Hands

I.

Hands led me here and hands will lead me out again.

II.

I walk the graveled path to the front door, pause, and breathe deep, my heart pulsing desperately. Three short raps on the door, a hand turning the knob, a few short steps later and I am in the lounge. I sit on a wicker chair, cross my legs and survey the occupants while sweat wets my shirtsleeves. Two women I have never met before sit opposite me on a rickety blue couch, one with a double chin, the other with buckteeth. Three more women complete the circle. One is my sister.

‘Hi Rebecca,’ Jenny smiles. ‘We’re at question four already. Did you get the question sheet I sent you? Here’s a copy of the workbook. We’re on page 147. We are just going around the circle answering the questions individually. We’re up to Shirley.’

I look down at question four. Why didn’t you tell anybody while it was happening? Or did you?

‘Well I felt ashamed. I mean, who really wants to talk about it out loud? I felt embarrassed and me and my parents never talked about anything personal anyway,’ Shirley starts. ‘I felt like I had to keep it a secret. It was a forbidden topic and such a big can of worms.’ Everyone nods and hums in agreement. More answers are added to the list: lack of self-image, guilt, fear.

I stretch out my fingers and pick at my nails. I don’t even see the point of being here. It happened years ago; to a person I don’t even see as myself. Apparently that’s called denial. My memories are even shown in the third-person.

His fingers, all wiry and strong, wrap around her ankle, yanking her back to him. She laughs and pretends it’s just a game. He carries her on his back, to the paddock out the back, his hands holding her tightly. To tell the truth, she’s feeling awkward and would rather be feeding the chickens like he said they would. It’s his hands again, flashing in and out of memories. On her leg. On her skirt. Over. Under. Everywhere.

‘Do you have anything to add?’ A voice intrudes.

‘No. Thanks. I’m fine.’ I push the words out.

Question 6. Why did you finally tell someone? What were their reactions?

III.

I told my boyfriend one evening while parked on the side of the road outside my house. His arm was wrapped around my shoulder, his fingers swirling patterns on my arm. He didn’t say anything for a long time.

He picked up my hands and traced the veins. ‘Rebecca. Why — ,’ he stopped. ‘How could you keep this a secret for so long?’

‘I don’t know. It wasn’t that hard,’ I reply. We sit and talk in the orange street light, shadow leaves dancing on the dashboard. I try to tell him that it’s not a big deal but he won’t have a bar of it.

‘Do you know,’ he says suddenly, ‘hands are so cunning. One moment they can pinch you and the next they could be stroking your face. They can never quite decide whether to be good or bad. And the scary thing is, they only ever convey what is in your brain. Because hands can’t work by themselves: they are controlled, like little puppets, by your brain.’

I stared at him.

‘Do you remember the first time I held your hand? They didn’t feel like I imagined, you know. They felt like old lady hands: soft, gentle, and slightly bony. But in a good way, don’t worry.’

He squeezed them twice. I love you.