I leaned her back against the armrest of the couch and pulled a blanket around her. I watched her sleep for a few minutes, taking in her natural beauty that had always been just beneath the surface of her pain. I had been so wrapped up in watching her, looking at her with what felt like new eyes, I nearly forgot about what that darkness actually was. That's when I decided to grab my laptop so I could find out more about what she had endured. The last thing I wanted to do was question her endlessly once she awoke, and I knew that meant I needed to find the answers myself.
I set up my laptop on the ottoman in front of the couch and sat next to Ivy as I began to search the Internet. The first thing I looked up was "sewing vagina closed," but all that came up were ridiculous threads from young girls asking if they should do that to keep themselves from having premarital sex. I couldn't believe the stupidity of some people. Then, after searching through a few more threads, I found the term "female genital mutilation." I typed that in the search box and the moment it loaded, I thought I might throw up.
Images filled the page-images I could have gone my entire life without seeing. They were gory and gruesome, showing bleeding and mutilated vaginas from females of all ages. My insides cringed and hardened, and I had to summon all of my courage just to keep searching. I bypassed the images, never needing to see those again.
Informative websites popped up, explaining the act and why it is preformed. It's cultural based, and believed to keep the purity of women in tact. Usually preformed at a young age, they are cut with unsanitary items including razor blades and broken glass. Anesthesia isn't used and more than half the time, the girls die due to the pain, the bleeding, or an infection caused by the unsterile situations. I couldn't believe what I was reading, never realizing how much goes on in other countries that I wasn't aware of.
Sites explained that there are typically three different forms of genital mutilation: the removal of the clitoris, the removal of the clitoris and the inner lips, and then there was the closure of the vagina, which also included the removal of the clitoris and inner lips with a small opening left for urination. The female remains sewn closed until marriage, in which the husband breaks the sutures by penetration for the purposes of procreating. Once the child is born, the female is sewn back up.
It made me think of Ivy and what she had gone through. I wondered what would cause her mother to do that to her child, and where she would have taken her to have it done, or if she had done it herself. And that's when I discovered that the act was once upon a time preformed in the United States, and it wasn't officially banned until 1996. I was utterly sick at the discovery, finding out that American doctors did such vile things to children, and in some situations, it was still being preformed to keep families from taking their children overseas to have it done. What they do to appease the parents aren't to the extremes that I read about taking place over in Africa, but it was still happening nonetheless.
But I had been with Ivy; I had gotten her off in my office. I touched her. I think I would have noticed if anything was missing, which only caused me to have even more questions. Why hadn't I noticed something was different? She was so adamant and fearful of people seeing her and noticing the scars, but yet I hadn't discerned anything different with her.
I glanced over at her and noticed she was staring back at me with wide eyes. The grey looked almost silver as she stared unblinkingly at me. I wanted to ask her things, but I couldn't find the words. The fear in her features stole any words that I would have said and erased them.
"Just ask me," she said, her timid voice breaking. "I know you want to ask."
I started to shake my head, but she was right. "Why did she do it?"
"I don't know. I never had the chance to ask."
"But I read that it is a cultural thing. Did she believe in that kind of thing?"
Her shoulders rose to her chin. "I have no idea. I don't think so since I was never raised that way. My mother wasn't a religious person as far as I knew. I think she was just crazy. There was something seriously wrong with her, but I'll never know what it was. There are a lot of things I will never know because she's not here anymore to ask. I did talk to her boyfriend once, the one that called social services and had me taken away from my mom. I never told him what happened to me, but I did ask if he knew what was wrong with her. He told me that he never realized there was anything wrong until close to the end of their relationship. They had a fight when he told her I should be allowed to be around other kids. She argued with him that I wasn't allowed to be seen by anyone. He said that's when he realized something wasn't right. It wasn't long after that when he made the call, and he said he was scared the entire time, worrying what would happen to me if they didn't take me away. He told me that if they let her keep me, he would have come back for me. But I never saw or spoke to him again after that. I have no idea what ever happened to him, but I believe he saved my life. I don't even want to think about what would have happened to me had he never called anyone. Then again, I look at myself and wonder what kind of life I have now because of it. Maybe I would have been better off where I was, safe in my own little bubble."
"You can't possibly believe that to be true."
She shrugged again and looked at the computer screen. "That's not what happened to me," she said as she read the screen. "There was a doctor at the hospital that explained it all to me. I had no idea what had happened or why, and she explained it the best way she could to an eleven-year-old. As I got older, I became curious about it, but I never looked into it. I didn't want to read about it or know any more than what I already did. But I do know that nothing was ever cut off. I was only sewn closed."
Relief flooded my veins at her admission. "So, these scars … " I let my sentence drift off, allowing her to finish it herself. I was used to asking tough questions in my profession but, for some reason, I couldn't find the strength to finish any real question I had wanted to ask Ivy.
"They are from the sutures. There were some that ripped out when I was younger and now I have scars. I remember finding a mirror at my aunt's house and looking at myself after everything happened. I had never seen myself before, and only on occasion had felt it, and I was curious as to what I looked like without them. I was disgusted and never looked again."
"When you first told me that you didn't like to be touched or seen and after what you told me about your mom, I just thought it made you feel dirty. I had no idea it was this bad. Why didn't you tell me before? You could have told me, Ivy." I had a desperate need for her to understand that I was there for her, that I would always be there for her. I didn't understand it because I never felt the need to always be there for someone before.
Her eyes met mine again and they looked glassy, like she was about to cry again. I moved closer to her and leaned over her body, getting my face as close to hers while still being able to see her clearly. Her breathing hitched and once she let it out, I felt a slow wave of warm air brush against my skin.
"I couldn't tell you, Cade. I had only ever told a few people when I was younger and in foster care. The way they looked at me after I told them, like I was only half a person, made me feel even worse about myself. I couldn't let you look at me like that. I wouldn't be able to handle that. There is something about you that makes me feel okay, and I knew that would go away if I told you."
"Am I looking at you that way now? Am I looking at you like you're half a person?"
A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, but she didn't bother to wipe it away. "No."
"Can I look at you now?"
Her brows pinched in the middle as she tried to figure out what I was asking.
"I want to see you, Ivy … all of you. Can I do that?" I whispered, letting my breath carry my words.
Fear consumed her features once she realized what I was asking. Her head started shaking vigorously back and forth and her eyes grew twice the normal size. "No. You can't look at me. It's hideous. Please don't look at me," she begged, on the verge of crying again.
"Ivy," I whispered against her cheek just before I softly pressed my lips on her wet skin. "You've come this far. You've already opened up to me about this, just open up one more time. Break through this barrier with me. Let me help make you feel better. Please," I begged against her cheek, needing her to know this was about making her feel better and not some morbid curiosity.