Loved As If

This is horrible! Beginning to heal after rape is a long, slow process. Many rape victims require decades of work before they find peace.

And it’s hard! So hard. Those decades are spent wrestling with intense self-loathing. The world is a dark, terrifying reality. We can’t trust even the people we love.

Every single day of life is triumph! Every single day!

Rape isn’t just physical, it shreds the soul. And reknitting the soul takes hard work. It’s not fair. The one who must do the work is not at fault. The victim has been horrifically sinned against. We can rant and rage but the only way to victory is to do the long, hard job of reknitting.

Helping a victim find patience, face the rage, do the hard work is what doctors and healthcare professionals do. Humans are much stronger than we want to admit. (We used to know that.) Death is not the victory some imagine. Certainly, there are souls who are so wounded, they can only see hope in death. The job of those who are not wounded is to take walk with the devastated and show them they can flourish without killing their children. They can flourish after undergoing horrific assaults. They can flourish even after devastating losses. Helping them kill themselves is taking the part of the rapist. It is telling victims that they have no value. Assisted suicide hands victory to the rapists and makes rapists of the very people whose job is to assist in healing.

“I’m hungry,” I tell the woman as she rummages in the refrigerator. My head

Crispy Treats

aches. The world is wobbly.

She hands me an apple from the refrigerator.

“Eat it on the back porch and then you can play.” She stands with one hand on the open refrigerator door waiting for me to walk away. “That’s all you get ’til dinner,” she says.

I look at the red fruit in my hand and then back up at her.

“Scoot!” she says.

I sit under the porch with Shooey.

“Do you want this apple?” I ask him.

He tries to lick my face.

“No, Shooey! I don’t want dog spit on my face.”

Shooey sniffs the apple and looks at me.

“Are you hungry boy?” I ask. “I’ll get you something.”

Charles sits on the porch reading an Aquaman comic.

“Do you want my apple?”

“What’s wrong with it? Why don’t you eat it?”

“I’m not hungry.”

He takes the apple.

The woman is not in the kitchen. The food cupboards and refrigerator are locked. I open the lower cupboard and fill my front pockets with dry nuggets of Shooey’s food.

“Here boy,” I hold a piece of dog food on the palm of my hand. Shooey gobbles it down.

“Is it good?” I ask. I pop one into my mouth.

“It’s like crunchy, corned beef hash. Like Crispy Treats.”

“Crispy treats are so nutritious, taste good too, and really delicious.” I sing to the tune in my head. “Maybe we could sell these,” I tell Shooey.

The Fourth Looks Like a Son of God

“Then the fire of the Lord fell, and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones, and the dust, and licked up the water that was in the trench,” (1) I read.

You can do anything! I tell my Friend as the man begins sermonizing.

“They thought God was like Baal,” says the man. “But Baal was just wood. God is not wood.”

He leans over and hits Charles, “You better pay attention to this! It’s for your good and you need it.”

“God can send down fire any time He wants. He has the power and will punish you.” He swivels his head and points his finger as his glare reaches each of us. “You have to be like Elijah and trust Him and no one else.” He catches his breath, “Are there any questions?”

“What is a Son of God?” I ask.

“Jesus is the Son of God,” the man says.

“Was Jesus in the fiery furnace with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego?” My mouth relishes the hard kh’s and slows so I say bed-nego and not ben-dego.

“That’s Daniel,” the man says. He flips the pages of his Bible. “God sends an angel to help Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.” He says “ben-dego”.”

“The one who looks like the Son of God isn’t Jesus?” My eyes try to bore into the man’s mind.

“No,” he says. “Jesus is in the New Testament. In Daniel, the Son of God is an angel.”

“Oh,” I say.

Weren’t You there? I ask as the man begins his long, long prayer.

(1) 1 Kings 18:38, KJV

Image source

“Bébé! I didn’t hurt you!”

“Why are you in here alone?” the man asks. “Come read in the living room.”

I carry my book into the other room. Marie practices the piano. The woman embroiders a cloth while watching Claire sew. I sit in the rocker. Under cover of my book, I suck my thumb.

“Take your thumb out of your mouth!” the man says.

I pull my thumb out and continue reading.

“I’ll just have to eat them all up.” The man is sitting on the floor with Ames. He bites his leg.

Ames gushes, “Do it again, daddy! Do it again!”

The man nips his legs again.

He looks up and sees me watching, “Come here. Let me see your legs.”

I remain still. He grabs my arm and pulls me onto the floor. He pushes up the leg of my jeans and bites me.

“Don’t!”

I push at him, struggle to escape. He puts one leg over my body. I continue to struggle.

He smacks my thigh, “That doesn’t hurt you! Ne fais pas le bébé!”
He bites me again. And again.

I sink my teeth into the part of his leg that is exposed between his sock and trouser. He jumps.

I sob, “I wanna bi-i-te you! I wanna bi-i-te you!”

The man hold me at arms length, laughs, “I wanna bi-i-te you!” He smacks my bottom. “Bébé! I didn’t hurt you! Go change for bed.”

The woman’s voice stalks me as I limp away, “I wanna bi-i-te you!”

“‘As an eagle stirreth up her nest, fluttereth over her young, spreadeth abroad her wings, taketh them, beareth them on her wings: So the LORD alone did lead him, and there was no strange god with him,’(1) Rev. Pell read. ‘Let the words of my mouth, and the meditation of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O LORD, my strength, and my redeemer.’(2)

“Turn to Deuteronomy 32, verse 11,” Rev. Pell says.

Cough. Cough. Pages rustle.

“No one prays for a lion’s den, a fiery furnace, for Judas, for the Cross,” Rev. Pell says. “We pray for help, relief, to avoid or at least escape hardship. But one day, God sees that we’ve grown a little older. And He stirs up the nest and pushes us out to fly. God uses struggle to make us stronger. He doesn’t work under the limitations that we do.”

His words make pictures in my mind of a giant eagle pushing me out of my nest. My back hurts. I am tired. I stare at my shoes and lay my head on my Friend’s shoulder.

“Struggles leave us screeching like a young eaglet tipped from the nest. But then we rise in joy on wings that have been strong when we thought we were falling. Because “they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”

Rev. Pell continues, “The new development has been difficult for all of us. So many have moved away and our church is struggling. Calvary Baptist is also struggling. We’ve met and prayed with their pastors and deacons. We really believe God is calling us to join both churches into one. Over the coming weeks we’ll be working to bring us all together.”

“Don’t dawdle,” the woman says to our retreating backs as we go to change out of our church clothes. “We’re going to watch a movie after lunch.”

After fried Spam sandwiches, we find places in the living room. I sit tailor fashion on the floor. The beautiful Lady visits to Bernadette.

“Don’t sit so close to the TV.”

I jump.

“What’s wrong with you?” the man asks. “Why are you so jumpy? What mischief are you plotting?”

I remain silent. The image of a woman whose face looks like mine haunts me. Her scent fills my nose. Heavy, dark hair ripples down her back. She sings; I can almost hear the music.

Gerard asks, “Can Mary come to earth as God’s messenger?”

The man says, “Yes, if God wills it.”

Deuteronomy 32:11

Isaiah 40:31

The Song of Bernadette (Twentieth Century Fox 1945)

“Albert,” the woman calls. “The sink is clogged.”

I follow the man into the kitchen. Scummy water lies stagnant in the sink.

The man fetches his toolbox from the laundry room.

“Qu’est que c’est?!” he demands when a long snake becomes stuck in the drain. “I’ll have to take it apart.”

He squeezes his broad shoulders under the sink. The other children have come in. We watch him work. We are silent.

“Hand me my big wrench,” his muffled voice calls.

Gerard hands him a big metal tool.

“C’est quoi…” he mutters. “Cereal!” The volume rises, “A whole box. Who poured a box of cereal down the drain?! Qui la fait?!”

He stands up banging his elbow.

“You stupid children?! Who did this?! Who was in the kitchen?!”

“Marie was washing dishes,” Claire says.

“You!”

The man grabs Marie by one wrist, his face is red.

“Gerard, get my strap!”

Gerard brings the hard leather strap that hangs above the washer.

“Crack!” The strap descends. “You did this, didn’t you?!”

“No! I didn’t do it!” Marie cries. “Please, daddy! Please daddy!” she pleads

“Je te tuerai!” he shouts. “Je te tuerai!”

He jerks her by the wrist. He reins blows on her back. Her white, uniform blouse becomes saturated with her red blood.

The big, gold edged book rests on a crocheted lace doily atop the revolving bookstand in the dining room bay window. I reach for it.

“Don’t play with that,” the woman says in passing.

I follow her, “I want to read the big Bible.”

Wrinkles appear between her eyebrows. “That’s our family Bible. It’s very precious.”

“I’ll be careful.”

She sighs, “Are your hands clean?”

I lift them.

“Hmm.”

She scrubs them at the kitchen sink with a little brush until my skin is red. Then she places the Bible on the dining room table.

“You may stand on the chair and read for a little while.”

I remove my sneakers and climb up.

One hand braces me against the polished table, I turn the pages. One reads, “Births, Deaths, Marriages.” “François, 3 March 1975” is the last entry. “Ames. 6 November 1969” is written above François’ entry. My name does not appear.

Where am I?

Dark fear suffuses my legs and stomach. I know I must not ask them. I turn the pages and begin reading Genesis.