The Place by the Window
Two generations of women — two atrocities — two outcomes(?)
7th February 1976
The ticking of the clock is loud. Far too loud for my liking.
The day is as cold as I am — although Clara had mentioned how lovely the weather was. Maybe it is in my head.
The man is in the drawing room, speaking with my father. From my place by the window, I see mother standing with an empty tray, scooping up the empty cups which once held coffee. Father’s face is grim but the man speaks amiably. Just as he had the last week.
Last week.
My chest tightens and the room closes in on me. I am there again in the dark room. His hands all over me. I scream at him to stop. Nobody hears me.
“Emma!” My sister Clara stands by me, her face pulled into a frown. She thinks I am crazy — again.
“Father has spoken with Mr. Rumberg,” she whispers. “I should not be telling you this, but you will be married next month.”
My heartbeat still in my ears, I say in a small voice, “My . . . what about my school?”
Clara frowns again. “Don’t be a fool, Emma. You will be eighteen next week. You would have been married sooner or later, anyway.”
“But Mr. Rumberg,” I gesture to the drawing room, his receding hairline and bushy red moustache in all its glory. “He is far too old.”
“Don’t you know,” Clara sighs, “Once a man and a woman have . . . lain together, you are to be married.”
‘Lain together’ implies that I had any choice in the matter.
Clara rushes away, after Father snaps his fingers at her, which means she is to serve more coffee. Mr. Rumberg lights a cigarette, offers one to Father, who graciously accepts.
The room is black. The smell of smoke is barely noticeable. So why do I feel choked, strangled?
You’re crazy, Emma, pull yourself toge –
But I can’t. I’m spiraling.
19th July 2001
My granny’s house hasn’t changed a bit. It stands just as I remember it from my childhood; gaudy carpets and curtains, rosaries on the wall and a tiny bottle of holy water on the kitchen shelf, although I distinctly remember my own mother being averse to anything remotely Catholic.
And of course, my favorite seat by the window.
With my five month old baby nestled in my arms, I settle down on the familiar, bumpy cushioned seat, where I used to read my books or just simply stare at the driveway. I look down at my daughter — Ashley Emma Parker — and smile. I had always wanted to bring her to the house where most of my childhood was spent. My father had been far too old; he died long before he got to see me get married.
“Amy!” Speak of the devil. I turn wearily to see my darling husband standing by the door, his perpetual scowl deepening. “You’ve gone deaf, haven’t you? Listen, I’m bringing over Caleb and Jake for dinner. We want steak and mashed potatoes by eight, get that?”
“But . . .,” I falter, my heart slowly quickening its beat. “My dear, you know that I made plans with my mom. She needs to spend her last days with her granddaughter. I . . . I just think it’s a bit u-unfair that you invite your friends without telling me. I mean, I would have to buy groceries, clean up , arrange everything — ”
“I don’t care what you do,” He interrupted. “Dinner needs to be ready at eight.”
I press my mouth shut. There is no use arguing with him; I had discovered the outcome pretty quick.
I hear the door slam shut, and I look at the picture of Granny and my mother, side-by-side. Close to tears, I recall the stark differences between both women, however similar they may have looked.
“Divorce is a sinful act, Amanda. God has united man and woman in one flesh; nobody has the right to take it apart.”
“Amy, sometimes, divorce is needed. Never be afraid to take the right step, especially when everybody criticizes you.”
A salty tear rolls down my cheek. I have no doubt in whom I should believe. The purple bruises and those awful scars haven’t healed yet.
And as I look down to my sleeping baby, I realize that I’m not going to wait around to see these scars manifest elsewhere.
