Life on the Fringe

By Allison O’connor

Life on the Fringe is the tale of a woman plagued by the effects of manic depression and seasonal affective disorder whose condition is greatly aggravated by the birth of her sixth child, which leads to poor living conditions and isolation for the family. The woman resents the child from her birth, and a struggle between the two escalates out of proportion, resulting in the torture of the girl that she must endure in order to keep the family together.

The girl adores her father and competes with her mother for his love and attention. Although the father takes a special interest in the girl and a strong bond forms between them, his unwavering love for his wife is no match for the girl. When the father contracts tuberculosis and is sent to a sanatorium for over two years, the young girl is left vulnerable to the vicious attacks from her mother, and the hatred they feel for one another fuels their struggle, causing the girl to rebel, which leads to even greater abuse by her mother.

By the time the father returns to the home, the mother has sunk into a deep despair, never to recover. Her death is greeted with relief by the young girl, but also the loss of her fathers attention, whose life has become meaningless without his wife. The girl does find love outside the home and is finally able to look forward to a brighter future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543420562

Allison O’connor

About the Author Allison O’Conner graduated university with a degree in the social sciences where she studied psychology, philosophy, family dynamics, and English. Her fiction is drawn from case studies, which were amalgamated and dramatized to produce her book. Although the tale depicts an extreme example of the dysfunction of a manic-depressive woman and the effects it has on the family and the focus of one child in particular, those who suffer from psychological problems will recognize and empathize with some of the characters. Those who are not so afflicted may come to a better understanding of the problems faced by those who suffer such misfortune. Although all characters and places are fictitious, some readers may see similarities to their own lives. Because the story is written in the mid-1940s and ’50s, the Social Services were not in place and the family was left unprotected and vulnerable. It is hoped that such madness would not be left unchecked today.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE BEGINNING

B ECAUSE I HAVE no memory of my first three years, I must rely on what was told to me by others, especially my older sister Mary, a sensible girl who is not given to fanciful notions. From the moment I was born, my life was in jeopardy. I was a blue baby. Whether this was a result of heart damage or a lack of oxygen derived from my mother’s drugged condition and failure to make those final few pushes in a timely manner is unknown to me. I was also addicted to mother’s nerve pills and went through a period of withdr awal.

In any event, I was a very sick child and remained in the hospital for weeks until I went home by ambulance with my mother to my father and older siblings. My life lay on the balance. Weighing in at just over five pounds, I was small, frail, and so fair my blood vessels were visible through my skin, a condition that would remain with me.

For the most part, I was unloved and unwanted. Certainly, my mother would have been happy if I had just faded away. With four children at home and another off in the paratroopers, she had plenty to cope with already. Her nerves were stretched to the limit, and a sickly child to care for would surely put her over the edge.

Because my mother tended to turn all her attention to the newest child, ignoring the others, my brother John, four years old, surely did not want another baby taking his place. But my other brothers could care less one way or the other. Anna, the oldest, was pregnant herself and preparing to move in with her future husband. Only Mary, third in line, would have wished the best for me. She was quiet and kind and did most of the housework after school, never complaining and always trying to keep the peace between my battling siblings.

As for my father, another child meant more financial hardship, but this would not have influenced his desire to see me make a full recovery. He was a soft man, somewhat weak in his commitments, who tend to see himself as long-suffering. He drank too much and smoked too much as his way of coping. But as long as I remember, I loved him with every fiber of my being.

In the hospital, I was lying inert, eyes fixed and unfocused. Although I could swallow, I could not suckle and got little nourishment and began to lose weight. My breathing was labored, and I never cried. Father came to see us each weekday after his shift ended at the factory and before he went to the hotel for his daily libations. Because he was so regular in his two-hour visits there, he had his own seat that was vacated on his arrival.

On the seventh day, he was told to arrange for a priest so I might be baptized. Father went to All Saints Church, which was just south of the hospital, and asked one of the priests to perform the sacrament.

It was done the next day. Having the sacrament and an unblemished soul meant that I would go to heaven upon my death, and he tried to comfort Mary with this news. Knowing this gave my father great peace, and I am sure he thought death and the surety of heaven might be best after all, especially for my mother who was in no condition to care for a sickly child. Where father was concerned, my mother always came first.

Only Mary would visit me in the hospital when she could slip away unnoticed. She would hold me in her arms and rock me, singing softly as I whimpered and struggled for each breath. Hers was the only source of comfort and love I received. She quickly formed an attachment to me that would last for several years, and she would become the mother figure I so desperately needed.

But I survived and became a repository for my mother’s bitterness and disappointment in life. We lived in a nice duplex in the south end of Linden, and my older brother Mark told me there was a kitchen, living room, three bedrooms, and a full bathroom. Mark had fond memories of our neat little home. Because another child would put a strain on the family income, my father decided to find cheaper living quarters; and the following spring, our furniture was packed into a moving van along with the family members, and we moved to a new home on the lake.

Given her situation in life, I can see how my birth came as such a blow to my mother. Only thirty years old, I was her sixth child, and she must have seen herself as either always pregnant or raising a small child. Coming from a Protestant background, the challenge of being married to a Catholic who would not practice any form of birth control left her in a vulnerable position.

As well, her illness, the manic depression, would have presented when she was still a teenager already married with two children. Each successive birth would have driven her further into depression. Fighting the effects of the disease must have been exhausting, leaving her all the more susceptible to the ravages of mania.

Being the baby in the family for four years, John enjoyed my mother’s favoritism and therefore has fond memories of his early years. So there must have been an element of control during that time although I know little of how she treated the other children. I do know she was demanding of Mary, expecting her to help out more than a child her age should be expected.

Apparently, Dad took control of the older boys, Michael and Mark, often giving them terrible beatings when Mom complained about them, but that would have been in their early years. Michael, the oldest boy, would receive the brunt of such discipline, and he rebelled and became a troublesome child.

It is no wonder that the advent of my birth drove my mother further into her illness and that her mood swings resulted in increased sedation, which was not enough to prepare her for my survival. Had I died, perhaps she would have enjoyed a little more peace in her busy life.

Not only did she see me as the cause of her desolate life at the lake, but she was stuck with me in her constant care, a daily reminder of all that she had lost. It must have been a great hardship, tending a child whom she held in such contempt. And as I grew, so did her hatred of me. If not for the love I received from Dad and Mary in those early years, I would have become as isolated as she felt.

I have no doubt that she saw to my physical needs, but she deprived me of the love and comfort vital to the health of a helpless baby. Unable to give me any more than the meanest basics, my early years with her would have been ones of neglect and intolerance.

What would be seen as a mild irritation to a healthy person meant a catastrophe to my mother, and she undoubtedly suffered many such setbacks to her own health. My father was her only source of comfort, and he did not help matters by spending two hours a day in a beer parlor before coming home to her.

Mother never wanted me to live in the first place, and she saw me as the reason she was forced to leave her comfortable home and move to the isolated shambles of a cottage that should have been condemned and torn down. Life there was one of misery and humiliation for her, and she blamed my father as well for her new predicament. I believe that she also suffered from SAD, seasonal affective disorder, because her bouts of manic depression became pronounced with the coming of winter and the shorter days of sunlight.

For those who have never suffered from manic depression, it is impossible to imagine the depths to which the depressive state would overcome the sufferer or the insanity and loss of control that came with the mania, causing the affected person to lash out viciously to those living in her sphere. Although my sisters and brothers sometimes suffered at her hands, I became the focus of her anger and sorrow. My father attempted to protect us from her terror, but he was himself weak and could only do his best to pacify her.

Her hatred and resentment of me caused her to rain upon me punishment that grew harsher with the passage of time. I learned to hate and fear her, and although I was often encouraged to report her abuses to the proper authorities, I could not do so, fearing the breakup of my family scattering us to foster homes or institutions. Mother was aware of this fear and knew she had me trapped and could do almost anything to me to satisfy her need to make another suffer as she saw herself suffering.

It culminated in all-out war between us, and I would in time become as depressed as she was. This would occur before I reached my teens and was a heavy weight to bear in one so young. She deprived me of a normal childhood and kept me in a state of fear for many years. I look back now and realize how much she suffered but cannot forgive her for what she did to me. She had become a monster and tried to turn my father against me, a man I loved as dearly as I hated her. Without his love, I would have been lost and unable to endure my life with her.

And so began the lifelong struggle between my mother and me.

Because it was in such poor shape, the owner of this summer cottage could not find anyone to rent it. It should have been torn down. When my father approached him, the owner agreed to charge twenty dollars for the months of July and August and allow us to have it free for the rest of the year.

It is a miracle that any of us survived the winters. With no inner walls except for the front room, no ceilings, and no foundation, it was a shell of a building. At the front, there was a screened-in porch that opened onto the front room that served as a living room and kitchen combination. It contained a large wooden stove used for cooking, baking, and heating in the winter. During the summer, the wood was stacked against the south wall, and in the winter was stored in the old car parked against the side of the house. A long hall led past the three bedrooms and one storage room to the back kitchen. When it was needed, coal was used in a big potbellied iron stove. Also in this room was a large sink with a cupboard below it, a white ceramic pot used as a toilet, and a flat table-like surface used for kitchen purposes. With no running water, it was necessary to go to the field next door to pump water into a large pail. Because the outer walls were cracked, wind and snow blew in throughout the winter and the windows were covered in frost. Without the luxury of ceilings, the rafters were covered with cobwebs, the spiders climbing down the walls close to the beds. The floors were covered in old linoleum in the kitchens and just plain planks in the bedrooms. They were always dirty and covered with odd bits of junk and the few toys we had.

And there were rats—great huge water rats, the size of a small dog. How they managed to get into the shack was a mystery. They were a source of many nightmares. Not to be outdone, we had a fair share of mice. They gnawed arched holes through the plaster walls in the front room and often came out in search for food and to terrorize my mother. For that reason alone, I befriended them and learned how to handle them without getting bitten. As if the shack needed protection, we had a big black and scruffy mutt called Max. He followed the children around and was kept on a leash outside at night, but was allowed in the house to sleep when the weather dropped well below freezing. Being so close to the lake, this happened often; and one night he was let in only after he had all but been half frozen. He slept so close to the woodstove that his fur began to burn. The smell was repugnant and lingered for days.

Compared to the disgusting condition of the old shack, the great outdoors were wondrous for the children, allowing them to access many places of amusement. Just minutes away were the cliffs overlooking the lake. The older kids would climb up them in attempts to reach the top. Across the road was a large fallow field, which was perfect for games of hide-and-seek. At the far end of this field was an old decaying silo built into the ground, the layered bricks easy to scale. Just across the road from the house was a large tree with a long thick branch you could walk across and overhead a rope tied to an upper limb, allowing the children to swing out as much as ten feet. Only one boy fell and broke an arm.

Down the east road and past the houses was a swamp filled with frogs and turtles, some of which were brought home as pets. In the winter it would freeze to a bumpy skating rink. You could follow the beach all the way to Trent, and this was done when collecting money for the Missionary Fund because there were too few homes in the immediate area. At the foot of this road was the pump house and, from there, only fields to the north until you reached a large wooded area with many footpaths.

Soon after my arrival, Anna married and moved to a small house on Hall’s Road. That left only Mary in the double bed. But that meant that more duties fell to Mary and she was busy all the time, helping with meals, laundry, and the care of the younger children. She was not a star pupil, so Father had to help her with homework, which meant she always got a passing grade.

Michael, the oldest boy, had been a real troublemaker in school, which left a stain on the Maguire name. That and the fact that we were supposedly too poor to contribute to Holy Spirit Church caused Father O’Brien, who overlooked the Holy Spirit School, to look down his nose at us. When we attended church, absent our parents, we were told to sit in the back row. Mother and Father went to Mass only at Easter and Christmas.

Unlike Mary, Mark was brilliant and breezed through school without any effort. He was also extremely good-looking and flirted with all the pretty girls, which made him unpopular with the nuns, another strike against the Maguire clan. Even though he was only eight, he had a soft spot for me, and he would often lift me out of my bed and cuddle me, telling me stories I could in no way understand. Where Michael could be cruel and selfish, Mark was only mischievous and playful.

Four years older than me, John was barely a moderate student. Because he was sensitive and quick to break into tears, he was an easy target for Mark’s teasing. Although he knew my impending birth was the reason Father moved his family from the pleasant duplex in town, he never dwelt on this point and found few reasons to dislike me. His worries that I would take his place as the favored baby proved mistaken simply because Mother didn’t want me and never grew to care for me. Instead, he remained her favorite. He was a beautiful child and sought out his mother’s approval, giving her little reason to scold him. Yet John never warmed up to me and ignored me for the first few years of my life. It was only when I was big enough to stand up for myself that war broke out between us.

When I outgrew my bassinet, the crib was set up in the girls’ room, and I stayed in it until I was eight. I went from the crib to the playpen to the high chair. This rotation was broken only when Father or Mark took me for a cuddle. When I was two, I came down with scarlet fever. I was kept in my playpen in a corner away from the other children so as not to infect them. It seemed to pass, and the rotation started again.

One day, Mother stood me up in the playpen, but I fell down, unable to stand. She tried to stand me up again, but I just flopped to the side. When Father came home smelling of beer, he told her he would take me to the doctor’s the next day. He was on afternoon shift at work, so he could do so without missing any time. He was concerned that I might have polio, but did not mention this to Mother.

True to his word, he took me to the pediatrician who agreed to see me though I had no appointment. Father told him I’d had a bout of fever and now had no use of my legs.

You should have brought her in when she had the fever, the doctor admonished my father. She is a very sick little girl. She has rheumatic fever, and one of her heart valves is damaged. This could have been prevented with proper care. She will need to be watched carefully from now on. Stress of any kind must be avoided, and childbirth is definitely out of the question. With luck, she can live to forty without a valve replacement. As it is, I want to see her monthly. She is also anemic and will require supplements on a daily basis. I’ll give you a prescription. You must inform her mother of all that I have told you.

Beyond that, there was little to tell me. I only know that by the time I was three, I could count to one hundred, tell the time only at the hours, and I had learned to color, badly. Just inside the back kitchen, Father had set up a chair in the glow of the coal furnace, and he would sit me on his lap and tell me stories and teach me spelling. Like him, I was a genius, and I learned quickly. As for living a stress-free life, that was impossible within the sphere of my mother. Stress was her natural state of being, and with the exception of John, we were all a little on edge in her presence.

CHAPTER TWO

THE STRUGGLE BEGINS

O N SEPTEMBER 9, 1949, I turned three. With John now away at school, I was left at home alone with Mother. By then, she had become good friends with Arlene, the lady across the road and down the corner. During her daily visits, I was placed in a corner with a simple book to read. Coloring was out of the question because of the mess it might cause. If I did not know the meaning of a word, I would underline it lightly with a pencil and get Mark or Father to explain it to me l ater.

What I recall most clearly about that year is the commotion of the children waking up and scurrying to get dressed before breakfast. Mother usually made porridge, at least in the winter months, telling us it would stick to our ribs. I took this literally and tried to imagine what it must look like. Because I still wet the bed each night, Mary had to get me out of the large cloth diaper and dress me before going down the road to the bus stop on the corner.

One morning, groggy and still half asleep, I let my glass of milk slip through my fingers. Although the glass did not break, the milk spread out on the floor in a ragged puddle.

You clumsy child! Mother cried and grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking me so violently that I feared my neck would snap. After pushing me to the floor, she threw a rag at me. Clean up your mess and leave the table.

On another occasion, she was walking past me when I pressed too hard on a crayon, snapping it in half. Without a word and no hesitation in her step, she slapped me hard against my ear. My head throbbed for hours, and I was too blinded by pain to do anything but lie in the playpen, contemplating my misfortune of being born to such a wicked woman.

One morning, after the others left for school, she grabbed my shoulder and steered me to my crib, lifting me in. You are to stay here until I say otherwise. You can get out only for the potty. And God help you if you wet yourself. After a few hours, I had to struggle to stay awake so I climbed down and went to the back room where I readily urinated. Back in my crib, I allowed myself to drift off and slept until Mother shook me awake. She felt my bottom and looked disappointed to find it dry. Go and use the potty, we’re going to Arlene’s where you will behave yourself. I hadn’t eaten but dared not mention it.

I grabbed a book to read and walked with her down the road. She held my hand, as usual lifting me half off my feet so I had to trot beside her on tiptoe. After the visit, we entered our house through the front porch, Mom releasing me as the door closed behind us. I stumbled into the kitchen and dared to speak up.

I’m hungry, Mom. Can I have my lunch now?

You slept through lunch. It’s too late now.

Starving, I dared to press her. Can I have a biscuit instead?

NO, you may not. Use the potty and go to bed where you will stay until supper. She gave me a violent push, and on trembling legs, I did as I was told. Supper was a long time coming.

When I was alone with Mother, she would put me in the playpen with coloring books, readers, and a rag doll to which I would sometimes play mother, a good mother. Before putting on her pretty housedress, she would do the dishes and go down to the back room to wash and fix her hair. She rarely spoke to me or even glanced my way. Only when I had to go down to the potty was I allowed to leave the playpen. Stretching out on the couch, she would pick up her wool and crochet hook and make endless baby clothes to be sold at the wool shop uptown. Sometimes she made toques or tams for her own children and there would often be damp tams drying around flat plates so they would hold their shape.

At lunchtime, she would make peanut butter and jam sandwiches for herself and plain peanut butter for me. The sight of the jam was tantalizing, but I dared not ask for any, knowing I would be denied anyway. Shortly after lunch, the phone would ring, and Mother would use her pleasant voice in accepting a visit for tea at Arlene’s. Her mouth would compress and her voice stern when she ordered me to be silent and well behaved when I went with her. Every day, I got the same warning as if I was too dimwitted to remember it from the day before, and every day I did as I was told.

Although I did all I could to fly under the radar, the unexpected would sometimes happen, and I would experience firsthand the vicious streak that lay below the surface of Mother’s demeanor.

One day, at lunch, I dropped my sandwich. She grabbed my long hair and wrenched me out of my chair. When she put me over her lap, she spanked me as hard as she could, screaming at me, You useless and careless child! What have I done to deserve you? Go to bed now! she screamed as she slapped me hard across the face. I made my way to the back kitchen, did my duty, and went back to bed. Immediately, I fell asleep or more likely passed out and awoke when she shook my shoulder. My legs shaking, I made my way to the kitchen where everyone was seated at the table.

I looked at the faces of those seated around me, but no one looked my way. With shaky fingers and choking back tears, I lifted my fork and began to eat. Wondering how she had explained my situation, how she had laid the blame at my feet, I ate in silence, feeling ill with each bite. Ten minutes into the meal, Father broke the silence by asking the others about their day at school. Their answers were brief and mumbled. There was no joy at that table. Unable to contain himself, Mark turned his attention to me. Did you read any new books today, Paula?

I could only shake my head, and he didn’t pursue the matter further. There was jelly and whipped cream for dessert, a real treat. Mark deftly stole the topping from John’s dish and set him complaining. Mark received a slap on the back of his head from Father but grinned at me in triumph.

When I had finished eating, Mother ordered me to get into my pajamas and go directly to bed. And I don’t want any of you talking to her. Is that clear? Mary, see that she goes to the washroom and put a diaper on her. But there is to be NO talking to her. In the bedroom, Mary swept me into her arms and gave me a big hug while we both cried. She helped me to the bathroom then undressed me, put on the clumsy diaper, and got me into my bedclothes. We’ll talk tomorrow, she whispered in my ear before going back to clear the table and do the dishes.

I lay there wide awake, wallowing in self-pity. Sleep would not come. Mary came to bed, and I heard Mark and John in the next room. My parents talked, but nothing was said about me. Long after dark, I heard Mom go to bed, and Father came in and stroked my forehead. I opened my eyes and looked up at his troubled face. He put his forefinger to his lips, a caution for me to keep silent, then kissed the finger and touched my burning cheek ever so lightly. After that, I felt comforted and was able to sleep.

The next day, Mary took me aside and told me what Mother had said. She told us you had kicked her and called her a dirty name so bad she couldn’t repeat it. She even showed us the bruise on her leg.

Oh, Mary, you know I would never do that. I can’t stand being alone with her anymore. Most of the time she just ignores me and those are the best times. When she looks at me, I can see the hate in her eyes. Yesterday when I dropped my sandwich, she spanked me and slapped me really hard on my cheek. That’s why she made up the story about me being bad so she would have a good reason for hitting me.

All you can do is stay out of her way as much as possible. If you can get through this year, she might let you go outside to play next year when you’re four. And remember, you’re not alone. She is always smacking the rest of us. It’s just too bad that Dad is on steady days now. She is always better when he is home to control her.

Winter brought storms both inside and out. Mother grew more restless and irritable. Everyone suffered, but at least the others got to go to school. The visits to Arlene’s continued, but wrestling me into winter clothes and boots put her in a tizzy. I marveled at the way her personality would brighten at the sight of her friend.

Father continued my reading and math lessons, and I could practice all day either sitting in my room or out on the porch bundled up against the cold. Enjoying the peace and quiet, my mother was satisfied with this arrangement. But if something set her off, she’d find me and give me a good hiding, after which she would be calmer. Because of my winter clothing, the belt she used would leave only the smallest of welts. I grew accustomed to pain. Because the light in the storeroom was poorly wired, one would get a shock when pulling the chain. Somehow, my brothers and sisters discovered that they could lift me up and have me pull the chain. I did get a shock that made my fingers tingle, but it didn’t bother me.

The oldest of five girls, my mother received the worst treatment from my miserable grandmother. She was put in charge of the younger ones and made to do a good deal of the housework. Hers was an unhappy life. My grandmother would lock up the cookies and other treats in the basement, which was likely the reason my mother put her baking on the top ledge of the green baker’s cupboard in the kitchen, out of reach to naughty children.

The youngest sister was a great beauty and was married to a man in the military and moved around a lot. Unable to get along with the third sister, Mom never heard from her. The second sister often chatted on the phone with Mom, usually discussing clothes, jewelry, and shoes. It was the first sister that was closest to Mom. Having the same number of children with fairly close corresponding ages, they had lots in common. When they weren’t discussing their kids, Mom was complaining about Dad and the Catholic religion. This set my teeth on edge. Dad loved Mom with all his heart, and he did all he could to comfort her.

One morning, I heard Mom let out a piercing scream, and then a racket ensued. Rushing in to see what the commotion was about, I found her swinging the broom at a tiny mouse that managed to run circles around her. Ducking the broom, I got down on all fours and snatched up the mouse by its tail. I sat holding the cute little thing as it wriggled around, snapping at my hand.

Quickly, throw it outside! my mother screamed.

But it will freeze out there. Can I just put him on the porch? I asked.

Swinging the broom at me and catching me with a glancing blow to my head, she told me to do as I was told or she would see us both out in the snow. However, when the broom connected with my head, I dropped the mouse and it quickly scurried into a hole in the wall.

Mother was livid. After disappearing into her bedroom, she returned in a flurry with the belt and began lashing me with it. She whipped it at me in a blind fury, over and over again. I tried to crouch down and cover my face and head, but she kicked me over on my back, beating me relentlessly. After a few minutes, she gained control and stopped dead, arm raised over her head. Surveying the damage, she actually flinched away from me and muttered in a low voice, How am I going to explain this to Patrick?

Likely in a state of shock, I lay there motionless and numb. As I watched, her face changed from one of fear to panic and then to an icy composure.

Get up, she said in a voice that was low and strangely restrained.

Glancing at the clock, I saw that the big hand was just past two. It would be hours before the others came home, leaving plenty of time to kill me and hide my body. She could tell Dad that I had run away.

Unable to stand, the best I could muster was a sitting position. Surveying the damage, Mother took off my top and undershirt, checking my front and back. I could see that my arms and front were blood spattered from the tiny gashes the belt had inflicted. When I began to shiver, Mom lifted me and sat me closer to the woodstove. From the water that was always heating there, she mixed some with the cold water in the jug; and with an old cloth, she washed me from the top of my head to the rest of my exposed skin. The water in the bowl turned pink. Surprisingly gentle, she dabbed at my face and went down to the back kitchen for bandages. These were applied to various nicks on my face and the tops of my hands. To cover my top, she got an old terry cloth shirt that served as one big Band-Aid.

Once she had laid me out flat, she removed my trousers, long johns, and panties. After emptying the bowl of stained water in the sink at the back kitchen, she started the process of washing me again. Protected by my trousers and long johns, the gashes on the lower part of my body were minor, and the water turned only a pale pink. Once she had finished, she put me in another pair of long johns and a warm pair of socks. During the entire process, neither of us had said a word. My high tolerance for pain had kept me from crying out when the cloth brushed against my wounds.

Next, she sat me upright in a kitchen chair and worked at getting the blood out of my hair. Proving difficult because the wound continued to bleed, she finally applied a large bandage and at last spoke to me.

Don’t touch this. It will heal in a few hours and we can clean it up then. For now, I think it would be best for you to lie on the couch and listen to the radio.

Who is this woman? I wondered. And what was her plan. The nicks on my body could be hidden by clothes, but my hands and face were obviously a dead giveaway for her brutal behavior. My left eye was almost fully closed, and I worried that my sight would be affected. And what of my face, would it be scarred for life? According to my family, I was a pretty little girl. Would I be ugly now? And would I be able to wear a bathing suit in the summer without being stared at by the neighborhood kids?

These thoughts raced through my mind, making me anxious and longing for the soothing arms of my father.

How am I going to explain this to Patrick? My mother’s words came back to me, and I wondered how he would react. He had never raised his voice to her, never uttered an unkind word. On the contrary, he loved her so deeply that no matter what she did or said, he simply commiserated with her, calmed her jangled nerves, and ushered her to her room and away from the children.

But he loves me too, I thought. I was aware of the special attention he showed me. The many nights we shared in the back kitchen with me reading the books he brought home from the library set me apart from the others. And it wasn’t just because I was the youngest. The close bond we had formed went beyond that. It was because we were more alike than anyone else in the household, and we certainly had more in common than he had with Mother. But my basic instinct told me he would find a way to accept what she had done to me. He would blame it on her nerves and he would comfort her, tell her to take a pill and lie down.

Then, only then, would he turn his attention to me. I would always be overshadowed by my mother. No matter how much I loved him and he me, she would always come first. She was the light of his life, his reason for living. And if she did die, the light would go out and he’d become a shell of a man. Knowing this made me resent her even more. It was worse than the beating she had given me.

We had lunch at the kitchen table—tomato soup and toasted bread. It pained me to sit on the hard chair, and I had little appetite. Seated across from one another, neither of us spoke a word. After lunch, the phone rang, but Mother told Arlene that I was sick and we would have to stay in. It rang again an hour later. Mom made her excuses and hung up the receiver. Worry kept her from her usual routine, and she busied herself doing housework and baking cookies. She even made a pan of chocolate fudge, a sign that she was feeling desperate.

I could have assured her that Father would be understanding but felt no compulsion to ease her pain. As the time neared for the bus to bring home the other children, she removed the bandage from my head and mopped up the dried blood with the damp rag. Just as I was wondering what the others would think of the state I was in, she led me to her bedroom and told me not to come out until she had my father look at me.

When the others did arrive, like a pack of hungry kits, their first words were about the smell of baking, which excited them greatly. Some time passed before Mary asked where I was. I longed to rush out to her and wrap myself in her loving arms.

Paula isn’t feeling well, and she is resting in my bed until your father gets home. Immediately following her pronouncement, there was total silence, likely tainted with curiosity, confusion, and suspicion. Only Mark had the gumption to question Mother. That’s unusual. Why isn’t she in her own bed?

That, young man, is none of your business, but if you want, you can go to your own room until suppertime.

Sure, no problem, I heard him announce in a flippant manner. If he wasn’t careful, Mom would report him and he would get a smack from Dad.

Concerned that I was so sick that I was allowed into the inner sanctum of Mom’s room, Mary started to question Mother, but she was cut short. I don’t wish to discuss the matter any further. Everyone, just go about your business and no more talk of Paula. John, you get started on your homework. Mary, you give him a hand.

The room went silent but for the quiet exchange between Mary and John. Time stretched on slowly. Unable to find a lying position that didn’t give me pain, I sat up in the bed and watched the cows through the window. They were fenced in by electrified wire except for the gate that opened on to the pump. Beyond the field, I could see the road, and I began to watch for Father’s car. The sounds of Mother making supper floated into the room then her asking Mary to set the table.

Finally, I spotted Dad’s