Sister of Silence (17 page)

Dr. Roper referred me to a colleague and the day of my consultation appointment, I couldn’t stop thinking about the impending surgery.

It’s his fault I have to do this. If only he would have listened some of those times when I asked him to wait. If only he wasn’t so selfish. If only . . .

I pulled into a parking space outside of the health department, stopped the car, and chastised myself.

That’s not going to get you anywhere. It won’t turn back the clock, nor will it change Eddie.

But I also knew he could
have at least had the decency to do something himself, instead of forcing me to do this.

As I entered the building, I began running my four pregnancies through my head.

It’s been a constant since age thirteen.

I wasn’t sure where
the thought came from, but suddenly it came to me, a long-forgotten high school memory from years earlier.

Running a comb through my damp hair after gym class, I realized I was going to be late for English. Again. Mrs. Tallman would mark me tardy, but I didn’t care. Coming out of the locker room, I nearly collided with Mrs. Niles. “Berry, you’re going to be tardy.” Her head seemed to shake perpetually, as if she never quite knew what to make of her awkward, adolescent freshmen.

“I know.” I rushed past her and then stopped.

“What’s the matter? Don’t know the way to class?” She couldn’t hide the laughter in her voice.

“Um, well, yes, I mean—,” I floundered. “Do you have a minute?”

I saw a faint furrow appear between her brows, before it vanished. “Sure thing. This is my planning period, so I’ve got plenty of time,” I saw white, even teeth as she smiled.

“I just have a quick question.” I swallowed hard and studied the floor, where a tiny piece of gravel had sneaked in behind the gym teacher’s back, daring to defy her spotless wooden planks.

Looking up, I spit it out. “Do you know what I can do? I mean, where I should go…” My voice trailed off entirely.

“You’re pregnant?” her tone wasn’t judgmental, but I sensed her surprise as she played with the pencil above her right ear.

“No!” I said quickly. “It’s just that, well … I think I may have something.” My cheeks flamed as I choked on the words.

“Piece of cake,” she said, and the small room seemed to fill with air again. “Let’s go see the guidance counselor, and she’ll give you a pass for your next class, so your tardy will be excused.”

I managed to suck in some much needed air. “Thank you,” I managed.

The next day Miss Garfield drove me to Kingwood. She chatted pleasantly, sticking to light topics. But my stomach was churning, and I kept wondering how many people saw me leave with the school guidance counselor.

If anyone finds out, they’ll know. I’ll be branded forever. They’ll think I’m a hypocrite, going to Bible meetings and refusing to cheat in class, while having sex behind everyone’s back.

The thoughts flew around my brain in a flurry, until I forced myself to focus. When we parked in front of the county courthouse, a forgotten scene from childhood drifted into my mind, and I remembered being on an exam table while a nurse held my arm.

“I came here for my shots,” I said to no one in particular.

“Yes, the office is still here, but they’re trying to get bigger quarters elsewhere,” Miss. Garfield said.

We parked and then mounted wide flagstone steps like anyone else coming or going from the old stone courthouse. Except they were checking property maps or paying taxes; we were there to see if I could be diseased. Inside the waiting room, I leafed through a magazine, thankful we were alone.

“Number two,” a voice called a few minutes later. “That’s you. I’ll be waiting right here.” Miss Garfield’s smile was still warm and sunny.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, head bowed as I walked toward the woman with the clipboard.

Later, b
ack inside the car, sunshine streamed through the windshield, warming me with its rays. I couldn’t stop replaying the scene in the exam room. The nurse was older, with dark hair and a kindly nature that made me think she was someone’s grandmother.

“Do you have any symptoms, Sweetie?”

What if she’s the nurse who gave me my shots? What if she tells my mother?

“No, I don’t think so
.” I folded and unfolded my hands.

“Miss Garfield said you didn’t think you could be pregnant, right?”

Not since I don’t even have a period, no, no chance at all.

“The thing is, you see
…” As I looked into her knowing eyes, I suddenly realized she was an old hat at this, and felt my limbs relax. “I’m not sure what I need. I just know this guy, he started doing some things and I thought I wanted to, but then I didn’t, so …”

Her head bobbed in understanding. “So did he penetrate you at all?” she asked as easily as if I had a splinter.

“Yes, a little bit,” I bit my lip.

What do I say? How can I tell her everything he did? We did? What will she think of me? What will she tell Miss Garfield?

“Then we should probably test you for a few common diseases, and we’ll draw some blood and send it away to see if you’re pregnant. But I’m sure it will be negative.” She gave me a motherly smile. “Do you think you’ll need any birth control?”

I shook my head hard. “No, it was just that once and I’m not going to have sex until I’m married.”

Miss Garfield’s voice drifted across the car and interrupted my thoughts, preventing the scene from repeating. “Today’s trip will remain strictly confidential. Neither Mrs. Niles nor I will say anything to anyone, and nothing goes on your school record. The health department will contact me, but if you don’t hear anything, then you don’t need to worry, because that means everything is just fine.”

That’s when I rewound the reel inside my head, stashing it away forever.

I never told Mom about seeing the nurse.

It was another nurse’s voice that brought me out of my reverie today. “Mrs. Leigh, you can go back now,” she said.

We stepped into an exam room, followed by a petite, dark-skinned man. “Mrs. Leigh? I’m Dr. Mundi.” He glanced at my chart, and then over at me. “There are some risks involved with this surgery, which is called a tubal ligation. Naturally, whenever anesthesia is used there’s a risk of death. It’s that simple. Other than that, though, there’s the risk of infection.”

I listened closely as he outlined the various methods of performing the surgery. “I understand,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Good, but I should also tell you that usually I don’t perform this type of surgery on someone your age. You’re only twenty-one, and you could want more children when you are older.” He smiled knowingly. “Of course, you already have four, so that may not happen. But have you considered how you would feel if one of your children died? Say, your son? Have you and your husband talked about him having a vasectomy, instead?” He glanced down at my chart again, but I wasn’t sure what to say.

“It’s a very minor operation compared with this one, and there isn’t a risk of death, because no anesthesia’s involved. Your husband would just go into the doctor’s office, they’d perform the procedure right there, and he would be fine after a few days. But this surgery has a recovery period of several weeks.”

I shook my head, forcing myself to find the right words. “You don’t understand. I have no choice. My husband refuses to accept responsibility for birth control, and he won’t let me use any, either. You’re right, four kids in five years is a lot—especially for someone my age, and if there had been anything at all I could have done to prevent that, I would have. That’s why I’m here now—because if I get pregnant again, I’ll lose my sanity!” I expelled everything in one long breath.

I was tired of protecting Eddie, of keeping “our secret,” of taking the blame for being pregnant so many times. I had to be honest. Hating that I had to give up my right to ever have children again gave me the courage I needed. It was plain and simple. Black and white.

“As for the vasectomy
…” I hesitated, not sure how to continue. “Well, my husband and I did discuss that. It isn’t an option, at least not where he’s concerned. He said someone told him it decreases a man’s sex drive, and he doesn’t want that to happen.” At Dr. Mundi’s dubious expression, I smiled thinly. “I know it’s not true, I’ve already done the research. But try to tell him that.”

“So instead, he would prefer that his wife—you—be put under anesthesia, despite this being a much more dangerous operation? It sounds like he could do with a decrease in his sex drive.” Dr. Mundi shook his head. “I’m sorry. I understand what you’re saying. And normally, I wouldn’t even consider it. But for you I will make an exception.” His smile was full of compassion.

The surgery took place one week later. I was in the hospital from early morning until late that same day. When I came out of the recovery room, I hurt from my waist to my thighs. Dr. Mundi said the pain medication would help, and gave me a prescription. He told me to get lots of rest, not to lift anything heavier than a milk jug, and to not overdo it when I began getting up and moving around.

During the days that followed, I became aware of how angry I was that Eddie had “stolen” my procreative powers, and my animosity continued to build.

It’s his fault. He’s such a selfish jerk. He could have had a vasectomy, instead.

At the same time, the knowledge that I couldn’t get pregnant again lifted a weight from my mind, actually allowing me to begin enjoying sex. Well, some sex. With Eddie, I would never enjoy the weird sex he preferred. But it was a start, and one that wasn’t lost on him. We began sharing jokes about little things, even confiding in each other, and it felt like we might become friends.

We went an entire month without a single argument, and even made a date to go camping one weekend. Mom babysat while we headed to Tygart Lake, where we made friends with a couple who invited us to join them on their motorboat. I watched, mesmerized, as they took turns waterskiing. When they offered to teach us, Eddie promptly refused, but I jumped into the water, eager to try the sport.

After donning the skis, I floated on my back and tried to relax as I grasped the rope handle with both hands. The first time, the handle flew from my fingers after I found myself being dragged, face first, through the water. The second time, I managed to hold onto the handle and was pulled into a standing position before, disappointed, I fell and sank into the water again. But on the third try, I came out of the water easily, and quickly began gliding along the water’s surface, turning first one way, then another, until I could jump over the boat’s wake when the small craft changed directions. By the time the day was over I was exhausted but exhilarated.

When the weekend ended and Eddie and I returned home, we both felt rested. I hoped we had been given a second chance, and believed peace would prevail.

But it didn’t. It couldn’t. Any newfound peace was only a temporary calm before the storm—one of many cloudbursts to come. Because in time, Eddie’s job fizzled out again and he was added to the growing number of unemployed coal miners in West Virginia.

Still, we had our blessings. Slade grew rapidly, marking each developmental milestone earlier than normal. Very bright, he imitated our every word or movement. He was the happiest baby, adored by three sisters whose world he made go round, and who catered to his every whim and want.

I marveled at how a baby born into such a chaotic household could be so pleasant. I decided it was God’s gift to me, for overcoming the inner struggle that had left me weeping on the bathroom floor, intent on taking Slade’s little life before he had a chance to suffer like we had been suffering for years. I knew what a privilege it was, just to play some small role in my beautiful baby boy’s life, and I thanked God every day for giving me both Slade and the discernment to realize that in spite of everything, life really was worth living.

And I knew, with God’s strength and guidance, I could overcome anything.

The girls were growing tall and filling out, like the fragrant, butter-colored daffodils that grew in bunches against the hillside in our back yard.

Nearly a year had passed and my body had long since healed from the surgery. But my mind hadn’t
. Anger and resentment continued building because of being forced to give up not just a body part, but my right to bear children. I just wasn’t sure what to do about it.

It was only reasonable, especially given that no matter how much work I did, Eddie always made sure I did more. Lately he had been doing that a lot, but I wasn’t sure if it was because he didn’t have a job, or because our marriage was growing worse. But whatever it was, I started coming home after my cosmetic shows to find him sitting like a zombie in front of the TV, and if I asked, he refused to help me around the house with anything. He was extremely critical, so I just decided it was easier doing it all myself.

Most of the time, I did it all, too. But other times, I just couldn’t keep up. Like the night I returned home following a show I’d gone to earlier that day. I expected Eddie to feed the kids, but he thought otherwise. He was already angry when I arrived, telling me there wasn’t any food in the house and they were hungry.

“You’re going to work before you play, young lady!” he snapped.

“What do you mean?” I
set down my case and hung up my keys.

“Just what I said. The kids are hungry and there’s nothing in the house for them to eat. So you can figure out what to do about it before you do anything else.”

“Eddie, there’s food in the freezer. You could have thawed some ground beef and fixed burgers or even a meatloaf. You can cook, too.”

“That’s not my job and you know it!” His lips snarled as he glared at me.

From experience I knew he wanted an argument and nothing I said or did would pacify him. I threw my arms up in the air. “All right, you want me to take care of it? Okay, I will. I’ll just go back into town and buy all the groceries we’ll need for next week.”

“No, you’re not going back into town. You’re not going to leave me with the kids all night long.”

I sighed, fighting the urge to sarcastically tell him just how pleasant he was treating me. “Well then, what do you suggest I do?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You figure it out.”

In the end, I drove to a small convenience store a couple of miles away, and found something I could fix quickly. Returning home, I hugged my hungry children and hid in the kitchen, as eager to be out of Eddie’s sight as he was of mine.

Then it happened: Eddie simply said he wanted to leave, that he’d wanted to for six years, and he hadn’t even loved me until long after we married. His words didn’t come as a surprise, but it still hurt to hear him say them out loud. Eddie’s admission also freed me from the delusions I began having after the first time we were intimate together, forcing me to see the truth.

I know. I’ve known all along. The only thing is, you’ve never loved me. You don’t love me now—and you never will. I just put up with it because that’s what I’m supposed to do. That’s what God expects me to do
.

But he didn’t leave. Instead, I wondered how I could ever come to terms with the many confusing beliefs that were part and parcel of who I was. If I couldn’t do that, I knew I could never leave him because—unlike Eddie—I had planned it and I would do it. All in good time.

In the meantime I worried about bigger things, like staying alive. Once Eddie’s unemployment ran out, we were just like everyone else we knew: stuck between a dollar and a dime, with families to support and no job to do it with. I knew it was only a matter of time before everything came spilling out, wreaking the same kind of havoc the
one-hundred-year flood had, when it devastated our county a few months earlier. It washed away houses, bridges, vehicles, a railroad trestle and even people, while leaving behind furniture, cars, broken pieces of lumber and twisted masses of metal.

Our own lives began unraveling at the seams just as the rebuilding work began taking shape
. The chaos inside our home increased, leaving behind debris of its own. We faced a growing mental strain that probably would have overtaken us all, had Eddie not found work building an addition on someone’s house. But the situation worsened after Eddie came home with a shiny Ford truck. He was supposed to trade in his big old Dodge for something more reliable and easier on fuel. Instead, he walked through the door with a vehicle that left us $4,000 more in debt.

“How on earth are we going to make the payment?” I asked.

Eddie grinned. “That’s the beauty of it, you see. Because I’m a coal miner and we have such good credit, we don’t have a payment for three months.”

I just stared at him. What planet was he living on? “What if you don’t go back to the mines by then?”

It was all the fuel he needed. “All you ever do is complain and whine! Just get off my back, and leave me alone. If you’ve got a better idea, then I’d love to hear it!” he yelled.

“I’m just worried about making the payment. I know this odd job is supposed to last awhile, but you’re only making $7.50 an hour. Besides—” I began.

“Just shut up. Shut the hell up. Don’t open your mouth and say another word. You’re just a spoiled little brat, who thinks it’s so easy to support a family!” Eddie stomped away, slamming the door behind him on his way to the basement.

I sighed. I was always the bad guy. Just once, I wished he would grow up and accept some responsibility for his actions—instead of blaming me. During the last few months, we had gone without cleaning supplies, toothpaste, tissues and even toilet paper (although never at the same time) and other household items.

And I couldn’t say a word about it. Because if I did, things would get even uglier.

By April, the tension between us was so thick I felt like I was choking, ready to pass out from the acrid air around me. I tried to find ways to scrape and save whatever I could, just to get us from one day to the next. The children always had food, even though it wasn’t as healthy as I would have liked, although I sometimes went without so they could eat. The loss of a steady income was taking its toll, and it seemed the kids and I were paying the price for Eddie’s mistakes. We were going to visit his parents one Saturday afternoon, when the short trip turned into a verbal abuse session. Something set Eddie off, and he began shouting and spewing obscenities, leaving us just sitting there in silence.

Later that week he shoved me, twice, because I wouldn’t stand still and listen to more of his abuse. The second time occurred when I tried to wake the children in the morning. They were still sleepy, so we curled up together in my bed. Eddie was there in a heartbeat, shouting like a madman.

“Get out of bed, you lazy bitch! I want some breakfast!” With that, he jerked me as I half-fell, half-climbed from bed, trying not to hurt the kids as I did so. Eddie stood there shouting and I heard my children’s terrified sobs behind me. A minute later, he walked away. I gathered them into my arms, trying to calm them—and wondering when we could escape. I was torn between the damage they would sustain by not having a father around, and what his abuse would do to them if we stayed.

It wasn’t long before my young daughters took a stand, trying to defend me after Eddie started yelling at me one day. “Leave Mommy alone!” they shrieked, which only made them bear the brunt of his violence.

In return, he kicked Gabby twice as she was trying to hurry into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Although she wasn’t even four, she didn’t even cry.

She’s burying her feelings
.
Oh my God, just like me!

I knew then I could no longer trust Eddie to put the kids to bed while I was away working, especially after I arrived home earlier than usual one evening. I was tiptoeing up the stairs when he began yelling. Eddie hadn’t heard me
come in, so I watched as he literally slammed, first Trista, and then Gabby, down onto the bed where Mileah was already lying in bed, her eyes tightly closed. Not that I doubted their tales, but I knew then the children hadn’t been exaggerating, when they filled me in about their evenings with Daddy.

I swept into the room and sat down on the bed, and they jumped up and began hugging and kissing me.

“Mommy’s home.” “I love you, Mommy.” “Will you read us a bedtime story?”

I kissed each one in return, gathering them around me as I asked what story they wanted to hear. When Eddie started to speak, I gave him what I hoped was a look that would wilt him. I’m not sure if I succeeded, but something he saw there must have caught his attention. A minute later, he went downstairs, leaving us alone, caught up in the pages of a fairytale where nothing bad happened, and all children were cherished and never got hurt.

By the time summer arrived, I felt just like those women I had passed in the supermarket aisle all my life—the ones who looked so beaten down and worn out, they barely had the energy to smile as they pushed their carts by. Or
those whose men dogged their very footsteps, keeping an eye out for any sign of “disloyalty” or perceived “unfaithfulness,” lest their women should acknowledge a stranger’s nod or greeting in public.

I realized I was emotionally battered, being repeatedly told to shut up, frequently not allowed to speak, and ridiculed and humiliated
.

B
ut whenever I looked into the bathroom mirror, I didn’t see that.

Instead, I saw fire in my eyes and a firmly set chin that was determined to defy the rigid rules Eddie tried to use to control me.

But it was the feelings that surfaced I saw reflected there that really surprised me. I saw a woman who knew she deserved respect and honor, because she was a hard worker and a good wife and mother, who had taken his crap for years.

It dawned on me that I hadn’t seen the old shame and sadness for quite awhile. I wondered why. Maybe it was because, by dressing up, and doing my hair and make-up, to sell cosmetics, I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t at all: a successful saleswoman.

“Fake it until you make it,” my manager once told me. From the reflection in the mirror, I knew I was well on my way to making it. Seeing that gave me an inner calm Eddie couldn’t take away, not even when he continued picking fights over small things, without provocation and apparently for no reason at all.

I thought his new job might be the reason for his anger. After deciding he wasn’t cut out to work construction, and with no sign the coal industry might rebound, he went to work for a family friend who owned a paving company. The pay was less than he made in the mines, but more than he did doing odd jobs. It was demanding and he worked the hours of a man possessed, but that was nothing new.

By then I was used to functioning as a single parent. From sunrise to sunset and beyond, Eddie was gone. I often wondered what drove him. I had reached a turning point in my life, accepting that Eddie would probably always be a workaholic. I couldn’t fathom why his children weren’t more important to him—but then, I wasn’t sure he knew, either.

I just knew he was one unhappy man. Whenever he was home, it was horrible for everyone. He yelled and sulked around, or showed his unhappiness and discontent in other ways. I tried to buffer the kids from his verbal attacks, but it was impossible. Eventually I learned to be thankful he was so driven. It kept him away from home, giving us the peace we desperately needed. For that I was grateful.

Winter came and went and the kids continued getting bigger. The only change within the fabric of our marriage, if it even could be called a marriage, was that we hardly spoke to one another by then. For years, we would fight and make up. It was characterized by a petty argument here or there, followed by a period of semi-bliss. Then the whole process repeated itself. A good month was when we only fought once or twice, but they were woefully few.

In the meantime, I dreamed of the day when I would have more time for myself. It seemed I would no sooner get up from a night’s sleep than it would be time to go back to bed again, only to repeat everything the next morning. I had learned to hold my tongue, and rarely mentioned my feelings, but I still wondered if things would ever change. Surely we couldn’t keep up the pretense of a happy family life forever.

Then came tax time, and things got even worse. To help cut costs, I did the preliminary work, itemizing receipts and sorting and tallying expenses. After putting the kids to bed, I worked until three a.m. trying to finish paperwork I had to take to the accountant the next day. It was almost April 15 and I had searched all over the house for Eddie’s self-employment records, only to find half of them were missing. He wasn’t good about keeping receipts, so it had taken me twice as long as it should have. After gathering up all the paperwork, I went to see the accountant and, at Eddie’s insistence, left the kids with him. When I returned a couple of hours later, he accused me
once again of deliberately leaving without feeding them.

I walked in the door and Gabby and Trista ran to me, flinging their arms around me. “Daddy says you’re lazy. You didn’t feed us, Mommy, and we were hungry.” I heard their childish accusations as they hugged me. My heart sank. I had hoped he would stop putting me down in front of them, but instead it seemed to be getting worse.