Candace’s chest, knocking the breath out of her. Candace is disbelieving—how can this be happening? She, who loves her daughter so much, and Kimi who has always been so sweet, docile . . . “You fat cunt! I hate you.”
Candace stares at the bruises on her daughter’s shoulders and upper arms—beneath her arms, reddened welts—and on the tops of her breasts which are smallish hard girl-breasts, waxy-pale, with pinprick nipples just visible through the cotton fabric of her bra—(Junior Miss 34B: Candace knows because Candace purchased the bra for Kimi). For several seconds Candace is unable to speak—her heart is pounding so violently. It does look as if someone with strong hands—strong fingers—had grabbed hold of Kimi and shook, shook, shook her.
“Your f-father? Did he—is this—? And you’re protecting him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mom! You know Dad would never touch me,” Kimi says scornfully. “I mean, Dad never even kisses me! How’d he get close enough to ‘abuse’ me?” Kimi’s laughter is awful, like something being strangled.
“Then—who? Who did this?”
“Nobody did anything , Mom. Whatever it was, I did to myself . I’m a klutz—you always said so. Always falling down and hurting myself, breaking things—my own damn fault.”
Kimi’s eyes shine with tears. Damn is out of character, jarring.
Klutz. Such words as klutz, wimp, dork, nerd are just slightly more palatable than the cruder more primitive and unambiguous asshole, fuckup, fuckhead, cunt. Or maybe the equivalent would be stupid cunt.
So to call your daughter a klutz, or to conspire with others, including the daughter herself, in calling her klutz, however tenderly, fondly, is to participate in a kind of child molestation.
This seems clear to Candace, like a struck match shoved into her face.
“Kimi, you are not a ‘klutz.’ Don’t say that about yourself.”
“Mom, I am! You know I am! Falling, tripping, spilling things, ripping my clothes—banging my damn head, my legs”—with furious jocosity Kimi speaks, striking her ample thighs with her fists. “And a fat cow-klutz on top of it.”
Family joke was that Kimi was a little butterball, chubby legs and arms, fatty-creased face like a moon-pie, and so eager —spilling her milk glass, toppling out of a high chair, spraining wrist, ankle in falls off tricycle, bicycle, down a flight of stairs.
Philip! Our baby daughter is a piglet. Cutest little piglet. With red eyes, red snub nose like a miniature snout, funny little pig-ears but—too bad!—no sweet little tail.
Young mother high on Demerol, entranced with her baby. Oh Jesus it is a—baby! But—mine? Not mine!
The horror washing over her, even as she felt love for the little piglet so powerful, could scarcely breathe and even now—fourteen years later—a muscle constricts in her chest, in the region of her heart— Can’t breathe can’t breathe love comes too strong.
And it was so—nursing started off so wonderfully— Peak experience of my life —then something went wrong. Little Kimberly ceased nursing as a baby is supposed to nurse, spat out precious milk, tugged at Candace’s sensitive nipples and the nipples became chafed and cracked and bled and now, not so much fun. More, like—ordeal, obligation. More, like—who needs this. Milk turned rancid, baby puked a lot, cried and kicked at the wrong times. Young mother freaking God-damned depressed.
Fourteen years later not that much has changed. Except the baby’s father is out of the picture even more than he was then.
That day returning home from Weedle and yes, Candace took another thirty-milligram lorazepam reasoning that she will not be engaged in operating heavy machinery for the remainder of the day and yes, Candace washed down the capsule with a (only two-thirds full) glass of tart red wine but no, Candace did not sleep but spent headachy hours at her computer clicking onto abuse, girls drawn to read of abuse, rape, female
Candace stares at the bruises on her daughter’s shoulders and upper arms—beneath her arms, reddened welts—and on the tops of her breasts which are smallish hard girl-breasts, waxy-pale, with pinprick nipples just visible through the cotton fabric of her bra—(Junior Miss 34B: Candace knows because Candace purchased the bra for Kimi). For several seconds Candace is unable to speak—her heart is pounding so violently. It does look as if someone with strong hands—strong fingers—had grabbed hold of Kimi and shook, shook, shook her.
“Your f-father? Did he—is this—? And you’re protecting him?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mom! You know Dad would never touch me,” Kimi says scornfully. “I mean, Dad never even kisses me! How’d he get close enough to ‘abuse’ me?” Kimi’s laughter is awful, like something being strangled.
“Then—who? Who did this?”
“Nobody did anything , Mom. Whatever it was, I did to myself . I’m a klutz—you always said so. Always falling down and hurting myself, breaking things—my own damn fault.”
Kimi’s eyes shine with tears. Damn is out of character, jarring.
Klutz. Such words as klutz, wimp, dork, nerd are just slightly more palatable than the cruder more primitive and unambiguous asshole, fuckup, fuckhead, cunt. Or maybe the equivalent would be stupid cunt.
So to call your daughter a klutz, or to conspire with others, including the daughter herself, in calling her klutz, however tenderly, fondly, is to participate in a kind of child molestation.
This seems clear to Candace, like a struck match shoved into her face.
“Kimi, you are not a ‘klutz.’ Don’t say that about yourself.”
“Mom, I am! You know I am! Falling, tripping, spilling things, ripping my clothes—banging my damn head, my legs”—with furious jocosity Kimi speaks, striking her ample thighs with her fists. “And a fat cow-klutz on top of it.”
Family joke was that Kimi was a little butterball, chubby legs and arms, fatty-creased face like a moon-pie, and so eager —spilling her milk glass, toppling out of a high chair, spraining wrist, ankle in falls off tricycle, bicycle, down a flight of stairs.
Philip! Our baby daughter is a piglet. Cutest little piglet. With red eyes, red snub nose like a miniature snout, funny little pig-ears but—too bad!—no sweet little tail.
Young mother high on Demerol, entranced with her baby. Oh Jesus it is a—baby! But—mine? Not mine!
The horror washing over her, even as she felt love for the little piglet so powerful, could scarcely breathe and even now—fourteen years later—a muscle constricts in her chest, in the region of her heart— Can’t breathe can’t breathe love comes too strong.
And it was so—nursing started off so wonderfully— Peak experience of my life —then something went wrong. Little Kimberly ceased nursing as a baby is supposed to nurse, spat out precious milk, tugged at Candace’s sensitive nipples and the nipples became chafed and cracked and bled and now, not so much fun. More, like—ordeal, obligation. More, like—who needs this. Milk turned rancid, baby puked a lot, cried and kicked at the wrong times. Young mother freaking God-damned depressed.
Fourteen years later not that much has changed. Except the baby’s father is out of the picture even more than he was then.
That day returning home from Weedle and yes, Candace took another thirty-milligram lorazepam reasoning that she will not be engaged in operating heavy machinery for the remainder of the day and yes, Candace washed down the capsule with a (only two-thirds full) glass of tart red wine but no, Candace did not sleep but spent headachy hours at her computer clicking onto abuse, girls drawn to read of abuse, rape, female
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