Another smothered ripple – polite laughter, murmurs of sympathy. Wow. Is this...working?
“And honestly,” I continue. “I’m not that brave. Not compared to some of the women I’ve met during my six months volunteering here - with Lauren and Corinne and Rachel and all of you.”
Good. I can steer this back to my notes.
“I...um...I used to spend a great deal of time alone. It’s just one of the ways in which abusive partners take control of your life – they make themselves the center of your universe and isolate you from your friends and your family and anyone who might point out that your relationship is dysfunctional. And it worked.
“I had this friend – we’d known each other since we were thirteen. My...um...my ex – he managed to isolate me from her. She hated him, of course. I can’t go into details, but let’s just say that she was switched on to manipulators. She knew exactly what kind of person he was.
“You probably all know how my relationship with this man ended. So I won’t go into too much detail. Suffice to say, he’s dead. And you’d think, wouldn’t you, that that would be an end to it?
“Only it wasn’t. I kept thinking he was going to walk back into the room, like he was still watching my every move. And I couldn’t call my friend. I just couldn’t do it. I don’t know what I thought she’d say – I told you so – or whatever. She called me – left messages with my family – but I didn’t call back. She just wanted to know I was okay, but I couldn’t make myself pick up the phone and call her.”
I am not going to cry.
I take another sip of water and continue. “And it’s only now that I realize, I was still in that bubble the whole time, this weird cocoon my abuser had built around me. She was never a person to mince her words, and I knew she wasn’t going to pretend to be sorry about his death. So I couldn’t do it – for the longest time. I felt like I’d be betraying him – that was the strength of the hold he had over me. It was a full nine months before I finally picked up the telephone.”
The audience stirs. I blink rapidly, trying to dry the surface of my eyes. “And do you know what she said? After nine months of silence from me? She said ‘Babycakes, it’s about fucking time’.”
They laugh.
“And that, to me, is the beauty of this Center. It doesn’t matter how far you’ve gone down the rabbit hole, how deep your abuser has dug that rabbit hole, nobody here is going to judge you or bear a grudge that you took forever to make that call. There is always a hand out, waiting to pull you up, prize you loose. To break that hold on you. It’s a hold that thrives on loneliness and isolation – it can’t survive in the light of empathy and experience, the kind of empathy and experience that’s right here in the hearts of all the survivors in this room. You know. You know how hard it can be to make that call, write that e-mail. Which is why you – like my friend – don’t care how long it takes to make it. Just so long as you do.”
I told myself I wouldn’t cry, but I do anyway, bathed in the warmth of applause. After the speeches there’s cake and coffee, and a stream of women of all ages and colors. I used to think I was the only one; it was both heartening and depressing to discover just how common my experience really was.
Once upon a time I used to hate this time of year. I used to think of Thanksgiving as the time when it all started to unravel. Now I know that what I had with Justin was doomed to fall apart from the beginning. Now I know how healthy relationships are supposed to work – in theory, anyway. Sometimes I think about Jaime, but I never hear from him. He’s probably found someone a lot more stable. Someone who can dance.
On my way home I go to the grocery store; this year is going to be the year I get Dad on board with Thanksgiving. I load the pumpkins in the back seat of the car like some modern day fairy godmother, and head back up Laurel.
The big kitchen is empty, and there’s no sign of Dad. I set the groceries on the side and wander through to his lair, only to stop dead in the doorway when I see who’s looking into the fish tank.
At first I’m not sure. His hair looks a little longer, revealing a wave I didn’t even know it had, but when he inclines his head I know the line of his jaw. And I know the rest of him – let’s not kid ourselves. I know those skinny, graceful hips. I know the slight, sweet curve of his ass – I dug my bare heels into it enough times.
I step forward and join him in front of the tank. I’m wearing flats and my steps are so silent that he jumps.