Three Sisters - Part 3

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Three Sisters

by Andrea Lena DiMaggio


You will be like a well—watered garden,
like an ever—flowing spring...

 
She awoke with a start. The back of her head felt like it had been hit hard. She raised her hand and parted the hair with her fingers, feeling nothing but the old scar. But the feeling was real and painful, the hard daubs of stucco still clinging in pieces to her hair, the blood oozing out of the cut; not big enough for stitches but still painful. But there was no blood, no plaster, and no evidence other than the scar she had found. Her head hurt; that much was real; another daily visit by her migraine friend. And the voice echoed in her head, harsh, cruel, and evil.

“You little cocksucker….I told you to shut up. You and your sister…just shut up.” The voice was accompanied once again by the phantom pain and the phantom blood. She heard her sister crying somewhere to her right. A hand around her own throat threatened to stop her breathing; she felt that now, but she had no idea what it was all about then other than terror and pain.

“Shut up,” she heard once again, and the tears came to her eyes as if he were choking her right then and there, even though she and her attacker were separated by time, space, and death. She felt she couldn’t breathe. Her hands went to her throat, feeling nothing but her own skin. Nothing grasped her neck yet it was like he was still throttling her. Her head banged up against a wall that had been demolished years ago. Her hands ripped open by the splinters on the floor that no longer existed. But that was just the beginning.

__________________________________

“Dave…Dave. Wake up…Honey, it’s okay. It’s me, Joanie…honey wake up.” The voice pleaded from out of the shadows. He slowly came to, trying to focus. His sister stood over him, her hand on his forehead, softly brushing his hair with her fingers. She looked down at him and her face was a mask of sadness and fear that he had never beheld…other than when he looked at himself in the mirror after his nightmares began. She was still crying, but she tried to smile, as if to tell both of them it was going to be alright.

“You were dreaming, Davey, it’s okay…it’s over.” It wasn’t over yet, but it would soon be over for good. And it wasn’t a dream; it wasn’t even a nightmare. It was a memory which had violated his mind and his heart every night since he had heard it….a song his uncle used to play on the piano. He didn’t even know what song it was, but he had been turning the dial on his car radio and the song was on a station he never listened to. In a moment, like being violated all over again, feelings long submerged, came to him. Memories of a horror his mind had protected him from for years; feelings and sensations and sounds and tastes….that no little boy should ever experience. And since then the memories visited him every night; every night a night of terror and sadness that he thought he would never be able to endure.

“Joanie….it was….” Dave couldn’t help himself. He wanted to be strong, especially after seeing his sister’s face. Even as she had recognized her own pain in his scream minutes before, he saw in her face the same horror he had endured. And he wept; shameful tears, bitter tears of helpless defeat. Just as she felt she had never been able to save him, he realized he had not been able to protect her. Decades of guilt and shame over something that happened when they were small and defenseless and blameless.

He sat up from the bed and pulled his sister to his side. He embraced her the way you would if you knew someone might never come back if you let go. He kissed her face, wanting to feel the reality of her presence, fearing that her presence was the dream and the memories were still the reality.

“I’m so sorry….I should have….” Both of them wept; a sad but necessary part of their healing. They both knew that they both knew. No more secrets. The details would follow to be sure. Their talks would be painful harsh reminders, but more like the cleansing of a deep wound before the healing could begin.

“He made me…” Dave tried to pull away from Joan, his face twisted in horrible shame over something that was the act of another, an evil assault that spanned generations and still affected his heart and mind. “Couldn’t stop him…didn’t…I’m so sorry.” Regretful loss was displaced by misplaced guilt and shame for something another should have borne both shame and damnation.

Joan put her hand on his lips to silence him, gently as an attempt to remove the guilt that only God could heal. She looked into his eyes, and her expression said everything he needed to hear without a word. Her tears flowed as she grimaced with her own pain, the memories flooding back to her and overwhelming her as well.

“MMMMeeee….tooo.” Joan had hoped the pain would subside when she confessed…she felt as guilty as her brother. Both of these poor souls felt responsible. She was seven and he was nine when it started. Every summer, visits to Grandma’s house. A lovely quaint thought if you wanted to write a card for Thanksgiving or Christmas but a cruel fate for two children caught the snare their uncle had made each summer when their parents went away for a weekend to show their dogs at the dog show in New York.

“I want to die….I just want to die, Joanie…why did he do that? Why did he hurt you…it wasn’t fair…he shouldn’t have hurt you the way he did…” Dave was still thinking like a big brother through it all. Neither should have had their innocence destroyed. Both had no advocate; forced to endure abuse while a drunken grandmother and absent aunt failed to stop this evil. No one to protect them and preserve them and treasure them. No one to save them.


The LORD will guide you continually…

“NNooo…Davey….noooo….don’t say that. It’s over. We’re safe.”

“Don’t feel safe…it hurts, Joanie…it hurts like it won’t ever go away.”
She kissed his cheek, wanting so much still to protect him from what was yet to come.

“It will get better, honey, I promise. It took me almost a year to get to the point where I felt safe.” She stroked his hair, trying not to cry, more so she could talk than anything. She knew it was healthy for both of them if they cried, here and now.

“Marty and Marta both held my hand through it all.” Marta’s like a sister to me, you know? She…Marty was raped when he was little, and Marta helped him through it…They helped me through this. There were times I thought I’d literally come apart…like someone threw a piece of crystal against the wall.”

Hearing the word “wall” made Dave think again about how his uncle smashed his head against the wall of the apartment. He heard Joanie screaming then even as she held him now.”

“He was going to take you…into his room….I couldn’t…but he did anyway…I’m so sorry…I tried.” He sobbed and buried his head in her breast. It was as if they were singing a sad duet, his melody of shame to her harmony of pain and sadness. The tenor voice leading, then following in a horrific song of pain and sadness that was composed and orchestrated by a man no longer alive. The alto singing counterpoint as their sad lament played out, the long anticipated coda finally about to be sung.

“It wasn’t your fault…my counselor…she…it wasn’t my fault.” It was terrible and wonderful at the same time. Years of guilt and shame were being washed away by the tears of forgiveness and understanding. Innocence, perhaps not yet restored, but being rebuilt; the brick and mortar of overwhelming revulsion and shame replaced as their house was being restored.

“I’m so sorry….” Dave kept repeating it over and over, a plea for forgiveness that wasn’t required. The child wanting to be pardoned for someone else’s evil deeds. The little boy begging for release for something he never chose.

“Honey, look at me….” She grabbed his chin and forced his face to look at hers. Tears streamed down their cheeks in sad unison, but the tears were also like another song; this one composed by the Master Musician. The ugly song from moments before being drowned out in the glorious sound of peace and restoration.

“We didn’t do anything…it was done…” She struggled for words; desperately wanting to say something to help him understand. “It wasn’t our fault. She sounded profane, but the words were true, even if crude in the midst of a prayer. “He fucked us….he hurt…us….he damaged us.” She looked upward briefly, as if to apologize for what she had said. “We were children…I was eight years old, for God’s sake….” She saw his face. The older brother in him was thinking, hating himself; condemning himself.”

“Davey…you were only ten…you tried.” She wept at his misplaced shame and guilt. She wasn’t far down the road to her own recovery; it was still a painful process that she and Marty were walking through even now, but she was at least further down the road than Dave.

“I love you so much….I know you tried….he hit you all the time when Grandma wasn’t around.” She stroked his hair, trying so hard to comfort him, but by deflecting his shame with her own misplaced guilt.

“At least he didn’t beat me.”

She forgot for a moment just what she was saying to her brother; he raised his head with as much grace and strength as he could and said,

“Joanie….he raped you….you….oh God…” Words flowed from them both; finally at a place of safety, finally at a place of peace. Beset still with horrific memories that they would tell their counselors, overwhelmed with emotion from evil done to the little boy and girl years ago. But in the midst of this maelstrom, they had arrived at the eye of the storm, nestled, not in comfort or ease in location, but in the peace that does pass all understanding as they rested in the palm of God’s hand.

Joanie was shaky in her faith, but her faith, as shaky as it was, was still based not on what she believed, but in Whom she believed. She wasn’t confident in herself, but she knew and held fast to her faith in God.

“No condemnation,” she said. “No condemnation.”

She looked at her brother, wanting to comfort him even as she desperately sought for the same comfort herself. She looked again and felt the need; no the responsibility to say,

“Karen…honey…it’s over…we’re free.” Other than Bonnie, no one had ever used that name. Karen never could explain why, but the name was like a new beginning for her; perhaps the beginnings of the answers she sought. No one had to die; no one would have to depart.

Karen looked at her sister, her eyes still filled with tears, but now tears of release and forgiveness; comforting tears that replaced horror with peace; sadness and grief replaced for both her and Joanie by hope and faith and renewed life. Hearing her name…Karen felt for the first time acceptance, the absolute certainty of God’s love as demonstrated by the one person in the world who knew her and loved her for who she was.

“I think I know why you came to be,” Joan said as she wiped her tears from her eyes, still crying but with a sense of peace that she had not known for a long time, perhaps never in her life, but with a realization that everything truly would be alright. She used her sleeve to wipe away Karen’s as well.

“I think you are here as a protector for Davey, someone who helped him withstand the pain…Just like Marta was for Marty.”

A faith that was shaky only moments before became confident as she said,
Honey…Karen is….you are supposed to be here.”

Joan embraced her sister/brother as never before, wondering in awe of God’s grace that they both had weathered the storm of their abuse. She looked upward in gratitude for the grace they received, thankful not only for their deliverance, but now also for the gift God had given them both in the form of the newest member of the family.


….watering your life when you are dry and keeping you healthy, too.



Next: "I Will Restore..."


 

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Comments

why is it

laika's picture

that whenever you need to comb plaster crumbs out of your hair is exactly when your head's too sore to touch & your hair itself seems to hurt? Hope it was dry-wall and not that concrete-hard old fashioned kind. And then there's that patched spot on the wall, a little reminder every time you see it.

Grim stuff. Joannie and Karen (and somebody else I know...) right in the middle of the worst of it, all this childhood stuff coming up, the crying that seems like it'll never end; with only the promise from others who have taken this road that re-living it all and coming to understand it is the way to get past the shame and self-hate, to nights free of terror and morning of hope and loving life. Your characters get there eventually, usually in 5 or 6 chapters, but it's pretty intense and tearful on the way...

~~~I love you, Sis. Veronica

Water from a very deep well...

Oh baby doll!!! Pass the tissues...please!!! This is fabulous. You keep getting stronger and stronger!!!

Hell Has No Power Over

Those who receive God's Peace, but it is a tyrant over those it rules. Me, if I could, I'd be the Big Brother for those girls.

    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine
    Stanman
May Your Light Forever Shine

The only true tyrant is...

...the fear, the anger, the pain, the hatred, and the poison given us by others. Now Big Bros...that's a whole new, and much happier, topic!!! ;)

May We All Be Family...

Lil' sis Kelly

hesitant

kristina l s's picture

I feel a little like I'm standing in the doorway and it's open and inviting and yet there is a barrier. This is a lovely giving soulful teary horrible tale done with soul and emotion and love. The writing is wonderful and yet... I stop there in the doorway and I may feel a tear amongst other things and smile and nod at those inside but I shake my head gently and walk away.

I understand the write it as you feel it and I'm sure many feel it and understand, but to me all the allusions and references to religion become a little overpowering and strident, a pinch evangelical and detracts from the power of the story you are telling. I don't mock or deride I just don't quite share. So I am at least a little kept outside the room not quite able to share in the emotion inside.

Please don't take this as a criticism, just a wry observation from someone not especially religious yet not an atheist. As I said, write it as you feel it and those that do enter the room will feel what I perhaps cannot quite share. It is still a lovely and horrible and I think ultimately beautiful tale. I wanted to comment and not take away from it, yet there is a distance. Please do write on as you must, that's what it's all about.

Kristina

memories

ALISON

The pain is gone,
But the memory lingers on.
There is another old saying"You can forgive,but you can't forget",
I cry with you ,Andrea.A beautifully told story---as ever was!!

ALISON

This is a very painful

and touching chapter. I can actually feel the pain as you were writing this, and I can actually identify with some of this. And Davey is so right too because it does feel like you can never wash the filth off, or you can ever be safe again. When innocence is destroyed by those that should know better, it can never be regained. I felt like I was intruding on a very private and personal time watching Davey and Joanie consoling each other. In some ways I am very glad that I never had a resident father, or lived with a drunken relative. But abuse is abuse, no matter if it is a relative or not.

This actually made me wipe my eyes more than once reading this. It is such a dramatic, emotional, traumatic chapter that shows the love between brother/sister and sister. You have actually written a very decent story of reality that a lot of us can actually feel and identify with. I only hope that the nightmares are over for Davey/Karen, Joanie, and the rest of us too. Thank you for sharing.

"With confidence and forbearance, we will have the strength to move forward."

Love & hugs,
Barbara

"If I have to be this girl in me, Then I have the right to be."

"With confidence and forbearance, we will have the strength to move forward."

Love & hugs,
Barbara

"If I have to be this girl in me, Then I have the right to be."

Your bravery is amazing!

Ole Ulfson's picture

You help so many people by telling your story. Your message is wonderful and simple: No one is responsible For the actions of others! The reprehensible and evil actions of others are NEVER the fault of the victims! It is such an important message. Thank you for exposing yourself and your deepest pains to help others!

You are a Heroine, and I'm proud to call you my friend and sister!!!

Ole

We are each exactly as God made us. God does not make mistakes!

Gender rights are the new civil rights!

Justice

Words are never enough, but they are all we have.

That and caring. It is all we have.