Anne-Marie, The Story I Can’t Tell You

T/W: This story contains explicit language and depictions of child abuse. Please read at your own discretion.

“Let me see that,” I say. 

I pull her into my lap, smelling her apple scented hair. Tears trickle down her cheeks while cries hiccup from her chest. She needs me. Blood droplets form from a scrape on her shin. It’s not as bad as she makes it out to be. It seldom is. I never tell her so. Only we feel our pain, after all. What is a minor ache to someone might be an unbearable weight to another.  

“Stop that stupid fucking crying before I give you something to cry about! Go get my belt. Oh? Where are your tears now? I knew it didn’t hurt that bad, did it? Always crying because you want attention, stupid brat.”

“We’ve got this,” I remind her with a smile while spraying the wound with disinfectant. “Parents always know what to do to make it all better.” 

These kinds of words sting when I say them out loud. She never notices. Her watery brown eyes expel a few more tears before the wet stains on her cheeks begin to dry. It puzzles me how easing her pain eases my own. She leans against me, her body a mirror of mine at five-years-old. Hair, brown like roasted coffee beans, tumbles down her shoulders in waves. Her freckles refuse to be contained to reddened cheeks and spill down her arms and legs. My heart aches when I look at her. A version of me I used to be, and never was, all at once. 

“Daddy, why don’t we ever go for ice cream?”       

“What? You think I’m made of money? Don’t you know how much it costs to keep these lights on? I should have left you on the street corner where I found your gold-digging mother. At least I’d be making money then, instead of wasting it on something as useless as you.” 

“Why don’t we go for ice cream?” 

She twists in my lap to face me, eyes bright with excitement. It’s easy to make her let go of her pain. Becoming a parent is a curious thing, easing someone else’s hurts or fears with only a voice or touch. 

“Can I have mint chocolate chip?” she asks, already on her feet, injured leg forgotten. 

“Why don’t you try something new this time? You might find a flavor you like even more!”

She drags me from the sofa, her tiny fingers gripping my hand tight. She’s always dragging me forward. Children are like that. 

“Can we walk there, Mommy?” 

“Daddy, it’s cold. I don’t want to stay out here all night.”

“Shoulda thought of that before you back-talked me you little bitch. You can come inside when you learn to treat your father with respect.”

“Of course, the fresh air will do us good.” 

We’re outside, a solid cement sidewalk beneath our feet. Stubborn yellow daffodils spring through cracks in the pavement. She holds my hand, as if hanging onto my fingers will banish any unnamed dangers daring to fill her with fear. Somehow, it makes me less afraid, too. We walk in rhythm with one another, my slow steps with her quick ones. Her attention is everywhere all at once. 

“Look at this flower, Mama!” she kneels over, a flower greeting her with soft purple petals. “Mommy, look, it’s a laaaadybug!” she holds it for me to see, as it crawls on her palm, a red mound with perfect black dots. “What’s that?” she asks, index finger pointing to a house under construction on the left side of the street. 

I take in our neighborhood and a peaceful feeling blooms in my chest.  The trees stand tall with proud trunks. Their leaves wave to us in shades of aloe vera green. The air smells like fresh cut grass and late summer barbecues. Children in the neighborhood pool shriek in the distance. A cacophony of excited laughter and splashing water. There are no houses with boarded windows. The sound of slamming doors and angry voices are foreign noises to this place. How did I get here? I ask myself these kinds of questions all the time. 

“When’s daddy coming home?” 

“He’s not coming home. You love that bastard more than me? He’s already poisoned you against me and wrapped you around his finger. Is that it? I hate kids. You are nothing but a burden.” 

“Anne-Marie, do you know how much you mean to me?” 

Her feet shuffle to a stop as she grabs my leg. She looks up at me with brown eyes identical to mine. Hers are warm and rich like maple syrup. Moments like these, when I see myself in her, I learn to love parts of me I never knew I could. Her smile is full of mischief. I grab her chubby cheeks between two hands and place a soft kiss on her nose. She grabs my hand again, pulling me forward. Always forward.

We round the corner to Main Street. A familiar quirky building meets us with a mixture of maroon- and cream-colored bricks. A large sculpture of an ice cream waffle cone sits on the patio. It’s overflowing with three scoops of ice cream – strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla. A little boy with messy black hair swings his feet in a sky-blue chair by the door. A man resembling him shoots a warning look at the boy. His lips tighten with annoyance as the child’s shoes clink against the metal leg of his seat. 

“Make one more sound and you’ll spend the night in the closet. Did your father let you get away with acting like such a little shit? Get back over here. Wait until I get my hands on you!”

“Butter Pecan? You haven’t tried that one yet!”

I put the idea in her head as her hands land on the door, her fingers leaving hazy smudges on the glass. “Marsha’s Creamery” is written on the glass in a toffee-colored line of artistic curves and swirls. I guide her backwards a few steps, swinging the door open without hitting her. Icy cold air hits my skin with a sudden gust, a relief after the baking heat of the summer afternoon. Anne-Marie dashes across the pink-and-black checkered floor in the lobby. A shining mental counter gleams in front of her while she stands on her tip toes. Her eyes are as round as a fishbowl while she looks at a banquet of sordid ice cream flavors though a clear window.

“Fingers off the glass,” I remind her in a soft tone, pulling at animated fingers when I catch up to her. “Let’s pick any flavor you want.”

We’re back outside on the concrete patio, seated in a pair of flamingo-pink chairs. Mint green ice cream dribbles down Anne-Marie’s chin and then falls to the patio missing her sandal by a hair. An elderly woman sits at the table next to us with a cake cone in her hand. A napkin, holding the cone hostage, captures the vanilla ice cream dripping down the side. The old woman’s eyes are soft as she watches my daughter wear more of her dessert than consume it.

“Pretty little girl you got there,” her voice rattles and creaks as she speaks with the sound of the years she’s lived. “Enjoy it, they grow fast.” 

“You’re growing, again? How do you expect me to buy more clothes. Go like you are or borrow from a friend. I better not get a call from the teacher about holes in your pants again. Judgey bitch, she talks to me like I’m a bad mom. I’m not a bad mom, you’re just a shitty kid.”

“No, don’t tell me that. I’m in denial. I want to keep her this small forever.” 

The woman’s eyes crinkle as she speaks, “It doesn’t work that way.” 

“I’m torn,” I confide in the woman next to me, “I don’t want her to get any bigger, but I also want to see who she grows up to be. I wish I could hold tight to every version of her and keep them all at the same time. All the Anne-Marie’s she has been until now, and all the ones she’s yet to become.” I laugh, “They don’t tell you that part when you become a mother, do they? How hard it is to let go, and how rewarding it is when you do.”

The woman gives a knowing smile as I wipe the table down with napkins from Anne-Marie’s sticky fingers. We leave the woman behind to enjoy her summer afternoon and start the journey home. Our path forward is a sidewalk between the creamery and the building next to it. The building is a charming old-fashioned antique shop named, “Liliana’s Antique’s.” Metal wind chimes hang from the rack outside the store. They burst with soothing musical notes in layers of high and low tones. A lime green frog smiles from the window next to a haphazard pile of thrifted books. Gold lettering lines their spines in print too small to read from where we walk.

“When’s Daddy coming home?” Anne-Marie asks, as she runs her fingers over a mural on the side of the creamery.

It’s a mural of a white Maltese dog with a pale-yellow bow on its head. A pig-tailed girl shares her vanilla ice cream with the dog, her mouth open in mid-laugh. A mother, head full of fiery red curls, points at the girl with a long slender finger and a disapproving look. Anne-Marie’s fingers trace over the peach outline of the girl’s dress as she shoots a questioning look toward me.

“He should be there soon if he isn’t already,” I say, as she abandons the mural, turning the corner heading to our street. “We won’t tell on Mama, right? Daddy doesn’t need to know about dessert before dinner.”

“No way, I won’t tell!” she gives a toothy grin. 

She slows her pace enough to offer her pinky to me in a swear of secrecy. I lock it with my own. Her hair plasters against her forehead with a line of sweat. A lawn mower, one street over, gives a loud guttural growl as a distant neighbor goes to work on his lawn. Anne-Marie isn’t phased, loud noises never bother her at all. She turns, white sandals marching forward beneath her bright yellow dress. I march forward after her, always forward.

“Ma’am, we are here to do a welfare check. We have reports of a loud disturbance coming from this house.”

“I don’t know who would have called the police! Everything’s fine.”

“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step out of the way. I need to get a good look at your daughter.” 

“She’s crying because we put her in time out. She’s dramatic. I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” 

“Step out of the way.” 

“I won’t! You can’t just come into someone’s house. Don’t you need a warrant?” 

“It appears your daughter is covered in bruises. I’ll ask you one more time, Ma’am, step out of the way before I arrest you for obstructing a police officer.”

“Look,” Anne-Marie says, pointing to a metallic brown suburban sitting in our driveway. “Daddy is home!”

She runs to the driver’s side door as it opens, her father towering over her as he scoops her into his arms. I drink in the sight of them as her long dark hair tumbles over the strong forearms gripping her tightly. He looks at her through dark rimmed glasses and plants a sloppy kiss on her forehead. His blond wayward curls tickle her skin as she pushes his face away in protest. 

“Hey!” she says, wiping the wet kiss with the back of her small fist. 

“What’s that on your chin?” he questions, his voice a warm rumble of affection, “Momma took you to get ice cream with out me?” 

He shoots accusing green eyes in my direction and I shoot a wicked grin right back. Anne-Marie drops to the ground with cat-like grace and runs back to me. Her fingers find homes between my own as she comes to my rescue. 

“No Daddy, we didn’t!” 

“Oh yeah? What’s that green stuff on your chin? You can’t lie to me Anne-Marie,” he says, while closing the distance between the three of us. “Dad’s have built in lie detectors!”

He snakes an arm around my waist and brings me to him for a kiss on the cheek. The smell of his daily dark-roasted coffee lingers on my skin from his lips. I lean into him, breathing in the familiar notes of his rich and woodsy cologne. The scent lingers on his charcoal buttoned shirt despite his ten-hour workday. His presence brings me the steady calm that clear skies bring to flooded grounds.

I stoop down to our daughter and investigate her face, sliding my thumb across her crusty chin. “Oops, we missed a spot, didn’t we?” 

Her father lets out an unrestrained laugh. It’s a sound so charming, I forget anything I’ve heard before it. Anne-Marie meets his eyes with a stubborn look, determined to defend me until the end. It’s a stubborn look I know well, considering it’s one she learned from him. 

“I couldn’t help myself, babe. She fell and scraped her leg. Look!” I showcase her wounded shin with my right hand and a smile pulls at my lips despite my attempt to appear serious. “She was so brave. What choice did I have?” 

He folds his considerable height in half as he kneels on one knee to inspect her wound, “Anne-Marie, were you brave?” 

She gives him a single vertical nod of her head, unsure if we have yet to win him over. It’s moments like these my heart melts. She looks like a princess with a knight kneeling at her feet. He protects her like one, too. Her world is different than the world I was born in. How did I get here? I ask myself questions like this all the time. The answer is a simple one. I made sure of it, that’s how, and I didn’t do it alone.

“I’ll forgive it this time,” he says, scooping Anne-Marie into his arms once again. 

Part of me wonders how I’ll ever tell Anne-Marie my story. The nightmares of a closet, small and dark, where no child can see their own hand in front of their face. A place so void of light, hours and days exist simultaneously because there is no way to tell which is which. How will I describe the terrors of voices so sharp they burrow into your ears leaving sounds you can’t forget? I try to picture her face when I describe how it feels to fear the ones you love and wonder why they don’t love you back. Anne-Marie will never know, I will never tell her. Certain memories are better left behind. There are words better left unsaid.

The front door makes a familiar creaking sound as my husband opens the screen. “Daddy, can we have pizza for dinner?” 

“Do you promise to eat a salad with it,” he asks, carrying her forward through the doorway. 

I follow forward after them, like a shadow follows the light. 

Forward…

Always forward.