Sister of Silence (18 page)

Great! Now, they’re repeating his nasty remarks.

I kneeled down to hug the girls, breathing deeply of their warm bodies as if they could renew my strength. “Oh you kids know Daddy gets grumpy and says things he doesn’t mean. Don’t pay any attention to him,” I
said, laughing.

Then I slowly stood,
set my satchel down and went to find him. He was in the kitchen, cleaning up.

“What’s this about being lazy, Eddie?”

“Well, you know what they say about ‘if the shoe fits.’ You aren’t lazy though, are you? Why you only left me four starving children to feed—why didn’t you give them lunch before you left? You hadn’t been gone for five minutes before they started whining to be fed.”

“They did eat before I left. We had a late breakfast while you were still sleeping. And when I left, no one said anything about being hungry—or I would have fed them. Again.” I sighed. “They’re your children, too. What’s so hard about you fixing them something to eat?”

“Only that it’s not my job, that’s all!”

“Oh, and doing the taxes is my job, is that it?” I could hear my own voice rising to meet the anger and sarcasm in his, but I didn’t care. I didn’t notice until too late that the girls were standing a few feet away, listening to our every angry word.

I forced my voice to a level of calm my emotions didn’t match. “You kids go play. Your father and I are talking,” I told them.

“It doesn’t do any good to discuss anything with you. You never listen to anything I say. Oh yeah, you put on a good show when we go out in public. In front of them you’re always ‘Little Miss Goody
Two-Shoes,’ but at home it’s another matter. Well you better be careful, or I’ll leave—and take the kids with me. Then you’ll learn your lesson!”

My head snapped around sharply at his words.

Take my children? Would he? Could he? How dare you threaten me
!

But another part of me knew he was quite capable of keeping that promise—if he grew desperate enough. Suddenly, every last ounce of energy within my body felt like it had been sucked out. I shook my head slowly, more tired than I had been for a long time. “Go ahead, if you think you need to. But while you’re at it, don’t forget I also stayed up half the night trying to figure out the taxes from the bookkeeping mess you left me. And then I had a meeting with the accountant. Don’t forget that,” I said.

He threw the dishrag across the room and stormed out cursing. I saw Mileah and Gabby run after him, crying. “Let him go,” I told them.

I hope he never comes back
.

The minute the front door slammed, the girls came running to me. “You made Daddy leave. You shouldn’t have yelled at him,” Mileah cried.

“Now he won’t come back,” Gabby said, smacking me on the leg.

I looked down and saw the anger and pain in her eyes, and was horrified she was imitating his bad behavior.

What next?

“Listen to me, Gabriella.” I bent down and gently turned her head toward me, seeing the tears in her eyes, and the thumb in her mouth. “I want all of you listen to me. It is not acceptable to hit other people, especially people you love. Do you understand me?” I watched, observing every nuance on their faces, the way their little bodies said what their mouths would not.

Their anger is like a fuse, ready to go off any second. God help us all when it does.

I gathered them close, touching each one with a stroke on the head, or a rub on the arm. “I did not make Daddy leave, and he will come back. That much I can promise you.”

Yeah, because he can’t go without having his sexual needs met.

“Look, kids, I know it was wrong for Daddy and me to yell at each other and I’m sorry. It’ll be all right, though, because he’ll be back before long, when he gets over being angry. And then everything will be fine.”

It seemed to reassure them and they were about to go and play when Trista spoke up. She was the only child who hadn’t seemed bothered by his departure, and who hadn’t rushed to his defense. “Daddy said one day he would hit you so hard you’d end up in the hospital,” she said sadly.

I stared at my five-year-old, not knowing what to say. My mind went blank, leaving only anguish to fill the void.

Why does he have to subject us to this? Why won’t he stop?

I rushed to reassure her. “Oh Sweetie, people say lots of things when they’re angry. But he didn’t mean it, really. Daddy was just upset.” Still, a look of uncertainty filled her eyes. I hoped it didn’t reflect what was in my heart. “Listen. I promise you that Daddy will not hurt me. I won’t let him!”

She smiled then and hugged me tightly, before running off to join her sisters.

I sat there, wishing I believed my own words. If only I could. I looked around the room, seeing all the visible signs that told me it might only be a matter of time before he tried to make good on his threat. There was the wall opposite me, with a large, gaping hole in the drywall. In a fit of rage about six months ago, Eddie had put his fist through it. At the time, he told me it was a good thing it wasn’t my face. Then there was the wooden dining room chair. Its mate became the victim of his violence on another occasion, when he threw it across the room. It had landed with a hard thud, breaking into pieces as it fell to the floor.

I absently rubbed my leg. The bruise was still visible, and I couldn’t help but recall the tennis shoe Eddie had thrown at me. It happened several months ago, late one night when I had done something to displease him. I tried to defend myself, but it was useless. Without warning, Eddie stooped down and picked up a shoe, and the next thing I knew it was flying through the air toward me. When it struck my leg, I felt a burning pain. The dark purple bruise I found the next morning was about half the size of the shoe itself. It had since turned into a broken web of capillaries.

At the time, the only thing I could think was how fortunate I was that it hadn’t hit me in the face. Of course Eddie claimed it was an accident. I
had just stared at him, saying nothing.

One day practically ran into the next, and planting season was upon us. I had planned all winter for a garden. After Eddie broke up the hard ground using a neighbor’s rototiller, I took the younger kids and went outside. The rich, black earth moved easily under my fingers. Mileah was in school, but Trista, Gabby and Slade all gathered around to help by dropping tiny seeds into each row. The day was sunny and beautiful. As we knelt there, working the soil, I thought how good our homegrown vegetables would taste. Spring—what a wonderful season! With it came the last remnant of dirt and dying. Everything was reborn, and I felt a strong desire to work my marriage, just as I was working the soil. I expected it to produce good results, in that Eddie and I would be happy again, and our children wouldn’t face the turmoil of living in a house divided.

I stood and gathered up my gardening tools. Handing each child something to carry, we headed toward the house. I glanced back to where the sticks stood at the end of the long rows, empty seed packets hung so we would know which vegetable to expect. I paused long enough to think about the day when the tiny green sprouts would begin to poke their heads through the black dirt. Maybe, just maybe, with a jolt of hard work from both Eddie and me, our marriage would yield equally rich results. I knew then I had to try again. Harder this time.

A letter—I would write Eddie a letter and tell him how I felt. Maybe that would do the trick. I put the children down for their naps, reading them a story and trying not to think about all the things I wanted to say to him. I was too anxious to sleep myself, so when the last one began breathing easily, I tiptoed downstairs, pen in hand.

But I was unsure of what to say or how to say it. Then, suddenly, the words came pouring out. Before long, I had written two full pages. I read it, trying to see what might upset him.

May 11, 1987

Dear Eddie,

Lately our relationship has been getting progressively worse. Perhaps if I tell you how I’ve been feeling, maybe you will at least understand my viewpoint.

These days, all I hear from you is how tired you are, how little time you have, how much you need. Ever since the first layoff in 1982, you make sure you get your wants and needs fulfilled before anyone else’s. You aren’t like this all of the time, and I know you do work very hard. I feel for you when you come home late, too tired for anything but sleep. Ever since we got married, you’ve worked at such demanding jobs you have nothing left for your family.

Looking back, I see you were very kind, generous and helpful—to my mom or your family, even complete strangers. But to me you were just demanding and selfish. Not that you didn’t treat me with kindness, because sometimes you did.

Honestly, when we first married, in a strange way, I was happy. Then, whether by coincidence or just bad timing, our relationship quickly disintegrated when you lost your job. I was pregnant with Gabby, and very depressed, but all I heard was how my actions caused you problems. Your uncooperativeness caused a certain bitterness that has grown until now.

Three days after her birth, all I got was static—about dinners not being fixed on time, or the house being dirty. You were oblivious to what was happening, leaving me in despair.

So I kept trying harder. I read the Bible and anything else I thought would help improve our relationship. Time and again I begged you to do the same, to no avail. We seemed to get closer, but then we would end up worlds apart.

And yes, I know you don’t drink, and I appreciate that. But I’ve put up with much more than any wife should. As far as beatings go though, let me tell you that after all your verbal abuse, a physical beating sounds mild by comparison. At least then you could see the scars. Instead, you have no idea how I’ve felt after you berate me—and I keep it to myself. That’s one thing I’ve learned. I now realize you cannot possibly be interested in my feelings. Still, that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

Things aren’t getting better. In fact, last year you were self-employed and you still worked long hours. Now you work for someone else and it’s the same thing. I’ve noticed a change, however, and this is what worries me. When you’re around the kids now (which isn’t often), you ignore them or find something better to do. Your fuse is even shorter than before, and you can’t be around them for very long or you explode. And yes, you do show Slade attention—but the girls need some, too. Especially Mileah. She’s at the stage where she needs a father who truly cares about her. I can tell by her actions and speech that she’s rapidly becoming attracted to other boys and men. I don’t want that to happen. I went down that path and it’s not one I want for our children.

Gabby has shown signs that your nonchalant behavior has affected her, too. She is very rowdy and hard to handle, more so than usual. And I think her thumb-sucking has increased, since she uses it as a security blanket all the time.

As for Trista, well, she’s so quiet it’s hard to say and that scares me. Who knows what’s going on in that little brain? But it can’t be good, and I know she’s frightened by the way you act.

Of course, Slade is too young to understand. But he will, soon enough.

Now onto me: I can’t continue this charade. I am very lonely. I guess I need my husband by my side and this is getting further and further from the way it actually is. So the decision is yours. I would like for our life to be different. If you want to be part of that change, Eddie, then you need to realize our children deserve better. So do I.

—Daleen

I laid the letter down, knowing it held the potential to make him angry, if he refused to see the good things in it. Would he be able to see how much I wanted our marriage to work? I hoped so. I sealed the envelope and left it on the table for him to read whenever he got home.

I tried to wait up for him, and even called to see what time he would be finished. After repeated attempts with no one answering, I went to bed just after midnight.

When I got up the next morning, Eddie wasn’t there. I must have slept so soundly I didn’t hear him come in or leave. I turned over, realizing the other side of the bed remained untouched. Maybe he hadn’t come home. Maybe, maybe…a dozen thoughts, all of them bad, chased back and forth across my mind. Going downstairs, I looked around for a sign of the letter, but it was gone. I felt relief. At least he had come home, and hadn’t driven over a hill somewhere. He must have decided to sleep on the couch. My fear and concern turned to anger.

Why didn’t he wake me up? And why does he continue to play this childish game?
Doesn’t he understand how much I need him? Surely he would have, had he read my letter.

The day dragged on forever, and I divided my time between caring for the kids and wondering what I would say when Eddie returned that night. But he didn’t come home. Kim called and said he was spending the night with her.

I was already asleep when he came home late three nights later. The following morning, I could see faint hues of pale bluish-yellow light breaking upon the horizon when I heard noises and went downstairs to check. Eddie had the door open when he saw me standing on the landing. I went halfway down the stairs, leaning against the banister. I waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”