Sister of Silence (13 page)

“I was just trying to play, that’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you, Carla.” Eddie finally found his voice.

“I don’t think that’s how you play with a thirteen-year-old, Eddie,” my mother said quietly.

He said he was sorry, and everyone tried to push the incident aside. I told Eddie I wanted to see him in the bedroom and turned away, hating that my family had witnessed it, knowing they would surely feel sorry for me, his new bride.

I don’t need their pity!

I was silent as he followed me, but once the door was shut I confronted him. I unleashed the anger on him in full force. “How dare you touch her like that? Why did you do it Eddie? Why?” I demanded.

He wouldn’t look at me, though, instead running his fingers through his hair, as if he was as distressed as I was. “I don’t know, Daleen. I told you, I was just trying to have fun with her. I didn’t mean anything by it. Besides, she’s always going around teasing me. You didn’t know that, did you?”

That silenced me for a moment, but then I decided it didn’t matter, even if there was any truth in it, because he was twenty-two and she was only thirteen.

Just like me. Just like me.

Somehow I forced the thought from my mind.

Besides, he was married and had no right to touch another woman like that, especially one who was underage. All of a sudden, all the energy ebbed away. I was exhausted and when I spoke my voice was strangely flat. “I don’t believe you Eddie. From what Carla says, this isn’t the first time. Is that right?”

I waited for his answer, but he tried to skirt the issue, saying she must not have minded it. I realized he wanted to convince me it was Carla’s fault for flirting with him. “She just has to run around wearing those skin-tight blue jeans,” Eddie continued, trying to pin the blame on her.

Too tired to argue, I
lay down on the bed. Eddie curled up beside me and tried to comfort me, but I ignored him, refusing to listen. I was deaf to his words, and kept reliving the entire scene, over and over, in my head. In my mind I could see him touching her, see her try to tell him to stop in a way that no one would notice, and then, when he didn’t stop, see her turn on him, screaming and swearing. It hurt terribly, to think my husband of only one month would do that to my little sister—and to me.

It also hurt because I
suspected it was all true, because that’s exactly what he had done to me. And that’s exactly what I had tried to do—keep the secret, keep silent, be the good little girl and not get him into trouble.

Thank God Carla had the sense to speak up, to break the silence.

Eddie kept pleading with me to listen. “I’m sorry Daleen. I really am. I didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. Please forgive me. I love you so much!” He whispered against my ear, stroking my hair back from my face. I kept my back to him and when he began to run his hand over my stomach, I smacked it away.

“Don’t dare touch me! I don’t want you to touch me, do you understand?” I was still furious, but at the same time, I could feel his body against mine, and smell the clean scent of him. I desperately wanted to believe him. But I couldn’t. It just wasn’t possible.

Not now. Maybe not ever again.

“Daleen
I won’t let you go. I won’t. I don’t care if you won’t make love to me, I’ll just lie right here beside you, all night, and hold you.” His voice was that of a little child whining in anguish, trying to get what he wanted. But I was beyond caring, and buried my face in the pillow, trying to forget everything I had just seen and heard.

The next morning, it was like the night before hadn’t even happened. Everyone except Carla smiled and laughed when we parted company—she was nowhere to be seen. I knew Mom and the kids would spend the rest of the weekend there, while Eddie and I headed to our honeymoon.

They all wore masks. I saw their blank faces, devoid of any leftover emotion from the previous night, and I wanted to shake them and scream, “This isn’t normal. You know it’s not normal. Why are you ignoring it like it’s nothing?”

But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. That would be unacceptable, and it would mortify both my mother and my uncle.

A polite young lady doesn’t do things like that.
In my head I could clearly hear my mom’s response.

So instead, I waved goodbye as we pulled away and began the four-hour drive. I don’t know how I managed to keep up a conversation, since I was still in shock over Carla’s outburst.

In the end, I think I just filed it away with all the other things that had happened which I couldn’t or wouldn’t face—questions for which I had no answers—afraid of what they would really mean, should I peer too close. Instead, I was subdued. Eddie tried to make me laugh, putting his arm around me, and by the time we arrived at Virginia Beach, I had mellowed a little. I was still uncertain of him—and myself—since I didn’t know how I really felt. I wanted to believe if I loved him more, he would quit acting like that with my sister.

And Vonna
, the voice inside my head reminded me.

The tiny cottage had a kitchenette barely big enough for two people. We went to buy groceries and when we returned, I put everything away while Eddie made the bed. After dinner, we climbed into it. As we made love, Eddie told me how much he loved me. I told myself I would make him so happy he would never want anyone else again. I knew I could do it and as I clung to him tightly, I was determined to make my marriage work, and to never let him go.

The next morning we went sightseeing, before returning to the cottage for lunch. “We’ll have to try both beds out before we go home.” Eddie was grinning, but I caught the hidden meaning behind his words as he slipped his arms around me. “What do you think?”

I just smiled. But I was really wondering how long his unquenchable desire for sex could last.

Surely after a few months, sex will grow old
.

We walked down to the beach, and I felt self-conscious in my swimsuit. It was a one-piece, and hid the pregnancy well, but I still knew I wasn’t as slender as usual. My swollen belly had left me with misgivings about my body. It served to accentuate my crime, and was something I was starting to struggle with.

As we spread out our blanket on the sand, I wondered if I would ever look as good as the other women who were stretched out sunbathing all around us. I hoped so, because I couldn’t stand being fat. More important, I knew Eddie wouldn’t like it.

Holding hands, we entered the water and began romping around in the waves. We played for hours, splashing each other and swimming and collecting shells, before returning to the blanket. The sun was directly overhead, burning into our skin, but the ocean breeze kept us from noticing. Eddie just sat there, so I tugged on his arm, asking him to lie down beside me. He said he wanted to watch the water, so I closed my eyes and felt the delicious warmth of the sun melt into me.

I don’t know what it was that finally caused me to glance up, but that’s when I saw him staring at some girl in a tiny bikini. She walked in front of our blanket, as I watched his eyes follow her hungrily.

I was afraid he would catch me, and quickly closed my eyes. I felt weird, like I was looking into someone else’s window while they undressed. Now and again Eddie would rub lotion on my back, making polite conversation, but I sensed his mind was elsewhere. So every so often, I peeked up at him. He was either gawking at a girl whose figure looked like an hourglass, or practically leering at another whose bathing suit resembled strings of spaghetti.

“What’re you doing?” My calmness belied the seething feeling beneath my skin.

“Oh, just watching some kids play, that’s all.” He quickly turned
his gaze from a woman who was lying with her bikini top unfastened, to some children who were busy building a sand castle.

You’re lying
. I wanted to say it, but couldn’t. So I began to sulk, refusing to talk except for one-word answers, when no answer would have been rude. I couldn’t do that.

Eddie quickly realized I was upset. He turned to me, asking what was wrong.

“I just don’t understand why you have to look at every woman on the beach and then deny doing it,” I said angrily.

He looked at me like I was crazy. “I wasn’t! I was just watching those kids over there.” He pointed in their direction. “What makes you think I was watching the women? You know, I have my own woman to watch.” His voice was silky smooth.

I was fed up. It was bad enough to do it, but to do it and then lie about it? “Look Eddie, I’ve been watching you. Every time you get quiet, I look up and see you staring at some gorgeous blond with a big bust.”

For an instant, he looked guilty. Then he smiled. “All right, so I like women with big chests. I admit it. But I have not been staring at every woman here. Why should I, when I can stare at you?” His dark brown eyes bored into my own, and he sounded sincere. I stared at him.

Maybe I was mistaken.

Deep inside though, I knew I hadn’t imagined it. At the same time, I wanted to believe him. I thought he loved me, so why would he need to look at other women? I finally convinced myself I had been mistaken, that Eddie hadn’t really been staring like I thought. But by then the day was spoiled.

“If you can’t trust me, let’s just go.” I knew Eddie was cross with me, and it made me feel guilty for not trusting him—for spoiling our day together at the beach.

We spent the rest of our honeymoon lounging around, seeing the sights and relaxing on the seashore. Our nights were filled with passionate sex and once, Eddie even asked me if I would go skinny dipping in the ocean.

“No, I don’t think so.” I was busy cooking at the stove.

“But it’ll be fun. Wouldn’t you like to swim naked in the ocean?” he pleaded.

I shook my head. “I don’t want to go skinny dipping. That’s just not me. You know that.” But I was terrified someone would find us—see us—and know what we were doing. Just the thought of anyone seeing me naked made me feel guilty, like I was doing something bad. I couldn’t do it.

Two days later, we made the long drive home. It was dark when we pulled into the driveway many hours later and Eddie began packing his lunch for work the next day. I went to bed, utterly exhausted, full of questions and doubts.

But my doubts never lasted long because at other times Eddie was the perfect husband. He worked at a coal mine where they had rotating shifts, so one week he would be on days, the next he would be on afternoons. During day shift, I got up early to fix him breakfast. But if I was too ill, he would kiss me tenderly as he got up.

“You stay in bed. I’ll fix it,” he said.

“Remember to kiss me goodbye before you leave.” I was already falling back to sleep.

Whenever I did get up to cook his breakfast, I was usually half asleep and Eddie would kiss me as he went out the door, gently pushing me back toward the bedroom. “Go back to bed.”

This was the Eddie I knew and loved, the man who took such good care of me.

But then the long hours at work took their toll. I tried waiting for Eddie so I could see him, but after realizing he was pulling yet another overtime shift, I went to bed. I was sound asleep, until a loud commotion outside woke me. It took me a few minutes to realize the noise was men’s voices. I lay there quietly for a few more minutes. I thought Eddie’s truck must have broken down, since he had been having some problems with the carburetor.

After what seemed like hours, the front door opened and I heard Eddie’s metal dinner pail and Thermos crash to the floor. Either he was angry, or something was wrong. I was out of bed then, quickly crossing the room to meet Eddie in the hallway.

“Hey there. What’s going on? Did your truck break down again?”

“No, my truck didn’t break down again. I wrecked it. I had to have it towed it home.” His voice was tired but hostile, and directed at me.

“Are you all right? You didn’t get hurt, did you?” I was suddenly frightened.

He stood at the sink, wetting a washcloth, and as I looked at him closely, I saw a streak of blood on his forehead. My hand flew to my mouth. “Eddie!”

“I hit my head. Can you find the cut and tell me how big it is?”

I quickly found a large, wet spot on his head, matted with blood. “Eddie, you need a doctor!”

With trembling fingers I parted his hair, until I could see the large gash better. It looked deep, and I was afraid he could have a head injury. “How bad is it?” His voice was grumpy. “I’m not going to a doctor, at least not tonight, anyway.”

“It looks like it went deeper than it should have, and yes, you are going to the doctor. I’ll drive you there. You need stitches.”

But his refusal was adamant. “Maybe in the morning. Not now. Just clean it up, will you, and then bandage it for me.” I stared at my husband’s reflection in the mirror. He was still covered with black soot, and only the whites of his eyes showed against the darkness of his skin.

I pursed my lips together tightly, knowing it would be fruitless to argue. I carefully washed the cut, afraid of hurting him. I wished he would go to the doctor. I thought it might be dangerous to wait until the morning, but I knew he wouldn’t change his mind. Instead, I prayed he would be all right.

“What happened, Eddie?” I had been so concerned about his injury I forgot to ask about the accident.

“I fell asleep and ran into a telephone pole and some guy’s garage.” He told me how he began dozing off, only to wake up enough to continue driving. The next thing he knew, he heard a terrible noise, and then was tossed around the truck cab. When he came to, a man was leaning over him, trying to talk to him. Eddie said he told the man not to call an ambulance. When he got out, he realized he had sheared off a telephone pole just before the truck had plowed through a garage, less than five miles from home.
“Do you realize how fortunate you are? You could have been killed. I’m so glad you’re all right.” I gave him a hug and clung to him, afraid if I let go, it would actually turn out to be worse than it was. “Please, please, stop working so much overtime. You’re killing yourself. Tonight is proof enough of that. What good is all the money in the world if you’re not alive to enjoy it?” I looked into his eyes, pleading with him, hoping the pain and worry in my own eyes would convince him. He looked awful, and any adrenalin from the accident had worn off, because he was clearly exhausted.

“I just want to go to bed, Daleen. My head is killing me.” Eddie moved slowly toward the bed, and as I helped him undress, I thanked God he was still alive.

The next morning came much too soon, but I called Eddie’s parents, telling them about the accident and reassuring them he was all right. Mrs. Leigh was upset, though, because I hadn’t called her sooner. I told her it wouldn’t have done any good, and would have only gotten them out of bed.

“Besides, Eddie wouldn’t go to the doctor, because he said it’s just a cut.”

“I’ll be right up to see him,” Mrs. Leigh said.

Within a few minutes she was there, and after seeing the gash, she grew agitated, telling Eddie he better go to the doctor. He finally gave in, saying he would go—just to make her happy. I drove him there but after an exam, the doctor said the cut wasn’t as bad as it looked, and just bandaged it up.

Eddie didn’t seem to suffer any side effects of his head injury, but after that things just snowballed out of control. I was defrosting the fridge one day when I heard someone screaming. Rushing toward the front door, I saw my next-door neighbor. “Daleen, get out! Your trailer’s on fire!” Ruby screamed.

I froze. It took a fraction of a second for her words to sink in. Finally able to move, I ran outside and looked in the direction she was pointing. “Down there. Look!” she yelled.

I saw bright yellow and red flames crawling out from under the back of the trailer. “Oh no!” I cried. “Call the fire department, quick!”

“I already called! They’re on their way,” Ruby said.

“They’ll never make it!” I knew the fire department was only a few miles away, but it was also staffed with volunteers who had nine-to-five jobs and families to feed. “It’ll burn down before they arrive!” I ran toward the trailer then, knowing it would be fully engulfed any second.

All our belongings—childhood mementos, wedding gifts, Eddie’s new stereo, my new sewing machine, the newly purchased drapes and carpeting, and everything else that was in there—were going up in flames.

But the smoke was already building up inside, and I knew I couldn’t endanger my unborn child: we could replace the material goods, but not the baby. I didn’t realize I was crying until Judy yelled for me again, asking if I wanted to use her phone.

With shaking hands, I dialed Eddie’s work number. “Arkwright Number 2,” a voice answered.

“My husband, Eddie Leigh. Can you get a message to him? Tell him our trailer’s on fire!”

Then I went outside, to stand with the crowd of gathering neighbors and the volunteer firefighters who had just arrived. I looked at the trailer, which was covered with red-hot flames. Their tendrils reached toward the surrounding trees and smoke poured out, blanketing everything it touched. I looked around and watched as our home went up in flames.

I
had escaped with my life, and I knew that was what was most important, but I still felt like I should have done something. I had let everything burn. My favorite childhood belongings were gone: old school papers, saved from first grade through graduation; the fabric I brought home from Jordan a year earlier; all kinds of books I had read or planned to read, and my journals.

I was devastated by the loss of my journals, which I’d kept since I was twelve, writing reflections about life on their pages. They contained my hopes and my dreams, and my insight into the people, places and things around me. They drew a line of the life I had lived, almost like a roadmap. Sometimes, when I meditated on something from the past, I went back and read the passage where I had poured words onto paper. Reading what I had written there helped me to sort out my thoughts and put everything in perspective. It wasn’t a loss to anyone else, and of no monetary value, but those written words were part of me. They helped me understand myself. As I stood there watching them burn, I wondered how I would ever make sense of my world without them.

We moved in with Eddie’s parents after the fire, so we were in his old bedroom when I went into labor in early December. For the last few months, the baby had been determined to let me know it was there. It would begin to move around, kicking me in the ribs and causing mini camel humps all over my balloon belly.

At Lamaze classes, I felt self-conscious because I knew several other couples from high school. One girl had gotten pregnant during the school year, and got married about the same time I did. The first time I saw her, I felt vaguely uncomfortable. It was impossible for me to keep my due date a secret, since they were all posted on a blackboard. I was horrified when I realized she would know I had gotten pregnant before I was married. I was ashamed about my secret relationship with Eddie, and for getting pregnant. I was afraid she would think I was a slut. Somehow I forced myself to remain cool, as if getting pregnant was something every sixteen-year-old girl did.

Eddie had gotten off work just a few hours before I went into labor, and we were in bed making love. I had begun having back pain during intercourse, and often just the act itself was enough to make me wish we could forego sex. If I experienced pain, I usually grew tense and Eddie, sensing the change, would ask if I was all right. When I confessed how painful it was, he said we could stop if I needed to. But he made no effort to do so, so I just gritted my teeth and went through with it.

So that night was the same as the others—he was soon satisfied and sound asleep. I looked at him, torn between love and loathing, but not knowing why. I rolled over so I could be alone with my thoughts.

But later that night, the pain became unbearable. Intense pressure in my lower back woke me up
. It hurt so much I couldn’t lie still, so I got out of bed to make some hot tea. The cramps started right away, but I thought it was false labor.

The baby isn’t even due for another month
.

But instead of decreasing, as I knew false contractions should, the pain increased until I could no longer stand it. Clutching my stomach, I kneeled over Eddie, trying to wake him up. “Eddie, I think I’m in labor.” I was nearly in tears.

“But you’re not due for another month,” he protested sleepily.

“I know, but I think the baby’s coming,” I moaned.

He bolted upright in bed. “Do you think? I mean, could I have done it, when we made love?

I shrugged, but said nothing. Deep down, I thought the lovemaking was a factor. “I can’t think about that right now,” I snapped.

Or about him. The baby within me needs all my attention.

It took almost an hour to reach the hospital, and I kept thinking about the baby.

If it’s premature, will it be all right? Will they have to put it in an incubator? What if it isn’t developed completely? What will its chances of survival be? Oh please, dear God, let it be all right.

“It’s a girl! You’ve got a beautiful baby girl, folks.” My obstetrician held her up for me to see, after many hours of hard labor.

I took the tiny baby girl the nurse handed to me, marveling at how beautiful she was, and held her against me. A thousand emotions swept through me, from amazem
ent to ferociousness, as she nursed from my breast. When she fell asleep her tiny arms were crossed in front of her, and her little legs were pulled up next to her stomach. I rubbed her head, which had the softest blond fuzz on it. Not much, but enough to know it was there. The baby we later named Mileah looked like she would fit into a breadbox. I loved her the minute I saw her.

Over the course of the next two days, a few high school friends stopped by. Their response
s were all the same: “I didn’t know you were pregnant!” “I didn’t know you were married.” “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Carla had broken the news for me, calling them after Mileah was born, because I couldn’t bear to tell anyone. The shame was still too strong. I didn’t want them to know I was a hypocrite, pretending to be a “good” girl, while secretly doing bad things.

When the questions came, I donned my brightest smile and pretended like nothing was wrong. “She’s premature.” I tried to be vague about how many weeks early Mileah had arrived. If their math was good, they could have figured it out, but if not then maybe—just maybe—they wouldn’t.

But some questions were more difficult than others. “I didn’t think you were going to have any kids,” or, “I thought you were going away to study music.”

I found myself torn between guilt and a strong maternal desire to show my beautiful newborn to the world. I let them think I had changed my mind about a lot of things in life, including the decision to get married and have children. If they went away confused about my answers, they were no more confused than I was.

I only knew I had accepted what life had given me. No, I didn’t want children, at least not for several years, after I had accomplished some things in life I wanted for myself. And yes, I was going to study music, but my father’s drinking made sure that didn’t happen. Besides, my life course had been mapped out from age thirteen: I was going to marry the only man I had slept with, for that’s what good girls did. I couldn’t do anything else.

That was something my friends would never know.