Innocence Lost
The kitten died in my hands on that unbearably humid Sunday afternoon. I didn’t mean to do it—really. I was simply lost in the crushing memory of his betrayal. You would think that a child of ten would be safe in the hands of her grandfather, but no, not safe.
Not safe.
NOT SAFE.
It was a warm Saturday night in the summer of 1996 when my world was turned upside down. I hated going to his house, but he was my father’s father, and I was expected to spend time with him at least once while I was on summer vacation. We sat in his bedroom, where he spent most of his time. It was a depressing space containing an old, scarred dresser covered in assorted junk and three bottles of bourbon, two of which were mostly empty, but which still contained a swallow or two. There was also a sagging single bed, one chair, a TV, and a nightstand cluttered with pill bottles. An open carton of cigarettes and an overflowing ashtray completed the picture. The smell of stale booze, cigarettes, and old man was overwhelming.
The evening began like any other as we settled into the only activity we could share: watching TV. It was a rerun of an old western show. I think it was Gunsmoke or Bonanza or something like that. Honestly, I don’t remember.
“Come here, Michelle. Come sit next to me so we can watch the show together,” he crooned, beckoning to me with his gnarled, tobacco-stained fingers. He patted the mattress beside him and gave me what I’m sure he thought was an inviting smile. Arthritis had curled his hands into claws that only remotely resembled what had once been the strong hands of a working man, and they frightened me.
Reluctantly, I rose from my chair and joined him, sitting on the edge of his bed but keeping ample space between us.
“Well, scooch a little closer, girl,” he chided, snaking out an arm and pulling me tight against his side. His body odor was disgusting, but I did my best not to show how much it bothered me.
I was wearing my brand new nightgown: red nylon with a strip of white lace across the front and a little bow right in the center. I’d brought it with me that night, excited about wearing it for the first time, because it made me feel very pretty and grown up.
When the show’s theme music started to play, my nightmare began.
“This sure is a pretty nighty you’re wearing,” he cooed, running one of his ruined claws up and down my arm. He stroked my shoulder and then moved on to my flat little girl chest, circling around and around my nipples.
I felt frozen.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t move.
I tried feverishly to think of what to do or say to stop him, but nothing would come.
“Yes, ma’am, I sure do think you look awful pretty tonight.” His hand slowly traveled across my stomach, until coming to a stop between my legs, where he began to knead my tender flesh.
I had no idea why he was doing this to me. Fear gripped my stomach as I struggled not to puke McDonald’s French fries all over both of us. The only thing I could think to do was try to focus on the show and pretend it wasn’t happening.
His fetid breath blew across my face when he leaned down and whispered in my ear, “I’ll come and visit you later tonight.”
My mind must have shut down at that point, because I have no memory of the rest of my visit with him. I don’t even know how much longer I was in the room. Did I walk out? Did I run? Did anything else happen? I don’t know. My mind is a complete blank.
The next thing I can remember is my grandmother tucking me into bed. After she left, I lay with the covers pulled up to my chin, terrified and on the verge of hysteria. In desperation, I clutched my teddy bear to my chest, as if he could provide the protection I needed. If only he were real.
I stared into the darkness, replaying what had happened and his whispered promise. My entire body started to tremble, and I began to cry. At first, they were just fat, silent tears rolling slowly down my face one at a time, but they soon became an unstoppable, panic-stricken flood. The sound of his awful promise echoed over and over again in my mind. I didn’t know what he would do to me, but I knew it would be bad, and I was very afraid. My tears turned to sobs, and I curled my fists against my lips and fought the urge to scream.
“What on Earth is going on in here?” my grandmother demanded as she charged into the room and turned on the light. “Why are you crying? Did you have a nightmare?”
“No,” I whimpered, sniffling and wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “I just…I want to go home.”
“Home? But you just got here. What’s wrong?”
I shrugged, keeping my eyes downcast. What was I supposed to say? I had no words to express what had happened to me—no way to tell her what he’d said. “I don’t know. I just want to go home. Please, can I go home to my other grandma’s house now? Please?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s ten o’clock at night. If you really want to go, I’ll take you back in the morning after breakfast.”
“No!” I screamed, jumping out of bed to emphasize the seriousness of my demand. “I want to go home now! Please! Please take me home now.” I anxiously curled and uncurled my bare toes in the nap of the bedroom rug while I waited for her response.
She glared at me through narrowed eyes. “Fine,” she huffed. “Get your shoes on. I have to go and put my clothes back on. I’m not going to drive all the way across town in my bathrobe.” She stormed out of the room, muttering as she made her way down the hall, “I can’t believe this…What a spoiled brat.”
I didn’t care what she thought of me or what she called me. All that mattered was that I was getting out of this house and away from him. The relief was so intense that it made me feel dizzy. I waited quietly by the car as she threw my things into the back seat, and the drive to my maternal grandparent’s house was made in angry silence.
When we finally reached the safety of Grandma Lynn’s house, I ran up the wide front steps and hugged her tighter than I ever had before. I knew everyone was probably going to be mad at me tomorrow, but I didn’t care. My nightmare was over; I was safe. That was all that mattered.
The next morning, Grandma set a plate of grits, eggs, and bacon in front of me. It was my favorite and went a long way toward making me feel normal again.
“So, do you want to tell me what happened last night?” she asked, sitting next to me as she sipped her coffee. “That wasn’t like you to make someone drive you home in the middle of the night.” She added, “I’m not mad. I’m just trying to understand.”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, focusing on pushing the eggs around on my plate while I tried to come up with an acceptable explanation. “I just wanted to come home.” I could feel her eyes on me but steadfastly refused to look up. “I wanted to come home really bad.” She didn’t seem satisfied by my explanation, so I tried a different tactic. “These eggs are good. Thank you.”
“Mmhmm. Well, maybe I can take you back this afternoon, so you can finish your visit. What do you think about that idea?”
“No!” I finally forced myself to look at her. “No, I don’t want to go. Please don’t make me.” I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes as I waited for her reaction.
“Okay.” She wrinkled her brow and cocked her head to one side as she studied me; obviously puzzled by my tears. “I won’t make you go. I think you might have hurt your grandma’s feelings, though.”
I considered my possible responses, ranging from, “Well, he hurt my feelings” to “I don’t care.” Eventually, I settled on a non-committal shrug.
Grandma Lynn finally gave up, carried her coffee cup to the sink, and washed the breakfast dishes without any further questions or pressure. Grateful for her compassion, I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her ample waist, resting my head against her back in a silent thank you. She patted my hand with her wet, soapy one in unspoken acknowledgement, and I gave her one last squeeze before returning to the table to finish my breakfast.
That afternoon, I sat cross-legged in one of the huge rocking chairs on her front porch, the humidity of an impending thunderstorm cleaving to my skin like the uncomfortable caress of a rubber glove. I clung tightly to my kitten, Dusty, while I relived the nightmare of the previous evening. I tried to ignore the memory, but I was powerless to stop it. It ran on and on in my mind in an endless loop. I was lost in the feel of his hands stroking me in places I knew were bad, drowning in a sea of terror and revulsion.
I didn’t feel Dusty’s struggles. I didn’t hear her pitiful cries.
All I could see was the memory of him.
All I could hear was the western theme music overlaid with his whispered promise, “I’ll come and visit you later tonight.”
I didn’t know I was squeezing her too hard. I didn’t know what I was doing. I never realized she had stopped moving. I swear, I didn’t know.
Dusty died in my hands shortly after 4:00 p.m. on that miserably humid Sunday. In hindsight, it seems fitting that she died by my hand, because my spirit died by his when he brought my childhood to such a heartbreaking end. I hold him responsible for her death, almost as if he were the one who choked the life out of her.
