sometimes,” she says in a childlike whisper. “But sometimes she can be a bully.”
“Like when?”
“Larry?” It is Keisha.
“Yes, Keisha?”
“I was thinking that maybe Donna comes in when Lark can’t defend herself.”
“An interesting observation. Tell me more about that.”
“It’s like, um, maybe when Lark gets pinned down or somethin’, like with her daddy, Donna comes in like a wrestler to try to be strong for her when she can’t be strong for herself.”
“What made you think of that, Keisha? That’s a very good point.”
Keisha tips her chair back so far that it is teetering precariously on its two back legs.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“Ain’t nobody gonna hold my arms down, know what I’m sayin’? Nobody. When I leave here? Ain’t nobody gonna ever hold me down again. Uh-uh.”
Me, neither.
“I know you’re leaving, Keisha, and I want to address that in a little bit. For now, though, let’s stay on this topic. Why does it bother you to have someone hold your arms?”
Keisha turns to look out the window. “That’s what they did to me,” she says. “I don’t really remember it, but my therapist here told me that’s what the police report said. That they held me down.”
“When they raped you?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember anything about that afternoon?”
“Naw,” she says, turning her attention back to the group. “Thank God for that, know what I’m saying?”
Lark is still staring at the chair.
“Lark? What do you think about what Keisha just talked about?”
“I wish I couldn’t remember,” she says.
Silence.
“Keep going,” Larry gently urges her on.
“That’s it. I wish I couldn’t remember.”
“Do you think about it a lot?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Do you think that when you do think about it someone else comes in and sticks up for you so that the memory can’t hurt you? Like Donna? Maybe she comes in when you start thinking about it and she takes all the bad out of it for you? Lark, do you know what yesterday was?”
“Yesterday?”
“Yesterday was Father’s Day, Lark.”
Isabel looks at Lark, who is nodding her head.
“I know.”
“Maybe that’s what was so difficult for you. Maybe the fact that yesterday was a day for all of us to think about, to honor, our fathers was upsetting for you. It’s not an easy day for you, I know.”
More silence.
“It takes a lot of fortitude for a woman—for anyone—to overcome abuse at the hands of a man,” Larry says. “That abuse colors everything we are and everything we will encounter. It’s incredibly difficult to move past it, to trust again. And even then it’s an incomplete trust. So patterns develop. We repeat them because they’re familiar. In your case, Lark, the abuse started with your father and since then—and correct me if I’m wrong—you have continued in other similarly destructive relationships.”
“What’s that?” Katherine pointed with her triangle of toast at a mark on Isabel’s leg.
“What? Nothing. I don’t know,” Isabel said, brushing off the inquiry.
“It’s a huge welt, Isabel.” Her mother continued chewing. “You don’t know how it got there?”
“Mo-om,” Isabel whined, knowing it wouldn’t be too difficult to deflect her mother’s probe since her parents had become quite accustomed to her adolescent mood swings. They were quick to back off and give her space when she started turning their names into two syllables.
“I told you, I got it somewhere…I don’t remember. What’s with the third degree?” Isabel knew the bruise was ugly. But she thought it looked far worse than it was. The accompanying cut and scab turned the black-and-blue mark into special effects material.
Isabel and David had been dating for six months—since the first week of freshman year in high school. One night he began pressuring her to have sex, and what began as a gentle rebuff while kissing turned into a fight and,
“Like when?”
“Larry?” It is Keisha.
“Yes, Keisha?”
“I was thinking that maybe Donna comes in when Lark can’t defend herself.”
“An interesting observation. Tell me more about that.”
“It’s like, um, maybe when Lark gets pinned down or somethin’, like with her daddy, Donna comes in like a wrestler to try to be strong for her when she can’t be strong for herself.”
“What made you think of that, Keisha? That’s a very good point.”
Keisha tips her chair back so far that it is teetering precariously on its two back legs.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t?”
“Ain’t nobody gonna hold my arms down, know what I’m sayin’? Nobody. When I leave here? Ain’t nobody gonna ever hold me down again. Uh-uh.”
Me, neither.
“I know you’re leaving, Keisha, and I want to address that in a little bit. For now, though, let’s stay on this topic. Why does it bother you to have someone hold your arms?”
Keisha turns to look out the window. “That’s what they did to me,” she says. “I don’t really remember it, but my therapist here told me that’s what the police report said. That they held me down.”
“When they raped you?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember anything about that afternoon?”
“Naw,” she says, turning her attention back to the group. “Thank God for that, know what I’m saying?”
Lark is still staring at the chair.
“Lark? What do you think about what Keisha just talked about?”
“I wish I couldn’t remember,” she says.
Silence.
“Keep going,” Larry gently urges her on.
“That’s it. I wish I couldn’t remember.”
“Do you think about it a lot?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Do you think that when you do think about it someone else comes in and sticks up for you so that the memory can’t hurt you? Like Donna? Maybe she comes in when you start thinking about it and she takes all the bad out of it for you? Lark, do you know what yesterday was?”
“Yesterday?”
“Yesterday was Father’s Day, Lark.”
Isabel looks at Lark, who is nodding her head.
“I know.”
“Maybe that’s what was so difficult for you. Maybe the fact that yesterday was a day for all of us to think about, to honor, our fathers was upsetting for you. It’s not an easy day for you, I know.”
More silence.
“It takes a lot of fortitude for a woman—for anyone—to overcome abuse at the hands of a man,” Larry says. “That abuse colors everything we are and everything we will encounter. It’s incredibly difficult to move past it, to trust again. And even then it’s an incomplete trust. So patterns develop. We repeat them because they’re familiar. In your case, Lark, the abuse started with your father and since then—and correct me if I’m wrong—you have continued in other similarly destructive relationships.”
“What’s that?” Katherine pointed with her triangle of toast at a mark on Isabel’s leg.
“What? Nothing. I don’t know,” Isabel said, brushing off the inquiry.
“It’s a huge welt, Isabel.” Her mother continued chewing. “You don’t know how it got there?”
“Mo-om,” Isabel whined, knowing it wouldn’t be too difficult to deflect her mother’s probe since her parents had become quite accustomed to her adolescent mood swings. They were quick to back off and give her space when she started turning their names into two syllables.
“I told you, I got it somewhere…I don’t remember. What’s with the third degree?” Isabel knew the bruise was ugly. But she thought it looked far worse than it was. The accompanying cut and scab turned the black-and-blue mark into special effects material.
Isabel and David had been dating for six months—since the first week of freshman year in high school. One night he began pressuring her to have sex, and what began as a gentle rebuff while kissing turned into a fight and,