real world. It’s harsh out there—”
“Do you think I don’t know that? The first time that man raped me, I knew that—”
“So why do you want to make things harder for yourself? How are you ever going to survive if you can’t sell your art?”
“Who says I can’t?” The words bounce off the walls. I wish I could swallow them back.
“You sold your art? Why didn’t you tell me? Who bought it? For how much?”
I can’t tell if she’s excited or angry. “Sandy helped me.It was just a one-time thing.”
I don’t know why I’m lying to her. Yes, I do. I’m trying to protect myself. Trying to keep her from taking over.
“Sandy? Why didn’t you come to me?”
Because I didn’t think you’d help me.
“I got a hundred dollars, Mom! And I don’t know who bought it. I didn’t ask.”
She turns away from me, picks up a dishrag and scrubs at the counter. Her shoulders hunch, and her head bows.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t turn around.
My stomach tightens. “Mom? What is it?”
“I’m happy for you,” she says thickly.
I push off the fridge, go over and touch her back. She stiffens. Her face is all scrunched up, her nose red, her chin trembling; it’s just the way my face gets when I’m trying not to cry. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
She sniffs. “I thought
I
was going to be the one to introduce you to the art world. I thought we’d be so close. When you picked up your first crayon and imitated me, I knew we would be. But we’ve never been that way. Ever since you were a toddler, you’ve pulled away from me. And nothing I ever did could change that.”
A memory rises up inside me, sharp and bitter.
I’m three, maybe four. We’ve just come back from a long day of visiting my parents’ friends. I’m whimpering, holding my crotch, telling Mom’s back that it hurts.
Mom turns around from her painting, looking irritated. “What’s wrong now?”
I keep whimpering.
“Kendra, I don’t have time for this. Ask Daddy to fix it.” And she turns away from me.
I snatch my hand from her back. Her shoulders are still hunched, the dishrag clenched in her hand. I can’t believe she ignored me when I tried to tell her. Can’t believe she didn’t see my pain. Anger sits like a smouldering piece of coal in my stomach.
“Mom, do you remember when I tried to tell you—”
“You just shut me and your dad right out. I was worried about you! I told the family doctor, but he said it was normal, that you were learning to be independent. I never should have listened to him.”
“Do you remember—”
“Your dad was always the better parent, making time for you, hugging your hurts away when I never could. I envied your relationship, the ease between you two—but believe me, Kendra, I’m a better parent than my parents ever were. They never touched me, except to hit me. I told you that, didn’t I?”
She never talks to me like this. Never. It’s almost like she knows what I’ve remembered and doesn’t want to hear it.
“Mom—will you just
listen
to me?”
“I
am
listening.” She scrubs the counter roughly, as if it’s covered in stains.
“I tried to tell you about the abuse once, when I was three or four. Do you remember?”
Mom goes still. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve thought about that every day since you told us—every single day! If only I’d listened to you then, things would be different. I blame myself, Kendra. I really do.”
This isn’t how I expected her to respond. I don’t know what to say. I want to tell her that it’s all right—but it’s not. And it won’t ever be.
“We didn’t know as much back then,” Mom says quickly. “We didn’t know about child abuse, the way mothers seem to now. If I’d thought—if I’d understood—”
Another excuse.
You can see when someone’s been hurt like I was. It’s obvious. Something changes in their eyes; pain becomes their center, even when they try to hide it. Like Meghan’s eyes; I know my eyes have it, too.
“Do you think I don’t know that? The first time that man raped me, I knew that—”
“So why do you want to make things harder for yourself? How are you ever going to survive if you can’t sell your art?”
“Who says I can’t?” The words bounce off the walls. I wish I could swallow them back.
“You sold your art? Why didn’t you tell me? Who bought it? For how much?”
I can’t tell if she’s excited or angry. “Sandy helped me.It was just a one-time thing.”
I don’t know why I’m lying to her. Yes, I do. I’m trying to protect myself. Trying to keep her from taking over.
“Sandy? Why didn’t you come to me?”
Because I didn’t think you’d help me.
“I got a hundred dollars, Mom! And I don’t know who bought it. I didn’t ask.”
She turns away from me, picks up a dishrag and scrubs at the counter. Her shoulders hunch, and her head bows.
“Mom?”
She doesn’t turn around.
My stomach tightens. “Mom? What is it?”
“I’m happy for you,” she says thickly.
I push off the fridge, go over and touch her back. She stiffens. Her face is all scrunched up, her nose red, her chin trembling; it’s just the way my face gets when I’m trying not to cry. “Mom, what’s wrong?”
She sniffs. “I thought
I
was going to be the one to introduce you to the art world. I thought we’d be so close. When you picked up your first crayon and imitated me, I knew we would be. But we’ve never been that way. Ever since you were a toddler, you’ve pulled away from me. And nothing I ever did could change that.”
A memory rises up inside me, sharp and bitter.
I’m three, maybe four. We’ve just come back from a long day of visiting my parents’ friends. I’m whimpering, holding my crotch, telling Mom’s back that it hurts.
Mom turns around from her painting, looking irritated. “What’s wrong now?”
I keep whimpering.
“Kendra, I don’t have time for this. Ask Daddy to fix it.” And she turns away from me.
I snatch my hand from her back. Her shoulders are still hunched, the dishrag clenched in her hand. I can’t believe she ignored me when I tried to tell her. Can’t believe she didn’t see my pain. Anger sits like a smouldering piece of coal in my stomach.
“Mom, do you remember when I tried to tell you—”
“You just shut me and your dad right out. I was worried about you! I told the family doctor, but he said it was normal, that you were learning to be independent. I never should have listened to him.”
“Do you remember—”
“Your dad was always the better parent, making time for you, hugging your hurts away when I never could. I envied your relationship, the ease between you two—but believe me, Kendra, I’m a better parent than my parents ever were. They never touched me, except to hit me. I told you that, didn’t I?”
She never talks to me like this. Never. It’s almost like she knows what I’ve remembered and doesn’t want to hear it.
“Mom—will you just
listen
to me?”
“I
am
listening.” She scrubs the counter roughly, as if it’s covered in stains.
“I tried to tell you about the abuse once, when I was three or four. Do you remember?”
Mom goes still. “Yes,” she says. “I’ve thought about that every day since you told us—every single day! If only I’d listened to you then, things would be different. I blame myself, Kendra. I really do.”
This isn’t how I expected her to respond. I don’t know what to say. I want to tell her that it’s all right—but it’s not. And it won’t ever be.
“We didn’t know as much back then,” Mom says quickly. “We didn’t know about child abuse, the way mothers seem to now. If I’d thought—if I’d understood—”
Another excuse.
You can see when someone’s been hurt like I was. It’s obvious. Something changes in their eyes; pain becomes their center, even when they try to hide it. Like Meghan’s eyes; I know my eyes have it, too.
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