Page 75 of Because of Dylan

“We were poor, and whatever money Mom got she spent on drugs and alcohol. I cannot tell you how many nights I went to bed hungry, or how many days I went without eating.”

She squeezes my hand a little harder, and there are tears in her eyes. And she hasn’t heard the worst part yet.

“I had free lunch at school. Most days it was the only meal I had. Weekends were the worst. I had no escape. She had men come sometimes. Leave money for her. I learned very early on to steal the money so I could walk to the corner store and buy food. Most of the time she was so high on something or another she didn’t realize money was missing. I never took more than a couple dollars here and there. I had to hide somewhere and eat. If she saw me with food, she’d get mad.”

River’s eyes fill with unshed tears. “No one realized what was happening? How did you survive it?”

“People noticed. Everyone knew my mother was no good. But they were just as poor and minded their own business. I don’t think anyone knew the extent of what happened, and if they did, they didn’t care.”

River wipes her tears with her fingertips. “How did she support herself? She didn’t work?”

“No. She was on some kind of disability. And she had a string of men who came through, and they gave her money. Some were even nice. Even high or drunk, she was beautiful. And men flocked to her. I don’t even know where she met them. Bars would be my guess. She brought them home, and sometimes they would stick around and try to help, bring food. Even try to get her to sober up. Those didn’t last too long. She didn’t like anyone who was actually nice to her.” Or me.

There are tears running down River’s face now, the corner of her eyes smudged in black. She wipes her face with a sleeve and pulls me into a hug.

“I’m sorry, I'm so sorry, Becca. I had no idea.”

I let her hug me for a little longer before pushing away and putting some space between us. My throat tightens. I dig in my backpack and find a water bottle. Drink, push down the knot. Swallow my pain.

We walk again, River’s arm through mine. “As bad as it was when I was little, it was nothing compared to when I was a teenager.”

Tears prick my eyes now. I’ve pushed them away for so long. Stuffed these feelings deep inside, as if ignoring the hurt could make it go away. But I’ve learned that talking about what troubles me, bringing it to the surface, makes it easier to let go.

“My mom got a new boyfriend.”

River’s hand goes to her mouth, and she holds back a sob. Can she already guess what's coming?

“At first I was happy. We always had something to eat when he was around. He didn't yell at me like my mother. Or get high like her other boyfriends before him. He was kind to me when my mother was not around. But he ignored me if she was in the same space as us. She would get jealous if he gave me any attention.”

I stop again and disengage. I can’t be touching anyone right now.

“After a few weeks, he moved in. He had a job, he’d buy groceries, give her money, and he didn’t care she got drunk or high. I didn’t understand why he was with us or why he fueled her addiction, but for the first time, I wasn’t hungry or cold all the time. In my limited view, that was a good thing.”

I walk again. River follows at my side, keeps the few inches of space between us. I’m grateful for that.

“It started innocently enough. A ruffle of my hair, a hand on my shoulder or a hug when he said hello or goodbye. But over time, as my child’s body started giving way to the body of a teen girl, that touch became a little more lingering. The hugs felt a little tighter. The hand to the shoulder would go up and down my back and sides.”

Sensory overload crowds my head.Rough hands with dirty fingernails. The smell of sweat and weed. The sound of heavy breathing.

I bend at the waist, brace my hands on my knees, drag in deep breaths and push the wave of sickness away. It's not enough. I stand up and take a few steps away and lace my fingers behind my head, press my arms, close my eyes and squeeze them shut. Turn my back to River. Purge the images.

The only sound I can hear is my own breathing. Everything else fades away, the breeze rustling in the trees, the birds singing, noises in the distance, it's all gone. Right now, in this moment, it’s me, my thoughts, and my breath. I drop my arms, lift my face to the sky and open my eyes. Not a cloud in sight, there’s so much blue—how can anything bad ever happen under such a beautiful sky?

I turn back to River. “The abuse lasted four years. He was smart and conniving. I didn't even know it was happening at first. In the beginning, it was small touches. He'd rub his hand over my nonexistent breasts. I was so skinny and small, I hadn't even gotten my period yet.”

River covers her mouth with both hands. Her head moving side to side as if her shaking it could erase what happened to me.

“I was so starved for attention, for love. I never recognized what he was doing to me.”

Her hands go to her chest. “He was grooming you.”

“Yes. My mother never touched me, never hugged me or kissed me. She never said she loved me. I liked his attention. I craved love and connection, and I thought he cared about me, like a dad would. I was so stupid. So naïve.”

“You were a child. It’s not your fault.”

River is right, I know, but a part of me still believes it was my fault. I should have known because I didn’t deserve to be loved. My mother taught me that.

“I know I was a child, and I now know he deceived me all along.” I shake my head, disgusted with myself. “But I should have guessed. I should have known something was very wrong. No one was ever kind to me. Why would this man who came to my house to be with my mother have any interest in me?”

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