Love Rewards The Brave Read Free Page A

control
    of you
    than you are.
    It makes me feel like I’m living
    behind prison bars.
     
    "Benji was Benji. But, um, I was wondering if maybe he could come stay for a few days. Like, over a weekend?"
     
    "I don't know, Louisa. I know his caseworker has been pushing for him to return to a foster home, but I just don't know if here is the best place for him."
     
    "Whatever. I know you don't like him anyways."
     
    "That isn't what I mean at all. I work and he can't be left alone unsupervised."
     
    "Fine."
     
    I finish eating my buttered peas
    and listen to her talk about the library’s
    new book fees
    and how her Tai-Chi
    class was cancelled.
     
    All I want is this night to be cancelled.
     
    I go out on a limb for him.
    Try and make it good for him
    right for him
    and somehow
    that mostly means getting shot down
    and it makes me wonder
    if he’s right.
    Maybe we should just
    leave
    retreat
    otherwise we
    will always live in
    defeat.
     
    And I want more than that.
    For him
    and me
    and my family.
     
     
     

22.
     
    It’s always the same.
    I show up at the office where Mom is supposed to be.
    Right time, right place,
    trying hard to get a steady look upon my face.
    It never works out well.
    And there’s one thing I’m feeling sick of:
    showing up
    right time, right place
    and leaving the office
    sixty minutes later with a sad look
    on my trying-hard-to-be ready
    steady
    face.
     
    But today it’s different.
    She’s there before I arrive.
    She has makeup on
    her hair clearly
    curled.
    She looks like the mother I remember
    when I was a very little
    girl.
    The mother I remember before everything
    decided to
    unfurl.
     
    “Louisa,” Mom says.
     
    I can tell the inflection
    is forced.
    I look at the social worker sitting in the corner
    waiting.
    For me?
 
    “Honey, your dad couldn’t be here today, but I’m here. For you.”
     
    As she says it I want to scream.
    Scream so loud
    so someone
    will hear.
    But all I do is look at her
    in the hollow empty way I hate about myself
    and say
    nothing.
    I stand there
    for what seems
    like never ending moments of eternity
    and I wonder where are her feelings of
    maternity?
     
     

23.
     
    My father isn’t
    “Busy.”
    He’s incarcerated.
    Terry told me about the petition
    and the filing
    and termination
    of his rights.
    He couldn’t show up here if he wanted to.
    Not that he does.
    Not that my mother would remember
    the twelve months straight he never went to a meeting.
    An appointment.
    He’s what I call a
    disappointment.
    Never once did he
    make a phone call
    to the people who could
    Help
    Him
    Help
    Us.
    Not like I want
    anyone’s help
    to see him.
    Him: the man who made my life a living hell.
    Him: the man who spent his life making me promise not to tell.
    Tell the truth about what happened
    in the bedrooms of our house.
    Tell the truth that it was the very definition
    of abuse.
    He made me promise to keep his secrets.
    I knew what he’d do if I told.
    He’d hold my throat
    hold my neck
    until I was gasping for breath
    then let me fall to the floor
    where I’d lay
    until morning.
    That is, unless he decided that that night
    he wanted to
    play hide and seek
    with my most private parts.
    And no, I’m not talking about my heart.
     
    Terry always asks me
    to tell her what it was like.
    She wants me to open up and say the things
    I
    was
    told
    for
    a
    decade
    not
    to
    mention.
    Not to whisper.
    Not to tell a soul.
    Even if I wanted to
    tell Terry or Ms. Francine the truth
    about the things
    that happened in the dark
    that happened when the lights went out
    and the moon was out
    I couldn’t.
    The paralyzing fear of what would
    or could
    happen if I utter
    the sounds
    that turn into words.
    I would
    always be scared
    to turn around
    because
    he
    might
    be
    waiting for me.
     
     

24.
     
    But I don’t say that to my mom,
    she sits here expectantly.
    Waiting for me.
    She makes the first move.
     
    “Louisa, I’m getting things sorted out. I’m getting