“Shit, you’re confusing me. Now you’re saying we’re missing something?”
“No, Rogan, none of that’s suspicious. It’s totally, completely, one hundred percent predictable, and it all adds up to a reason why she’d kill herself. This girl slit her wrist as a final cry for help, and her mother refuses to see it. You do what you want, but I’m going to the courthouse.”
They’d wait for the medical examiner’s report. An autopsy. Forensic findings. Science. It would all sound more official and indisputable than the experienced instincts of cops and EMTs. But there was no doubt in Ellie’s mind that by the end of the week, Katherine Whitmire would be informed with all finality: her daughter killed herself. Maybe then she’d look in the goddamn mirror and start facing the truth.
Second Acts: Confessions of a Former Victim and Current Survivor
“FORGIVENESS”
Forgiveness. Such a simple word, but one of the hardest things to find within oneself and give to others.
I have heard people say that it is impossible to heal without forgiving those who have hurt you. But it is not my place to forgive the man who raped me. Shouldn’t he be the one who is expected to look into himself to understand why he did what he did? Shouldn’t he be the one who has to ask himself how he could take from me everything he stole—not just the physical act, but the trust, my power, my agency, my sense of self?
Maybe he should be the one who has to try to forgive himself. That is not for me to do.
One of the things he stole from me was my mother. I remained silent for so long—allowing that man to come to my room night after night—because of my fears for her. My loyalty to her. My utter dedication.
She had always been my only parent. Dad left before he could make any kind of impression that stayed with me. My mother was alone for long and frequent periods. Not completely alone. She had me. But alone as a woman. Now a man she had learned to love—whom she had brought into our home—was coming to me at night and threatening to kill us both if I said anything.
But I never blamed her for his presence in my life. She couldn’t know, I told myself. He put on such a kind face for others. How could she possibly suspect he carried a monster inside of him?
No, it wasn’t the abuse that took away my mother. Ironically, it was my absolute, unquestioned faith in her that eventually trumped the fear he had instilled in me. I waited until he was working late at night. It was just the two girls at home together, like the old days. We ate those silly finger sandwiches we used to make when I was younger. They were chicken salad on cut Wonder Bread, but for some reason the dainty size and funny name brought me so much joy. (Who would eat a finger sandwich? I used to squeal.)
As the hours passed, I started to feel the darkness of his imminent return. Girls’ night would soon end. He’d hug my mother and say how happy he was to be home. As she fell into sleep, he’d say he was still restless. I’m going to read downstairs. I don’t want the light to bug you, honey.
It had happened often enough that I could picture him entering my room. I was even beginning to note certain patterns. If he was drunk, he was clumsier. It usually hurt less, but took longer. If he was tired, he’d be in a rush to make it happen. Choking me with his belt seemed to help him go faster. I’d also learned by now that my period wouldn’t stop him. He would leave me there on a bloodied sheet, admonishing me to clean up the mess before morning.
So I told her.
I still remember the expression on her face as she raised that stupid Wonder Bread stick to her mouth. She halted midway and returned it to the fancy platter we’d taken out for the occasion, a gift I’d received from the neighbors for my confirmation.
“Maybe you had a dream.”
“Mom, I think I know the difference between reality and a nightmare. And it’s not just one time.”
“What are we going to do?”
“I can tell the police. Maybe they can protect us.”
“That’s not what I meant. What are we going to do with you?”
“Mom” I’m not sure what punctuation to include after that single word but I can still hear my own voice in my head. Part observation. Part scream. Part question. Period, exclamation point, question mark?
And then she’d picked up the platter and dumped the remaining sandwiches in the trash. “I had no idea you hated me so much. Making up these kinds of lies. I forgive you, but don’t ever tell these stories again.”
She forgave me.
You might think I hate my mother. I don’t. I never did. I simply lost her along with everything else I lost because of that man. And without making excuses for her failures as a mother, I choose now to blame him, not her. I choose to believe that, just as he broke me, he broke her. We were both his victims.
I also choose to believe that, even though it is too late to tell her, my mother knows I have forgiven her.
Forgiveness. Such a simple word.
The reader looked around to make sure no one was watching. After the last time, more caution was necessary now. Today’s screen was the public computer at a crowded luxury gym on Broadway. The distracted employees at the front desk hadn’t stopped the few people who had breezed by on cell phones with a quick wave of acknowledgment, a gesture that was easy enough to mimic. In a worst-case scenario, a cover story about forgotten running shoes would provide a nonmemorable escape.
Time to type a comment to reward the most recent posting.
“Did it ever dawn on you that your mom hated you for driving away your father and making her a single mother? Did it ever dawn on you that your desperation to have a father figure is what drew that man to your bed? He should have choked you harder. He should have made you bleed more. Keep writing. I’m reading. And I’m coming for you.”
Five minutes after the comment appeared online, a phone call would be made to Buffalo, New York. “I’m calling about a prisoner named Jimmy Grisco. James Martin Grisco.”
That phone call would change everything.
Katherine Whitmire bolted the door after the last of the strangers finally left.
The house was quiet. It felt strange to be surrounded by silence in this house.
The Whitmires were a family that liked living with noise. Bill—on those rare occasions when he was there—was always listening to newly recorded tracks or blasting through demos in search of undiscovered talent. The kids had inherited his constant need for sound.
With Julia, it was usually music, but lately she’d developed a penchant for old-fashioned suspense movies. Billy, on the other hand, was a 24/7 news junkie, flipping incessantly between CNN, MSNBC, and Fox, the latter bringing him to frequent bouts of shouting at the television. Then, of course, there was the yelling between the townhouse floors. Despite Katherine’s efforts to persuade her family members to use the room-to-room intercom system, the rest of the Whitmires insisted on communicating with one another through screams: Did you erase my shows off the TiVo again? … Is anyone else hungry? I’m calling in for sushi! … Julia, get down here. Tell me what you think of this tape. … How many times do I have to tell you not to call it “tape” anymore, Dad?
Now the house was silent in a way she could not remember since those first months, back when she was overseeing