Authors: Donna Fletcher Crow
At last it ended and she could breathe. She could move. She flung out of bed. In her rush to get to Tom she almost fell down the steps from the bedroom. “Tom! Tom, I’ve just remembered. Wake up.” She knelt by his sprawled form in the middle of the floor and shook his shoulder. “Wake up, I’ve got to tell you. I had completely forgotten—for years and years. It just came back! Tom, listen to me.”
Tom leaned up on one elbow and shook his head to clear it.
“I was in the seventh grade. We had this special teacher for drama that came two or three times a week and taught us Christmas plays and stuff. I loved drama. I always got the best parts. I thought Mr. Sanders was wonderful. He was even a friend of my mother’s. He used to come visit. It made me feel special.”
“Sort of a father figure?”
“No!” She pulled back at the very idea. “But almost an uncle. I guess—I never had an uncle, either.” She paused. “Anyway, we were getting some things ready for a drama festival. I was doing a dramatic monologue—some really psychological thing about a woman going crazy in a room with yellow wallpaper. I was having trouble with it, so Mr. Sanders asked me to stay backstage one noon hour for a special rehearsal.
“As soon as we were alone, he started hugging me and kissing me. He put his hand up under my sweater … I wanted to cry out, but I was too frightened to make a sound. The floor was so hard. He was so heavy. I was so scared someone would come in. What would they think? I kept listening for footsteps, but all I could hear was the kids in the cafeteria.
“Then it was over. I was so confused. I didn’t know what had happened or how to act. So I said, ‘I think I should go now.’ And he let me go. Only first he asked me not to tell anyone what he’d done.
“I guess I thought I wouldn’t, but I was frightened and mixed up and the pressure just kept building up inside. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t eat. Finally I told my mother that night.”
“And?”
“And she said it didn’t happen. She said I was a wicked, evil girl to make up a story like that. And if Mr. Sanders touched me at all, it was because I behaved like a brazen hussy.”
“What!” Tom jerked fully upright.
Suddenly Laura realized what she’d done. She clamped both hands over her mouth to choke back a sob. Horror filled her eyes. She had told. She’d told Tom. Now he would know her secret—the awful truth about her. Now he would hate her like her mother did.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told. I—I didn’t think …” She stuck her fingers in her mouth and backed away.
“Laura, wait. We need to talk.”
Talk? Tom wanted to talk? He wasn’t too disgusted with her? She sat on the edge of a chair, her bare feet tucked far back.
“How could a mother react like that?” His words amazed her. He wanted to know about her mother? He wasn’t asking her how she could have done such an awful thing?
“I—I don’t know. I never thought about her.”
“And how did you feel?”
“I believed what she said. Not that it didn’t happen, but that it was my fault. That I was bad.”
“So you’ve kept it buried all these years just as if it didn’t happen.” He was quiet for a moment. “Laura, that must have been awful for you.”
A shudder ran through her body. “Yes, it was.” She scrubbed at her mouth with the back of her hand. “His lips were wet. His hands were sweaty. The whole room seemed slimy.” She covered her face with her hands. “I need a bath.”
Tom put a hand on her shoulder. “Laura, you’re shivering. You don’t need a bath. You aren’t dirty. Not on the inside or the outside. Come to bed and get warm.” He picked up the bedspread.
She looked at him with wide eyes, trying not to shrink from his suggestion.
“Laura, you have my word; I won’t touch you. But we both need to sleep. Come on, we’ll talk more in the morning.”
Tom yawned once, turned on his side, and began snoring softly. But Laura wasn’t sleepy. She felt an almost overwhelming compulsion to cry, and yet she remained dryeyed. The weeping was going on inside her. Weeping for the years of fear and hurt a little girl had carried. Weeping for the scars that covered all the pent-up misery and selfhatred. Slowly the frozen grief she bore thawed and flooded her in an emotional washing.
She snuggled close to Tom, savoring the warmth his sleeping body radiated. “I’m going to get better, Tom. Truly I am. Then you can really love me.”
Laura was up early the next morning, anxious to tell Kyle of her progress. Surely it was progress—even if she had had to regress to get there.
She smoothed her crisp brown hair and turned to slip on her tailored jacket when the phone rang. She would grab it before it woke Tom. “Hello.”
The silence was punctuated with a sharp click.
Laura froze. One or two such calls one could chalk up to misdirections. But this was three now. Not a dead line, but someone there. Someone there but silent. Who could it be but Marla? Marla calling for Tom.
Laura turned woodenly to keep her appointment, wondering what use it was. Was there enough of a marriage left to attempt a rescue?
“… Was your parents’ marriage happy?” Today Kyle remained seated behind his desk while Laura sat in an upholstered armchair beside it.
“My parents? I have no idea. My father died in a car wreck before I was born. Mother never talked about him at all. Why?”
“Because the marital pain of the parents can capture the children, deprive them of the freedom to experience growth and joy in intimacy. The account you’ve just shared with me of your mother’s reaction to your molestation makes me suspect there were problems there.”
Laura gave a brittle little laugh. “I can’t imagine my mother ever being intimate with
anyone.
The very thought’s enough to make me wonder how I got here at all.”
Kyle nodded and bounced his pencil eraser on his desk. “You see, our parenting roles and our intimacy skills are largely derived from the model our parents provided.”
“Then it’s no wonder I don’t possess any.”
“On the contrary; it’s a wonder you possess as many as you do. You and Tom seem to have a very good relationship in many ways.”
Laura shrugged. “I read a lot. But Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë can only teach you so much. Especially since neither of them ever married.”
“Not only do you lack the role model, but subconsciously you may fear that achieving true intimacy with your husband would risk your mother’s anger, rejection, and jealousy.”
“I don’t know about jealousy, but it never took much to rouse her anger or rejection.”
“What did your mother teach you about life?”
Laura thought for a moment. “She taught me that humankind is sinful. That we have to work hard to overcome our basic evil instincts—the sex drive being number one on the list.
“‘Fear God. Fear God; you do something wrong and He’ll wash you away in the flood.’” Laura gasped. “That’s what she said, but I hadn’t thought of it for years.”
“And did she give you any sex education?”
Laura gave a brittle laugh. “Aside from what Mr. Sanders taught me, I learned the ‘facts of life’ when I was a freshman in high school: If you kiss a boy, you get pregnant.”
“She said that? Surely your friends would have given you a different slant on the matter?”
“I didn’t have any friends close enough to talk to about such things. Tom was my first close friend.” She closed her eyes and wrinkled her brow with the effort to recall what her mother had said. “I guess that was just my general impression of things. Her precise information was, ‘You know how boys are made. You know how girls are made. Well, put two and two together.’”
Laura slumped back in her chair, exhausted with the effort of remembering. Kyle sat quietly until at last she sighed and looked up. “Laura, I know this is going to be hard for you—very hard, but you must confront your mother about these feelings you’re carrying.”
Laura started to protest, but Kyle went on. “A barrier to intimacy with a parent will also be a barrier to intimacy with a spouse. You must learn to relate as a responsible adult to your mother as a first step toward reaching your husband. You’ve got to deal with these old hurts and fears in order to bring them to closure and remove them as barriers to your fulfillment.”
Laura shook her head, feeling dazed. Today her notebook stayed closed. She could barely manage to listen to this, much less write it down.
Kyle smiled. “It’s a long road, Laura. You’ve got a lot of work to do—years maybe. I know I’m throwing an awful lot of psychological jargon at you, but I want to give you as much scientific basis for understanding the situation as possible. And I want you to see that the goal at the end is worth the effort.”
Laura nodded. “Tom.”
Kyle shook his head. “Tom
and
you. Together. A real marriage. A real life. I told you last time you had to start your relationship with Tom over anew. Today I’m telling you to go back a lot farther than that. We psychiatrists often wish human emotions were as precise as mathematical formulas—it’d make our job a lot easier. But people do follow certain patterns of development. What happens when a parent doesn’t affirm a child’s development is that the child’s self-esteem will be deficient. You will have to rebuild your image of self-worth through the affirmation of your husband and through your Heavenly Father.”
Laura winced. Did he have to use that term? But she answered calmly, “Yes, I can understand that. Mother demanded so much perfection I could never make the grade. A’s were never good enough. They had to be A pluses. And since there was just Mother and me in our family, I had no other standard to judge myself by.” Then Laura’s expression tightened. She looked at Kyle with fear in her eyes. “Surely it’s enough if I understand this and talk to Tom about it. I can’t talk to my mother about
sex.”
Kyle regarded her levelly. “Do you want to be free to love your husband?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then you must forgive your mother.”
Laura just looked at him. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, but no words came out.
Forgive your mother. Forgive your mother.
The phrase rang over and over in Laura’s head like a knell as she drove across the island to meet Glenda at Oak Bay.
I had no idea I blamed her for anything. I thought everything was my fault. But now that I see it—now that I remember and really understand what she did—that’s an awful lot to forgive.
How could you do that, Mother? How could you say those things? You’ve practically ruined my life. And I’m supposed to forgive you? Just like that? I don’t know how you could have done what you did. And I don’t know how I’m going to do what I’ve got to do.
She continued talking out loud to her mother, shouting even, in the little car. Somehow, just saying the words helped. She pretended her mother was beside her in the passenger seat.
Didn’t you care? How did you think I felt? Why, why, why? Did being mean to me make you feel good? Did it give you a sense of power, knowing you were ruining my life? Were you in love with Mr. Sanders? Were you jealous because he chose me instead of you?
She quieted as she drove into the tiny English village atmosphere of Oak Bay. She decided she would simply do her best to put the whole thing out of her mind and enjoy her time with Glenda. After all, it had been out of her mind—the conscious part, at least—for 17 years. A few more hours wouldn’t hurt anything.
She pulled into a parking spot right on the corner Glenda had appointed as a meeting place. And there she was. “Incredible!” Glenda greeted her. “Are you always so prompt?”
“Well, you know, the Lord takes care of idiots and newcomers—so I get a double dose of help.”
Glenda laughed and led the way into the cozy Scottish atmosphere of The Blethering Place. Nothing could have been more comforting after Laura’s frazzling morning than the fresh-baked bread aroma, old lace curtains, and soft Tiffany lights filling the busy tea shop. The women found a quiet corner by a small-paned window, and Laura ordered one of the enormous Scottish cheese scones she saw others devouring around her. Their copious teapot came swathed in a colorful woolen cozy.
“Oh, I love this. If only I could knit.” Laura played with the saucy round yarn pom-pom atop their pink and brown pot cover.
“No need. The local ladies make skeeds of these woollies. They have drawers full of them in the foyer—all for sale.”
“Wonderful! That should just finish my gift shopping for my writers’ group. Of course, I’ll have to explain them. They’ll think I’m giving them ski caps.” It wasn’t until Glenda reached for the blue and white sugar bowl in the center of the table that Laura noticed her friend’s hand was trembling. “Glenda! What’s the matter?”
“Nothing new, I suppose. Nothing really different. But that’s the problem. Kyle counsels and I prune roses and we see each other two or three times a week and I dream of him every night. And I’m going crazy.”
“Glenda, have you talked to him about this? Kyle Larsen is the world’s easiest person to talk to—believe me, I know. I’ve been doing it by the hour.”
Glenda sighed. “Last night I was determined I would. I’d gone through everything in my head about six times. I went to his house, and we sat around all relaxed and toasted muffins by the fire. It couldn’t have been more perfect. Then Darren’s school counselor called and said Darren had been truant that day, and two of his friends had been picked up for shoplifting.”
“And Darren?”
“He wasn’t with them, apparently. But Kyle was upset about the truancy. It hardly made a good opportunity for me to plead my case.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Laura took a long, thoughtful sip of tea. “What you need is Kyle’s undivided attention like I get in his office.”
“I know. I’ve often wished I were his patient rather than his girlfriend. His patients get far more of his time than I do.”
“Glenda! That’s it!”
“What is?”
“He does premarital counseling, too, doesn’t he?”
“Sure. He says if he could see more couples before marriage it would save years of counseling later.”
“Then make an appointment with him.”
“Me?”
“Sure, give a nom de plume, say you and your boyfriend are having problems and you feel you need his professional help.”