I’d been on tenterhooks for days.  My heart leapt in my throat and my stomach did that horrid little flip when the phone rang on that night, that night of anxious waiting.  I had always wondered how I would react when I heard the news; perhaps I was about to get my answer...

Steeling myself, I picked up.  “Hello?” I said, my mouth suddenly very dry.  Wanting it to be over, not wanting it to happen at all.  Cruelty.  Forgiveness.  Torment.  Love.  Questions.  Fear.  Humiliation.  Need.   Love.  Please let it all end now.  No, don’t, or there’s never a chance again...but there’s no chance anyway, you fool.  There was only the cruelty.  And the need.

“Hi.”

Rebecca.  Not The Call.  A deep breath.  No, a sigh.  Relief?  Impatience?  Trying to put my mind to what she might have wanted.  We had spoken a few times that day already.  I loved her calls but I was distracted...

“Mum?” she continued.  “Is Tony there with you?”

“Yes,” an odd question, I thought.  “You need a little private girl talk?”

“No.”  A pause.   

“What’s up?” I asked, puzzled.

A longer pause.  And then, I knew.  I knew that this was it after all.  This was The Call.  This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.  It’s all wrong.  Not Rebecca.  Why not Paul?  Why isn’t it Paul?

Before Rebecca could respond, I tried to ask the question.  But I already knew the answer.  In a twisted sort of way, I felt like I was on a game show.  Down to the wire.  The end of the show.  I’d get it right but still, I wouldn’t win.  I would never win.

“Has she...is she...?” I spat out, trying to say it, trying to sound prepared.  Adult.  Rational.  Strong.

“Uh...yeah.”

Another pause.  Another horrid little flip.

“When?”

“Twenty minutes ago.”

I was in a state of suspended reality.  I felt a choking sensation.  Choking out words, I’m not sure which ones - something about how I couldn’t talk.  I thought I was barely audible but Rebecca got the point.  I dropped the phone.

And of all the things I ever thought I might have done on hearing that my mother was dead, I did the one thing I would never have expected in a million years.  I cried.  

It wasn’t because I would miss her.  You can’t miss what you never had.    I cried because for my whole life, my soul had been screaming for that one, huge piece of the puzzle that could put everything right, and my heart shattered into a million pieces when that last, impossible, unreasonable, desperate shred of hope was gone.  

And in that moment, I was tormented as a million fragmented images tore through my mind, snapshots of what was, and wishes for what would never be.  And slamming into me like a lorry hitting a brick wall at 150 mph was the crushing knowledge that I would never, ever know what it is to be mothered.  And even worse, I would never, ever hear an apology for, or even an acknowledgement of her cruelty and the soul-murdering effect it had on my entire life.   For years, it left me broken, bleeding...wounds gaping, fighting and clawing my way to healing, whilst repeatedly being knocked back into an abyss of pain and hopelessness.

* * *

I’m not sure what age I was, just a few months old, no one would bother to remember exactly.  I just know I was old enough to sit on the sofa, my thumb firmly planted in my mouth, my only security, poor thing, plunked into yet another new family situation.

“Oh, Lord, you’d think they could have given us a pretty baby,” my mother said to my father.  “This one’s fat and ugly!  And look at that eczema.  I hope no one wants to come and see her. We don’t have to tell anyone about her right away, do we?”  

I frowned at my mother that day;  I frowned at all of them, my parents and my new brother, Paul.   I must have known What Was To Come.  

Years on, my mother told me this story on several occasions, chuckling each time.  I was astonished by such ignorance, that she was incapable of comprehending what it did to me to hear this story, let alone have her laugh about it.

She loved to show family and friends a particular photograph of me, and they always howled with laughter, although I will never understand why.  I was still a baby, just five months old, and in this photo, I am standing in the corner of my crib, pressing my little back as tightly into the wood as possible.  My chubby little arms are up beside my head as I lean backward, as far away as I can get from my mother’s outstretched hand.  I look like a deer caught in the headlights.

“Look at that!  A baby, scared to death of her mother and trying to get away!” they laughed.  Somewhere inside my little soul, I knew just what I was in for, her dislike for me apparent the moment she laid her eyes on me and I would feel it every moment of every day for the rest of my life.

I was so small.  Just a little girl and I tried so hard to be good, to do as I was told.  Except when anyone wanted to take my picture.  I wanted to hide my ugliness.

Smack!  Hard on my bottom.  “You’re so damned stubborn!” she yelled.  “Why do you have to be so bad?” 

“I don’t want my picture taken!” I cried.  You say I’m ugly; why do you want to take my picture?

Smack!  “Stand there!”  She shoved me into place.   “Look at the camera!  Smile!” she barked, angry and frowning.

I plastered a fake smile on my face, appeasing her for the moment, but the tears would always remain, perched in my eyelids in that photograph and all the others just like it.

I should have been forgotten.  I was forgettable.  I wanted to disappear and I was certain my mother wanted me to disappear, too.   Maybe that’s why she wasn’t paying attention when we were at the lake near Regina, Saskatchewan, where we lived.  I was just a toddler.  I loved the water.

“Where is she?” my parents asked each other as they looked around.  But I was nowhere in sight.

“She was right over there on the pier a minute ago,” said my dad.

And suddenly, there I was, coming out of Katepwa Lake, by some miracle and I did not disappear, sorry about that, Mummy.  And I was terrified of water forever after.

I was three.  My mother was standing at the table, mixing and measuring things.  Quiet as a mouse, I crept into the kitchen.  Nervously, I climbed on a chair beside her.  

“What do you want?” she snapped, her rapid fire words almost creating just one syllable in her sharp and pointy voice, her steely blue eyes squinting and scary. 

“Nothing, Mummy.  I just want to watch.”  I knew enough not to tell her it was really that I just wanted to be with her.  

“Stay out of my way and be quiet!” she barked.

“I will, I promise.”  

I knew the rules.  But in a little while, I had to ask.  I was young and very bright, and therefore, very curious.

“What are you making, Mummy?”

“I told you to be quiet!  You’re always in my way!  Go away, I don’t care where, I just want to get rid of you!”

I climbed down from the chair and pushed it back up against the table. Hanging my head, I went to my room and closed the door.  Seeds long since planted had begun to take root.  In time, they would develop into the thickest of toxic weeds, their roots twisting and snaking their black and poisonous way through my heart, my mind and my soul, choking the very life out of me.

* * *

Squeezing my upper arm till it stung, my mother reached up under my dress with her other hand and roughly yanked off my panties.  Tears rolled quietly down my cheeks; I knew what was coming next.

“No, Mummy!  Please!  Don’t!” I begged, as she picked me up and slammed me down on my back across her lap.

“Get those legs up!” she ordered.

“No!  Please!” I cried.  “I don’t want to!”  

Grabbing both my ankles in one hand, she raised my feet till they were almost over my head.

I tried to push her hands away as she attempted to pull my legs apart.

Smack!  Her hand stung my bare bottom.  “Stop fighting me!” she ordered.  “Lie still!”

But I couldn’t.  I tried to get away.  I squirmed and I pulled, I cried and I pleaded.  “Mummy!  No!  Please!” I sobbed, pushing her hands away.

“Spread your legs for me!  Now!”  She forced them apart, pinching my skin while she was at it.

“You’re hurting me, Mummy!  Ow!  Ow!”  I cried in my helplessness, knowing that just like every other time, she would not stop until she was good and ready.  My stomach was churning; I thought I would be sick.

Smack!  “Shut up!  Hold still!” 

The door was wide open.  Daddy or Paul or Paul’s friends might walk by and see! I couldn’t help but try to put my legs together and push her hands away.

“It hurts, Mummy!  It hurts!”

“Stop it!  Stop it!” she shouted, forcing my legs apart with an elbow and a hand.   “Damn you!  Don’t fight me!”  

I gave up - again - whimpering softly until she was done.

And no one stopped her.

* * *

It was Sunday morning.  Every week, I wondered why my parents had to dress up for church when they were only going to cover their clothing with choir robes anyway.  My dad looked so dashing in his suit and tie.  My mother was so beautiful with her pretty blue eyes and never was there a soft blonde hair out of place because she curled and styled it every night.  As always, she was wearing the perfect dress with the perfect hat and her white gloves.   Everything about her was perfect.  Nothing out of place.  Not on her and not in her house.  I was the cross she had to bear; poor woman, she had been saddled with a most imperfect child.  What on earth had she ever done to deserve such a burden?  Sighing heavily, she picked up her hymn book and purse, then stood back and cast a discerning eye in my direction.  We were about to leave for church.  It was inspection time and I knew I was moments away from trouble.

  Frowning and squinting at me, my mother began with my perfect little hat.  As always, my thick, wavy hair had been scrubbed thoroughly, along with the rest of my little body, the night before in the bathtub, followed by my mother covering my head in curlers and bobby pins so I would be perfect for Sunday School.  Well, as perfect as a most imperfect and ugly child can hope to be.  Peering closely at me, I followed her gaze as she moved down to my perfect dress and perfect white gloves.  Dutifully, I extended my hands and turned them over, relieved that this time I’d managed not to get any tiny smudges on my gloves before leaving.

But then her eyes continued downward.  My stomach did that awful little flip as I prepared for the blast.  

She had spotted my black patent shoes.  

“Damn it all anyway!  You’ve scuffed your shoes again!  What the hell is wrong with you?  How can you be so stupid?” she yelled and smacked the side of my bare leg till it stung.  

Because I am stupid, that’s how, Mummy. 

If only I could be perfect, maybe Mummy would love me.  Or even like me just a little.   “Why can’t you be more like the Fleming girls?  Or the Parsons girls?  I’m sure they never do the stupid things you do!” she barked, slapping my backside.  “They know how to behave!  They know how to take care of their shoes!  They always look perfect and especially in church!  You don’t deserve anything nice!  You should be ashamed of yourself!”

I was.  I always was.  And I would carry this shame for many long years, allowing it to burn like acid through my soul.  The heartbreaking belief that her venomous opinions about me were fact, combined with my desperate and futile attempts to make this woman love me would drive me down a long and painful road of self-destruction for decades.  And I would end up dragging my children and many others down that road with me, straight to Hell.

Wishing I could make my mother like me was paramount for much of my life, as furiously important as it was impossible.  But I would continue for years to bend over backwards to try and please her.  Even long after I’d been beaten over the head  with the impossibility of such a feat, there I was, always trying to be a good girl - imperfectly trying to be perfect.  And there I was, willingly pouring vinegar into my wounds with every effort to get just a tiny bit of approval, praise, or heaven forbid, love.  

And then there was Paul.  I ached to have my brother like me, too.  I tried so hard to be the perfect daughter, the perfect sister, to no avail.  I was different.  I wasn’t sure how, but I just was.  There were Mummy, Daddy and Paul over there.  And me, way over here.  The black sheep.  The interloper.  I had no business being in that family but I hadn’t asked to join it.  I was a hostage, trapped with no means of escape.

At every opportunity, Paul teased and tormented me, mercilessly inflicting pain on my little body in any way he could.  It was bad enough that he saw fit to do this sometimes several times a day but worse that he delighted in it.  His eyes would twinkle and dance and he had the most evil laugh. There was no denying the sadistic pleasure he took in causing me me to suffer.  And in knowing he might just as well have had my parents’ blessing to do it.

I was on the way to my room.  Paul, three years older, was coming toward me from the other end of the hall, squinting and scowling at me.  I knew what that meant but I set my jaw, squinted right back and did my best to ignore the fear that was rising inside me.

“I dare ya to pass me!” he sneered, scrunching up his biggish nose and making a fist as he raised his skinny arm above his head.

“Leave me alone!” I answered, trying to sound brave while squashing myself against the wall as I tried to get past him.

Wham!  His fist slammed into my back, knocking the wind out of me before he threw me to the floor.  Foolishly, I complained to my mother.  She simply shouted at me for bothering my brother.

Paul laughed, sneering at me with his scowling, freckled face while he kicked me hard, then turned and walked away.  He and I both knew it was a waste of time for me to ask for our mother’s help, a fact which delighted him no end.  He was the golden child, always was, always would be.  In my mother’s eyes, he could do no wrong.  I watched from the sidelines as she adored him, worshipped him.  I accepted the fact that Paul was worthy of her love and attention and I, quite simply, was not.  The way she looked at him, spoke to him and protected him, it was almost incestuous.  She doted on him and was more loving and close to him than she was to my father, whom she pushed away, insulted and criticised relentlessly. 

I was forbidden to enter Paul’s room, yet he was allowed access to mine.  I didn’t have a lot of toys or dolls but with some regularity, Paul would burst into my room for the sole purpose of seeking a little light entertainment.  This meant destroying some of my favourite things, laughing sadistically as I leapt and snatched at the air, trying to grab my few precious belongings away from him.  He delighted in my powerlessness and his cruelty, making me watch every bit of both.

And no one stopped him.

One of Paul’s favourite games was to make me go down to the basement with him.  “I’ll beat the crap outta you if you don’t!” he said, raising a fist and starting toward me.

I knew there was no point in even trying to run away; he out-ran me every time.   And the beatings were always worse if I made him chase me.  “C’mon!”  He said, impatiently shoving me in the direction of the back porch.  

Resigned, I went ahead of him, down the stairs to the basement.  What’s it going to be this time? I wondered.  But I didn’t really want to know.

“Get over there, in the corner,” he ordered, pointing at the furthest one, away from the stairs, away from escape and safety.  That corner had become his own private little torture chamber for me.

“What are ya gonna do to me?” I asked nervously.

“Nothing bad!” he said, smiling as he pulled the chain on a single bare bulb hanging in the ceiling, throwing a dim light into the corner.   “I’m gonna teach you to dance.”

“Really?  I love to dance!” I asked, incredulous.  “But why not up in the living room where the record player is?” 

Without replying, he scooted me into the back corner and told me to stand there for a moment.

I bounced up and down with excitement, hopping from one foot to the other as I watched him go over to an old dresser and scoop something up in his hands before returning to where I stood.  

My blood ran cold when I saw the look in his eye and that horrible grin on his face.  I froze where I stood, the familiar rush of adrenalin flooding my body and I wanted to run.  But it was too late.  I was trapped.

“Okay, dance!” he commanded.  And he started firing darts at me.  I leapt and twisted, this way and that, trying unsuccessfully to avoid the darts, their weight making them pull on my flesh before they fell to the floor.  I covered my face, terrified I would be blinded.  Darts pierced the backs of my hands, my arms, the rest of my body.  Paul’s maniacal laughter made the pain so much worse.  My pleading and tears only made him throw the darts harder.

Each time he was out of ammunition, he was quick to gather up the darts and begin throwing them at me once more, howling all the while and shouting, “Dance!  C’mon, dance!  Faster!  Faster!”  

There was no escape.  I gave up and curled into a little ball on the cold cement floor.  I had taken all the enjoyment out of it for him so Paul turned out the light and went upstairs, leaving me there in the dark, a crumpled heap sobbing quietly in the corner.

One afternoon, I was hiding in my closet, trembling and praying Paul wouldn’t find me.  Just how I’d managed to get away from him in the middle of a beating, I didn’t quite understand.  My heart pounded as hard and fast as the heart of a terrified little bird. It must have been about 90 miles an hour and trying to leap right out of my chest.

“Where are you?” Paul yelled.   “I’m gonna smash your head in when I find you!  I’m gonna beat you to a pulp!”  I know!  I know you are! I thought, as I shook a little harder, certain it was just a matter of time before he found me.  As on so many other occasions, I truly believed that he was going to kill me.  

Images flooded through my head as I relived a day on our grandparents’ farm.  Very vividly, I recalled seeing Paul shoot that little gopher but it wasn’t dead; poor thing was just writhing in pain.  With the BB gun in one hand, Paul walked slowly toward the gopher until he was standing over it.  He could have ended its suffering quickly with another shot.  

But I can still see him so clearly, standing in front of me while he contemplated his next move.  I can still see him, grinning broadly as he lifted a foot and carefully used it to hold that little gopher down before leaning over to pick up a rock.  And I can still see him, smashing in that poor little gopher’s head, pounding on it over and over again, laughing almost maniacally all the while it twisted and jerked, blood squirting everywhere, its eyeballs hanging out of their sockets.  

Hiding there in my closet, I was certain this was my fate.   

Three years older than I, and much bigger and stronger, I was never protected from his physical and emotional battering.  Every day, I endured his insults and caustic teasing, his assaults and beatings.  Every day, I was threatened, bullied and tormented by him.  Frequently, he left bruises on my little body.  But what was much worse was that he would leave scars on the inside of me where no one could see them, violating me and crippling me almost as much as my mother would do. 

And no one stopped him.  

* * *

My dad was so handsome.  His dark hair was soft and a little bit wavy.  Not as much as mine and it wasn’t as thick but it was very silky and I loved to stroke it.  He had the clearest, bluest eyes I’d ever seen, and even after he died, I could still see them.  His smile was warm and genuine; it always made me feel special, even if just for that moment.

It seemed he was always at the television station where he was a manager and also had his own show, on which he played the piano and had celebrity guests, combining his love of music with his natural abilities as an entertainer and broadcaster.  Being away a lot, he didn’t witness much of what I endured at the hands of my mother and my brother.  

His gentle presence in my life was rare so I especially loved it when he would come and tuck me in.  Sitting on the edge of my bed, he would lay his hand on the side of my face and smile at me, looking deep into my eyes with all the love I know he felt for me in his heart.  He’d lean in close and ask, “You know something?”

“What?” I grinned up at him and giggled, even though I knew exactly what.

“I love you,” he’d say.  And I smiled the biggest, happiest smile in the world. 

He called me “Cha Cha” - or mostly “Chuch” - who knows why, and what a silly name but he was really saying “I love you” when he used it. 

“You wanna come and sit with me, Chuch?” he’d ask from his big armchair.  I felt like a princess as I scampered up and squished into the little place between Daddy and the chair.  With his arm around me, we watched television together and I never cared if it was a program I didn’t like.  It was another little happy thing that we shared.  And it was another one that would soon be taken away.  It wouldn’t be long before it would all blow to hell and  I wouldn’t recognise my beloved daddy.

I’d taught myself to read when I was four, with just a little help from my parents and it was what I loved most in the world.  How I adored every word I read, every moment that I was absorbed by adventures in far-away lands and taken away from my painful, lonely life.  I especially loved curling up in bed very early on weekend mornings and reading my big chapter books while everyone else slept.  Paul hated reading so he never thought to ruin my books but I knew he would destroy every last one of them if he knew how much I loved them.  And that would have been too much for me to bear.

When I was four years old, we got a beautiful organ.  I loved to listen to my father play!  Music touched a part of me that nothing else could reach.  The organ came with a book that explained how to read music and how to play the keyboards and the pedals.  I spent hours on the bench figuring it all out.  Before long, I was playing actual songs and asking my parents if I could please have another music book and they gave me one, which I devoured.  One after another, I tore through more music books, playing for hours on end.  Eventually, I discovered that I could play by ear, too, as I tried to work out how to play songs I loved.  I got lost in music like I got lost in reading and even if he tore up every book I had, this was one thing that Paul could never take away from me.

* * *

Terrified and biting my lip, I watched my mother put a pan in the oven and close the door.  I knew what that meant; it happened pretty much daily.

“Be quiet!” she hissed at me, all sharp and pointy.  “I’ve got something in the oven and you know that if you make even the slightest noise, it will explode and the whole house will blow up. You’ll kill us all!”  

Scared to death that I might make a tiny noise, carefully and tiptoe-ily, I went as softly as I could out of the kitchen, afraid my toes were too loud and I’d get us all killed.  

Ah!  I made it to my room and closed the door ever so quietly.  And whew!  I did it without getting us all blown to bits.  This time.  

Minutes later, Paul came running in from outside, slamming the door behind him and yelling, “MUM?” at the top of his lungs.  I froze in horror.  

“MUM?” he yelled again, even louder.  My heart pounded hard while I waited for the explosion.  But there wasn’t one.  At least, not that time. 

It was the same whenever she used the pressure cooker.  Between that and the oven, I was terrified daily that I would cause the house to explode and I’d be responsible for killing my entire family.   Eventually, I was constantly on the alert, spending most of my waking time feeling like I’d stuck my finger in an electrical outlet, vibrating with fear and anticipatory anxiety.  I was tight and wired, eternally waiting for some dreadful, terrifying, shocking or violent event.  I became a very quiet child, afraid to make a sound, afraid to be heard.  I was always tense and on guard, listening, waiting for the next attack or for the house to explode.   It was impossible to relax, knowing something horrible was about to happen, fearing each breath could be my last. 

I believed my family’s survival lay in my tiny hands, furthering my training to take on loads of responsibility and tremendous guilt that were not rightfully mine.  These would become self-destructive themes which would smother much of my life for many long years.

* * *

I was five.  Crouching down behind my bed in my undershirt and panties, I prayed that my parents forgot it was the first day of school.  I’d been dreading it as long as I could remember.

“Just wait’ll you get to school,” Paul had said.  “They have a dungeon there, and a torture chamber.  It’s horrible and dark, cold and smelly. They’ll hang you by chains from the walls and you won’t be allowed to eat.  They’ll whip you and beat you!”

His eyes twinkled and danced.  “Your teacher will look like a nice little old lady with grey hair.  She will say she is called Miss Sparling.  The room will look really cheerful with lots of colours and toys and little desks. But as soon as all the parents are gone, Miss Sparling will turn into a huge, scary monster with really big teeth and claws.  And there will be a big trap door in the floor that opens up and you’ll fall into the dungeon.”  He grinned sadistically from ear to ear.

I was too shocked and far too terrified to speak.  My heart raced a million miles an hour in my chest, like that of a tiny sparrow, caught in the teeth of a big, fat cat.

“And they hardly ever let you come home! You’ll be trapped there for months on end!” he said, doing his best to be threatening.

“I don’t believe you!” I cried, folding my arms across my chest.  “You come home every day!”

“Yeah, but that’s because I know the secret of how to get out!” he said.

“Tell me what it is!  Please!” I begged.

The only response I got was more sinister laughter and dancing eyes.

“And if you ask Mum and Dad about the dungeons and all that, they’ll lie and say it’s not true, just so they can get you there ‘cause if you don’t go, the police will put them in jail, and then they’ll put you in jail, too!”

My heart hit the floor.  It’s hopeless and I’m doomed, yes doomed, that’s the word.

So I hid on that first day of school, hoping my parents would forget about it but of course, they remembered.  And they found me.  My dad walked with me to school and I cried all the way.  He wanted to know why and when I told him, he said it wasn’t true.  My stomach rolled and my knees buckled under me.  It was just as Paul had predicted. 

I clung to my dad’s leg when we arrived at the classroom.  Just like driving past a car accident, I was terrified to look inside, but couldn’t help myself.  I thought I would throw up when I saw the little desks, the cheerful colours and toys, just as Paul had described.

And then I spotted her.  A sweet-looking grey-haired old lady, smiling as she came to greet us.  My mouth was parched.  My heart was banging in my chest and my palms were sweating like mad.  

“Hello!  I’m Miss Sparling!” she beamed.

I froze in terror, crying and desperate not to be left there but after he spoke to the Monster in Disguise for a few minutes, my beloved Daddy peeled me off his leg and strode down the hall, leaving me behind, completely distraught about being tortured and starved for months till I would see him again.  That’s it, I am doomed, I am dead!!!

And I waited.  And nothing bad happened.  And Miss Sparling didn’t turn into a scary, horrible monster.  She let me go home and I couldn’t remember ever being so relieved.  Or so furious with my brother. 

I saw Paul after school.  

“You’re a liar!” I shouted.  “None of that bad stuff happened! You made it all up!”

Paul laughed.  “No, I didn’t!  Sometimes they make you wait and spring it on you way later.  It could be weeks or even months before they do that stuff to you!”  

My stomach churned and my heart sank with my powerlessness, helplessness and hopelessness.  Being just a small girl of five years old, Paul’s words kept me waiting and fearing and dreading and feeling doomed, yes, doomed, every minute of every day for a very long time. 

* * *

I was naked except for a piece of tissue that covered the parts I didn’t want Dr. Emery to see, the parts where my mother did that horrible private thing to me so often.  I wished I didn’t have to be naked-except-for-the-tissue in front of him because he was Katherine and Laura’s dad and I would have to see him when I played at their house after this.  

“When did she start having these stomach aches?” he asked, his kind face smiling down at me while he pressed ever so gently on my tummy.

“I don’t know.  She’s been complaining about them more and more often for a while.  Especially first thing in the morning, worse on school days.”  She was trying to speak like a nice mummy who cared.  

“She can’t be having trouble at school,” he said.  “She’s extremely intelligent.”

“I think she’s just lazy and looking for an excuse not to go,” she speculated, her lips stretching across her teeth in a fake smile at the doctor, trying to make him think she was joking.  But I knew otherwise.

“There aren’t any other stresses, are there?  Say, at home?” he asked, turning to smile down at me as he pressed softly here and there, up and down, side to side on my belly.

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” she assured him, smiling that sickly sweet, phony smile of hers.

As he turned back toward me, she pursed her lips and squinted at me from across the room.

He finished poking around on my belly.

“I can’t find anything wrong,” he said, finally pulling up the thin paper sheet a little more.  “I think she’s just very anxious and nervous.  People as intelligent as she is can be rather high-strung.”  He smiled at me and patted the back of my hand reassuringly.

As soon as she’d finished smiling and nodding and thanking and pretending to be the nice mummy who cared, we left his office.

“Hmph!  What have you got to be anxious about?” my mother asked, her piercing eyes boring holes right through me the second we stepped out into the hall and she had pulled the door shut behind us.   “This is all your fault!  Now he’s going to think there’s something wrong at our house or in our family!  He’s our neighbour!  What’s he going to think of us now, thanks to you?”  She gave me a shove.  I stumbled but she hadn’t managed to push me down that time.

* * *

The house was dark and quiet.  Everyone was sleeping.  Everyone, that is, but me.  I was terrified, lying in my bed in a cold sweat with my heart pounding.  It was the witch - yet again, cackling and horrible, invading my sleep as she so often did in her black gown and pointy hat.  Scared out of my wits, I longed to climb into bed next to Daddy but I made the mistake of trying it once and I would never do that again.  Because I had inadvertently awakened my mother instead once when I was about three.  She laid into me and bit my head off, berating me for being a baby and disturbing her sleep, sending me scurrying back to my room in a heartbeat. 

A horrifying and ugly little thing, the witch chased me all around the house, right behind me, flying, flying, flying on her little broom.  She intended to kill me, the terror overwhelming as I ran into my bedroom and hid behind the open door, desperately hoping I was safe but knowing I was not.

Every time it was the same.  She flew into my room and as she was turning around under the window across from me, she’d see me there in the corner as the door slammed shut beside me.  I was locked in and she floated toward me slowly, drifting across my room coming closer, closer until her grotesque and terrifying face was right in front of me.   And just when she was about to kill me, I’d wake up, her menacing cackle reverberating loudly in my head.

Every single time, this nightmare was so real, I was sure the little witch was waiting for me in my room or in the house, waiting to kill me.

And I had no choice but to stay there shaking in my bed and wait for her to do it.

* * *

Mrs. Murphy leaned over and gave me a cuddle.  “Are you enjoying colouring, honey?” she asked, laying her soft, wrinkled cheek on my head as I sat at her kitchen table.  I nodded emphatically.  “Yes, Mrs. Murphy!”  She had an extra big box of crayons with way more colours than I’d ever seen.  And she always had tracing paper that she let me use with her colouring books and I loved tracing paper.  It was one of my favourite parts about having her look after me for a few hours now and then.  That, and all the cuddles which she gave so freely and which I needed so desperately.

“Good!” she said, as she began to brush my hair.  She always French-braided it when my mother left me with her for a few hours.  I loved it when she ran her fingers through my hair while she chatted away about things, talking to me like I was actually important.

“I like it when you’re happy.  I wish you could stay forever!  You’re such a special little girl!” she said.  I wanted to believe her.  But I knew she was very wrong and my mother would have been furious if she’d heard such a comment about me.

“Please, may I live with you then, Mrs. Murphy?”  

“I wish you could, honey.  I’d love that just like I love you!  But you have to go home!  Your Mummy would miss you!”

Oh, no, she wouldn’t.  She always says she wants to get rid of me.

How I choked on those words!  How I longed to say them, so someone who might want me could take me in!  But although I was just a tiny girl, I knew enough to keep my mouth shut about that.  I stuffed the words and I stuffed the tears that went with them while I absorbed Mrs. Murphy’s delicious strokes as her fingers gently worked their way through my hair for some time, twisting and braiding so lovingly before we went out to the garden and picked peas together.

The doorbell rang late that afternoon.  Mrs. Murphy went to answer it.  I froze in the midst of shelling peas, silently pleading and praying but knowing there was no point.  My heart sank when I heard my mother’s voice.  Climbing down from the kitchen chair, head hanging, I made my way to the front door and forced a smile at my mother so she wouldn’t tear my head off as soon as we got in the car.

Mrs. Murphy knelt down and gave me a hug.  I turned my head so she couldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.  “We had a grand time, didn’t we?” she asked.  I nodded and choked out, “Yes.  Thank you, Mrs. Murphy,” as she rose and turned to my mother.  “She was good as gold, like always.  Such a pretty little girl!” 

“No, she’s not!  Don’t tell her that!” my mother hissed, forgetting herself for a moment and glowering at Mrs. Murphy.  “It’ll go to her head!”  

Mrs. Murphy’s eyebrows shot up and she opened her mouth as if to speak, but appeared to think better of it.  With one last little hug, she helped me into my coat and I followed my mother out the door.

Walking down the path, in my innocence I said, “Mrs. Murphy says she wishes I could live with her.  Can I, Mummy?  Please?”  I looked over my shoulder and saw Mrs. Murphy waving at me through the window, a sad little smile on her soft pink lips.  

  “Don’t be so stupid!” my mother barked.  “She doesn’t really mean it!  She’s just saying it to be nice!  You’d just be in the way.  Why would she want you around?  No one needs the likes of you!”  

The way she said “you”, it sounded like a bad word.  The kind I wasn’t allowed to say.

* * *

Katherine and Laura lived down the alley.  Their dad never acted like my doctor when I saw him.  He only acted like my friends’ nice, quiet Daddy who wore thick, dark-rimmed glasses and sometimes smoked a pipe when he sat in a big chair in the corner of their living room and he was very kind to his children and to me and so was their Mum.  With nothing but warm smiles and gentle words, it was plain to see that she loved all children, not just her four.   And I never once heard her say her kids should be ashamed of themselves.  I never once heard her tell them they were stupid or she wanted to be rid of them.  I never once saw her kick them.  She helped us do plays, and she made costumes for us, too.  She even invited neighbourhood children in to be a real audience.  She treated us like we were special, like my mother did with Paul.  

I ached to have a home and family like theirs when I grew up. It became My Big Dream, and it was the relentless and self-destructive pursuit of this dream that would someday tear my life and the lives of many others to shreds.

We were tearing through the house one day, upstairs to the bedrooms, down to the basement, through the living room to the playroom and back again.  Laughing, and squealing, the five of us were chasing each other like mad, a sort of group tag with no particular rules.  My mother would have shot us on sight for running through the house, or for making any noise at all, let alone that much!  But not Mrs. Emery.  “I love the sound of children laughing and having fun,” she always said.  

Each time we flew through the living room, we could hear her that day, singing as she often did while she was busy doing her Mummy-things in the kitchen.  I loved their noisy, boisterous home; it was warm and happy.  Unlike at my home, I could smile from the inside.  Unlike at my home, I was welcome and accepted.

“Children!” Mrs. Emery called.  “Come and have a snack!”

The five of us ran to the kitchen and climbed into chairs.  On the table was one of my favourite treats from their house, something I would never have anywhere else in my life, salted slices of apples.  And there was cheese, too, and a big glass of cold milk for each of us.  

Standing by the table, Mrs. Emery began to sing.  

“My grandfather’s clock was too large for the shelf so it stood ninety years on the floor.  It was taller by half than the old man himself, though it weighed not a pennyweight more...”

I was mesmerised.  What a beautiful tune!  My hand stopped in mid-air, a slice of salted apple on its way to my mouth, forgotten as she sang every sweet note.   Her children knew this song and they joined in, but I’d never heard it before.

With her silky voice, she continued.  “It was bought on the morn of the day that he was born and was always his treasure and pride...But it stopped, short, never to go again when the old man died.”

“Please, Mrs. Emery!  Please will you teach me that song?” I asked excitedly. 

“Yes, of course I will!” she smiled.  It would become a song we sang frequently at their house, a song that held some of the sweetest, happiest memories from my lonely childhood.  And one day, tragedy would strike, changing this lovely family - and me - forever, and making it the most painful piece of music in existence.

Mothers of my other friends were also very nice to me and I could never work out why.  But I was always grateful for the little glimpses of warmth, gentleness and kindness they showed me.  They were like finding a few drops of dew on a desert flower petal after being scorched in the blazing sun for weeks on end.

Then came that horrible day when our parents called Paul and me to come and sit in the living room.  My dad had taken a job at a radio station in Calgary and we were moving 500 miles away.  I didn’t know exactly what that meant but I was pretty sure it might as well have been on the moon.

I was only eight years old but I knew the bottom had just dropped out of my world.  I just knew that lots of Bad Things were going to happen and my life would blow to hell when we got to Calgary.  And it would only get worse for many, many years.