A Moment: 1985

Flash of memory, long suppressed.

A single sliver of dim white light pierced the darkness around me as I huddled, clenching my bony knees to my chest on the floor of my closet. In fear, I hoped and prayed that he would not look here, that I would be safe in this private sanctuary from the giant man’s wrath. In the distance, I could hear his shouting, my mother’s screams, my brother’s begging and pleading not to be punished.

A sudden silence fell and my fear grew into a panic.

I leaned forward, onto my knees and peered through the crack, unable to see much beyond the bedroom door, which stood ajar. Some deeper part of me cursed my stupidity for not having closed that door. Wrapping my fingers around the aluminum facing of the closet door, I clenched them tightly, to keep the door closed in case anyone happened to find my hiding place.

Running steps came up the hallway and my brother burst into the room. His eyes were red, streaked with terrified tears; the rapid pulse of his panicked heartbeat could be seen throbbing on his neck. Jason looked around, under the bed, and then straight at me.

“There you are!”

My fingers were beginning to ache as I put all my effort into holding the door shut. He was not going to invade my sanctuary.

Jason pulled on the doorknobs, and my grip strained. The pain grew to a point where I thought he would break my hand off. But somehow, no matter how much he yanked, jerked, and strained, I kept my grip and kept him out.

“Let me in, Jere! He’s coming!”
“NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!”
“Come on! I need a place to hide!”
“NO! This is MY place. You can’t come in here!”
“Dammit, Jere,” he swore and ran out of the room.

I retained my firm grip, as my fingers grew more numb from the strain.

My focus glued on the now wide-open bedroom door, I sat in fright, praying that I would not be found by the man who would whip me, punch me, beat me until I bled again so that I could not sit down for hours.

It all started when Dad decided to take a nap after guzzling a six pack of beer and smoking a couple of joints. He liked to get stoned before lunch and it always made him sleepy. He was able to sleep through shouting and loud shows on TV, but he became a horrible monster when things got quiet and someone tried to keep from waking him.

Dad would be up like a flash if he heard someone whispering in the next room. His rage unstoppable until every person in his path was bruised, bleeding, and broken. It did not matter age or gender: if you were within his sight, you were the enemy — to be taken out and destroyed.

So Dad fell asleep, a Camel drooping from his lips, a joint between two fingers, and a half-drunk beer in his right hand, tipping slightly as he snored.

Mom had taken the beer and joint, placing them carefully within his reach on the end table next to him. Lovingly, she covered him with one of Granny’s hand-crocheted afghans and propped his feet up on the footrest.

After a while, the phone rang. Mom answered it and started whispering so she would not wake the sleeping giant.

What I did not know at the time was that Dad was not just stoned on pot. None of his children were aware that he also had a vial in his hip pocket filled with cocaine. He had secretly snorted a couple sniffs of coke before smoking those joints.

So, when Mom started whispering into the phone, Dad was up and roaring, high as a kite and paranoid as hell. His temper unleashed, he set out to destroy all enemies.

When I saw him clamber to his feet, I ran from my place on the couch — mere inches from my father (yet still unnoticed) — tore up the stairs and into my bedroom, slid the closet doors shut.

A single sliver of dim white light pierced the darkness around me and I could no longer feel my fingers. I could see them in my dim-light adjusted vision and they were still holding tight to the facing.

My mother’s voice came tearing up the hallway, echoing in a scream the likes of which I have never heard before or since.

My eyes burst open with tears in devoted fear at what my father was doing to my mother. A lump grew in my throat to the point where I was having great difficulty breathing, which was good because a shadow crossed in front of the doorway to my bedroom.

He was standing in the hallway, one fist dripping blood. The other clenched tightly around his belt. That belt. The belt I had felt so many times tearing into my flesh.

His head turned, he looked directly at me.

My gaze locked on his and I squelched a scream into a mild gulp that — to me seemed loud and ominous — but went apparently unheard to the beast, as he broke the stare, glanced around the open doorway and continued walking past it. A warmth pierced the numb coldness of my hands and I looked down to see something black and wet on my fingertips. As my eyes re-adjusted to the dim light, I saw that it was my own blood.

I passed out…

… And when I awoke, I was being carried in a run by my mother to the car. She tossed me in the back seat, and only then did I notice she had gauze wrapped around her head, red-stained near her mouth. My own fingers were wrapped in gauze, and my shirt and pants were covered in drops of blood.

I could only wonder if it was my blood… or hers.

At the hospital, they put some sticky goop on my hands and wrapped my fingers back up.

“Where’s my mommy?”

“She’s here. The doctors are taking a look at her. Don’t worry. She’ll be alright. You both will.”

“But I want my mommy!”

“What’s your name?”

“Jere.”

“Well, Jere, Your mommy got hurt. Can you tell me if you know how she got hurt?”

My silence was filled with the horror of what Dad would do to me if I told on him.

“It’s okay to tell me. I’m a doctor and I can help you.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Fine. We’ll see how your mommy is doing.”

“Is Jay Jay here?”

“Is Jay Jay your dad?”

My look of derision was blatant and pointedly accusing the man of being foolish.

“No. He’s my brother.”

“Your mommy only brought you with her. Can you tell me how you hurt your fingers?”

I decided to tell a half-truth:

“Playing hide and seek. I hid in the closet and held the door closed.”

“Ah, I see.”

The man stood and left the room.

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