Sister of Silence (15 page)

I stood at the sink washing dishes and almost instinctively, the small paring knife in my soapy hands seemed to fly of its own accord across the room. The blade stuck in the door facing just a foot away from him, and he turned with a look of surprise on his face. Any anger was yet to break out—or else he was dumbfounded that his meek and mild wife had thrown a knife at him.

The minute it left my hands, I knew I shouldn’t have. I couldn’t even understand what made me do it. It was so out of character for me. Eddie looked at the knife and turned to me without saying a word, disbelief written all over his face. I was terrified he was going to hit me. Instead, he just laughed.

I was so ashamed of myself.

What has gotten into me?

“Just leave me alone and go to work!” I said angrily.

“My, my, aren’t we testy?” Eddie taunted as his tongue came unglued.

“Yes I am, thanks to you
,” I retorted. Eddie stared back at me before shaking his head as in disbelief. The knife fell to the floor as the door closed behind him and I looked at it, wishing I hadn’t missed. Then I went into the bedroom and looked down at my Mileah, amazed she had slept through the noise. Stretching out on the bed, I fell into a deep, dark sleep.

Later that night when Eddie came home from the mines, he didn’t bother me. I didn’t even know he was there until I woke to Mileah’s cries of hunger. Walking over to her crib, I picked her up and held her against me.

“There, there, Little One, Mommy’s got you now. I’ll feed you and you can go back to sleep.” I whispered to her softly, knowing she was the one person who needed me, who loved me. My eyes had adjusted enough in the dark to make out the outline of Eddie sleeping in the bed. I wondered why he had come to bed without trying to wake me.

That’s unusual.

I crawled back into the bed, hoping against hope that Mileah’s whimpering wouldn’t wake him. I pulled my daughter beside me, opened my gown, and let her eat. H
er tiny mouth was warm and I lay there watching for a long time, until her trusting eyes slowly closed.

The next morning I awoke to find Mileah nestled up against me in the middle of the bed. Eddie was still sound asleep, and I thanked God for a night of peace. I still wasn’t sure how he would react to the knife incident or the salt in his tea, but since he hadn’t harassed me during the night, I felt relatively safe. Maybe proof of my newfound courage had caused him to reconsider his own behavior.

I was mixing up some cookie dough when I heard movement behind me. Turning, I saw Eddie; he gave me a curious, unsettled glance in return. Quelling the pangs of nervousness I felt, I put on a brave front. “Morning. How was work yesterday?”

“It would have been a lot better if I’d had something decent to drink.” He leaned against the countertop and stared at me, and I had to fight to keep from smiling.

“Why, was something wrong with your tea?” I asked innocently.

“You know damn well there was. You put salt in it, didn’t you? I drank about half of it in one gulp, before I realized something was wrong.”

I couldn’t help it when the corners of my mouth turned up.

“You probably think it’s real funny, don’t you? It wouldn’t have been so bad but I was a couple of miles underground, so I didn’t have anything else to drink the rest of the night,” he grouched. Getting the orange juice from the fridge, he took a big swig.

“Eddie! You don’t drink from the container. Get a glass.”

He ignored me. “And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, when I bit into my sandwich, the cheese still had the plastic wrapper on it, and the peeling hadn’t been taken off the bologna.” He seemed to be getting less angry as he talked, and I was no longer afraid he might start screaming.

But I was surprised to find I felt sorry for him. I felt guilty, too, because he had gone without anything to drink for more than eight hours. “I’m sorry, but you made me so mad! You had no right to talk to me like that, and then walk off without even saying you were sorry!” I said.

He leaned down and kissed my cheek. “You’re right.”

We looked at each other, neither of us speaking. “But I am sorry, and I do love you. I don’t mean to give you a hard time about the money; I know you’re doing the best you can.”

“I love you, too.” The whisper was barely spoken before he reached over and pulled me to him, pressing me against the warmth of his flannel shirt.

“I’m sorry, Eddie.” I looked at him, hoping he believed me. We kissed then, a kiss that spoke of heartaches and mistakes, and a desire to make things better.

For a short time, I imagined a miracle had occurred, thanks in part to my small act of defiance. It felt like our home was becoming a place of peace, and Eddie even bought me a white gold necklace. It was a small rose-shaped pendant, with a diamond in the middle. He said he hoped it helped me to forgive him.

And it did.

I was seven months pregnant when we found an old two-story house just a mile from my childhood home. It was big and needed a lot of work, but only cost $16,000. I fell in love with it, but Eddie was less enthusiastic. I could see all of its possibilities; he could only see all the work. Finally, he agreed we could do the work ourselves. By the time we finished remodeling, he said it would still be a bargain. So in late March, we moved in. One month later, the coal industry took a nosedive and Eddie came home with a pink slip.

I spent the better part of April cleaning and sprucing up the place, since it had been vacant and had layers of dirt and grime everywhere. Instead of moving into one of the upstairs bedrooms, we turned the dining room into a bedroom so I wouldn’t have to climb the stairs after the baby arrived. I had found a midwife, and we were going to have a home birth. I wouldn’t even have to leave the house.

At times like those Eddie seemed like a good husband, one who thought about the needs of his increasingly pregnant wife. That was when I questioned my own nagging doubts about his angry outbursts and controlling behavior. During early April, we worked together hanging drywall, painting and papering the walls, and plumbing the bathroom. We got along fine, even though he was a hard taskmaster. I think he pushed himself so he wouldn’t have to think about being out of work; I pushed myself, too, driven by the desire to get everything done before I went into labor.

Eddie said he was glad to have some time off, but after three weeks, it took its toll and stress soon became my constant companion. While being together all day every day had at first seemed a good thing, we were running out of patience with each other. We depleted our savings and our finances grew tight, since unemployment compensation was one-fourth of Eddie’s regular wages. The previous summer we had bought a top-of-the-line Toyota station wagon, which was as much as our monthly mortgage payment. I thought the car was more than we needed or could afford at the time, but Eddie insisted we had to have it.

Trista was born in early 1982, entering the world after a long and strenuous labor. I was frightened because she wouldn’t cry at first, but soon she began yelling and my midwife said she had good lungs. I gathered the small bundle up and held her tightly against me. Trista had dark hair and petite features and I thought she was perfect. Just as I had with Mileah, I fell in love with her the moment I saw her.

It wasn’t long before my joy turned to fear, though. It happened about the same time Eddie realized the layoff was going to last longer than predicted, making the tension between us even thicker.

That’s when I
first saw a vision of myself picking Trista up, and simply letting her fall out the window. I’d had that same sensation with Mileah, but only once. After Trista was born, though, I found myself staring out the window, caught up in the unthinkable reverie before I even knew what I was doing. All it would take was a few short steps from the bed to the window. It took a huge amount of willpower just to pull my mind’s eye away from what I was seeing, but it felt so real—as if I was really going to do it—that I forced myself to walk as far away from the windows as I could, whenever Trista was in my arms. I couldn’t even bear to stand nearby and try to look outside, for fear I would act on what I was sure was an evil impulse that lived somewhere deep within me.

As if that wasn’t enough, the chaos, as well as caring for two small children, left me too tired for sex. But I would often wake up in the middle of the night to find Eddie fondling me. Asking him to stop never worked: He simply continued doing whatever he wanted until he had used my body to reach a climax. The times when Trista was in the bed with us were the most unbearable. She would fall asleep while nursing and then he would want to have sex.

“Not with the baby here. We can make love in the morning, before she wakes up,” I said, praying my logic would make a difference. It never did. “Just let me put her back in her crib first,” I pleaded. Unhearing and uncaring, he selfishly went ahead, while I lay as still as possible so my baby wouldn’t wake up.

The daytime stress was different. I told Eddie we would be better off selling the station wagon and buying a used one, so our monthly payments wouldn’t be so high. But he stubbornly refused to let it go back to the bank or to sell it and buy something more affordable. I finally applied for food stamps since there wasn’t enough money at the end of his unemployment check. Because I refused to lie and told the social worker we had a plush new car, our food stamp application was denied.

We had no choice but to join our friends and neighbors, and the many other mining families who stood in line at the local senior center to get cheese, rice, and other commodities. Using the little cookbook pamphlet that came with the free food, I became quite adept at making meals that cost next to nothing.

But then October arrived—and with it another conception. I knew I was pregnant when I began throwing up in the mornings. No sooner had I gotten out of bed, than a wave of nausea would attack me.

Just like when I got pregnant with Mileah and Trista.

I couldn’t bear the thought of another baby. Trista was only six-months-old, and Mileah wasn’t quite two. I was exhausted from the demands of motherhood. That’s why, a few mornings later, I sat down on the cold bathroom floor and asked God to let me die.

Sitting on the cold bathroom floor I realized something: I wasn’t yet twenty, and wouldn’t be for another year, but I was going to have a third baby.

My God, I’m still a teenager and I already have two children
, I thought.
But I feel many, many years older.

In that moment I hated my life. Most of all, I hated Eddie for not putting a leash on his passion. I wondered if I was doomed to spend the rest of my life barefoot and pregnant.

I told Eddie I was pregnant with the same lack of emotion and excitement I had with Trista. It seemed to make him happy and his attitude improved, reminding me that, in a weird way, it helped Eddie’s ego to be able to say he had gotten me pregnant. After all, he didn’t have a job and evidently couldn’t get one. But here
, this was proof that he was a real man, or so he seemed to think.

I worked hard to not let my resentment show, keeping my feelings to myself. I had already learned the more I said, the less good it did. Besides, he never understood, anyway. I tried to make it easier, by staying away from the house. When I returned from visiting Mom or my friends, I knew I would have to deal with his anger, but I didn’t care. It was the only way I could keep from going insane.

Within a month, I began selling cosmetics, scheduling appointments for facials in women’s homes. It forced me to be outgoing, as I taught them how to care for their skin and apply make-up. I quickly excelled, holding several appointments a week. Eddie’s initial response had been hesitant. But because we were desperate for any extra money to help pay our bills, he accepted it. I knew he also felt guilty because I had to work. That was something he had promised would never happen.

But after Eddie learned it meant he would be left caring for our two young daughters, he grew resentful. I would be almost out the door when his verbal attack began. “When you come home, the house is going to look the same as when you left, because I ain’t gonna do your work. I’ve got stuff of my own to do, so you may as well know that ahead of time,” he snarled.

Another time while we were eating dinner, he complained again. “At least you get to leave the house. I can’t do anything other than watch TV with the kids, while you run around.”

I sighed and put down my fork, rested my elbows on the table, and laced my fingers together. His attitude was interfering with my digestion. “Fine, then, would you please just take care of the girls? Make sure their diapers are changed and they’re bathed before bedtime?” He said he would, but countless times I arrived home to find them sound asleep, filthy from playing, with dried food on their faces. I would just stand there and want to cry. How could he not bathe our babies and let them go to bed looking like little urchins?

The confrontation that followed was never pretty.

“What did you do tonight, Eddie?” We were in the kitchen and I tried to keep my tone neutral, so he couldn’t read any criticism into my question.

“While you were gone, having fun, I was here taking care of everything. We watched TV and then the girls went to bed” He shrugged.

I continued speaking in a low, calm tone. “Did you read them a bedtime story?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” he said. “I did just as you asked. I didn’t get to the dinner dishes, though. I’ll do them tomorrow.”

That was what he always said, but rarely did
. So, resigned, I went to the kitchen and started them myself. By the time I was finished, I had made up my mind that I couldn’t leave the house a disaster, so I did housework until one or two in the morning. Eddie had gone to bed hours earlier, angry that I wouldn’t join him. If he did wake up when I crawled into bed, exhausted from a day that had begun for me eighteen hours earlier, he insisted on his marital due. Depending on how I felt at the time, I would either try to reason with him, asking if he would just let me get a few hours sleep first, or I would be compliant and do nothing. I had long ago learned that, either way, it was “damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” He always got what he wanted in the bedroom—even if he had to take it.

My prayers were answered the day Eddie returned to work, and I knew I could have some solitude without fearing his next outburst. It also gave me a chance to devote more time and attention to Mileah and Trista.

I held them and felt a deep sense of frustration and despair, knowing they were the ones who would suffer because of the unborn child I was carrying. Just as I had less time to give Mileah after Trista was born, so it would be once this baby was born—only more so. It was so unfair, and I hated it. At times I think I even hated their father. Then I reminded myself I shouldn’t hate him—just his selfishness. After all, wasn’t a woman supposed to love and respect her husband? Those were the Bible values I had been raised with, and I didn’t want to break God’s laws.

It was hard, though. Part of my time was spent trying to patiently reason with Eddie, helping him see that when I was too tired to have sex, I wasn’t rejecting him. Other times I ignored him and tried not to think about it. Then I was cold and distant, because I couldn’t trust myself to say anything. I locked myself away in a shell, refusing to let him penetrate it.

One late night after the girls were asleep, Eddie and I were sitting at the kitchen table together, eating a piece of my blackberry cobbler. Eddie was telling me how another miner almost got killed on the previous shift. “That mine certainly has its share of accidents, doesn’t it?” I asked.

“It’s nothing but a dog hole.” He shook his head. “Most of them are though, anymore.”

I looked down at my bowl, grappling with a thought rattling around in my head that had been specifically bothering me lately, a conclusion I’d come to about Eddie’s behavior and sex. And the thought finally won. “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about running across any porn down in the mine.” I looked directly at him now that my fears had formed into a question I actually asked out loud.

Okay Eddie, now
here’s where you say, ‘That’s right, Daleen, there’s no pornography at this mine.
’

Instead, he said nothing. I waited, but Eddie continued eating his cobbler.

“I think this is probably the worst place I’ve worked, as far as safety violations go. I tell you, we’re lucky someone hasn’t gotten killed yet.” Because Eddie blatantly ignored my comment, I had a feeling my suspicions were correct.

Eddie had been in such a foul mood lately, and prone to not coming home when he was supposed to.
It was a behavior that had made me wonder, did the men in the mine have access to porn?

As in the past, whenever Eddie started acting out sexually, he would harass me first and when he grew tired of that, he would become distant. It was as if he knew what he was doing was wrong, that it was only going to create more problems for our family. And by doing those things, because they interfered with our relationship, he felt more guilty—and angry. I knew it answered several recent questions about his behavior. But I
decided I didn’t want to jeopardize his good mood. Maybe I should just let it go.

“Why don’t they do something about it? I thought the inspectors came and fined them for things like that,” I asked
, trying to focus on his concern about safety issues.

“They do, but only if they find out first. If, say, an inspector gets delayed at the face, and the men inside have advance warning he’s coming in, they can hide some of the violations before he ever makes it inside the mine.”

“Well, it’s always the same old story, isn’t it? Coal first, safety second.” I took a sip of my milk. Then, without any conscious thought, the next words out of my mouth flowed freely of their own accord. “They don’t, do they?”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t have
Playboy
or
Penthouse
lying around? You didn’t say anything earlier when I mentioned it.” Whether consciously or not, I’d opened that door. I looked right at him, and his expression told me the next words out of his mouth would be a lie.

“Well, I don’t know. I’m always too busy running my butt off to notice.”

Uh huh, I’ll bet you are.

I was certain h
e was trying to sidetrack my question. Time to walk through that door my question had opened.

“Eddie, I only mentioned the pornography because I know it’s a problem for you, because when it’s a problem for you, it’s a problem for us.”

“Well, since we haven’t had sex for about a month now, that should tell you it’s not a problem, shouldn’t it?” His words dripped with sarcasm.

“That’s only because you want me to do things I don’t feel comfortable doing. Plus, I’m pregnant and working, too. Besides, that’s not the point—pornography is. Do you still read it?”

“Why do you continually badger me about this? Didn’t I tell you they don’t have any of that garbage at the mines?” He fumed, his face reddening.

“No, you didn’t. You merely said you were so busy you wouldn’t notice if they did.” I looked directly into his eyes. “So, do they?”
Now I wanted a definitive answer.

“Yes! Are you happy now? Yes they do!” he screamed.

I refused to back down. He could give me a straight answer, because I deserved that much.

After several minutes of silence I gathered enough courage to ask my next question. “And do you read it?”

“I haven’t read any for awhile now. There, does that satisfy you?”

I was silent. To Eddie, that might mean a week or a year, and I would never know. But I was finished pressing the issue, and exhausted from the mind game we had just played.

During those early years I had several friends—but none close enough to confide in. Mom was my closest friend. By thirty-seven, she still had four children at home between the ages of fifteen and two.

But I never told her what was happening inside my home, especially anything sexual. I knew she’d be mortified if I even tried. Wanting to protect her, I couldn’t let her know how hard it was to live with someone whose moods changed like the wind. Besides, she adored her son-in-law. Continuing the pattern he began years earlier, Eddie still went out of his way to cut her firewood, haul her coal and do household repairs.

I only talked to God. And he kept me going, so I could get up each morning and care for my children, my house, my job and my husband. Eddie was last on the list because I was the only person who could or would take time to care for the other three. There was no choice, and Eddie contributed to that by not caring whether I became pregnant, by refusing to help with either the children or the housework, and by spending most of his time at work. I put the household chores first because someone had to do them; my family’s physical health depended upon it. And my daughters came first because I was all they had, and it was my responsibility to care for their emotional, mental and spiritual health. They had no one else.

Unfortunately, Eddie’s return to the mines hadn’t lasted more than a few months when he came home with another pink slip. His employment cycles seemed to coincide with my pregnancies, making the rollercoaster ride we were already on even bumpier. As time slipped by, and with it, any chances of available employment, he became more and more depressed. Little by little, Eddie’s depression began reaching out to those around him. Especially me—I just didn’t know it yet.

Gabriella was born in the middle of a hot, humid summer in 1983. She came into the world wrapped in the same burst of energy and excitement that would mark her own, exuberant personality. From the minute she was born, “Gabby” was different. She wasn’t quiet and content like her sisters; she was loud and vocal and let everyone know she was there.

The day after her birth I was lying in bed sorting through my clients’ cosmetic files, when my manager called. “Daleen, you’re crazy, do you know that? Don’t you think you should be resting?”

“I feel great. Besides, I need to figure out how to reschedule the appointments I had for this week. I hope you don’t mind, but I think I’ll wait a couple of weeks before I get back into the swing of things.”

She laughed so loud I had to hold the receiver away from my ear. I knew that would tickle her. “Only a couple of weeks? Don’t worry about the appointments you already booked; I’ll see that someone takes them for you. You just get some rest and take care of that little angel. I want to see her the first chance I get, so don’t forget to let me know when you’re up for visitors.”

We hung up and I finished jotting notes on the remaining files, before laying everything aside and closing my eyes.

I should just let everything go until I actually feel like doing it—after I’ve spent lots of time with Gabby. Why can’t I? Why am I so driven? Why does my every minute have to be filled?

I couldn’t see that I was frantically searching for anything that would keep me so preoccupied I wouldn’t be able to think, or feel, anything. I had no idea it would take another seven years and countless more acts of abuse before I found my answers. If I had known then how the violence would spill over onto my children—even the newborn daughter who lay sleeping just a few feet away from me—I would have taken my babies and run into the night.

Two weeks later, I returned to work and Eddie played babysitter. Only this time, it was three children, not two. For a while, I was pleasantly surprised when I returned home and found the house neat and clean, with dinner waiting. It was a relief to sit down and just relax while I ate. But even that wasn’t as pleasant as it could have been, because Eddie made subtle comments that implied he resented me working at a paying job while he was “stuck” at home caring for the girls.