This is an unedited excerpt from the first draft of my book, Footprints On My Soul. I’m just past the halfway mark of my Higher Ground Leadership Practicum®, of which the writing of the first draft of my book is a part of. I thought I’d share the piece that I wrote this morning. This took place in June of 1974. I was fifteen years old.
I wanted my father to be there for me. I wanted my father to be the white knight who slayed the dragons. I wanted my father to be my father, to protect me. Most of all, in that moment in time, I wanted my father to love me … unconditionally. I wanted him to tell me everything was going to be okay, because I had him for a father. In my heart I knew he would make everything right.
The air in the living room felt very heavy. Perhaps from the unbearable heat of an early summer, perhaps from the closed-in mustiness of the unkept house. The room was alive with fear and the unknown.
My father sat on the couch, the next door neighbour who accompanied him sat beside him to the left. The man, whose name I did not know, sat in the arm chair to the right of the couch. A rickety end table with an old lamp, an overflowing ashtray, and empty beer bottles sat between my father and the man. There was a case of beer sitting on the floor in front of the end table, half of its bottles already consumed and missing. A coffee table sat in front of the couch cluttered with dishes, empty beer bottles, and overflowing ashtrays.
Robyn was seated on a chair he had taken from the kitchen. He had placed it beside the black and white television that was across from the couch. He could easily see the interactions of everyone who was in the room.
I stood just inside of the dimly lit room facing my father. The man without a name was within my sight line, Robyn was to my left. I couldn’t see him without turning to look at him. I was very aware of his presence, and it was comforting. I didn’t need to see him. I felt his strength and support. It was Robyn who had contacted my father, told him where I was, and brought my father to this house.
My moment was here. Everything felt so surreal. I desperately wanted my father to hug me and tell me everything was going to be okay, while I sobbed out my story to him. Instead, I stayed where I was. The words, “What is she doing here?” escaping my lips.
The answer was simple. “Mom is at home in case a phone call comes in about where you are. Everyone is looking for you. She’s with me because she’s been with me while I was driving around looking for you. She looked out the passenger side, I looked for you on the driver’s side.”
Something still didn’t feel right about her being here. He could have left her at home before coming here. He had to be at home for Robyn to even tell him that he knew where I was. I was irritated that she was in the room. Sharing this very private moment. She didn’t belong here.
I stood there a moment longer, in silence. Aware of how the afternoon sunshine barely penetrated the dreariness of the room. Slightly entranced by the lazy dance of the cigarette smoke and the smell of beer. Everything about this room felt wrong. I was so scared I didn’t know what to say.
I wanted to tell my dad the story of how I came to be in this house. I wanted to tell my dad that this man without a name raped me repeatedly and wouldn’t let me leave the house. I wanted to tell him how fortunate I was that Robyn came to the house and that he agreed to tell him where I was. I wanted to tell him that I wanted him to beat this man up. Report him to the police. Anything to make everything right again. I wanted to tell him that I wanted to go home.
I looked at my father, the neighbour, and at the unknown man. He looked so smug, as though he hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t look worried, remorseful, or ashamed. It was almost as though this was a slight annoyance in his day. He had better things to do with his time than to be part of this drama.
No one spoke. The room was eerily silent. They were waiting for me to say something. I thought again of everything that I wanted to say to my father. I was so scared. I was fighting back the tears. I had to say something before it was too late to say anything.
None of what I wanted to say came out. I didn’t have the courage to say all of that with the neighbour in the room. It was too personal. I didn’t want her to know what happened to me.
I barely whispered, “I might be pregnant.” It was all I could think of to say. I was sure it would be all I needed to say. I was sure that my dad would understand what I was really saying. I was sure that he would be furious with the unknown man. That my dad would protect me.
It didn’t happen. My dad didn’t seem to care about what happened to me. He was furious, but not at the man. He was furious with me. His response, “I’m very disappointed in the way you’ve behaved over the last three days. The least you could have done would be to let us know you were here. If you’re coming home, let’s go. If not, I’m going home. I’ve wasted enough time on this matter.”
My father wasn’t the dad I thought he was. He wasn’t going to protect me. He didn’t love me. He didn’t care what happened to me. He was willing to leave me here. With a man who raped me. With a man who I didn’t even know what his name was.
Higher Ground Leadership®, is a registered trademark of the Secretan Center.