Unspoken - Kiss of the Wolf Spider, Part I (12 page)

As I lay quietly, a moment
of calm drifted across my mind like a cloud in front of the moon
.
In
that moment I felt, rather than heard the words, ‘
My strength is sufficient
for all your needs’.

Fear returned.
‘Your
father will beat you and kill you’.

I prayed again, fervently,
fearfully, hopefully.

I thought about the sermon
from a few Sundays ago.

“
I need God as my protector.
Do you hear that God? I need protection if I am going to tell. I need
your
protection…if
you really do care about me…” 

I still had doubts but a
verse I’d often read on the stained glass window drifted through my mind
.  ‘Turn
to me all you that labour and are heavy laden and I will give you rest’.

‘Think of all the ugly
things you did with your father. Why should God protect you’?

“
Oh, God I’m scared,
”
I
whispered as thoughts raced through my head like voices arguing.

 ‘If you betray your
father, everyone will know about the ugly things you did’.

 
“Oh God speak to me. My
heart is breaking…” 

“T
his sin is too big
for God to forgive …’

“No!” I spoke out of the
silence in a whisper at the accusing voices. I didn’t do it. He did. I said
‘please stop doing it’. He said, ‘no’. I said, ‘I don’t like it.’ He said,
‘then I don’t love him.’ It wasn’t my fault…”

‘You asked him for friends
to visit when he was lying in your bed…’

“Well it was the only time
he listened to me or was nice to me!”

‘You encouraged him.’

“I didn’t! I always told
him ‘No’.”

‘You said you loved him…’

“He was my father!”

A calm thought came
whispering through my mind like a gentle voice of reason; the cloud in front of
the moon again.
‘It is not my will that a child should suffer for her
father’s sins.’

‘But you’ve done so much
wrong! You are not good enough to deserve help.’

‘No one is good except God
alone.’
The
voice in my head seemed gentle and strong. It spoke again.
‘Tell someone;
keep telling until someone believes you.’

I remembered. That’s what
Ms Cooney wrote!

Somewhere in that
frightening battlefield that was my adolescent mind, somewhere between darkness
and light, I drifted off.  I awoke from a terrifying sleep to find myself cold
and stiff on the passage floor. Pathetically, I crawled into my bed and started
wrestling with my
conscience again.

I awoke in the
morning with swollen, red eyes but also a calm resolve. It seemed like I’d
prayed all night. Reverend Simons once told us the story of Jacob who wrestled
all night with an angel.  I felt I’d wrestled all night with a demon and now I
was sure that God wanted me to tell.

Today was the
day it would all stop. I prayed a final prayer that morning. “Dear God, if it
was not all a dream, if you were talking to me, if you gave me this courage,
and I’m meant to tell, please let there be someone to listen to me. And please
don’t let my courage fail me again. Amen.”

I had no idea
what ‘amen’ meant but in church you always said it after a prayer. I used it
because if felt like the official stamp that sent the words to heaven.

“Listen to my cry,

for I am in desperate need;

rescue me from those who pursue me,

for they are too strong for me.

Set me free from my prison,

that I may praise your name.”

Psalm 142:6-7

Our first lesson of the
day was computers. I stared vacantly at little moving images on my screen with
absolutely no idea what the teacher was talking about. Issues of far greater
magnitude than cursors and margins preoccupied my thoughts. This was life and
death for me, but how could I tell and
who
could I tell?

“Help me God, you are all
I have…”

Gaynor Browne looked
across at me and smiled.

Gaynor? Should I speak to
her?  Gaynor was a day-girl. I didn’t know her well but she was different,
special. She never mocked me or called people names. She seemed wiser and older
than the rest of us and suddenly it seemed obvious. I would tell Gaynor. She’d
know what to do!

“Gaynor, please can I talk
to you outside the classroom,” I whispered.

“What about?” she
whispered back.

“It’s private.”

“Okay,” she glanced at Mr
Fuseli who was absorbed at a computer with some of the clever boys in our
class. “Fuzzy is busy with the boys as usual. Come now.”

As we slipped out, the
sheer enormity of what I was about to do seemed to pulverize my heart with fear
and guilt. 

‘You are going to pay
dearly for this!’
Fear’s evil voice was threatening me again.

“Help me God!” I prayed.

In my braver moments, I’d
often rehearsed how I could start this terrible confession - so I launched
forth and the words came tumbling out.  

 “Gaynor … I have a friend
who is being abused and I want to help her stop it. What must I do?”

“Is this friend you?” she
asked quietly.

“No!” I answered
vehemently, but promptly burst into tears.

“Jane I think it
is
you,” she responded gently.

“No. Yes.” How could she
know?

I couldn’t lie again. Not
to her. “Yes. It’s me,” I murmured into my hands. “How did you know?”

Gaynor placed her arm
around my shoulders and hugged me.

“My Mom is a counsellor
and she deals with lots of children who’ve been abused and she’s told me a lot
about it.  I’ve been worried about you for a while. You’re never happy or
relaxed. You’re always afraid and tearful.”

 “Gaynor I’m so scared. My
father said he’ll kill me if I tell and he said no-one will believe me.  Ages
ago I tried to tell a nun at the convent but she slapped me and called my dad.
He beat me. What if no-one believes me again?” I sobbed.

“I believe you, Jane. I
believe you. Let’s go and talk to Mrs May. She’s the nicest teacher…I’m sure
she’ll know what to do.”

“Yes, and she did ask me
if anything was wrong once before,” I recalled, vaguely hopeful.

‘But you lied to her then
so why should she believe you today?’ 

As we approached Mrs May’s
room I asked God fervently, “Please let her be alone. Please let her believe
me.”

‘Be still and know that I
am God.’

Gaynor peeped through the
glass panel in the door. “She’s alone. She must have a free. Come…” She knocked
and we entered.

Mrs May looked up. As she
glanced at my tear-stained face and the concerned expression on Gaynor’s, I
guess she realised her preparation time had just gone up in smoke, for under
her breath I heard her whisper, “Oh Lord! I don’t need this. I’ve a marks’
schedule to get ready…” But then she put down her pen and gathered together a
smile. 

 “What can I do for you
girls?”

“Sorry for disturbing you
Mrs May but please could we speak to you?” asked Gaynor. I looked at Gaynor and
considered her adult demeanour and my juvenile tears. We were such an unlikely
pair.

“Sure. What’s wrong?” Mrs
May asked in a caring tone.

Gaynor spoke first. “Mrs
May, I think Jane’s father is abusing her.”

My teacher’s sweet face stared
at us in horror. 

‘What’s she going to think
of you now, Jane?’

 Mrs May gathered her
composure quickly and said, “Go on…explain to me what you mean… why do you
think that?”

 I baulked at answering
but then, a reassuring thought spoke up.

‘A truthful witness is no
liar.’

“He does things to me that
he shouldn’t,” I sniffed looking desperately at her. “Like I told you about in
the oral yesterday.”

“Hmm. Which things?” she
asked. “You talked about a lot of stuff, Jane.”

“Everything!” I burst out.
“The hitting and the sexual stuff and the threats and keeping it a secret. All
of it! He does it all.”

My teacher was quiet for a
while, staring at her hands and then she looked up at us again. “Jane, Gaynor,
it’s a very serious thing to accuse someone of abuse you know. Jane, you read
up a whole lot of information for that presentation yesterday and it’s easy to
start imagining things.”

“I’m not!” I wailed.  “I’m
telling the truth. He
is
abusing me. He hits me for no reason. Sometimes
with a plastic pipe, or a belt or his shoe. Or his fist. And he does… sexual
things to me…” I whispered this part.

‘She thinks it’s just more
attention seeking.’

“Jane, I’m confused. When
I talked to your dad about your very tearful nature, he appeared very
understanding. He told me your mother had run out on you and you missed her
enormously. He said he realised you were homesick in the hostel, but he
believed you needed to grow up. He seemed like a very caring father who’s had
to raise both you and your little brother on his own. Could you perhaps be
exaggerating a bit?”

 ‘See. She thinks you’re lying.’

I gasped and turned to
Gaynor. “I told you adults
never
listen!” I was desperate; not actually
meaning to be rude to Mrs May.

 “Jane, what
sort
of sexual things does he do?” Mrs May asked.

“He touches me in private
places and he…he gets into my bed at night and…he makes me watch movies with
him…ugly movies… sex films.”

“Where is your stepmother
when all this is going on?”

“Bathing her kids. Out
shopping. Going to bed early.”

‘She doesn’t believe you.’

‘Keep talking. Make her
hear. Make her believe.’

Perhaps my answers were too
general, too unspecific; but explaining in more detail to her – especially in
front of Gaynor – was just sickening.  

Then that accusing voice
started again. ‘
Give it up. Tell her you lied, just like when you told
Joanne about the rape. You’re a good liar. Just say you lied and get out of
here
.’

‘No Jane. Truth spoken
stands firm forever, but lies live only for a moment.’

 “Jane, I need to think
about what you’ve told me. You need to go back to class now and don’t tell
anybody else about this. You must also think about what you’ve told me.
Sometimes children…well, they make up things to get attention. You need to
consider whether the things you’ve said are the
absolute
truth….”

Gaynor looked at Mrs May
in horror. “Mrs May,” she said, sounding just like an adult to me. “My mother
once told me to consider what teenager in her right mind would want to put
herself through the humiliation of telling someone that she’s a victim of
sexual abuse if it wasn’t true?”

Mrs May gasped. “Gaynor,
Jane, I’m sorry. I’m not used to this sort of thing. I need to think. I don’t
not
believe you. I just need time to make a plan.”

The bell rang and classes
were changing again. A group was gathering at the door.

“
I think I should go,” I
said numbly, staring at my shoes. It was no use. She didn’t believe me. No-one
ever would.

 “Yes, you probably should
go,” Mrs May agreed. “We’ll talk again.”As we walked out of the classroom, Gaynor’s
disappointed face must have spoken volumes to the teacher.

“She didn’t believe me!” I
raged to Gaynor.

 “It doesn’t really matter
if she does or not,” Gaynor said quietly. “It’s a crime for a teacher not to
report a story of child abuse to the authorities. She has to follow up on your
report. And I’ll tell my mother about this, so that she can also follow up with
Mrs May. Someone will help you out now Jane. I promise.”

Although I was convinced
that Mrs May neither believed me nor cared, I found out later that she
did
make
the phone-call that changed my life.

“The Lord is known by His justice;

The wicked are ensnared

By the work of their hands.”

Psalm 9:16

Feeling dejected and
desolate, I attended choir and play practice without any enjoyment that
afternoon.

It was Thursday so
predictably I would have to call my father later. I was apprehensive all
afternoon, wondering how I was going to answer ‘the question’ tonight. I was
certain he would detect that I was lying if I said I had not told and I had.

At seven o’clock, when I
knocked on Matron’s door, she said, “Come in Jane, and how are you today?”

“Fine thanks,” I lied. “Can
I phone home, please Matron.”

“Sure, but have a seat,
Jane. I want to talk to you first.”

I sat down nervously and
Matron Ruth closed the door.

“Jane, why do you phone
your father every Thursday?” she suddenly asked me.

“Um ... because I have
to.” Matron waited for more. I fidgeted.  “He says I have to.”

“What happens if you don’t
call?”

“He gets really mad with
me.”

“Jane you looked very sad
earlier today. Your eyes are all puffy. It looks like you’ve cried a lot today.
What’s been the matter? What’s made you so upset?”

“Nothing…er … I’m fine.” My
words were so well rehearsed I said them without even realizing I was lying. I
gazed down at my nail-bitten hands and Matron continued in surprisingly gentle
tones.

“Come Jane. You’re not
fine. You’re miserable and depressed and I really want to help you.” I glanced
up at Matron. She looked kind and concerned. Immediately the tears started to
work their way out of my treacherous eyes. I was stronger in the face of
antagonism.

Matron passed a tissue and
I was shocked to hear her say, “One of your teachers called me today. She’s
very concerned about you and asked me to help. Talk to me Jane.”

“Was it Mrs May?”

Matron nodded.

“She didn’t believe me …” I
said, resigned to be in more trouble.

“Actually I think she didn’t
want to believe such horrible things could be going on in your life, but she
called because I think she does believe you now.”

I took a deep breath. I so
wanted this thing at home to stop but I was terrified of the storm I would be
unleashing.

Matron moved to the couch
next to me. “Tell me what’s bothering you honey. It will just be between you
and me.”

“What if you tell my Dad?
He yelled at me when you told him I was crying a lot.”

“That was before we heard
this story. This is my promise, Jane. I will not tell him
anything
you
say to me today.”

I had to believe her. I
had to tell because I could bear no more.

“My father…my father is doing
things to me at home that are wrong and I want him to stop. But no-one will
believe me and he said he’ll kill me if I tell. I’m really afraid that you’ll
tell him if I tell you. The nun told on me and he thrashed me …”

“Jane, I want to promise
you now that I will not phone him and I will not tell him what you tell me
today. I want to help you. Tell me exactly what he’s doing to you.”

“He is abusing me!” I
burst out. At least now I had the word for it.

“You will have to say more
than that, Jane. In what way … how is he abusing you?”

Cautiously I began to
explain my story in detail. For the first time I was able to reveal to someone
else all the years of childhood pain, rejection and fear.

As Matron listened
sympathetically, I became bolder in my revelation and bit by bit I allowed her
access to my miserable, offensive adolescent world where I’d been sexually
debased, exploited and humiliated.

 “How does he make you
feel inside, Jane?”

 “Dirty. Guilty. Angry. So
angry.”

 “Jane, sometimes an adult
can make it feel nice for the child because adults know where to touch, and if
the child enjoys it a little that makes them feel even guiltier afterwards. But
you must understand that the adult is always to blame.”

“He never made it nice. I
felt like a small insect stuck in a spider web with no way to escape. It was
always uncomfortable to my body and sickening to my soul.”

At this point in the
discussion I thought Matron was getting angry with me – but suddenly she was
hugging me and crying too!  Someone believed me at last! Someone believed me
and was infuriated with Dad and Mom and Joanne, and not with me! She made a
joke about the two of us needing Noah’s ark if we didn’t stop crying and we
laughed amidst our tears. The release was both therapeutic and exhausting.

A hideous festering ulcer
had finally burst, pouring out the pus of abuse but an enormous gaping wound
was left in its place.

Eventually, my lovely Matron
fetched a glass of milk for me and, sitting on her couch, wrapped in a blanket,
I finally experienced what it was like to be loved and cared for, protected and
safe. 

When I’d finished the
milk, Matron said, “Jane you’d better make that phone call to your Dad.”

“I can’t!” I panicked. “He’ll
ask me if I’ve told his secret and I have and he’ll know…”

“Does he always ask you
Jane?”

“Yes he does, every time.
That’s why I have to phone. So he can check if his secret is safe.”

 Matron thought for a
moment then said, “I have a plan. Jane you
must
phone him but this time,
you use the white phone and I want to listen in on the black phone,”

“What must I say?”

“Lying is never good but
just for tonight you
have
to do it. It’s got to be the last lie you are
ever going to tell about all of this, do you understand?”

“But why?”

Jane I need to hear him
ask you the question. It will be like my final proof that everything you have
told me is true. It will be good as evidence later on if we need it. Jane, if
you say you’ve told me, he’ll probably come and fetch you tonight before we can
do anything to prove it and stop him from ever  hurting you again. Believe me.
It’s the only lie you have to tell. If he asks you the question you say, ‘No,
you haven’t told’, okay? That way, you get protection.”

“What if he knows?”

“He won’t!”

Feeling like a conspirator
in a spy game, I dialled with trembling hands while Matron held the other phone
to her ear. Dad asked about my week’s activities and I answered curtly. Then –
his fatal blunder.

“I love you Jane. Jane
have you told anybody our special secret?”

Matron Ruth held my hand with
her free one and shook her head. I answered: “No Dad.”

“Are you sure, Jane?”

“A-huh.” I clearly
remember nodding even though he couldn’t see me.

“Jane remember – not a
word. It’s our special love. You do love me Jane, don’t you?” Matron nodded to
me.

“You’re my father,” I
answered. “I have to go. Bye.”

“Jane…”

I replaced the receiver, shivering
and feeling ready to cry again.  I looked at matron’s angry face and it dawned
on me. He’d played right into matron’s
hand! My dad,
the wolf spider,
had finally caught himself in his own ugly trap.

 “I always thought he
would know if I was lying. But he didn’t know…”

“No, Jane, he didn’t know.
But now
I
know,” answered Matron Ruth pensively. “And I’m so sorry that
it’s taken so long for you to trust me and for me to help you.”

Mulling over Matron’s
words, feeling rather stunned, I asked: “What’s going to happen now?”

“Well, I’ll have to
contact Mrs Martingale. She’ll get hold of Welfare Services.  They’ll probably
come around tomorrow and we can all talk about this and find out what’s to be done
to help you.”

 “Will my Dad get into
trouble?”

“Jane, I’m afraid so. Everything
he’s done to you is against the law, and the law is made to protect children. But
we
will
look after you and stop him from hurting you anymore. I promise.”

“What will the people
coming tomorrow do?” I was still worried; afraid of what I’d now done to my
father.

“They will most likely
have to ask you a lot of questions, like I did tonight and you’ll hate it because
you’re going to have to tell all of this again.”

“Why?” I panicked. “That’s
not fair. I trusted you but I don’t want to tell other people. Why can’t you
just tell them, now that you know? You heard my Dad ask the question tonight.
You know it’s true. It’s really embarrassing to tell. You feel so dirty and bad
… like no-one’s ever going to like you again because of what you’ve done.”

“Jane, listen to me. It is
not what
you
have done. It is what
he did
to you. It is
your
Dad
that has done a lot of bad things, not you.”

“But I let him and I was
too scared to tell. What if the people don’t believe me tomorrow? What if they
phone my Dad! People don’t believe children…”

“I think the real problem
is that no-one
wants
to think of a child being badly treated, so we hide
away from the truth. People are strange. We often hope that if we ignore
something nasty it will go away.”

“But it doesn’t ….”

“No, it doesn’t. But now,
this is going to stop!”

“Who will I have to tell?”

“Probably the police, the social
workers, a doctor and some people at the courts. People who want to help you.”

“That’s not fair. I don’t
want to tell everybody….”

“I know, Jane. But it’s
just the way the law works. You’ll have to tell them yourself and be very
careful to tell the whole truth the
whole
time.
Never
make up
anything and
never
change your story. If you do that they’ll stop
believing you straight away.”

“But you believe me?”

“Yes. I do Jane and I am
so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault…” I
said quietly, feeling very vulnerable and ye very adult at the same time .