone have chosen to seek
counseling in order to confront the power of the father. If you go no further,
it is enough. What you have already faced is far beyond what many with an
abusive history achieve.”

Long moments pass
while I stare at the nylon ceiling of our tent, regaining my self-control and
processing the compliment he’s given me. When I’m more composed, I meet his dark
eyes.

André holds my
gaze for a long, assessing moment. Then his teeth flash white in the dim light
of the small LED in our shelter as he shoots me an apologetic smile.

“It is well?” he
asks.

I suck in a deep
breath, roll over and prop my head on one arm. “Well enough.”

“No questions?”

I gravely shake
my head.

“Nothing happens
without your wish for it to happen,” he reassures me. “For now, you speak only
with me.”

“Thank you.” I
blow out an audible puff of air from my lips in relief.

“
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 the ring one out
from the center represents your family… then this ring, the third ring
represents others 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 been so
insulated by my own misery I never,
ever
even considered this. Could my
father have interfered with other children? He had a voracious sexual appetite.
If so, it would have been young boys. If I know him… he did.

The idea makes me
shudder.

Now the future
really
scares me. Aside from my brother, are there others out there
like me?
Others damaged by my father? Somehow, someday, would any of
them—
just
like me—decide to deal with this
shit, too? In doing so, will my
family’s secrets be exposed?

Fuck.

After all these
years, I’m still compelled to hide the truth. Will all of this ugliness come
out? It’s all too unspeakable to imagine.

“My friend,”
André interrupts my spiraling thoughts. “Do not concern yourself. These are
problems for another day.”

Thankful for the
reprieve, I close my thoughts on the subject. I know how to push things I can’t
face away. I put them into a sealed box in my mind to deal with later—or not at
all.

I’m good at that.

Too bad it
doesn’t always work.

“Anything
that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more
manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming,
less upsetting, and less scary. The people we trust with that important talk
can help us know we are not alone.”

― Fred
Rogers

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

At the end of our
wonderful trip, two helicopters wait on the banks of the Colorado River to give
us a ride. On the way home, we’re all treated to an aerial tour of the Grand
Canyon.

When we land,
Gustave is there to pick us up in a limo. The privacy screen is up, so I guess
André and I are going to talk. The thought of a counseling session usually
makes me uneasy. But I’ve had a fun adventure. I’m on such a high, I feel as if
I can talk about anything.

“Grant,” André
says. “I noticed while we were away, you did not spend time near the women. You
avoided them.”

I shrug. “Women
make me nervous.”

“Oh?”

“Absolutely.”

“You do not have
experience with them?”

“No, André, I
don’t.”

The emotional
high I’m on, takes a drastic dip. OK. Maybe I
can’t
talk about anything.
I suck in a deep breath, preparing myself for the worst. When André asks about
‘experience,’ he’s not talking about hanging out with the opposite sex. He’s
asking me about my sex life.

After all this time,
I’ve learned not to screw around with André. It’s a hell of a lot faster and a
lot less painful simply to answer any question he asks me. I clench my jaw.
This is a tough subject, but I have to face it. Hopefully, he won’t probe too
far—but I figure that’s just wishful thinking.

Feeling somewhat
as if I’m jumping off a cliff, I man up and tell him the truth. “I’ve never
been in a relationship with a woman, André. Never. I’ve only gotten to second
base.”

André’s brows
knit. “Second base,” he says. “The stroking of the breasts?”

“Yes. I have my
fantasies; I just don’t act on them. Somehow, when I think of going further
with a woman, I remember what I did with my father and freak out. I just can’t
go ahead with it—not with a normal, respectable sort of woman who deserves
better.”

André says
nothing for a few long moments. I wish I knew what he was thinking. Will he let
this line of questioning alone?

“Yet, you are not
a virgin?”

Shit.

“No.” I shake my
head.

Fucking André. He
sees too much. The man knows everything. Like an armored tank, he easily
punches through any barrier, stripping away pretense and zeroing in on the one
thing I’m desperate to avoid.

I’d had my
fingers crossed, but right from the start of this conversation, I knew exactly
where this unpleasant little chat was going.

My throat
constricts and I clear it.

Up until now I’ve
gone through life with self-loathing, feeling guilty and perverse. André makes
me talk about everything, damn him. Revealing my shame and being embarrassed
around him is something I should be getting used to by now.

But I’m not used
to it.

Confessing the
truth about my father was bad enough. I take in one more deep breath, and tell
him yet another hateful and humiliating secret I’ve
never
told anyone.

“I’ve only ever had
sex that I’ve paid for,” I admit in a low, harsh voice,

“Ah,” he says, as
the light of understanding comes into his eyes.

I’ve just told
him I’ve only had sex with prostitutes. Worriedly, I meet his gaze, searching
for condemnation, repugnance, disgust or some other kind of judgment.

The sound of the
limo speeding down the highway is a soft, soothing background noise to my
anxiety and this uncomfortable conversation.

He smiles at me
and I see only acceptance and comprehension in his eyes.

I know why I pay
for sex. Andre knows, as well. After all this time he '
gets
' the
reasoning behind my actions.

I’m dirty.
Disgusting. Tainted.

I used to feel as
if I had a brand, burned into my flesh for everyone to see. Now that half of my
face is scarred, it’s even more obvious. I
am
branded. I bear a mark
that scares people off. With the darkness within me, it’s better that way.

Monster!
Pervert!

André’s words
come back into my mind:
All people, whatever they are doing, no matter how
crazy or irrational it seems… it is how they need to act—from their
perspective.

Yes.

I’m sick. I’m
contaminated by filth and this is how I handle it. In my heart, I know I’m not
worthy. I don’t deserve the love of a good woman. I don’t deserve to be happy.

André’s lips
press into a thin straight line. For a moment, I’m not sure if he’s angry or
maybe he’s just thinking. Then his mouth curves up into a large, very satisfied
smile.

I wait in
trepidation, knowing whatever’s on his mind—it has to do with me.

“
Mon ami,”
he says, and his dark eyes shine with enthusiasm. “This is most auspicious.
Oui,
oui,
most auspicious. I have exactly the perfect woman for you.”

“No,” I snap back
at him vehemently and my mind is made up. “Absolutely not. I’ll only have sex
with someone I pay for. I don’t want anything else. I’ve lived without it this
long. I can continue just as I am. It’s better this way.”

André looks at me
with unblinking eyes. Polite and mildly interested, he’s back into counselor
mode.

Damn him to
Hell.

“I’m serious,
André. Don’t screw with this. I mean it, no matchmaking. I can’t relate to
normal women. I don’t even want to try.”

“Oh?”

Such an innocent
sound of encouragement. He’s prompting me to continue speaking—I know his
methods. I cross my arms, sit back against the car seat and close my mouth so
hard, I swear I can hear my teeth grind.

A number of
minutes pass. We’re no longer driving down a long, straight highway. We’re back
in the outskirts of Las Vegas and Gustave has to stop at lights, yield to other
cars and turn corners.

The silence
lengthens.

I watch out the
window as the world goes by. I’m mulishly pleased with myself because I firmly
refuse to budge on this one.

“All must be
exactly as you wish,
mon ami,”
he says. “You are a strong person. With
all of my knowledge and experience, using all of my strength, I could never
successfully fight against your indomitable will—even if I wanted to—which I do
not.”

“Good.” I inhale
loudly, unaware I’ve been breathing shallowly, almost holding my breath.

“Grant,” he says.
“There is a professional woman who assists me. She is a sexual surrogate and
receives payment for her therapeutic services. I believe she can help you.”

“Oh.”

My stubborn anger
disappears.

Not matchmaking
after all. A sexual surrogate. This is an entirely new idea.

He nods. “Her
name is Renata. Of a certainty, we are of the same mind, she and I. Renata has
worked with many of my clients. I assure you, the games you played with your
father as a child will not shock her,” he adds conversationally.

I flinch. He
mentions my abuse and lifelong shame so casually. To André, it simply is—or
was—whatever. It happened and it’s in the past.

I wish I could be
so nonchalant.

“Will you tell
her about… my history?”

“No. I will only
tell her that when you were a child, you were sexually abused by a man—no
specifics. This is all I need inform her, unless you do not wish even this?”

I shrug. “It’s
OK.”

If this woman
already does this kind of thing, I don’t mind her knowing.

“Speaking exact
details is for
you
to do. Telling another of your abuse will empower
you. You were made
not
to tell anyone of your childhood. Each time you
deny his command for silence and declare the truth, it is a triumph over your
father. And it will become easier with each person you tell.”

Shit. He wants
me to confide in her, too?

No doubt, he’s
right, but I say nothing.

I imagine a safe,
comforting woman—perhaps in her late forties or fifties. Someone with a degree
in psychology and a lifetime of experience with people who are wounded, damaged
or broken.

A kind, older woman
who would be used to dealing with people like me.