What It Is (2 page)

“Really?” Mom said. “You cleaned the bathtub?”

I started yelling at Mom inside of my head,
What kind of sick game are you playing? You know the answer! Just end this, do what you have to do, and leave me alone!
I was starting to get angry; I knew a beating was coming and I didn’t want to play her games anymore. I just wanted it all to end.

I didn’t even bother to answer her back. I just hung my head down and waited for whatever came next. Mom stepped over to me and rubbed the Kleenex into my face, shoving it up my nose and into my mouth. I immediately gagged. It felt like the Kleenex was expanding in my mouth and sucking out all of my saliva.

“You stupid, ignorant little bitch,” Mom said, her voice dripping with sarcasm and hatred. She dropped her hand and I immediately started pulling the Kleenex pieces out of my nose and mouth. Mom looked disgusted as I stood in front of her gagging and sobbing. “God, you make me sick,” she said as she cringed away from me and held her arms close to her body. I had never felt as ugly and ashamed as I did in that moment, standing there with Kleenex falling out of my nose, gagging and crying as Mom looked at me like I was a diseased rodent that needed to be exterminated.

“I put the Kleenex in the tub to see if you actually did your job,” she said with a look of pride on her face, like she was the cat who just caught the canary.

I was even more bewildered. I didn’t understand how a Kleenex had anything to do with me cleaning out the bathtub. “What?” I managed to get out as I was getting the remnants of the Kleenex out of my mouth.

Mom dropped her arms away from her body and before I could duck, she smacked me on the back of the head. “Little Miss straight-A student, huh? You aren’t so smart! I barely graduated high school and I’m smarter than you!” she said gleefully. “If you had cleaned the bathtub,” Mom continued, “you would have seen the Kleenex in there and taken it out and thrown it away. I put it there this morning and I caught you!” Mom was so proud of herself; I think her chest even puffed out a bit, like a robin’s red chest swelling out with pride.

I didn’t care anymore about the stupid Kleenex; it was what it was. I didn’t clean the bathroom, I lied about it, and my punishment was about to be doled out. Mom knelt over and picked up the broom she had dropped in her struggle to drag me out of bed. I hunched my shoulders over, trying to figure out a way to curl up and hide while standing up. Mom smacked the broom handle on my shoulder blades and my knees buckled. I fell to the floor and my face smashed into the carpet. I felt a warm rush pour out of my nose and I started crying once I realized I was bleeding. But the more I cried, the more she whacked me with the broom. I tried to cover my body with my hands, moving them over my body quickly to try to absorb the blows, but I just ended up getting my arms smacked over and over. Finally there was a break in Mom’s beating and I rolled over onto my back and looked up at her.

Mom stood over me, gripping the broom like a samurai sword. Her eyes were wild and she was panting heavily. Beads of sweat dripped from her forehead and her short hair was soaking wet. She looked down at me and held the broom as if she was going to pierce it right through my stomach. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the blood pouring out of my nose into my ear as I tensed up and waited for Mom’s next move.

I heard Mom’s breathing become calmer, and I hesitantly opened my eyes. She put the broom down to her side and turned to leave my room. I lay on the floor absolutely motionless, scared to move or breathe. Right before Mom walked out the door, she turned around and threw the broom at me like a jousting pole. My room was so small, I didn’t have time to move, and the end of the broom hit me right in my left eye. I screamed out and grabbed my face near my eye; the pain was so excruciating that I thought I was going to lose my eye and be blind forever.

Mom turned around and walked out. I didn’t see her do this because I was still clutching my face, trying to get the pain in my eye to stop, but I heard her laugh and I heard her footsteps move farther and farther away from my room. I sat up, opened my right eye, and picked up the gagged-up Kleenex off of the floor to sop up the blood coming out of my nose. My left eye throbbed, but I was able to open it enough to get up off of the floor and go look at myself in the mirror on my dresser.

I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me in the mirror. What I wanted to see was a pretty, happy girl with long hair and rosy cheeks. What looked back at me was a girl with chopped hair, a swollen eye, bruised arms, and blood pouring out of her nose. I wanted to smash the mirror with my bare hands and destroy that girl staring back at me.

God, where were you when I needed you? Please save me! Please, I beg you!

I sat in the beautiful lobby of the largest corporation in town, nervously tapping my foot and checking my watch every two minutes. I looked down and noticed a small run forming on the back of my pantyhose.
Damn!
I thought to myself. I tried to twist my pantyhose to hide the run, but just ended up making it ten times worse. I looked up and noticed a young lady with long red hair sitting behind the receptionist’s desk smiling at me. I smiled back and she got up and brought over a bottle of clear nail polish. “Happens to me all of the time!” she said as she handed me the bottle.

I took the nail polish and looked up at her with a giant question mark on my face. I didn’t want to look stupid, but what in the world was I supposed to do with this? The young lady cocked her head at me, took the nail polish back, and knelt down. She opened up the bottle and applied the polish to the run. “There!” she exclaimed. “At least it won’t get any bigger.

I felt so dumb;
Of course that’s what it was for!
But how was I supposed to know? Mom never taught me how to curl my hair, put on makeup, pick out the right outfit to wear to an interview, or how to stop a run in my pantyhose. The young lady stood up, screwed the cap back onto the nail polish, and held out her hand. “Hi! I’m Toni! Are you here for an interview?”

“Yes,” I replied rather sheepishly as I shook her hand. “I’m here for an interview for an accounts payable data entry clerk position on the sixth floor. My name is Sarah Burleton.” My stomach tingled with anxiety, and I checked my watch again.

“Oh, you have nothing to worry about! Jeff, the manager of that department, is a teddy bear! Just be yourself and he will love you!”

Be myself? What is that?
I thought. Forcing myself to look Toni directly in the eyes, I put on the biggest smile I could muster and said, “Thanks for the advice!”

“So where are you from? Are you from this area?” Toni asked me.

“No, I’m from a little town about two hours south of Chicago,” I replied, still trying my best to maintain eye contact without looking away.

“Wow!” Toni exclaimed. “You’re a long way from home!”

You have no idea.

***

I spent many nights as a young child thinking it would be easier to give up and pray for Mom to just kill me and get it over with. I would lie in my bed and hold my breath sometimes, trying to stop myself from breathing in order to end my own life, or steal a knife from Richard’s toolbox and sit on the floor holding the blade to my wrist, rocking back and forth and praying so hard for God to come and save me. As I rocked, I would occasionally recite a prayer I had learned from a very kind and loving nun who taught at the Catholic school I had attended when I was younger.

But this day especially,

I need some extra strength

To face whatever is to be.

This day more than any day

I need you to feel You near,

To fortify my courage

And to overcome my fear.

By myself, I cannot meet

The challenge of the hour.

There are times when humans help,

But we need a higher power.

To assist us bear what must be borne,

And so dear Lord, I pray

Hold on to my trembling hand

And be near me today.

Amen.

By the time I had uttered, “Amen,” I had calmed down and a feeling of peace had washed over my entire body. During those times, my faith in God was restored and I felt silly for being mad at Him earlier for not flying down out of Heaven and taking me away while Mom was beating me. During those dark moments by myself in my room, I obtained the strength I would need to walk out of Mom and Richard’s house and never go back.

I still remember the feeling of terror in my stomach as I marched down the street lugging two Hefty bags filled with clothes behind me the night I moved out of the house. I stopped at each block and debated turning around and going back, admitting defeat and accepting whatever punishment Mom deemed appropriate.
I’m only sixteen! I’m still in high school! I can’t do this!
But then an image of my Mother’s face would enter into my head and I would imagine her sneer of victory as I walked back into the house hanging my head like a dog, admitting defeat. “No way! No more!” I said as I picked up my Hefty bags and continued my march down the street.

I walked to my best friend’s house that night and her mother was gracious to let me sleep on their couch for a week or so before I moved into my boyfriend Matt’s farmhouse. I had met Matt a day or two prior to walking out of Mom and Richard’s house and had fallen head over heels for him almost instantly. He was the textbook definition of a bad boy: long rap sheet, some prison time, smoked weed, drank a bit too much, and was eight years older than I was. He was the first person in a long time to hold me and tell me I was loved and that I was beautiful; that meant more to me than any age difference or prison record.

Living with Matt was teenage nirvana. The farmhouse, I soon learned, was not his house, but his parents’ house. Fortunately for Matt and me, although his parents lived in Wisconsin for the majority of the year, for some reason they still paid all of the bills on the farmhouse back in Illinois and kept the refrigerator stocked. I met Matt’s parents once or twice the entire time I lived there, and I don’t know if they knew how serious Matt and I were, or if they even cared. What amazed me while they were there for their visits was their unquestionable love for Matt; I couldn’t believe that parents would still love their child that much even after all of the mistakes he had made.

So there I was, at sixteen and a half years old, free for the first time in my life, in a house with no parents and no rules with a man who said he loved me and would take care of me. I was able to let my hair down and live life to the fullest. I lost my virginity, I drank, and I smoked weed on more than one occasion. Being Matt’s girlfriend meant that I suddenly gained a group of friends, all of whom seemed to have my best interests at heart. They helped me get back and forth to school, they let me borrow lunch money or clothes, and they never judged me for my past. Days and weeks went by, and before I knew it I wasn’t cringing around doorways anymore, listening for Mom’s footsteps or her voice. I fell asleep every night in Matt’s arms knowing that I wasn’t going to be awoken by a punch to the ribs or my hair being pulled. Matt and his group of friends treated me like a human being, and I finally felt worthy of being alive.

There still wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t think of Mom. Matt and I would lie in the backyard on spring and summer nights and stare up at the stars and I would wonder if Mom was thinking of me at that moment or if she missed me or worried about me at all. I would think of my sister, Emily, and wonder if she was getting the wrath of Mom now or if Richard was finally stepping up and keeping her safe. I felt selfish for enjoying life so much when Emily could be suffering as I had, and many evenings I broke down into tears in Matt’s arms and sobbed helplessly as he ran his fingers through my hair and told me everything was going to be all right.

It wasn’t long after I had moved in with Matt when I heard through the small-town grapevine that Richard had filed for divorce from Mom. Richard received custody of Emily and the house, and Mom moved out of town into the home of another man, a man who I knew of through the years of Mom’s adultery. My heart soared when I heard the news, and I felt a surprising rush of victory surge through my veins.
Ha! Richard doesn’t love you anymore! No one loves you.
I felt so happy for Richard and Emily; they would both be free to live somewhat normal lives free from the tyranny of Mom.

Once Mom had moved out of the house and I knew that she was gone for good, I started calling my sister while Richard was at work to try to rebuild our relationship. It was wonderful to be able to talk with Emily for hours on the phone and finally get to know her for the wonderful person that she is. I had held such resentment for Emily for years, through no fault of her own. Mom loved beating me up and then walking around the house, holding Emily in her arms, bragging about how wonderful Emily was and how lucky Mom was to have one good daughter. When I had lived with Mom, Emily had become an enemy to me; she was someone who had the only thing in the world I ever wanted: the love of my mom. I wanted to get past the feeling that my own half sister was my enemy and try to get to know her away from Mom and Richard. We usually talked on the phone for about an hour once a week, which wasn’t much, but it was enough for us to develop some sort of sisterly bond.

I was thrilled for Richard that he had finally shown he had a backbone and stood up for himself and Emily by divorcing Mom, but I wanted to keep my distance from him. I had come to the realization before I had moved out of the house that Richard may have been as victimized as I was, just in a different way. I do not and may never understand the control Mom had over him; I don’t know if it was sexual control or she had some sort of dirt on him that kept his mouth shut. However, that did
not
excuse the fact that he stood by and watched me get beaten over and over again and even participated himself at times. For that reason and that reason alone, I wanted to keep my distance. I spoke to Richard two times while I lived at Matt’s house: once to ask him to register me as a senior in high school and once to tell him my graduation date.