Sister of Silence (14 page)

When Mileah was two-months-old, I became so sick I could barely get out of bed. My head and stomach hurt, my throat was raw and swollen, and I had a fever when I awoke to the sound of angry voices coming from the living room. I heard a man’s voice, and what sounded like a woman screaming.

I staggered into the living room and saw Eddie leaning forward on the edge of his chair
watching television. A quick look told me it was a scene where the bad guy was getting ready to rape a woman. My stomach began turning somersaults.

“Eddie.” He didn’t hear me. “Eddie?” Entranced by the drama, he was oblivious to anything else.

“Eddie.” I called once more and he came over and put his arm around me.

“What are you doing up? You should be sleeping.”

As he helped me back to bed, I looked at him. “Do you think that’s something you should watch?”

“You know how those shows are.” He tried to brush it off, making me feel even worse.

I tried to block out the sounds coming from the TV by covering my head with the blankets, but I still heard enough to know that when it was over, the bad guy had actually succeeded. When Eddie came to me, I feigned sleep. I didn’t want him near me.

Within a week, we began house-hunting. I wanted to have a say in what went on in our home, which wasn’t possible while living with Eddie’s parents. Eventually we found a small garage apartment just across from my old high school. After some fresh paint and wallpaper, it looked nothing like the dingy old apartment it once was. The ivory wallpaper had a flocked design that complimented the plush hunter green carpet. Simple white sheers hung over the window blinds, and the entire effect was peaceful and soothing.

Just a week or two there and we settled into our new routine. Because he didn’t leave for work until late afternoon Eddie slept late in the mornings, while I got up and did housework. When he woke up we loaded Mileah into the car and ran errands, or stayed home together. Mostly, Eddie worked on his truck, adding a new stereo or putting on bigger tires. I often teased him, saying he loved it more than he did me.

After he left for work, I played with Mileah and puttered around the apartment. I loved to clean and organize, or spend my time baking and planning our weekly dinner menus. Since Eddie didn’t get home until after midnight, I went to bed alone during the week. I had long ago learned to dread the nighttime, and was often anxious about Mileah’s safety. I worried someone would break in and rape or murder me, and take her. Our bedroom was just big enough to squeeze in the crib. Having Mileah there made me feel better, since I was close enough to protect her. But I still tried to stay awake until Eddie came home.

He had changed jobs, supposedly to cut back his hours, but before long he began working later and later. I was growing more tired than usual, trying to care for a newborn and a household. Eventually, I was so tired I started to doze off waiting for Eddie, while reading in the rocking chair, or sewing at the kitchen table. I had to swallow my fear just to get a decent night’s sleep. If he wasn’t home by midnight, I turned in, so exhausted I fell asleep right away.

Then came the beginning of a succession of nights that felt like a recurring nightmare.

As if in a dream Eddie came to me, kissing me down there. It took me awhile to wake up and realize what was happening, and I begged him to stop. He did, but only after he was finished. By then I had kicked like a wild animal, to try to get away from him. I quickly learned it was fruitless, because I was no match for Eddie’s size and strength. Besides, that tactic seemed to only heighten his pleasure as he grabbed my legs and held me so I had no chance of escape. Like I had for so many years, I just lay there and hated myself for being such a traitor and giving in to him.

Then he slid up and over me, pinning me beneath him as I asked in a voice devoid of all emotion if he would please let me get my diaphragm. I didn’t want to get pregnant. Most of the time he said nothing, or he said “no,” and I began to struggle against him. It was no good, and any fight on my part only fed his hunger. I simply learned to accept the fact that he was going to do what he wanted anyway.

One hot night when he was finished, I stumbled to the bathroom. When I turned on the light, a stranger stared back at me. I peered dumbly at the marks on the woman there. Bruises covered her neck and breasts and her arms were red and splotchy from where he had held her down. Her lips were puffy and there was an ugly mark on her shoulder.

You are so ugly. I hate you!

Her neck looked terrible. It reminded me of the girls from school, the ones everyone knew by reputation. They would come to school every Monday with those dark, telltale rings on their necks. Sucker bites, they called them.

I hate sucker bites.

I ran cold water on a washcloth and wet my swollen face, averting my eyes so I couldn’t see the mirror. My entire body felt bruised and battered.

Why? Why won’t he listen to me?

I ran the hottest water I could in the bathtub, hoping it would wash away the filth. Then I scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin was almost raw. An hour later, I painfully and slowly climbed out of the tub and put on a clean nightgown, leaving the room bathed in darkness as I returned to bed.

To him.

I turned toward the wall and moved to the very edge of the bed, as far away from him as I could get without falling out. I needn’t have worried. As usual, once his greedy passion was satisfied, he was fast asleep.

My last waking thoughts were of my baby. Since Mileah was only seven-months-old, I knew if I got pregnant, she wouldn’t even be two when that baby came. I didn’t want that. I desperately wanted to give Mileah all of my love.

The next morning I awoke to bright sunshine pouring into the room, but I was greeted with the memory of a horrible nightmare. Eddie was still asleep, his back to me. I felt sore all over. I knew then it hadn’t been a dream. What had happened had been as real as the new day before me.

Oh God, please don’t let me get pregnant
.

I thought about my life, and what was happening within my marriage. I knew I didn’t want another baby in the near future, if ever. I still couldn’t face the fact we had some serious problems, but somewhere in my subconscious something told me that bringing another child into our family would be a serious mistake. Besides, Mileah needed all of my time and attention, something I repeatedly tried to tell Eddie. It was useless. He pretended to agree and to respect my feelings. Then he would just do the same thing. Again and again. It had become a cycle.

That morning, I grew distant and silent, and was barely able to make myself talk to him. Sensing my unspoken anger he did his best to appease me all week, trying to humor me with pretty words and expensive trinkets.

But as that week and those after it passed, if anything, Eddie’s bedroom behavior grew worse instead of better, and if I didn’t insert my diaphragm before he got home, then he wouldn’t let me use birth control. Sometimes during sex, he told me he would gladly get me pregnant again. I thought it must give him some sort of satisfaction, or make him feel more like a man.

Then came the day when I knew without a doubt I was pregnant. After confirming my worst suspicions with a home pregnancy test, I sat down at the kitchen table, my head in my hands, praying to God for answers.

Why won’t he listen to me? It’s all his fault. He won’t let me use birth control, and he refuses to take responsibility for it himself.

When Eddie came home that evening, I told him I was pregnant when he came to bed. My words were devoid of emotion, lying like the cold steel of a knife blade between us. When he leaned close to hug me, I couldn’t return his enthusiasm. By then, it was all I could do just to lie beside him in bed without acting on an intense desire to strike him.

“I guess you’re not very happy about it, are you?” Eddie propped himself up on one elbow.

I gave him a stony stare. “What do you think? It’s not your body. You don’t have to get fat and be sick and then give birth. Babies are a lot of work and you’re never here to help. You’re always working overtime. Besides, Mileah’s still a baby. She needs more than I can give now, and when this baby comes she’ll have to share it!” I turned my gaze away, feeling repulsed by the sight of him.

You did this to me.

“Well, I guess saying ‘I’m sorry’ won’t change things now, but if it helps any, I am sorry.” He sat there, waiting to see if that did the trick.

He didn’t have long to wait.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry! Now’s a fine time to be sorry, don’t you think?” I hissed the words through clenched teeth. I was angrier than I had ever been in my life. “Don’t you think the time to be sorry was when I asked you to let me get my diaphragm and you wouldn’t let me? It’s too late now.” I rolled over and closed my eyes. I couldn’t stand the sight of him.

I knew he was gone when I felt the mattress move as his weight shifted. What I said was mean and hateful, but I didn’t care. His selfishness and carelessness had gotten me pregnant.

Just like the first time
, a voice within me whispered.

The next few weeks were so strained Eddie and I barely spoke, and for once he didn’t try to touch me after
he came home from work. Sometimes he would make a bed on the floor in the living room and sleep there. I no longer cared.

I had no patience with him, because my morning sickness lasted all day long and sapped my energy. Sometimes I drove to Mom’s house, just so she could help me with Mileah.

But something else was happening, something I just couldn’t put my finger on. Eddie’s angry outbursts were becoming more and more frequent, and he began complaining about money. We didn’t have a shortage, but it was tighter than ever before, because of the cut in pay he had taken by changing jobs and going to a non-union coal mine.

I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. I don’t know anything, do I, so why should you listen to me?
I thought it, but didn’t say it.

I had long ago learned that telling him “I told you so” never produced positive results. Besides, we still had enough money to eat out a couple of times a week, and occasionally I went shopping for new clothes. We were by no means living close to poverty level, as he tried to say in the middle of one tirade.

Because he was a poor money manager, Eddie let me handle our finances. After the bills were paid each month, I put the rest aside. If I was shopping and saw something reasonably priced that I liked, I bought it. Often Eddie and I would see furniture or some other big item we wanted, and he would always decide to buy it. I told him we could afford the purchase, but it wouldn’t leave us any extra to put aside for an emergency. He didn’t seem to mind, though, until the day he realized there wasn’t anything left for his precious truck.

That’s when he hit the roof. I tried to account for the money, explaining that we had just bought an antique love seat and matching chair. I reminded him that we had also shelled out money for new appliances because the apartment wasn’t furnished when we moved in, but he wasn’t listening. He kept yelling at me while I was making his lunch.

“It’s all your fault. If you didn’t spend so much, we would have more money and I could get that new CB radio for my truck. I don’t know why you have to buy everything you see!”

“That’s not fair. I always ask your permission before I buy anything that costs very much. You know that.”

He shook his head, an ugly scowl on his face. “Oh yeah, go ahead, say it’s all my fault. It always is, isn’t it? It’s never your fault, is it?”

“That’s not what I meant—” But he cut me off.

“Well you listen up little girl, you aren’t any better than I am. You hear me?”

I fought to stay calm. “I hate it when you call me a little girl. I know I’m only seventeen, but I am not a little girl.”

“Yeah, sure. But you’re not the woman you think you are, the one who’s so much better than her husband.” He lashed out at me sarcastically. Then he walked away. I wanted to cry, but couldn’t find the tears. I looked at the mess before me. There were slices of bread with mustard on them, lunchmeat was scattered all over the countertop, and an open Thermos sat waiting for hot tea. What I did next was pure instinct.

White grains looking deceptively like sugar poured noiselessly into the container and steam rose into the air as I struggled with shaking fingers to pour the unusual tea mixture into his Thermos. I hurried, afraid he would come into the room and catch me. When I saw I was still alone, I quickly screwed on the stopper.

Suddenly I was seized by a fit of laughter, which I smothered by biting the back of my hand. But a small grin still threatened to pull up one corner of my mouth. I tried to keep a straight face as I thought of his reaction when he went to take a drink of the hot liquid later that night.

How dearly I would love to be a little bird watching from some quiet corner! I refused to allow myself to think beyond that. I couldn’t, or else I would have turned coward and stopped. The grey metal lunch bucket sat silently beside the front door just as it did every day, waiting for Eddie to grab it and go to work. Every muscle in my body was tense and I prayed he wouldn’t open the Thermos before he left the house.

But I needn’t have worried. He paid no more attention than he usually did. It was the home-cooked lunch he complained about. I took it in stride, having long ago grown used to him saying how much better my mother cooked than I did. But when the sarcastic remarks continued as Eddie tugged on his steel-toe mining boots, I felt like I was going to explode.