After Amy

TW. Mentions of abuse.

There are as many forms of grief as there are love.

My first real hug came when I was forty-nine. Before then, I had closed myself off to human affection and hugs were things to be endured. I’d never hugged anyone or allowed anyone to hug me in a meaningful way; when my children were babies I held rather than hugged them. But before you condemn me, I need you to know I’m not some kind of cold-hearted monster. I brought my children up well. They were clean and well fed; I provided for their physical needs, mostly without a father, but always at arm’s length. I just couldn’t show love.

The hug freed me. It was a transforming hug, restoring something of what had been lost in the labyrinth of past traumas. After it, I felt both accepted and acceptable. It confirmed I was worth loving.

***

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve opened the bedside table drawer to check Amy’s letter is still there. Since it arrived last week I’ve memorised every line of the neatly written script. Why wouldn’t I? Amy’s words are special – like everything else about her.

Can it really be sixty years ago? That was when she started sending me letters and she continued when it was less common to get them. I’m not one for modern technology though I try to keep up with the basics for my daughter’s sake. I tucked Amy’s letters away, tying them with a ribbon, keeping them alongside the knitted clothes I made for my children when they were babies. 

In her most recent letter Amy has fixed a date to visit. The only other time she visited her old hometown after leaving for a new life was for her mother’s funeral. I was with my friend Ernie, sadly no longer alive, undergoing the trip of a lifetime. Amy was happy I’d found love and was having adventures later on in life, but how ironic I didn’t get to see her. My daughter must recently have contacted Amy about my deteriorating health, otherwise how would she have known? Certainly not from me.

The good news is Amy’s coming to see me today.

***

For many years, Amy’s mother, Theresa Hobson, was my best friend.  I told her things because I trusted her; I sensed she had troubles of her own. She was like a leaf that could easily be blown away by a gust of wind. Whenever she managed to get a break from her husband’s demands or our children were at school, we’d talk. I’d always been reserved but with her I opened up and she proved a patient listener. Sometimes we’d find ourselves laughing like guilty teenagers, as if the walls were privy to our shared secrets. For a while, we carried on like this over cups of tea, mostly at her place. On discovering the joys of her carrot cake, I reciprocated by bringing round my own fairy cakes with sponge wings set in icing. Her children couldn’t wait to taste them. None more so than Theresa’s eldest daughter, Amy.

When Theresa’s husband, Paul lost yet another job, a cloud hung in the air, and he was constantly under his wife’s feet. Dark patches formed under her lovely eyes, but she was always pleased to see me. They both were.

***

As well as a daughter, Paul and Theresa had two sons.  I didn’t have much to do with their boys, but Amy had a nice way about her. She often had her head tucked in a book and talked about going to university. Like a beacon lighting up stormy waters, she was the person I’d like to have been had things been different in my youth.

I’m not exactly proud of it, but at the time Amy seemed to be everything my daughter, Sally, wasn’t. 

Then again, in a different way, Sally was the opposite of me. Intent on throwing caution to the wind, set on being everything I wasn’t.

***

I generally returned to an empty house after visiting Theresa. My sons had left home and my daughter was spending hours hanging out with her new boyfriend. With only the tv as company, memories hung about the rooms like dried-out moths on dusty shelves. Even when my husband left me for another woman, I was loath to sling out his old snooker trophies. I didn’t want to upset the kids by getting rid of them.

But apart from hurt pride, I didn’t really miss the man I had married. I was never able to give him what he wanted in “that way” and he didn’t love me enough to find out why.

***

Caged in and walled up, I escaped my childhood home by marrying someone I couldn’t love.

“It sounds like your husband didn’t know how to show affection,” Theresa remarked when I described my marriage. When I briefly touched on my childhood, the only thing I could think of to say was that we didn’t do hugs in my family.

But that wasn’t it. I know not all families do hugs, but in her way,Theresa seemed to understand.

Neither was she surprised when I revealed the man who was supposed to be my father regularly beat mum when he came back from the pub, or wherever it was he’d been drinking that day. Always behind the bedroom door and in places later covered over. 

I didn’t tell Theresa what came next. I’ll never tell anyone.

Mum was always out when I heard his step on the landing. I flinched, screaming inwardly as the bedroom door notched open. I tried not to smell that beery breath and balled my fists in silent protest as his hand covered my mouth. I refused to look into the green eyes flecked by sickly yellow. By refusing to acknowledge him, I wasn’t part of what was he was doing.

“You won’t mention this to your mother if you know what’s good for you, Brenda. She’d never believe it.” 

Another time, he said: “I’m doing you a favour. Who else is going to want you?”

From then on, I wore my shame like a hair shirt. Degraded, I became a pariah in my own eyes. I closed off, shut down, told myself I felt nothing. He’d dissected a part of me that was a girl called Brenda and threw her in the trash. I never stopped grieving for her loss.

**

Now lying here, snippets of conversation rewind like reels of old tape. Mostly, the way he  mocked mum for being a woman. The way nothing was ever right.

“You’re such a useless bitch. What’s the matter with you? Got the curse or something?” Why didn’t she cover him in the meal he was complaining about and walk away?

But then, where could she have gone?

The curse…

Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good.

***

It happened one weekend when my brothers were kicking the ball in the street and “Mr Shit” (my private name for my father) was drowning his sorrows in the pub after losing a bet.

Such was my ignorance, I thought I was dying. I later learnt I was the first girl in my school to get her period, but it wasn’t really talked about then. Another taboo topic.

In the bathroom, I tried to muffle my cries. When I eventually stumbled into the corridor, mum steered me into the bedroom.

“You’d better go and lie down. I’ll be back in a minute,” she said.

When she returned, she was carrying a paper bag and a hot water bottle. I sat on the bed clutching myself. 

“Come on, Brenda.” She placed the bottle on my stomach. “Hold onto that. It will ease the pain.” 

Fascinated, I watched her rummage in the drawer where she kept her personal belongings. Father avoided it like the plague. That was “women’s stuff.”

“You’re going to need these from now on,” mum informed me. I felt very grown up when she handed me a discreet box containing some pleated pads with loops on. The box had a picture of a woman in a flowery skirt and wide-brimmed striped hat. The advert on the box said, “Your secret’s safe.” The trouble was there were so many secrets.

“Thank you, mum.” Fleeting moments of togetherness when I felt she might have loved me had things been different.  If only it had been like that more often!

“For several days a month, maybe more if you’re anything like me, you’re going to need to wear one of these,” mum said matter of factly.

I rubbed my stomach. “Does it always hurt this much?”

Tenderness was replaced by a weary resignation.

“That’s how it is. You’re a woman now. The monthly pain means you can grow babies – so you’ll have to be extra careful round boys. If you take my advice, keep your distance.” She tapped my knee. “No need to let your brothers know about any of this, Brenda. Just carry on as normal. I’ll see if I can get you some painkillers, but other than that you’ll have to deal with it on your own. It’s one of those things.” 

*** 

Something unexpected came out of my discomfort. The cloud’s silver lining was Mr Shit left alone from then on. 

By then of course, it was too late. I grieved for the old Brenda, the girl who no longer existed.

***

Returning to my friendship with Theresa who I’d probably never have known had it not been for the prompt actions of her husband. One winter evening when the headlights were dimmed on the street outside the back path of the Hobson house, my daughter was making her way home after a date with a boyfriend. Bruce had offered to walk her home, but she’d insisted it would only take five minutes and she’d be fine. The truth was she didn’t want me to see him.

To this day, I dread to think what might have happened had Paul not reacted when he heard Sally’s screams on the footpath. The man who grabbed her scarpered when Paul shouted over the fence. We never did discover his identity, but Paul brought Sally home safely and I made a new friend.

That was how my friendship with the Hobson family started.

***

I had known the family for several years when one day Amy appeared at my door, crying desperately. I’d never seen her like that before. Until then, she’d always seemed self-assured. Now, she was lost and broken.

Suddenly, I forgot everything that had happened in my past. I forgot how much I hated anyone touching me. When I held out my arms, Amy fell into them. It was perhaps the best moment of my life. For the first time I felt truly accepted.

Once she’d calmed down, Amy told me she’d had a row with her father. 

“He shoved me to the ground when I got between him and mum. They put on a good show when you come round, but behind closed doors it’s a different story.”

“Oh, my poor Amy!” I cradled her like a baby, until she was all cried out. Until then, I hadn’t realised how badly she’d had been affected by her parents' troubled marriage. 

“You’re lucky I’m alone in the house. I’m sure Sally is out with the boyfriend I’m not supposed to know about.” I patted the leather settee I’d been given as a wedding present, now somewhat faded. “Sit down and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

Over tea and biscuits, Amy confided her troubles. I’d never felt such peace in another person’s presence. She was like her mother, only so much more so.

“You won’t say anything about me coming here, will you?” she pleaded.

“I promise I won’t say a word. What are you going to do?” I considered the idea of her coming to live with me, but it wasn’t practical. It might even had made things worse.

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll think of something.” Her smile lit up the room. “You know, it’s kind of peaceful here and I feel like you accept me for who I am. I don’t have to put on an act with you.” I might have said the same thing, but I kept quiet. In fact, with the tv off, the only sound was the ormolu clock ticking away on the mantelpiece. It had been an heirloom from my grandmother.

For once my inner voice refused to be crushed; it rang out loud and true: “Don’t do what I did. Don’t let the problems at home destroy your dreams. Don’t let anyone or anything get the better of you, Amy.”  I was shaking with emotion. It was the first time I’d admitted the truth aloud.

“I won’t,” she promised. “I want to go to university. I want a better life. A way out.”

Eventually she dried her eyes. “Thank you for listening, Brenda. I don’t feel so bad now. I’ll go back home and pretend nothing’s happened. If dad asks, I’ll just say I went for a long walk to clear my head.”

“Perhaps he’ll have calmed down by the time you get back.” I hoped and prayed she’d be alright.

***

The last time I saw Amy she was on her way to catch a train that would take her to a city where she’d start a new life. I was cleaning the bedroom window and spotted her scrambling up the grassy verge that led to my house. My heart sank for I knew she was coming to say goodbye and that I’d miss her terribly. I wasn’t alone, but I invited her in anyway.

“I won’t come in, Brenda. If I do, it’ll be even harder. I have to make a new life.”

“Ok. All the best.”

 This time it was she who held out her arms. It was hard hugging her for what I thought was the last time; letting her go was like drawing hundreds of tiny daggers from my heart.

***

Much to my surprise, Amy’s departure actually had a positive effect. It spurred me on to make changes in my own life. When I discovered my daughter and her boyfriend were expecting a baby, I wanted things to be different. So much so that when my granddaughter was born, I experienced a joy I hadn’t known with my own children. I discovered just how much I loved holding her. I loved that she accepted me unconditionally.

***

The knocking at the door is the knocking of my heart.

“There’s a lady to see you. Very smart she looks. Seems important.” My carer beams over the mask she wears for my protection. “Here. Let’s get these pillows straight, Brenda.”

“Did she say her name was Amy?”

“She did.”

“Don’t keep her waiting downstairs. Get her to come up. Ask if she’d like something to eat and drink. Don’t forget, the fairy cakes in the tin. She’ll be tired after her long journey.”

***

The figure at the door is older but radiates the same warmth that moved me when she was a teenager. The blond hair is now scooped up in a barrette, as befitting the image of a senior lawyer. So many times, I’ve visualised her making her mark in the courtroom. She never lost sight of her dream! No children, but I don’t recall her having spoken of wanting them. 

Amy’s carrying a bouquet of daffodils. Their yellow is the sunlight of hope and new beginnings. Maybe not for me, but for others.

“I’ll find a vase for them,” my carer says, taking them off her.  “I can see you two have a lot of catching up to do.”

In many ways, nothing has changed. Amy is smiling at me, remembering our times together. Forming impressions that will last.

“Amy.” As I hold out my arms, the years melt away and once again I’m accepted. I know it will be our last embrace. Through Amy, I have learnt something about letting go and how love can heal the deepest wounds. Through her, I’ve learnt to love who I am.

It’s a moment neither of us will forget.

***