Summer '13

TW: domestic violence

I've always loved the sunset. Growing up, it was always the best part of my day. I distinctly remember sitting outside every summer evening as a kid and looking forward to it. I would wait, sometimes for hours on end, for the sky to wear its beautiful colors and bless me with its beauty. Those colors, they always fascinated me. The blue, the purple, the pink and the orange, which clashed hard at first, then slowly came together, blending into the most harmonious creation.

Thinking about it now, maybe my favorite part wasn’t so much the sunset itself but rather the moment that followed it, the twilight. I remember never being able to go back inside before I had experienced that in-between, that eerie moment between sunset and full night. In French, the word for twilight - particularly the night twilight - is crépuscule. They define it as la lumière incertaine qui succède immédiatement au coucher du soleil - beautiful, right? - which literally translates to the uncertain light that immediately follows the sunset. And that’s exactly how it felt to me; that moment was always wrapped in uncertainty. It was as if the sky, having put on the most breathtaking show for us, was unsure how to end its performance so it simply chose to let it die down slowly, on its own. 

My own feelings were always in direct opposition to the hesitation of the sky, for I never felt as peaceful as during those floating moments. I can still see myself clearly, sitting on a chair in the backyard, head raised and resting against the chair’s top rail, braids swaying in the breeze, breathing slowly and basking in the intensity of these moments I wished could last forever. But they never lasted long - not long enough for me anyway - and soon I had to return to my parents' never-ending bickering. Analyzing their altercations throughout the years, the topics were always the same and they always ended the same way, with violence.

“They sure had a pattern”, I thought to myself.

The brawls would always start with something so ridiculous that I often found myself wondering if my father had gone mad or if he simply hated seeing us relaxed. It could be that the food he had been served wasn’t at the right temperature – even though it had been reheated just before his arrival or expressly at his request – a clear expression of disrespect. Perhaps he had waited too long outside before one of us girls got up, awakened by his incessant honking, and came to open the garage door for him in the middle of the night - in which case, my mom had clearly raised us badly or worse, told us not to get up. Or what was this new TV or fridge or whatever she had bought as a replacement of the old broken one he had refused to get repaired? Where had she found the money? Surely there must be another man - just like he had other women. Or maybe some money was missing from his jeans pockets, wallet, or car - he certainly would have spent it or given it to people in an attempt to brag or buy their affection - in which case she, that witch, must have taken it or maybe one of us, her useless daughters.

“Not even one boy in the bunch”, I mimicked him, “what a shame”. I laughed a little at this, all the times I had heard him say those words and all the times he had ruined our peace coming back to me once again. Sad.

And so like this it would always start, he would always find a way. My mom would then say something, maybe ask where he had been or remark upon his state and finally, fed up, tell him to leave her alone. That last sentence would drive him wild and the fight would begin. Heated words would be exchanged, then would follow the push, the blows, the screams, etc. So it was every time he decided to stop by the house for God knows what reason. Week after week, month after month, year after year. There was never any sympathetic savior, never any helping neighbor, just us kids, terrified, helpless, not knowing what to do or too afraid to do anything. My heart sank at the thought of all the times that we weren’t – that I wasn’t - there for her when she was always there for us. A tear escaped my left eye.

I was pulled out of my thoughts by the glow of my phone screen on the nightstand next to me. Another useless notification no doubt but I checked it just in case. I wasn’t doing anything anyway.

“Stupid”, I muttered in the darkness, wiping away the tears. It was some stupid email of course. Delete. I put my phone to sleep, set it on the nightstand, then grabbed it again to check the time.

“Two O six”, I read in a low voice, sighing. I set the phone back on the nightstand. “Why now brain? What’s with all the bad memories?” A yawn escaped my lips.

The truth is I was never a great sleeper. As far as I could remember, I had always had some sort of - I made air quotes with my hands – insomnia. I was also a very light sleeper, jolting up at the slightest noise, listening for the sound of a fight or perhaps screaming. I was also easily startled by unexpected sounds or movements. It had gotten to a point where my phone had to be on silent at all times, because a ringtone, even at the lowest volume, was just too much for me. I tried to smile in an attempt to cheer myself up but my heart wasn't in it.

"I wonder how this sleep/sound problem started," I asked out loud, changing my position under the covers.

I didn't have an answer. All I could think of was an incident that occurred when I was probably fourteen years old and which had left the strongest impression upon me. But that couldn't have been it. The only reason I could have witnessed it was because I already had trouble sleeping. Over the years, I have thought about that summer night a lot, replaying it over and over again, thinking about how terribly it could have ended.

That night I was awakened by a faint, distant sound, as if someone was calling me but the sound was muffled. I got up confused, heading to my parents' room. When I arrived at their door, I knew immediately that this was where the sound was coming from.

 “Bree, Bree”, my mom kept repeating, calling out for help. I could hear the panic in her voice as she repeated my name.

Without hesitation, I opened the door and was stopped short by the sight in front me. There was my mom, evidently forcibly bent over the edge of the bed in her nightgown and behind her was my father wearing only his boxers. The moment I registered what was going on, I closed the door as fast as I could. Was this what they called marital rape? Was this a case of assault? My mind was racing and I was petrified. I was trying hard to forget what I had just seen and simultaneously decide on my next move. I remember wondering if I should wake up my twin sister - I decided not to, one traumatized kid was enough - or go call the neighbors, because there was no point in calling the police here. They would just shrug, or he would bribe them and they would look the other way.

“It's always the same back home anyway”, I remarked in a whisper.

How long had it been since I had closed the door? I didn’t know, perhaps a few minutes. What was going on in there? Why wasn’t I hearing anything? Was she okay? I had almost gathered enough courage to open the door again when it flung open. Out of it appeared my father, now in shorts, followed by my mom, who was struggling as best she could as he dragged her out of the room by her dress. The noise woke my sisters who came to their bedroom doors to see what was going on. In a flash, we all retreated to the end of the hallway, my three sisters behind me. The youngest, who couldn’t have been more than seven or eight at the time was shaking so badly and clutching my pajamas, crying.

Thinking about that night always made my heart ache. I readjusted my hand under the pillow.

From what I could understand amidst the screaming, yelling and dragging, it turned out that my father had asked my mom for sex and she had refused saying she couldn't trust him, not knowing where he had been or with whom. He had then tried to force himself on her and she had tried to resist him as best as she could while crying out for help, but he had managed to put her in the position I found them in. 

The horrific scene was still unfolding before us. He was dragging her with all his might, sweat dripping down his face, partly because of the ambient heat partly because of the effort. He was shouting all sorts of things, calling her a million names, repeating how he was the man of the house. She on the other hand was holding on to anything she could find, a doorframe, a doorknob, anything, but her efforts were in vain because he had managed to drag her to the front door. He tried to open it but it was locked. He looked around for the keys that usually rested on a hook near the door but I knew they weren’t there. I had secured all the doors earlier that night and taken the keys back to my room without thinking, as I was on the phone with a school friend - talk about a happy accident. Realizing the keys were not in their usual place, he started yelling at my sisters and I.

“Bring me the keys! Right now or else I’ll throw you out too.” His face was contorted with rage.

None of us moved. The truth is we couldn’t. It was as if terror had glued us to our positions. Seeing that we weren't moving, he shouted more disgusting words, this time directed at us, and began to walk toward us, still dragging my mom. This time though she didn’t resist probably because she had realized he was heading our way. Instead, she jumped in front of him, trying to stop him, begging him not to hurt us.

“That’s when it got really crazy”, I commented, my eyes closed. My entire body was now under the covers, trying to hide – to whom, I don’t know – the fact that I was crying.

He didn’t like that she got in front him. With a strength I had never seen him show before – and never since – he slammed her against the wall, his left hand on her throat, slightly lifting her off the ground. At that moment, my twin and I pushed our two younger sisters, in tears, into the bathroom next to us and closed the door. My sister and I looked at each other, we needed a plan.

I don’t know how we did it but we came up with something. The plan was simple: I would fake an asthma attack or breathing difficulty and she would give the alarm. Hopefully that would distract him and perhaps give her a chance to…what? We had no idea. Maybe escape, maybe run to the kitchen to get a weapon, maybe lock herself in the nearest room. To be honest, we hadn’t thought that far ahead. When we looked in their direction again, his fingers had tightened around her neck and her hands were now gripping his wrist, scratching frantically. Blood was coming out of her nose.

“A whole movie”, I thought to myself, with a sniffle.

At that moment, my sister and I exchanged a look and that was the signal. I quickened my breathing, inhaling as little air as possible, and soon felt lightheaded. I continued to do this until it felt like I was breathing through a squished straw. A few more seconds and I was on the ground, tears running down my face, truly panicked and feeling like the air was being sucked out of me. I didn’t know what was going on anymore. Was I still pretending? Was this real? Why did I feel like I was passing out? I was trembling all over.

“Look! Bree isn’t feeling well. She can’t breathe!”, screamed my sister to be heard over all the noise. My eyes were heavy. My head was clearing. Everything was spinning.

That distracted my father just enough for my mom to break free and run to us.

“No, no, no”, I thought, unable to move my lips. “You’re supposed to go the other way. Go!” But she did not. Instead, she knelt down next to me and put her left hand on my forehead and her right one on my chest. The memory brought a smile to my face. I wiped my eyes again.

“Like what was that going to do?” I asked aloud, laughing heartily for the first time tonight, shaking my head. “This was a breathing problem, not a fever.”

What happened next, I don’t know. I passed out but I have a vague memory of being carried. When I came to myself again later it was still night time and the fight was clearly over. There was something cold – a compress – on my forehead. My mom and sisters were gathered around me on my bed, looking at me anxiously. My mom was pressing a tissue against her nose which was no longer bleeding. My father was nowhere to be seen and, to be honest, I didn’t care where he was. As I would later learn from my mom, he had retreated to their bedroom right after he had dropped me on the bed. The next morning, he left before we woke up to get ready for school - which usually happened around 6:30 - and he didn’t come to the house for a week. I can’t say it pained me, or any of us really.

“It happened in the summer of 2013 and it’s been stuck in my memory ever since. It's probably the only event I remember from that summer.” I thought aloud, completely calm now. I had changed my position again and was at the moment lying on my back, covers down, left hand under my head and right leg up. “Funny how some things can leave the strongest impression on you”.

A moment passed in silence. “It really could have ended differently”, I thought with a yawn. I was sleepy now. “The worst could have happened.”

The glow of my phone screen caught my attention again. I picked it up to see a text from a friend and noticed what time it was.

“At 3:50?!” I exclaimed. I checked the message in the notification bar, careful not to open it, and saw that it was a link to the latest episode of a new anime we had been discussing. I yawned again, my eyes watering. “Surely it can wait until tomorrow”. For now, I was too tired. A longer yawn escaped my lips.

I started to put my phone back down on the nightstand then decided against it.

“Hey, Siri, please set a reminder for me.”

“What do you want to be reminded about?”

“Remind me to call Mom tomorrow.”

“Ok, your reminder is set for tomorrow.”

“Thanks”, I said placing the phone on the nightstand, screen down. It was high time I got some sleep.