Greetings, dear readers. I hope that you are well and in the mood to spend ~10 minutes idly engaged in an activity known to some as Walpoling (and as reading to others).
I just want to remind you that I've published a book on LeanPub, a whopping ~260 page novel based on a true story. For those of you who want a summation, here's a condensed version to whet your appetite for the whole atrocious story:
I have had an epiphany. At least I think I have; I am not sure if I have had one before. Surely, the definition of such an awakening is that you do notice it. It is impossible to not know it has happened, even if not accompanied by strobe lights and trumpet blasts. It cannot be overlooked. So no, I have not had a previous epiphany. I have had “aha!” moments by the dozen a decade but, at 58 years old, I was still an epiphany virgin. The silent hour of thirteen minutes past three, the witching hour, is the perfect time to have one, while the whole country is lethargic. This dim hour has been visited on an innumerable jumble of milky night feeds with a sleep-deprived brain.
Constrictions of menopausal anxiety and ugly nightmares have chased sleep away. I have jolted awake, senses strained for evidence of an armed intruder. But there is none. Now I am cocooned in my puddle of blue light, tapping the keyboard softly so as not to wake the dogs and incite their jumping, tail-wagging, dog breath snuffling greeting. Peter is deaf and wrapped in a crescendo of snores loud enough to drown out a symphony orchestra.
Yet, on with the revelation: It was me who did it, not Richard. I broke the family by speaking up and speaking out, at long last, after all the years of keeping quiet and keeping the peace when what I wanted to do was to say what was on my mind.
Tessa had said in her no nonsense voice, “They don’t even realise how much of their bull crap you dealt with, but eventually you had enough and snapped. It has taken them by surprise, since they expected you to do what you always did.”
The words were heard, but the meaning filtered through only gradually. I snapped, but I did not recognize it as the line I gouged in the sand. No explosion was heard, no angry voices rang out; the air was devoid of drama or gunshots. It had been such a long, slow burn that it just spontaneously combusted a subterranean arsenal. Ignorant, shallow, selfish, ego-inflated individuals could not hear the detonator ticking down, nor smell the brimstone fumes. However, Tessa sensed it long before the other two knew what was going to hit them.
It all began at the beginning, as these things do, but it took decades to boil over. Four sisters were nurtured by stable parents in a fairly normal family. Much diversity was created from the parental gene pools. The arrogant and sleek eldest; pragmatic, principled, keen-minded Tessa; the youngest, soft and immature. I am third in line but, I am unsure of my adjectives other than middle and patient. A mixed history of happy, good, tragic and mundane is undeniable in any family story, but this story is about anger, bitterness and lack of compassion.
The shiny helmet of groomed hair, the skilled mask of perfection arranged on well nourished skin, the tailored clothes – all concealed a deep and frightening void. The eldest was the perfect, apron-wearing Stepford wife, the stay at home, luxury car lift-club Mom, the lip-service daughter and beloved sister. Tessa and I knew the void was there; we had stared into the abyss and felt the sting of the monsters that lurked there, yet we accepted her. More than that, we pitied her.
Jenny’s story is not unique. It is a common tale repeated and repeated over aeons: Teenage girl meets an unsuitable boy, defies parents and falls pregnant. The exception is that she was a potential-filled girl and he was an uneducated man with very little to offer. This is a modern tale, with the twist of the knowledge of contraception being ignored. Timely requests for help could have been made to any number of caring adults. Choices were made: Bad, life-changing choices that could have been otherwise. After the absent contraception, the lies made it impossible for a timely termination. The inadequate man did not want marriage. Jenny was packed off to the “House of Shame”, where unmarried mothers became her room-mates. Tessa witnessed our Dad ashen-faced and broken when he heard the news. Allana and I were young enough to remain ignorant and uninformed. Mum sprang into action, trying to repair what couldn’t be fixed. She had four babies of her own; she was too old to want another. Jenny rejected her help and blamed her for not wanting to take in the baby, even though she did not want the infant herself. The new born baby girl was “taken from her” and put up for adoption.
My eldest sister moved ahead rapidly, never looking back. All the scars were internal. The secret was locked in a vault and the key was discarded. She was destined to stay in that vault forever, never again knowing the freedom of the truth. The realisation – that it is not the insurmountable, shameful story she created – has never arrived. There are no adequate words to describe this profound sadness. It is perhaps the deepest emotional pain a person can experience, but it is a commonplace mistake. The baby had to be given to someone who could raise her, but what sort of monster can walk away from her baby daughter, her first born, and not own up to her? Jenny was furious if anyone mentioned her, fearful the girl might try to find her. I would have waited eighteen years until the very moment the numbers clicked over on the clock. I would have searched and dug and investigated tirelessly. I would have found my child. I asked Mum once why she thought Jenny did not look for her child and the dry response was this:
“I suppose it would have ruined her perfect image.”
What kind of mother is terrified that her inconvenient truth of a daughter will search for her? It would ruin the fragile image; brittle enough to crack without warning, but it is relentlessly maintained and has crusted hard around her heart. The truth would shatter it into irreparable shards. This pointless façade makes her vulnerable and afraid. Anger is her shield.
No acceptance of her role in the event was ever forthcoming. She had consensual, unprotected sex. It was a problem of her own making. There was no one to blame but her.
The truth lives in another country, an unwanted alien which will never gain re-entry into Jenny’s psyche. Even as she is, I still love her. Understanding the pain that shaped her, I have accepted her foibles. That is what we do: We love our special people in spite of their failings. We love them with their weaknesses. If we are only worthy of love if we are perfect, it would be a sad and lonely world full of human islands. I tell myself that this is why I have controlled my tongue, smiled and played nice for so many years. I have to wonder if I am a slow learner. If my child had behaved this badly, refusing to admit responsibility, imagining the world should spin around her, that she always deserved more, in fact she would demand more, I would have had an attitude-adjusting talk with her. My advice would be “make peace with your demons; don’t hold on to the past”. An explanation that being selfish and self-involved is unacceptable, that other people are just as important as she, would have been issued. I would have said “It is simply not right to behave like this.” Then why did I not say that to Jenny, who behaved in such a fashion as to deserve it? I eventually gave Allana this lesson and was shot down in flames.
Going up against my older sister and poking a rabid lion with a sharp stick are on equal footing, activity wise. Her blind selfishness was impenetrable. The self pitying bleat, down-turned mouth and sagging shoulders preceded the oft-repeated mantra, “I am so tired”, sometimes followed by, “I am so exhausted I could cry.”
My slap-issuing hand would twitch, my jaw tense, but my voice said nothing. My lips may have smiled sympathetically, even when this pronouncement was made at the end of a three week holiday to Thailand. I work forty-nine weeks of the year, only to afford a short trip to the beach or the mountains. That is a prime example of Jenny’s lack of awareness of the sensitivities of others, of her selfish, inward-gazing ignorance of how she hurts her loved ones. Was I being nice or stupid? Would it have made any difference if I had spoken to her? This is a woman who would erupt in fury and literally bang her head on the wall if she did not get her own way. I was letting this dirty fighter bully me into silence.
One Christmas, the entire extended family gathered at my home. Jenny was notorious for arriving late for every occasion, mainly because she refused to get out of bed on time. Impatient grandparents, over-excited nieces and fractious toddlers would all wait for Her Ladyship to swan in, her demeanor sour. Something or someone had displeased her. It was inevitable. Her lower lip was jutting, her footsteps heavy when she arrived, sighing. Baskets were unpacked roughly, dishes were slammed onto the table and a cloud crept into the room.
“How can you storm in here, like a thundercloud, on Christmas day? You arrive late for every occasion, making all of us wait and then you are in a foul mood. You should be apologizing to us all for your rudeness.”
That burst out of my mouth. There was an almost audible round of silent applause. Dad’s eyebrows shot up as he squinted; Mum looked down at her lap and pursed her disobedient lips. Children stopped their games. Hermann had probably suffered a tirade in the car and the twinkle in his eye didn't go unnoticed by me. Thomas patted my back surreptitiously. After a startled inhalation, Jenny switched to her ladylike, well-behaved mode and later to the well-loved, hilarious clown persona and behaved like the perfect Christmas guest. The lesson learned was evident for several months. Why had I not done this before or since? Why did no one else step up?
Tessa was not with us that year. She had no qualms about standing up to her older sister and Jenny filed away every incident in a weighty grudge portfolio. Tessa had the advantage of distance; she did not have to sit around the table to dirty looks and snide remarks.
That Christmas, Hermann had given his wife a gold bracelet, the gift of a less-than-average husband trying to improve his image. Unfortunately for him, silly, generous Hermann did not know it was the wrong design. It had to be melted down and remade to suit. Even then, it probably disappointed, because nothing was ever good enough. “Grateful” was not a word uttered in their house. The phrase “he/she is so lucky” echoed through the rooms. Everyone was always luckier than poor, maligned, pampered Jenny. Mum expressed her disgust and remarked wistfully that she wished that she had ever been given a gold bracelet. It was not what Jenny had been taught, it was not an attitude she learned by example in our home. It was in her nature.
Year after year after year, Jenny was all about Jenny. She married Hermann, the not-quite pick of the litter. A pregnancy was kindled and then lost. After an evening hospital visit, Hermann asked if I would like to join him for supper. We were both on our own and sad for the loss of the almost baby. It made sense to have a meal with my new brother-in-law.
At eighteen, my blindfold of naiveté made it possible for him to plot a strategy. Candles were lit, a champagne cork popped. My complaint of a painful neck spasm prompted the offer of a massage. It was suggested my blouse was getting in the way and perhaps I would be more comfortable on the bed. I balked and flatly refused. He was too far into my space, pressed against me. Shallow-breathing fear had alerted me to where this was headed.
Adrenaline spurred me on to flee, so shaken that my knees faltered while carrying me down the stairs. Numb disbelief made it impossible to cry. Shock, disgust, visceral fear and guilt jostled for space. Had I led him on? Was I to blame? My sister was lying bleeding in a hospital, her husband an untrustworthy, disgusting predator. I would not let my mind investigate the question, “what if he hadn’t let me leave?”
Months later, there was another pregnancy, another baby girl. Postnatal depression dissolved Jenny into a quivering, tear-drenched shadow of her former self, but she dug her heels in and, again, refused Mum’s offers of help. Stubbornness is not the strength it may appear to be, but a closed-minded, self damaging weakness. Poor little baby Katy was treated like an unwanted child. Why was her mother not overjoyed and compensated by the arrival of a perfect baby, one that she could keep and hold and nurture? Eventually calm, sweet Katy had the prefix "bloody" attached to her name. As in bloody Katy who never did anything right, bloody Katy who got in the way. It's no wonder she emigrated to the UK as soon as she was able. Richard was next in line. His mother’s darling, he could do no wrong. His flat, blue, iceberg gaze chilled his relatives. His antics involved the police and substance abuse.
“Mark my words, that boy has the bad blood from his father’s side”, said Mum.
How right she proved to be, but it would take a few decades for anyone to know just how much.
I'll leave you with that, in the hope that I've given you just enough that you're now inclined to read the whole story, to see just how deep is the nasty rabbit hole ...
Still not convinced that my tale is worth $50? As further incentive, here are some coupon codes to get $10 off. (They are limited to the first 125 people to use them, so be quick about it.)
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In the event that the discount links have expired (they're only valid for a month, IIRC), here's an alternative: Please feel free to buy me a coffee or become my patron on Patreon, send me $42 in fiat and drop your email address. * In return, I'll send you a copy of the novel.
All going well, I'll follow it up with the full collection of stories in the "Fractures" series, some of which I have published here and on Read.cash.
* Sadly, I cannot currently accept payment in crypto, due to restrictions placed on crypto exchanges operating under regulation in my home country.
