Uncle Vampire (13 page)

Her face is soft with pity. She pats my back.

“You pretended he was a vampire because the truth was worse. The reality was too awful. Am I understanding you, Carolyn?”

Yes. I nod.

“What a brave little girl you must have been. How terrible it was for you. Did your sister think he was a vampire too?”

“At first she did, but then she started pretending that nothing was wrong. She couldn't face it. I mean, we just—he told us not to tell! He said that something bad would happen!”

“Calm down, sweetie. It's all right.” Her arms enclose me. “He's never going to hurt you again. When we're done here today, I'm going to call the police.”

“No, you can't! My mother, my father—” I can picture the looks on their faces. Who will they be angry at? Him or me?

“Of course they'll want to know. Don't you think they'll want to help you?”

I really don't know the answer.

“I'm required by law to report this, Carolyn. The police will do an investigation and arrest him. In the meantime, we need to get you and your sister out of that house. Has he hurt Richie too? Can you hear me, Carolyn?”

You'll have to go away. They'll send you away. You'll never see your Grammy again. Your Grammy will die. Your Grammy will hate you.

“Has he molested Richie too? Please answer me, Carolyn.”

The worst wounds aren't the ones that can be seen; they scar your heart and cripple your brain.

“I don't think he's ever touched him. But Richie feels crazy because he can't stop it, he can't do anything. Richie won't look in my eyes anymore. He's ashamed of me. He's ashamed of himself.” My tongue fills my throat. I can barely speak.

“What about your sister? Will she talk about this?”

“No. She says it's all in my head. She says I'm crazy, I'm making it up. She knows what's true, but she's so scared. She gets so scared she won't even wake up, and I'm the one that has to deal with everything, I'm the one who has to face it.”

“I thought she was away at school.”

“Who?”

“Margaret.”

“I'm not talking about Maggie. I'm talking about Honey. She's scared we're going to get in trouble. She didn't want me to talk to you. She wants me to keep pretending everything's fine, but I can't. I told her we have to do something right now or I really will go crazy. Or maybe I'll die. Sometimes I want to, just to get away. I mean, I want to live. But not in hell. I try to help her, but she won't listen!”

Ms. Johnson looks like she's going to cry. I want to assure her that I'm okay. No big deal; it's just my life. You can't make it stop and you can't escape. You don't have a choice; you're just a kid.

“It's not that bad,” I say, to comfort her. “Really.”

Her face is so sad. She takes my hands.

“Honey,” she says, “you don't have another sister.”

“I know,” I say. “That's the other problem.”

17

I can't remember when it started. When I was little. My sister Honey was a game that I played, a favorite blanky that I carried. She kept me warm.

Nancy's brother said that everybody had a twin, that somewhere in the world there was someone just like you. So I pretended that my twin lived in the mirror. She was just like me but left-handed.

Maggie was busy with her friends and school, and Richie didn't want me around. Well, he didn't mind, but his friends teased him, so when I followed him, he said, “Beat it, kid.”

One day I said to the girl in the mirror: “I wish you could come out and play with me.” And she said, “Okay,” and then she did.

I was glad to have her with me. She came in handy, like when they sent me to my room without supper. I always felt sad, but they never asked why. They thought I acted moody on purpose, to bug them. They liked Honey better. She always tried to please them. She tried to get me to please them too, but sometimes I couldn't figure out what they wanted.

They'd be saying two different things at once. Like: “Don't be rude. Give your uncle a kiss.” And: “Yes, you're entitled to your own opinion, but do what I tell you, do you hear me?”

They sent me to my room and I cried for Grammy, but she was at her house and couldn't hear me. No one could hear me; my face was pressed down into the pillow.

Honey heard me. She said, “Don't be sad. I'll fix things so no one will be mad at you.”

She went downstairs and kissed his cheek and everybody liked her, she was such a good girl. She knew what to say to make them happy.

It worked out well, the two of us together. My life was too much for one person to cope with.

My uncle hurt Honey, but she cried, she got scared. She'd run away and hide in the piano. Later, I'd tell her what had happened and she didn't remember, and she didn't want to know. At first that was okay, but then it didn't seem fair that she got to go away and I had to stay there. He scared me too. Why did I have to be the brave one? So then I went away, far inside my mind, where my uncle couldn't reach me. I was at the beach and the sun was warm and Grammy was hugging me and singing a song, and saying, “Honey, you're my darling girl.”

The whole time, I told myself: This is not happening.

What wasn't happening? I'd forget.

This journal was the place where I put the ugly words. Sometimes I didn't even notice I was writing. Later, I would find the words and wonder: Where did this come from? Did Honey write this?

Deep down, I always knew that he wasn't a vampire.

But the truth about my uncle was too awful to bear. He was a parasite, sucking the blood out of babies. He was a cannibal, feasting on his family.

“Look at me,” he'd say. “Open your eyes and look.”

Deep down, I always knew that Honey wasn't real.

But she was the only one who understood me, who knew what my life was truly like, who shared the darkness of my heart.

Without her, I would have been so lonely.

18

I have been living with Maggie and Michael for several months. When I wake up crying in the night, Maggie comforts me. She holds my hand while I fall asleep.

We live in a small house across from a park. I watch the children riding on the swings, the little girls climbing into the sky.

I see a psychologist three times a week.

I'm out of school, on independent study.

My uncle is in jail. He's going to prison. I never have to see him again.

He writes me letters that I won't read, telling me he's sorry and begging forgiveness.

He believes that he didn't really hurt me.

Maggie says: “Why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have thought you were crazy.”

I tell her that I wish she had told me too. I understand why she didn't. She was little; she told Papa that Uncle Toddy tickled her. Oh, he's just playing, Papa said. But Uncle Toddy never bothered her again.

She'd always assumed that the problem was solved. I guess Papa did too.

I was ashamed to tell anyone what he was doing to me. I thought I must be very bad to make such bad things happen. If they knew the real me, people would hate me. No one would love me. That's what I thought.

My therapist says that disguising my uncle as a vampire and inventing Honey were “coping mechanisms,” defenses that enabled me to survive in an unpredictable and profoundly dysfunctional situation.

Now it's time to face reality.

Sometimes it's ugly. He said he'd kill Grammy. That the truth would kill Grammy.

It hasn't. But she cries on the phone. It was very hard to leave her. I'm going back to see her and Grampa this summer.

I haven't spoken to my parents in weeks.

I am so angry at them. At first they acted sorry for me; then they tried to convince me that I was exaggerating. Things weren't as bad as I'd imagined. They wanted Honey back.

“Honey,” they said, when the cops came, “you don't mean that. Honey, you don't know what you're saying.”

“Yes, I do,” I said. Honey was gone.

Today I got a letter from Bradley Curtis. He said he hopes I'm doing fine. He said he's looking forward to seeing me this summer.

He and Nancy think I'll be back at school with them in the fall. But my life there seems like it took place on another planet.

Therapy is hard. It's like digging through mud, looking for bones, or weapons, or treasures. At first my therapist used the word
molest
.

“He didn't molest me; he abused me,” I said. “Molest sounds like something Chihuahuas do to your legs. Abuse is the dogs of hell.”

When did it start? How young was I? I try to remember what I'd rather forget. The splinter must come out, but it will hurt. I remember bits and pieces. Pictures drop into my mind. I am floating in water, my hair was in the water, he's pulling at my hair. I'm scared, I'm drowning, he gathers me up, the lights go out.

Please, don't ask me any more.

I will tell you, when I'm stronger.

Richie drove me to the airport and put me on the plane for Boston. He gave me a long hug before he let me go.

He said, “I'm so sorry.”

“It's not your fault, Rich.”

“I tried to tell the folks. They never listened. They don't listen to a damn thing I say. I should've done something. I didn't know what to do.”

“I didn't either. We were just kids.”

“Yeah,” Richie said, “but now we're not.”

He doesn't live at home anymore.

I'm also in group therapy, with a bunch of other kids, girls and boys, some younger than me, some older. They were abused by their fathers, brothers, mothers, strangers. We share our histories and our hurts.

I've been doing a lot of reading too. Vampires like my uncle are as common as termites, infesting even the best homes. Their victims number in the millions. Often, the children don't remember what happened. The shock and the pain and the betrayal are too great. So the children lock a door against the memories and grow up.

But the memories keep knocking at the locked door.

And the knocking drives them crazy.

No one came to my rescue. I saved myself. I have begun to heal. This book is a scar. Don't get me wrong; I don't wake up whistling.

But I wake up. It's a start.

I have to work hard to stay in the present, to resist the temptation to pretend, to tell myself that it couldn't have happened.

It shouldn't have happened. But it did.

I wrote it all down here where everyone can see it, pinned the words on the page so they can't get away, and I have to look at the truth and face it. Face it, Carolyn. Don't be afraid. The night has passed. The sun is bright.

It's hard to get rid of vampires. You have to drag them into the light.

If you are being physically, sexually, or emotionally abused, tell someone you trust. Tell a teacher, a counselor, your minister, a relative; tell any adult who will get you the help you deserve and need
.

You may need to tell more than one person before you find someone who will listen. Keep telling until you find someone who will help you
.

Your local police can help. So can the Child Protective Agency in your area. Call information and ask the operator for the phone numbers
.

You may also call Childhelp USA/IOF, the National Child Abuse Hot Line, toll-free, twenty-four hours a day, at 1-800-422-4453. If they're busy, you might be asked to wait for a few minutes. Hold on, or call back. The counselors there will help you
.

Don't be afraid. And don't give up
.

About the Author

Cynthia D. Grant has published twelve young adult fiction novels since 1980. In 1991 she won the first PEN/Norma Klein Award, for “an emerging voice among American writers of children's fiction.” Over the years, Grant has received numerous other distinctions. Unfortunately, her Massachusetts upbringing prohibits her from showing off. She lives in the mountains outside Cloverdale, California, and has one husband, Eric Neel; two sons, Morgan Heatley-Grant and Forest Neel-Grant; two cats, Kelsey, an orange tom, and Billie, a barn cat–barracuda mix; and Mike the Wonder Dog, who packs two-hundred-plus pounds of personality into a seven-pound body.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1993 by Cynthia D. Grant

Cover design by Liz Connor

ISBN: 978-1-5040-1360-4

This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

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