Circle the Soul Softly (16 page)

“Stacey and Layla. Stacey's going to Tisch, after they come back from France, of course.”

“Good for her. She'll be away from the asshole.” I'm not sure why I don't mention I saw them too.

Jesse comes bounding up the beach. He races in and out of the surf, and when he finally reaches us, he's sopping. Of course he jumps on me.

“I think I may just have to give him to you, ”David says.“He's obviously fallen in love.”

“Yeah,well, can you blame him? Me—you—hardly a difficult choice.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“So you think maybe he'd—”he scoops me up in his arms—“save you if I happened to toss you in?”

Kicking does no good—he's entirely too strong. “You wouldn't!” I scream obscenities, among other things, and he marches toward the water. Jesse trails happily behind.

“David!!!”

“You're going in!”

And I do—but I take him down with me. Jesse throws his sandy dog body into the surf right along side us, no doubt feeling like one lucky pup to have owners who know how to play.

Half hour later, we're changed and dry and sitting on the deck with hot chocolate. Mrs. Hoyt brought it out, wanting to make sure we know she's here. I cuddle with David on the swing and Jesse plops his huge self on top of us. It's like that day in rehearsal when everything fit. There's nothing I have to do but be here.

I feel more than hear David take a long, slow breath. Jesse echoes. We both laugh. A few minutes later he checks his watch. “Time,” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, maybe I should stay a little bit longer, huh? Mrs. Hoyt'll be in bed soon, and . . .” He looks like such a puppy himself right now, I can hardly stand it. I tilt my head to one side, but don't say a word. “Okay, okay, got it. But Jesse stays.”

“Yes sir.”

“It's a damn good thing you're so fucking beautiful.”

“See you tomorrow, baby.”

FORTY-TWO

Midnight, and a full moon. It shines down from the sky and up from the ocean at the same time. All the stars are visible—no fog cover at all. I creep past Mrs. Hoyt's room, chuckle at her snoring, and venture out onto the sand to sit huddled in the breeze, facing the water. Jesse snuggles down next to me. An entire country is behind us; this makes me smile.

I don't stay on the balcony anymore, or even the deck. I like to be close to the ocean, on the sand. It's a radically different perspective from here, watching the waves gather themselves and surge forward, pounding, then end in a swirl of froth, sometimes inches in front of me. It's an exquisite place to cuddle with a big warm dog, think about life and death and souls circling.

That little voice whispers:

Circle the soul softly . . .

…and a photo that used to hang in the hallway in the blue and
white house slips into my head. I'm five and a half, on my way out the
door for my first day of kindergarten. I'm bundled up in a sweater and
jeans, holding a brand-new Snoopy lunch box, which is almost bigger
than I am. I smile as I see me, so young and so perfect and precise. And
tiny. Very tiny.

But I like being little. I'm skinny, too, with gaps in my teeth and long
thick hair pulled back tight from my face, braided. When I smile I tip
my chin down a bit and peer up from under lashes that I curl with a
dab of spit on my finger, absently and endlessly, sitting in the backseat
of the car on the way to school.

I like to wait and find out how a place will be or what the other
kids are doing before I jump in—then I'm fearless. I'm the one who'll
jump over the creek in the back field behind my house. Who can climb
higher in the old oak than Michael, and he's almost seven. I love my
dog, Jonti. I love my brother, too, even though he ignores me at school
just because I'm in kindergarten. When I get my feelings hurt, which
happens a lot, I sit in the corner of the laundry room and Jonti crawls
on my lap and I cry. Then I'm better.

The best day ever is when one of the first graders says I can play spy
plane with them. Only me. Heart pounding and my cheeks flushing red,
I follow him to “Spy Port” under the willow in the back of the yard.
He puts me in the formation with the other first graders, and the five of
us fly down the yard with arms flung backward. I can keep up! The joy
of it is almost too much to bear. I feel the power of myself. I am important
and amazing and I know for sure I can do anything.

My life is good. I have a best friend named Ginny. Even though
Michael teases me, he doesn't do it mean like my next-door neighbor
does. Once he even stuck up for me at school, when Maria Modine tried
to push me down. I like our blue and white house, especially the willow
tree on the side. I like watching my mom pour pancake batter into letters
first, then filling in the edges of the circle so I eat a big K in a wheel.
I like sitting on my daddy's lap when we're watching TV at night. I like
the way he smells like Old Spice and cigarettes, and how he tickles me
and makes funny faces. I don't even mind that his face is scratchy. When
I'm with him, nothing in the world can hurt me.

Except—he does. He hurts me.

He creeps into my bed and changes everything.

He crushes my power and my importance.

He gives me secrets I can't even tell myself.

He steals my freedom and my trust.

He makes me disappear.

Jesse whimpers quietly and snuggles closer. He knows. With arms wrapped tight around my knees, I rock gently back and forth and watch as the tide comes in and the ocean finally reaches my feet. I don't actually feel it, though I think it must be cold. I'm numb with an understanding I can't fully describe. I'm remembering how it was to be small and helpless and hurt by the one person in the entire world who would never hurt you.

I'm remembering how it felt to disappear.

Robert is right.

There is a big person. There is a little one. And there is an order to that, which is sacred. The adult takes care of the child.
The roles may not be reversed.

He's my father.

He was supposed to take care of me.

I'm his child.

There are boundaries that should never be crossed.

AND NOW

Crying wears me out. But each time I slip down to the ocean and bring my little girl out, I do it. For hours.

I think: I'm in mourning. Again. This time it's not for my father who died—but for the death of the man I thought he was.

And for the life of the little
girl.

My “truths” have shifted. There's no final answer, no absolute right or wrong. There is an order that works—a relationship between souls that allows them to grow. But no one truth. Each soul seeks its own. I have to search for mine and the way it fits into my life now.

“And if you say everything has a purpose in the world—what is the use of pain?!”
Tilda's words from my audition monologue drop into my head. I don't dismiss them; the universe speaks in many ways.

I won't stop loving my father.

One day I might stop hating him.

And in the meantime, I have to cry.

Sometimes the tears thrash about and tear at me like a wild animal; I rage at my father and my mother and every single adult in my world then who didn't notice something very awful was happening.

Sometimes the wound seeps quietly and the pain is low and mean and relentless, and the tears that finally, barely, escape from my eyes and throat are pinpricks of release, and welcomed. This kind of crying is the worst.

Always I am tired after.

Always, strangely, I feel just a little more “right.”

And life goes on.

Mom answers my questions the best she can and we both cry and hold on to each other and try to place our hurt. Michael calls every week and attempts to talk me into moving back to Santa Rosa. He misses me. Robert lets me know he's there and will provide for me. Carol explains how my soul is strong and capable and can handle whatever it has to—and I think one day I'll tell her about me and my dad. Probably after I tell David and maybe Michael. When I'm ready. But not yet.

I was alone in the bedroom in the blue and white house; I was alone with the memory I couldn't have for all those years; and that's what I need to be for now, alone, to figure me out.

That's the purpose of pain.

Each time the crying stops, another fragment of anger and hurt is sliced off the gigantic mass of ugly feelings I've collected and hidden all these years. It floats out and away and in that instant I sense what it will be like when I fit into my self—
like I did when I was five.

Then, of course, I crash—back to Stupid Kate, knowing nothing; helpless and hurt and scared—just like my little girl. Except the door's no longer shut. And now there's David and Robert and Michael. And my mom.

So I can cry again.

Jesse doesn't like it. He whimpers his little dog sounds and nudges my hand with his nose. He wants me to smile, so I do. I hug him and he burrows under my arm and lays his big head on my lap and relaxes. He's fine then, because he feels connected. I'm starting to feel connected too, to David, to my mom and brother, to the world. My soul shifts, and I circle it softly.

I try to stay here, in this moment. I try to breathe. And listen. And just
be
…my self. It's really all anyone has to do. It's very simple.

Oh wait . . .

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

DAVIDA WILLIS HURWIN
is the author of
A TIME FOR DANCING
(an ALA Best Book for Young Adults) and
THE FARTHER YOU RUN
. She teaches theater at Crossroads School for Arts and Sciences and lives in Southern California with her husband, Gene, and their daughter, Frazier Malone.

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CREDIT PAGE

Jacket Art © 2006 Paul Thomas / Getty Images

Jacket design by Sara Rabinowitz

COPYRIGHT

Circle the Soul Softly
Copyright © 2006 by Davida Wills Hurwin
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub Edition © February 2009 ISBN: 9780061880643

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Hurwin, Davida, 1950–

Circle the soul softly / Davida Wills Hurwin.— 1st ed.

p. cm.

Summary: Suppressed memories of childhood sexual abuse resurface, jeopardizing fifteen-year-old Kate's relationship with her new boyfriend.

[1. Self-perception—Fiction. 2. Child sexual abuse—Fiction. 3. Incest—Fiction. 4. Post-traumatic stress disorder—Fiction.] I.Title.

PZ7.H95735Cir 2006       2005005714

[Fic]—dc22        CIP

AC

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FIRST EDITION

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