Redemption (15 page)

Another Terrifying Scene

liked taking care of my grandmother. She took care of me, too. I had someone to eat dinner with sometimes, and she had me to help her monitor her blood sugar levels. My dad was supposed to help her, but he’d forget. She relied on me. I liked being the one who took her to her hair appointments. Even as an elderly woman, she always wore fashionable clothes and kept herself up. She didn’t leave the house much by then, but that didn’t matter when it came to looking nice.

Her diabetes had grown worse. I had the job of filling her needles with insulin and placing them on her kitchen table in the butter dish. I wanted her medication to be ready when she needed it throughout the day. I’d write the date and the dosage in big letters on a piece of tape attached to each needle so she wouldn’t get confused. My dad was supposed to take turns with me on this task, but just to be safe; I’d leave her several days’ worth at a time.

I was responsible for Christy, too. I was sixteen and had a car, so if she needed to go somewhere, it was my job to take her. I had taken buses and walked everywhere when I was fourteen, but Christy had a chauffeur. I didn’t mind so much; that was just how it was. And of course, I taught her how to drive in case of an emergency. I was supposed to help Christy with her homework—if she bothered to bring it home. And I even made sure there was food in the refrigerator for us. She and I ate simple things like Hamburger Helper and sandwiches. Dad usually made his own meals—he had lost weight so he mostly ate lean chicken breasts. We all fended for ourselves. Often, I just drove to McDonald’s or White Castle where I could get a cheeseburger for thirty-three cents. I lived on burgers, fries, and Dr. Pepper. So did Christy.

Christy wasn’t easy to watch. She was a drinker, and Dad didn’t care if she popped open a beer right in front of him. If he did say something, she’d cuss him. Then he’d smack her. She’d keep right on drinking, though. She figured he was going to smack her anyway, so she might as well give him a reason. Their fights made my jaw drop. They kept at it all the time.

I never drank with him. He knew I drank once in a while with my friends. He also knew I smoked pot occasionally. He didn’t care. Sometimes, he’d smoke with me—or more likely, he’d make me find him some weed.

Dad wasn’t that responsible, even though he thought he was. So I helped him manage the money. He was cheap, and he didn’t want to be bothered with the needs of two teenage girls. If I wanted $5 for shampoo, he’d get mad when I asked him for it. He wanted me to leave him alone and take money for Christy and me out of his checking account. I also took checks and forged his name; he didn’t care. We had an unspoken agreement that he paid the mortgage, and I bought the incidentals like toiletries, groceries, and whatever else my sister and I had to have for school. He always looked at the monthly bank statements, and he okayed the checks I wrote. He knew I was thrifty, even though he complained about how much we spent at the drugstore. He knew I wasn’t a mall girl. I liked picking through the racks for cool clothes at the Salvation Army. If I splurged and bought clothes for myself and Christy from a sale rack at a department store, I used my cash from waitressing at a local restaurant called Indian Delights.

We seemed to have enough money, but it was tight sometimes. Dad jumped around from company to company, his jobs changing faster than my boyfriends. He’d buy in to an actuarial consulting firm and become a partner; then he’d get bought out. It seemed like he was home a lot during the day when other dads were working. But then again, he created jobs that gave him a lot of leeway. He had a computer, so he could work from home. He always made a case for showing up late for work—or not going in at all. We never knew if he’d be home after school or even later that night.

We just knew he probably wouldn’t be sober.

I felt tremendous pressure. One way I handled it was to date a lot of guys. I just made sure I didn’t play around with high school boys, especially not ones from my new school, Ritenour High. I’d learned my lesson: one bad romance can ruin your whole life. But I did become promiscuous with guys I met through work—or wherever. My father called me a slut when he was drunk, and I was tired of it. I figured if I was a whore, I might as well act like one. My father had made me hate everything about myself.

I thought all guys expected sex from me, so I put out. Then I’d be disappointed because neither the sex nor the guy ever lived up to my expectations. I would become resentful and tell them, “How dare you touch me like that!” I’d make up fights with my boyfriends so I could walk away whenever I wanted.

I didn’t know why I slept around. It’s not like I wanted to have sex. The men I dated couldn’t possibly love me because I didn’t let them know me. I thought if they did know me, they’d just see how bad I was. They’d see something terrible inside me, someone my dad liked to hurt. Yet I slept with them anyway.

The guilt I felt was unbearable.

I felt guilty for everything. Sex with random boys was my fault. Plus, I was a shameful, horrible person who let her father do what he wanted to her. Even worse, there was pleasure that went along with the pain my dad caused me. That guilt was worse than all the rest combined. I couldn’t figure out what kind of sick girl would have a positive physical reaction to a rape she didn’t want.

When I was asleep, he’d perform oral sex on me. I would wake up right in the middle of having an orgasm.

The first time it happened was an absolute nightmare.

I had no idea what was going on inside my body. Time stood still while everything shook. My toes curled, and I started screaming. I thought maybe I was dying. I wasn’t even sure whether I was feeling pleasure or pain at first. Slowly, it felt a little bit good.

When it was over, he sat beside me and held my hand, stroking it gently. “Felt nice, didn’t it, Tiger? I did it for you because I love you.”

I said, “Get away from me. Don’t touch me again!”

He said, “Silly child, didn’t that feel good? That’s the way you make me feel. We love one another, and when you love someone, you do certain things. We are just expressing it. Now it’s my turn, so open your mouth.”

“I don’t feel good, can’t I just go back to sleep?” I asked. I saw the familiar, scary anger flash in his eyes. He pulled the hair on the back of my head so hard I thought my neck would snap.

“There you go, acting just like a woman,” he said, not yelling, but mean as a rattlesnake. “You’ve had yours, now I want mine! Get down on the floor and open your fucking mouth. Now.”

I hated it. I hated it. I hated it
. I opened my mouth and did what he told me to. He was still grabbing my hair, making me go faster. He kept ramming his penis down my throat, and eventually, I threw up.

He was mad as hell. He told me I was a disgusting bitch, and to lick it up. This went on for a while until he finally left, and I was too afraid and too weak to move. I lay there in my own vomit for more than an hour. My father had humiliated me—it wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

My body and my mind were beat up. I gathered the strength to clean up the mess. I realized I needed help.

Who could help me? Who would believe me?
I asked myself.

My mom was in Arkansas—not that she even cared. The Paulson grandparents barely spoke to me after I told Grandma that Grandpa had touched me. Grandma Lannert was my only hope, but she was too sick to worry about something so serious. Plus, my father was her baby, and in her eyes, he could do no wrong.

Why should anyone believe me?
My father said I was an “ungrateful little bitch.”

Completely exhausted, I fell asleep for a few brief hours. Then I woke up and went to school. I pushed the memory into the crawlspace of my mind and pretended that I was just a normal kid. That’s what I always did.

All of a sudden, I felt surrounded by filth. I knew what had just happened was wrong, and I cried.

My reaction sickened me; I didn’t want to feel anything with my father. The act was dirty and shameful, and I was sure it was my fault. I don’t know who I hated more—him or me.

Christmas Eve

met guys older than me around town. I was always hanging out with someone. If Dad caught on, he approved at first. He was okay with a guy who called or stopped by once or twice. But soon, he’d say I was spending too much time with so-and-so and tell me I wasn’t allowed to date anymore. He’d try to ground me or keep me home with some rule. Then I’d start sneaking around.

I don’t think he was jealous; I think he wanted to keep me isolated from others. The fewer people I talked to, the less he had to worry about. He didn’t want me to spend too much time with boyfriends, other friends, and sometimes even my cousins. I could be close to someone for just a moment. That was fine. But Dad wouldn’t let me stick with anyone for long. He’d complain about who I hung around with. Then he’d visit me in the middle of the night to remind me of all I had to hide. He had his ways of making me feel unworthy of real relationships.

I didn’t really know what other people were like. I didn’t go to their houses; I didn’t spend the night with anyone. Instead of hanging out with one person, I hung out with different groups from school. I fit in well with the kids at Ritenour, but I never had a best friend. I shifted in and out of all the cliques—jocks, popular kids, geeks, and burnouts. I never found out what their families were like, or if they were different from mine. I didn’t want to know. I realized something was off with my parents, but I didn’t think they were completely twisted until later.

I did have one girlfriend—the principal’s daughter, Inga. She was taller than most of the girls in the class. She had gorgeous, thick, honey-blond hair and beautiful brown eyes. She wore braces and was very friendly. We were on the tennis team together and would meet each other at school events. She had the same sense of responsibility that I had, and, just like me, she couldn’t let go because of how others might see her. She was proper and respectable, but also funny and smart. She became the class valedictorian.

If I wanted to party, I’d run off with a different crowd. But I was always careful about what I did. I never wanted to give my classmates a reason to bad-mouth me again—not like I had in Highland. The guys I dated were far removed from school; I met most of them through my job at Indian Delights. No one knew anything about anyone I was seeing, sometimes not even Christy.

At school, I tried to be quiet and unassuming. If I needed to stand up for Christy or for anything else, I spoke up, but I did it diplomatically. I didn’t argue with teachers or catfight with girls. I wanted no problems, and I didn’t get into any trouble at school. I was a B-plus student who rarely got Cs. I got As in English and physical education. I loved everything about school at Ritenour: classes, sports, and the kids. The only subject I hated was math—precisely because my dad loved it.

Early on, I did meet one high school boy who was special to me. He was in my Spanish class. Tom Wilson, a junior like me, was hot. He was tall and slim with dark brown hair and these amazing brown eyes. He had chiseled cheeks and the most perfect upturned nose. But I was drawn to more than his looks. When he smiled, he was gentle. When he looked my way, it was with kindness. He was clearly shy; he hardly spoke at all in class. I had to get to know him. I could tell he wasn’t the type of guy who would approach me—or anyone for that matter.

So I picked him up.

I passed him a note that read,
Hi, my name is Stacey. Do you have a girlfriend?
At first, he thought it was from another girl with the same name. Then he realized it was from me, the new girl. He waved. We were having group discussions in Spanish at that time, so he walked right over to me. I was pleasantly surprised.

He called me as soon as I got home that day, and we went on a date over the weekend. He was too good to be true—a Christian minister’s son. We had a wonderful two-week romance, and then I called it off. We didn’t have a big breakup or even a fight. I told him I loved him dearly as a friend, and I didn’t want to mess that up. I pushed him away because he was someone I could’ve been close to, and I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let my guard down. I had three reasons. First, he might find out that I wasn’t the good girl he thought I was. Second, he was in my high school. Third, I wasn’t willing to let my heart get broken again. I was scared.

Tom W. said he didn’t want to lose me. If I only wanted to be friends, he’d learn to live with it. That’s just the kind of guy he was—rarely thinking about himself first. He became one of the best friends I’ve ever had, more reliable and trustworthy than almost anyone I’ve ever met. We sat next to each other in Spanish for the rest of the school year.

I hung out with Tom W. and his friends the most. I became more involved and comfortable in their clique than I had in any other group. They were just nice guys—not popular or unpopular—and very cool.

Mike, Ricky, and Tom W. were the core of the group. Sometimes Eddie, Terry, and Jason would come around for a while, then gravitate back to their own circles. Mike, Ricky, and Tom W. always talked fondly about one friend in particular: Rob. Rob was supposedly the coolest. He had already graduated and gone into the military.

We’d all talk after school and go cruising in Creve Coeur Park, a popular hangout. They even dragged me to
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
. When we went go-cart racing, I won. I loved having boys as friends. They didn’t ask questions, and they never wanted to get mushy or too close.

I was a mature teenager; at least that’s what Tom W. told me. I don’t know if I believed that since I was the only one of us who had a car, a ’76 Chevy Impala. I drove him and our friends around all the time, and he appreciated that. They liked to drink on the weekends. I had been tipsy a few times, and I hated the taste of alcohol. I also hated losing my self-control. So I preferred to drink soda, which made me a natural choice for designated driver. I didn’t tell them this, but I’d grown up watching Dad drink and drive. I knew how dangerous it could be.

During those two weeks when I was dating Tom W., I called him on Christmas Eve to see if he wanted to hang out with me and Christy. He couldn’t do anything with me because he was a deacon at his church, and he had to attend the Christmas Eve service.

He stopped by my house at 9:30 that night, taking me by surprise. He knocked on the door along with his friend Ricky, who was dating Christy at the time. I was afraid Dad would be mad for a lot of reasons—but mainly because Ricky was half Mexican.

“It’s open!” yelled a gruff voice. Our living room was right inside the front door. To the left was a TV that was always on. To the right was a long beige couch. My dad was usually sitting—or sleeping—on it. That night was no different.

Our friends opened the door, and my dad was lying there drunk. Tom W. tried to introduce himself and ask for me. Tom W. held out his hand to my dad, who didn’t move a muscle to shake it—or even get up. Ricky tried to say hello, too.

Without looking, my father waved his hand and said, “They’re downstairs.” Some dads would bother to find out if these guys were dating their daughters. Some might wonder why two high school boys would show up on Christmas Eve. Not mine.

I didn’t know how I felt about Tom W. visiting me at home. His house was filled with Christmas music, lights, and decorations. He had a happy mom and stepdad who were loving and kind. The only thing buzzing at my house was my father. He made me keep our house clean, but it was ugly inside. We had awful shag carpets he wouldn’t let me replace. Just past the living room was a small dining room that we never ate in. My father kept his computer and stacks of books and papers in there. A ledge separated the dining room from the kitchen. The kitchen was yellow and tiny and old. It didn’t have a dishwasher. My father liked to play a game when he was mad at us. When Christy or I did the dishes, he’d place the utensil holder on the counter to the left of the sink with the fork prongs and knife blades facing upward. When our arms passed over the top of the fork prongs, he’d push them down so we’d scrape our skin.

Christy and I spent most of our time in the half-finished basement while Dad stayed on the couch upstairs. My room, painted a bright green, was in the back of the finished area. The last owner’s father had died there, which was creepy. The other finished room was a little living area with dark wood paneling and a fireplace. The unfinished part of the basement, just next to my room, had a washer and dryer in it.

I didn’t want Tom W. and Ricky in our depressing house or in our private little basement. It was too weird.