Love Rewards The Brave (4 page)

19.

Benji and I sit on a park bench

trying to “connect.”

A scheduled appointment is what our relationship has

become.

It’s not fair.

Being stared

at by a court-appointed adult

who watches us the entire time we talk.

God–– do I really need a babysitter at sixteen?

"So what’s been happening with you? You keep leaving me

hanging."

I ask a question he can't answer.

The  answer is something too hard to transfer

to phonetic sounds and syllables

some sort of complicated lulls

in time and space.

And even if he could say why he acts this way

I know it would do no good,

not when the real question isn't

for him or me

or Ms. Francine.

Not for Terry or Jess-

It’s for the man and woman who left

a long time ago.

"At the group home, they're so hard on me. It’s like every time I try and do anything or go somewhere, they make me stay in my room. It sucks. I'm a prisoner, Lou. Take me with you. Please."

His knuckles crack as he shifts

his feelings to his fingers.

Hoping the sensation will make him

feel more alive

ready to dive

into this hard conversation.

"Benji, I wish I could. It just isn't time yet. And maybe mom will show up this month. And then things would change."

That makes him fidget

tap his fingers more

focus his eyes on the floor.

"Nothing’s gonna change, Lou-Lou. Not as long as we sit here waiting on them. Why are you being such a bitch about it? We could just leave. No one would ever need to know where we went. We could be a family again."

I flinch when he calls me out

for not being the person he needs.

As if I’m choosing this life-long reprieve

from normal.

I WANT NORMAL.

I don't want to be living with Ms. Francine.

But I have something Benji never got.

The understanding that sometimes

the life you are living

is your lot.

"Benji, I'm not picking anything or anyone but you. I
want
to be with you. That’s why you need to do your best and be real good and then they’ll let you live with me again, in Ms. F's house."

I want to believe in him.

But I know the way he’s knocked over the tables

in the social worker’s office.

I know how school won't let him come back because

he’s a learning disturbance.

I know that at twelve years old

the only time he was told

NO

and accepted it

was from me.

Scratch that.

NO is not a part of our history.

We were always taught to say

YES.

20.

He’s scratching his face now.

Fighting hard to breathe now.

Screaming about the way it used to be now.

And the lady at the park

the one who watches our moves

and makes us talk in whispers

so she will approve

is making her way to the bench on which we sit.

Making her way through the sand

to tell him it’s time to go.

I just wish she’d see

that he’d do so much better if

you just let him have his fit.

Let him get all those feelings out

instead of making him push them back down.

Way down.

We get in the car.

Benji screaming at everything.

Because he can't handle
anything
the truth

that he’s alone

And that everyone left him

to stand on his own.

Own two feet.

He doesn't believe he can

bear the weight of his body.

So instead

he

crumbles.

21.

Ms. Francine is in the kitchen when I get home.

"How was your time with Benji?"

She asks in the sort of way

that makes you feel

like she already knows the whole deal.

The whole story from someone else's mouth.

Like someone is in more control

of you

than you are.

It makes me feel like I’m living

behind prison bars.

"Benji was Benji. But, um, I was wondering if maybe he could come stay for a few days. Like, over a weekend?"

"I don't know, Louisa. I know his caseworker has been pushing for him to return to a foster home, but I just don't know if here is the best place for him."

"Whatever. I know you don't like him anyways."

"That isn't what I mean at all. I work and he can't be left alone unsupervised."

"Fine."

I finish eating my buttered peas

and listen to her talk about the library’s

new book fees

and how her Tai-Chi

class was cancelled.

All I want is this night to be cancelled.

I go out on a limb for him.

Try and make it good for him

right for him

and somehow

that mostly means getting shot down

and it makes me wonder

if he’s right.

Maybe we should just

leave

retreat

otherwise we

will always live in

defeat.

And I want more than that.

For him

and me

and my family.

22.

It’s always the same.

I show up at the office where Mom is supposed to be.

Right time, right place,

trying hard to get a steady look upon my face.

It never works out well.

And there’s one thing I’m feeling sick of:

showing up

right time, right place

and leaving the office

sixty minutes later with a sad look

on my trying-hard-to-be ready

steady

face.

But today it’s different.

She’s there before I arrive.

She has makeup on

her hair clearly

curled.

She looks like the mother I remember

when I was a very little

girl.

The mother I remember before everything

decided to

unfurl.

“Louisa,” Mom says.

I can tell the inflection

is forced.

I look at the social worker sitting in the corner

waiting.

For me?
 

“Honey, your dad couldn’t be here today, but I’m here. For you.”

As she says it I want to scream.

Scream so loud

so someone

will hear.

But all I do is look at her

in the hollow empty way I hate about myself

and say

nothing.

I stand there

for what seems

like never ending moments of eternity

and I wonder where are her feelings of

maternity?

23.

My father isn’t

“Busy.”

He’s incarcerated.

Terry told me about the petition

and the filing

and termination

of his rights.

He couldn’t show up here if he wanted to.

Not that he does.

Not that my mother would remember

the twelve months straight he never went to a meeting.

An appointment.

He’s what I call a

disappointment.

Never once did he

make a phone call

to the people who could

Help

Him

Help

Us.

Not like I want

anyone’s help

to see him.

Him: the man who made my life a living hell.

Him: the man who spent his life making me promise not to tell.

Tell the truth about what happened

in the bedrooms of our house.

Tell the truth that it was the very definition

of abuse.

He made me promise to keep his secrets.

I knew what he’d do if I told.

He’d hold my throat

hold my neck

until I was gasping for breath

then let me fall to the floor

where I’d lay

until morning.

That is, unless he decided that that night

he wanted to

play hide and seek

with my most private parts.

And no, I’m not talking about my heart.

Terry always asks me

to tell her what it was like.

She wants me to open up and say the things

I

was

told

for

a

decade

not

to

mention.

Not to whisper.

Not to tell a soul.

Even if I wanted to

tell Terry or Ms. Francine the truth

about the things

that happened in the dark

that happened when the lights went out

and the moon was out

I couldn’t.

The paralyzing fear of what would

or could

happen if I utter

the sounds

that turn into words.

I would

always be scared

to turn around

because

he

might

be

waiting for me.

24.

But I don’t say that to my mom,

she sits here expectantly.

Waiting for me.

She makes the first move.

“Louisa, I’m getting things sorted out. I’m getting a place of my own and the judge, he says I’m doing well, you know, better.”

Better?

Does she know how low the bar was to start with?

Does she remember the

ways she repeatedly broke my heart?

Does she remember

the days in the foster home I waited?

Benji waited.

For her to come for us?

What am I supposed to do

or say to that?

Just because a court didn’t find her guilty for the abuse

just because a court chose to point the finger at someone else

I’m supposed to believe she’s innocent?

“Say something, Lou-Lou,” she says to me. “Don’t you want us to be a family again?”

Again?

My heart knows

what my voice can’t say:

We. Never. Were.

Still, my voice says, “Okay.”