Love Rewards The Brave (11 page)

70.

I don’t know why her, why then, but

I suddenly felt safe

with Margot.

Maybe it was a case of the right time

right place.

Maybe it was a case of

gentle grace

feeling safe

her embrace.

I hand her a book.

I know the volume well.

It was the story of my days from when I was

thirteen.

Officially a teen.

She takes it, cautiously.

“Are you sure?” she asks, timidly.

Like, she knows how fragile it is

to hold someone’s life

in your hand.

Knowing the taking of the

journal was like

receiving a heart transplant.

I offered my heart to her.

Yes, I am sure,
I want to say.

Loud and clear.

And even though I want to,

I hold so much fear

inside.

Still, I nod my head.

71.

I watch as she reads the

page
pages.

I don’t know what I should do.

Leave her in quiet

or interrupt her so it’s over

or

what?

So I just pick at my black nail polish

as little flecks

land on the carpet.

After awhile she stops.

She points to a portion and says, “You wrote this? All of this? This is you?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“It’s really beautiful.”

Her eyes are full of those

still same tears my eyes

want to be washed in.

“Beautiful?”

Grimacing at the thought of beauty found in the

story of my life.

How could beauty be found

in a childhood lost?

“Your life has been…too much, Louisa, for sure…but the way you write about it? It’s beautiful. You’re a poet.”

I start picking at my nails again.

A poet?

Quietly I say, “No, Margot. Those are just the pathetic things that happened, I’m no poet. I’m just….”

She stops me. “It’s not pathetic. It’s real. Here, listen to this:

72.

“Some days I feel like I am breaking.

Feel like

I.

Am.

Breaking.

I always thought the falling down or falling out

would be a lot louder.

Like a crash

happen real fast

feel fast

no gravity to hold it up

hold you up

and the fall is deep

and wide.

And I’m spinning inside,

dizzy inside

wanting to hide, but I  can't.

I’m in a wide-open space and there’s

no door to crawl behind

no hole in which to bury.

Can’t I just bury

my heart?

Hurry real fast, before it breaks

be gentle now, set it in the fresh

dark dirt and put fistfuls on top of it

to cushion it

to soften it.

Soften the blow that came so close.

But my heart won't let itself be buried deep down.

No.

My heart felt the sweet touch of life.

The touch where hands hold

and heads touch

and dreams are made

and promises kept.

Now the promises are broken

and it’s too late.

You can't protect the heart, it’s already lived too much.

Loved too much.

And when that happens

that life living

that life giving

you can’t fight the feeling'.

I wish I could.

To save this heart from heartache and

heartbreak.

Soon the heartbreak

becomes a break

down

it only happens to those of us who give in

to the soul searching down real deep

it's getting kind of scary here

I’m feeling pretty weary here

sort of life.

They say the breaking into a million pieces

isn't always so bad.

So long as we can

find a hand

to help us pick up the parts

and put them in the places they belong.

Find a place to start again.

Find a start that’s worth it.

Worth the inevitable

Break.

Because it's going to happen

again.

Some days I feel like

I.

Am.

Breaking.”

73.

“Louisa, this is your story. Do you remember writing it?”

Yes.

I remember writing
that
.

I remember why

my heart

I

broke when I wrote it:

Thirteen years old

and it’s my birthday.

The day of

fairytale

dreamscometrue

blowoutthecandles

makeawishparty

the kind I dreamed about at six

is not happening

today.

For a long time I just thought my parents

were sad

and if I just loved them

the way they wanted,

they might be happy.

But the way they wanted always

hurt

so

bad.

When I started my period

at twelve years old,

a week before my thirteenth year ––

I realized

what the class at school meant

and I realized what Dad

did meant

and it scared me so much

that giving him what he wanted

could do
that
to me.

74.

I’d always been so oblivious.

I just wanted

to be

normal.

A family that eats together stays together.

That’s what the lady

who lived in the apartment down from mine

would say

to her son when she called him in

from play.

I wanted that.

A family who ate together.

Or at least a family who remembered to buy groceries

and pay the electric bill.

A dad who went to work and a mom

who didn’t always go to her room

to sleep all day.

But when I saw blood in my

pants

the parts I wanted to pretend weren’t there,

the hurt and the

hush-hush

and the “don’t you dare

say a word”

I realized it was more

than making Dad mad-

it was about Dad being bad.

Maybe other girls would have known

wrong from right

what to tell

what shouldn’t be locked away

tight.

But I was always at home

always alone with Benji and Mom and Dad.

See, my family––

maybe we didn’t eat together,

but we were always together.

In the same four walls

no friends came to call.

So I didn’t know the jokes

the girls at school spoke

about.

Laughed about.

If I saw two kids kissing

in

the hall of the middle school,

I’d always looked away

not ever wanting to stay

around

that.

Because seeing it made me feel

sick inside

make me want to hide

because

I

Didn’t

Understand.

75.

But when I saw that blood,

all the things I tried so hard

to block out

not talk about

forget about

suddenly meant more than I ever

wanted to know.

I spent the entire week

scared shitless.

I was scared for him to know

about the blood.

I didn’t want to make him mad.

So I pretended to be sick in bed

faking a fever and night

sweats

even though

I knew the truth in it.

I was sick
.

I felt sick in the

head

as I wrestled all night long with the

demons of

my past

coming up

wrapping around me fast.

Not letting go.

When the blood stopped I knew

what I needed

to do.

76.

“Benji!” I called that day.

The birthday party fantasy

no longer on my radar.

I had bigger fish to fry

like being my Dad’s whore.

And that might sound harsh,

but my edge

came out

that day.

I was sick of it all

my hormones were in a rage

I was just so

over
trying to

pacify.

Nothing ever seemed to help.

I wanted to let me go

so we could be a normal family.

so that I could finally breathe.

I decided it was going to start that day.

I had a plan, and I needed to tell Benji

fast.

I picked him up from school,

at nine years old

he thinks he is too big to hold

my hand, but I take it anyway.

He is my one

and only

reason for fighting

for holding on so long.

I’m not letting go of his hand.

I lean my head against his

because I know a way out.

Smiling

because I was finally giving him

what he always talked about ––

escape.

Now that I saw the truth

of it

I had to help us

out of it.