Abuse (5 page)

André smiles at my smile. What he says next is completely unexpected.

“
Mon ami
,” he says quietly. “When you were a child, I think you were sexually abused by a man, no?”

Fuck.

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another: ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.’

— C.S. Lewis

~~~

I now know what it means when people talk about pulling the rug out from under you. If I wasn’t sitting down, I doubt my legs would hold me.

Dammit.

My face is burning, yet I feel both hot and cold. It’s as if I’m sick and I have a fever. André asks me that question so casually, as if inquiring what I’d like to eat for lunch.

A fear I’ve known since I was a child slams into me, choking me into silence. Despite an outside temperature in the 90’s, my body beads in an icy, anxious sweat.

Shit, shit, shit, shit!

My stomach twists. I feel ill. Desperately, I try to comfort myself with the thought that it was going to come out anyway. I’d planned to tell him everything eventually, so what the hell.

Unluckily for me, I’d rather eat a plate full of barbed wire than talk about this hideously painful subject.

André waits patiently for me to speak.

I try to deal with all of the images and emotions that well up from deep inside, covering me over like a fast rising tide. I feel as if I’m drowning in childhood memories—a profoundly shameful past I’ve tried to conceal and forget.

At least he guessed. I didn’t have to go through the agony of telling him. I don’t know how I would've ever broached this conversation otherwise. I mean, how the hell would anyone come out with such a filthy secret?

“How did you know?” I eventually manage to say, in an unsteady whisper.

He shrugs and his expression is matter of fact. “You feel perhaps you are the only one who has experienced this. I am sorry to inform you, this problem is most common,
n'est-ce pas?
You were shown a man’s penis as a child—you were
made
to look oh, many, many times. These early memories are still very much with you, I think.”

“Yes.”

Moments from my past clamor for attention. So often, complete strangers would tell me, “Your father is a great man.”

What could I say to them? No, he’s not?

I wanted him to be, but every time someone praised my father, I had to subdue a tsunami wave of shame and guilt. I loved him and I hated him. He was very good to me. He was very bad to me.

It’s no wonder I’m all mixed up to hell and gone.

We sit together—me tense and rigid, while André’s perfectly relaxed. How can he bring up a subject like this and then sit there with such equanimity?

Calm and supportive, André waits patiently for me to explain. It’s strange, but somehow, once I start telling him a little, it’s easier to talk about it.

I go into detail about how much I idolized my father, how he taught me to shoot and celebrated my skill and achievements. I explain my dad’s easy manner of winning friends, his natural charisma and good looks—and how people looked up to him and admired him.

I was my father’s
favorite
child. Everyone in our family knew it. Now, when I look back to the “special” place I held, I feel sick.

When I came into my teens and began to understand that my dad had been abusing me, my world fell apart. I couldn’t deal with it. I made excuses for him and blamed myself. I loved my dad and I wanted to believe the myth of his perfection.

André shakes his head. “If your father was physically grotesque, an ugly man, who beat you, sexually abused you and was at all times cruel—you would have had an easier childhood, I think.”

“What? Why?”

“On pardonne tant que l’on aime,”
he tells me. “It means, ‘we pardon to the extent that we love.’ François de La Rochefoucauld, a very wise man, said it centuries ago.”

I consider the quote and swallow with a very dry throat. Throughout my childhood, I wanted to please my dad and I hated his disapproval. As a child, it’s natural to assume it’s you that screwed up. He was always so perfect. What he did
couldn't
be wrong. It just
couldn't
. It’s so much easier to blame yourself.

I loved my father, and I
loved
my father.

Monster! Pervert!

The man I adored more than anyone else in the whole world, deceived and betrayed me. It’s impossible to reconcile what happened with how I felt. Now I can’t trust my emotions because one thing is certain—I have no idea what love is.

Perceptive as always, André sees my confusion.

Arching one dark eyebrow, his gaze is filled with understanding. “A father who is always cruel, he is much easier to deal with, no? The child’s conclusions and resolutions are obvious: ‘He is a bad person,’ or, ‘I will not be like him,’ and, ‘I will escape him.’

When I frown doubtfully, André adds, “
Mais oui!
Perhaps this child witnesses his father hurting his mother. Right then, while still in his diapers, the infant decides, ‘When I am old enough, I will kill him.’”

The picture of a baby plotting his father’s death surprises a burst of laughter out of me. Not from humor—because it isn’t funny. Probably more from shock.

“No! Really?” I ask. “That young? Do children still in diapers think like that?”

“
Oui, oui!
But of course! Such resolutions come oh, very early in life. A person does not always act on such a thought, yet sides have been chosen. From then on, in the child’s eyes,
everything
the father says or does is wrong.

“In your case, all was uncertain… for your father was not wicked,
all of the time.
Your confusion was the result of two opposing forces with no clear resolution. In this case, ‘Father is good’
and
‘Father is bad.’

His words are spot on.

I find I’m nodding in unconscious agreement.

André pauses and his face softens. His compelling dark eyes meet mine. “Such a child must then live a lonely life of bitter uncertainty, constantly moving back and forth, between joy and despair.”

Wow.

This is such a simple way to sum up my childhood—yet to hear it stated so succinctly is an inexplicable relief.

For me, despair was a result of suppressing my rage. When I couldn’t focus my confusion and anger outwards, it often boiled inward, to the misery of self-loathing and guilt.

With André’s careful direction, general memories of my father and my unnatural relationship begin to fall from my lips.

I can’t tell him specifics.

Whenever my words trail off, he prompts me with attentive nods and sounds such as, “Oh?” or “Mm?”

His calm demeanor doesn’t change—respectful interest is what registers in his expression. Not embarrassment, not shame, not sympathy. Not shock, horror, disgust or pity—the four of which I fear most.

He’s not angry for the lost innocence of my childhood, nor is there any other emotion except mild curiosity.

He’s focused on me. He’s right with me, as I bare my soul.

The man is easy to confide in, yet there’s so much buried here. I’ve barely touched on the subject. I’ve given him no particulars.

I tell André of the ‘games’ my father and I used to play. My dad interfered with me starting, I think, from about age nine. I explain that I was the oldest of three children, and my father’s ‘favorite.’ As a child, this favoritism seemed normal.

Looking back now, it’s so obvious what was going on.

It’s a wonder no one else saw it.

With respectful and exact questioning, André pulls the truth from the dark well of my subconscious, stuff I’ve never spoken of to
anyone
. Specifics I’ve tried to keep buried deep within myself.

The devil is in the details.

These are the toughest to speak of, so I skirt around them as much as possible.

It doesn’t matter what I say or do, André knows what’s going on. He’s patient and understanding—yet I’m aware of a no-nonsense element of steel within this mild-mannered Frenchman.

He intends to make me tell him everything.

That’s what I’m afraid of.

“Abuse? Ah. Such problems, even with time, do not go away on their own. They must be addressed.”

— André Chevalier

~~~

My mother was always away at some fund-raising event or with her friends when these activities occurred. After a couple years, my father began to interfere with my younger brother, too.

When he started on my little brother, it was wrong on so many levels. I should’ve protected Alex, but how could I stop my dad? This confession is difficult, as it’s a great source of guilt.

I’m ashamed to say that at the time, I was relieved to have a break from my father’s more depraved attentions.

“You have never spoken of this to your brother?”

I frown and shake my head. “No. Never.”

My brother Alex was there at the time. So was I. Why the hell would we talk about it? By then, the moratorium on speech had been put in place and our silence concerning ‘games’ with our father was too well ingrained. We wanted to forget it—not get further into it by hashing it over. Discussing our abuse wasn't an option.

My brother’s married and he appears to be whatever passes in society as ‘normal,’ but I know he has a substance abuse problem. Like many wealthy, Americans, cocaine is his drug of choice. I have no idea how he holds down his position in the family business, but he does.

Alex and I learned how to pretend everything was fine.

If you do this long enough, after a while, you even begin to believe it.

“And so, this too, is most common, my friend,” André assures me. “It becomes a difficult conversation to have, no? The father, he would have warned you, in oh-so many ways, never to speak of what you did together. Even now, when he is in the grave, his commands from the past hold you mute. Like a gag, they have made you keep silent… until now. An adult, particularly a parent, often has godlike power over a child.”

I’m quiet for a moment. Body and soul, I feel burdened by memories; buried by a mountain of dark mental pictures of my past.

“These games your father and you played together… did
you
sometimes initiate them?”

Shit.

André’s question is right on target.

I’m on the receiving end of a perfect head shot. The man is as fucking accurate as a professional sniper. I’m utterly astonished. How does he hit the mark with such precision?

I feel faint, as if my blood has drained right out of my veins. André’s words echo in my head:
These games, did
you
sometimes initiate them?

“For the love of God, how could you
know
that?” I whisper.

His watchful eyes soften with understanding. “Oh, this too is most common, you understand. You are not alone in these experiences. To make the victim, not only an active participant, but to make them
want
to play and even
initiate
such games? Ah, it is very clever, no? In this manner, your abuser manipulates you into believing
that
you
are to blame. The guilt, the shame… it is yours.”

“I should have stopped it… but instead…” I can’t say anymore. I close my mouth, shocked by what I almost said.

I often started it.

Our eyes meet and I swear André sees right through me. He nods. “I assure you,
mon ami
, you would have needed assistance from another adult to end such a crime, and even then? Who can say? Your father was a hero in your community. A child cannot fight such influence.”

“I—I don’t know why I’ve never told anyone or asked for help. I never tried to stop it.”

“He made sure you didn’t.”

I take a little time to think this over, to try to remember. I don’t recall exactly what he said to me when this whole thing started, except that I was ‘special’ and what happened was ‘our game’ and ‘our little secret.’

At some level deep down, even as I child, I must’ve known it was wrong. But I wanted his approval so badly. I felt honored to be chosen—to be special enough for him to want me.

I say nothing more.

I can’t.

“Grant,” André says quietly, and his expression is bright with understanding. “You felt as
he
intended you to feel. It is the natural curiosity, trust, unconditional love and innocence of a child that he used against you. He made these games between you fun?”

Bullseye.
Another fucking head shot, raw and brutal.

I can barely hold it together—I feel like I’m bleeding out. This shrewd Frenchman knows everything. The ‘fun’ we had together makes my stomach churn. The phrase ‘
good, clean fun’
goes through my mind and I feel like throwing up. It wasn’t good or clean. It was dirty. Wrong. Repulsive.
Sickening.

“Yes,” I murmur, choking on the bitter taste of this poisonous truth.

“But of course,” he acknowledges his direct hit lightly.

Right now, I can’t take anything lightly.

And yet, André’s tranquil composure in the face of all this shit, is oddly soothing. He’s a counselor and it’s quite obvious that he’s heard this sort of thing before. He wasn’t shocked, horrified or offended. My story is nothing new to him—which is disturbing in itself.

The serene manner in which he listens to my secrets makes me feel that maybe, just maybe, it’s safe to talk freely. Now that I’ve begun, I want to tell him more. Maybe I’ll be able to speak of the specifics of the terrible,
terrible
things I’ve done
.

Monster! Pervert!

My stomach twists into a tight, painful knot with some of these memories. I close my mouth tightly so I don’t throw up. Hopefully, I’ll be able to talk about it—once my lips are able to form words.

I don’t know if I can do this—it’s right up there with my greatest fear. If I’m brave enough to tell him, will I be able to look André in the face again? Or will I see disgust and contempt in those watchful dark eyes?

If I can, I hope to have the courage to tell him everything.