To Understand

By Hilllary Walker

They didn’t understand. They couldn’t. No one, other than my mother, would ever know, because such things cannot be explained in such a way that shows the seriousness of it, the brutality, the malice. To understand you must see.

I was fifteen years old, walking home through a slow drizzle, hoping he wouldn’t be home. Praying…

A car rushed by and I felt a spray of grimy gutter water. It didn’t matter, all I could think of was what would happen at home. I walked slowly, watching my feet as they scuffed along the pavement, watching rainwater drip off of late summer leaves. I didn’t want to see the curve in the street that would lead me to the cul-de-sac at the end and then to a path, which would take me through the forest short cut and up a hill. And then home.

Home for me had been a sad sort of place, even before we had moved in. It was an old Victorian house, with its wraparound porch and the veranda on the third level. The red paint was gray-faded and chipping, the doors groaned with age, the faucets had to be cranked hard to ease any water out of them, much less warm bath water. It wasn’t those things though, seen as flaws by some that made it a gloomy place. It was something inside, the ancient feeling that someone was behind you, that someone was whispering advice in your ear when it was only the wind.

The house had an even more dejected feeling after Father came home, a picture of a baby, whom I had never seen, in his bedroom, for now he slept alone, at the end of the south hall, a place where only he dared to go.

The house had taken a smell of liquor once he had returned home, and an eerie silence, not the one that was usual between my mother and I. It was not the silence of comfort; it was the silence of fear.

I climbed up the worn path, ascending the knoll, reaching the crest and looking down at the final stretch before the back portico. I started my final steps towards home, dewy ferns clawing at my pants, which were already wet, as branches overhead grabbed at my tangled hair. An eternity felt like a minute, as I pushed open the door with dread. I could already smell the gin and tonic as I strode quietly into the kitchen. I recalled that Mother would still be at the museum and I would be alone in the house with my father.

I creaked up the first flight of stairs, hearing bossa nova jazz accompanied by clinking ice echoing at the end of the hall, and then hurried up the second stairway, holding my breath, my backpack swinging, water dripping and making dark spots on the wood steps.

Finally, reaching the top, I dropped my backpack against the wall and shut my door, the tiny click of the handle sounding like a thousand drums. I pulled a chair in front of the exit and hoped he had been too drunk to notice me. I sank down against it, some dispair overtaking my body, my chest wracking with silent, dry sobbing, as I listened to the music, turned up ten levels too loud, as he sang off key. The loud, obnoxious, off-key singing, it was the constant, surest sign.

A soft knock. “Tea?” I dragged the chair back to its place before the desk and I pulled the door open. My mother was home, a tiny smile deepening the creases around her mouth, pinching the corners of her eyes. “Please?” she mouthed to me, without making a sound, her eyes nervously darting towards the stairs. The music had been shut off. I swallowed and stepped out into the hall, wondering what he would say that evening.

Something raced through my body, ten times stronger than adrenaline, as I listened to the creaking on the stairs, the descending footsteps, heavy and slow. My mother sighed, trying to tuck her hair behind her ear, though it already was there, smoothed into place at least a thousand times. One of my hands was cupped around my tea, and the other was drawn to my mouth as I chewed at my nails. Finally he sat down and he waved my mother off as she approached to pour him some black earl. “A scotch.” He growled, staring at me with sunken eyes as I bit at my fingertips.

As my mother unwisely poured him a drink, the liquid clinking around the ice chips, he suddenly yanked my hand away from my mouth, drawing his brow down, glaring down at my ragged nails with harsh criticism. He gave a castigating snort and released my hand. My lip trembled and my hand fell to the table with a thud.

He took his glass and downed most of its contents, slamming it down. My mother tensed as it made the dishes shake. We sat there, tightlipped through his second and third drink, too afraid to even give comforting glances to each other. It was strange, the way he could make us cower so without saying anything, the way we tiptoed around, terrified of his glance. Finally, as he gulped and then rubbed at his temple, I started to rise, slowly at first, trying to not look at my mother, whose eyes pleaded with me to stay. Just as I started to away from the table, he looked at me, some hatred burning in his gaze. I stiffened. “Where do you think you’re going?” He snapped contemptuously. I sank back into my chair.

Later, after I thought he had fallen asleep in a liquor-induced stupor I crept to my piano, sorting through my music, hesitantly pressing a few keys first, gradually playing louder and faster, the tone of D minor echoing through the house. My smiled sadly as I played, knowing that I would never be able to practice as I had when he was away. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, swallowing nervously, half-paralyzed with fear. But it was always like that, when I crept down in the night to get a glass of water, when I switched on the television when he was near. The piano was different though. I loved to play the piano.

A shadow fell across the keys as a chord fell away. My hands quavered as I held them, frozen over the keys, as the smell of alcohol washed over the back of my neck, seeming so strong that it could make my eyes tear.

“Your rhythm is off.” He spat. “Do it again.” So I played and, though I refused to look at him, I could feel his eyes on me, as my fingers stumbled over the trills and sixteenth notes. I felt choaked, some kind of panic rising up my windpipe. “Again.” He ordered, his arms crossed tightly, like a steel wall, a barrier. He frowned and narrowed his eyes. I cautiously tried once more. “Again.” He said, not even waiting until I had finished. And again and again and again.

I started to pull the cover down over the keys and he snatched me wrist with an iron-like grip. “I TOLD YOU TO PLAY IT AGAIN.” I stared at him, trying to veil my hatred. “Why?” I pleaded, ignoring my numb hand. “BECAUSE!!” he bellowed. “I told you to play it again!” I swallowed.

“I can’t practice this way.” I insisted, wincing. We watched each other and then he growled, “I am your father. You’ll do as you’re told!” He released my wrist and the piano cover clattered down loudly as I pulled my fingers away, startled at the sound.

I slowly slid up, moving away from him, some momentary courage swelling in me. “You’re my father? Then why don’t you act like it?!” I screamed. Then that intrepid, shouting girl was gone, replaced by one who was slow and homely, awkward and ignorant, with no talent, personality flaws and bitten-nails; I was unintelligent, an outcast. I remembered the things he had roared at me at on so many occasions. My courage fled then, as that wild look in his eyes grew, and I ran up stairs, hearing his fist pound down on the piano bench. “Stupid b-“ I slammed the door and had began to cry before he could finish his curse.

The next afternoon, after surviving the torture of school, the hard glances from those who didn’t understand, the loneliness that penetrated me even in a crowd, I wandered home, splashing in puddles and kicking at pebbles, a slow smile spreading on my face. He wasn’t going to be home that afternoon.

I climbed the stairs. At the top, I hesitated, something pulling at my attention. The room seemed empty, as if something never truly noticed was gone, the feeling that you’ve misplaced something when nothing is lost. “Uahhh!” I gasped, the knowledge suddenly attacking my heart.

My piano… Where had my piano gone? It had always sat there, against the wall, near the window overlooking the path through the forest! My mind gave childish cries, as if the instrument was going to appear because of my distress. It was truly gone though; a few crumpled pieces of sheet music lay about on the carpet. I walked to the hall, I looked upstairs, but again I led myself back to the strewn papers and collapsed among them.

The front door squawked open and keys landed on the table downstairs. I heard my mother set her papers down with a thump. I raced downstairs, my palm, by then sweaty, squeaking against the railing. “Where is it?” I exclaimed, the tears already brimming at my eyes. “He…” My mother looked down, tucking her hair behind her ear. “He…” “He took it! Didn’t he!” I watched her. “He,” I spat, “took my piano, just for the sake of taking it!” I sniffed and pawed at my eyes as she nodded. “How could you let him?” I cried, knowing she had done nothing to stop it. Cautiously she raised and pointed to a window.

My father had not sold the piano. He had destroyed it, taking an ax to it to it again and again. I turned and fled.

“How could she let him? How could she let him!” I murmured to myself, sniveling against my pillow. “HOW COULD HE?” I screamed against the soaked cotton, beginning to sob once more.

A strong, uneven pounding came at the door. It was my father and he was drunk. I could tell that even by his knock. “Go away.” I said meekly, choaked by my own crying. I hiccuped and hid my face against the bedspread.

As he shouted, “Open the damn door!” He sounded so angry that I cringed against coverlet that I clung to and whimpered. He pounded again, so hard that the bureau, which was pushed against the door, began to shake. “FINE!” He thundered. “Stay in there and feel sorry for yourself! Bawl like the crybaby that you are, you stupid blubbering girl!” I listened to him roar and stomp off as I began to cry even harder.

I did not come out of my room the next morning. I didn’t open my door when I heard a heated argument between my parents, or rather when my father shouted and my mother cowered. I didn’t come out when I heard his tires screeched against the pavement outside, as he sped off to work. I didn’t answer my mother when she called me for school, but I did accept some tea that she left near my door later that afternoon. It was cold by then though.

The next day she dared to knock. I told her to leave me be and then refused to move the dresser. A few hours later, when I crept down to the kitchen I saw a light flooding underneath the washroom door and I heard her sobbing.

On the third day she knocked and pleaded. I could just imagine her runny nose and red eyes, just as mine were. I could see in my head the trail of mascara carving shadows down her cheekbones. I let her inside.

“Oh god, you’ve got to go to school, Tor!” She sat down on my bed and took my hands gently in her own cold grasp. I pulled them away. “Your grades have already dropped so much…” I snapped my gaze to her. “Yeah, that happened right after he came home.” I muttered.

“And I can’t go to school. They despise me there! They don’t understand!” I cried. She looked grave. “What do they say?” “They… they think I’m crazy!” I hissed. “I’ve never mentioned it, but still, they sense something. I’m not that normal anyway, but now, oh…”

She just swallowed loudly and tried to smooth her hair. “You’ve got to come out.” She whispered, some urgency ringing in her voice. I rolled over and sulked, crossing my arms, facing the wall. “I can’t live like this. I’m afraid to ask my father if I can change the radio while we’re in the car. I’m afraid to ask anyone over. I’m afraid to ask for anything! I was afraid to play the piano before…” She touched my arm. I shied away.

“Toria…You’ll die… You’re right. You cannot live like this. He’ll kill you, you’ll be smothered, you’ll be stifled! Look what he has done already!” She cried, tugging at my arm. “Oh please Toria! Oh Tor, please?” I gave a startled laugh, trying to not cry. “Oh, Mama…” I wailed softly, finally falling against her. “I hate him!” I choked out. “I hate him so much!” My mother looked down and let her arms drop from the embrace she had gripped me in. She pushed at her hair. “Oh…” I cried, so miserable, some sadness eating away at my heart. Eventually she stood while I still cried and slipped out into the hall. “Toria, Toria…” I heard her murmur.

“We’re leaving.” It was a week later and I was just home from school. I chewed at my thumbnail and looked around nervously. “He’s not here.” My mother said, reading my thoughts. “We have to leave though. Go pack your things.” I looked at her dubiously. There was something different in her voice, though I couldn’t pinpoint the tone she tried to hide. I didn’t know what she was trying to keep from me, but I would know soon enough.

She handed me a tiny suitcase, gray tweed with a worn leather handle, truly more like a carpetbag than a suitcase. “Go.” For once, since my father had returned from New York, she sounded firm.

“Hurry!” My mother screeched from the base of the stairs as I grabbed articles of clothing from my closet. I stuffed a red sweater and some brown tights into the bag, with a pair of black pants, some jeans, a denim skirt, a button-down top. I grabbed my notebook and a hairbrush as my mother appeared in the doorway. “Come on!” I fastened the bag shut and followed, obediently as ever.

The train roared as wee stood on the platform, the ticket clenched in my mother’s hand. “There is only one?” I asked, looking over nervously. “Well… of course. I can’t go with you, you know, dear.” I frowned. “But where am I going?” I whispered as the doors opened.

“I have it all arranged, Toria. They’ll meet you at the station.”

“They? Who are they?”

“The people from the home, Tor.” She paused when she saw the look on my face. “You’ll only be there for a short while. Don’t worry… please. There are people there your age, who will understand…” She looked down and toyed with her hair, as if she was ashamed of herself.

“They won’t understand! You don’t even understand!” I whispered harshly as the doors hissed open. “Go on, get on the train. It will be for the best, I swear!” “Why though?” I pleaded suddenly, clinging to the sleeve of her jacket.

“I couldn’t let you just waste away could I? You’re not sound, Tor. He’s done you harm, and this is the only way I can think to undo it. “ I breathed deeply, trying to calm my shaky voice. “So, you’re sending me away? Why don’t-“

“Toria! Please!” She begged, pushing me towards the door. I was swept away, in the torrent of passengers, as they surged up the steps. I gripped my bag tightly and walked along, struggling to look over my shoulder, to search the ocean of nameless faces for the one of my mother. My mother who had abandoned me when I needed her the most.

He was tall, towering nearly a head and a half over me, and seemed swarthy at first, though he really wasn’t that, a little on the pale side when he wasn’t in the sunshine. He was handsome in an untypical way.

“Miss Ardeux?” I was just off to the side, watching the stream of people escape into the station, the weary mothers with sticky children, that businessman who had kept rubbing his eyes, as if his contacts were bothering him. He took my arm and I jumped. “Toria.” I murmured absentmindedly, still in my frightened daze. He smiled at me.

“Well, Toria, my name is Seb, er, Sebastian. They sent my to pick you up.” He ran a hand through his curly, dark hair. I nodded slowly. “Your mother told you the details, then?”

“Well not exactly.” I said dryly. “Oh, well, all right.” He said, still smiling at me slightly out of the corner of his eye. “Luggage? Do you need help with it?” I shook my head. “I just have this. We left in a… hurry.” He just nodded and I was thankful that he did not pry.

After a few minutes of leading me through the station and into the parking lot he stopped, opened the passenger side door of an expensive-looking car for me, and then got in himself. I swallowed and nervously dug my short nails into the leather seat, silently choking on the smell of newness. It reminded me of my father’s car.

The train station seemed to be location in the middle of nowhere, with two narrow, tree-flanked roads leading out from it, heading in opposite directions. Sebastian took the one that headed to the left, to the northwest, I think. I leaned my forehead lean against the glass window, which was completely free of smudges. He didn’t say anything or turn on the radio. He just drove, and he was good at that, just driving and not saying anything.

“Sebastian?” I asked, still watching the rows of birch trees, dressed in their autumn leaves, which were just beginning to turn, fly by. He looked over at me and gave a slight grin. “What is this place? This place that my mother is sending me away to?”

His grin turned wry. “Well, officially it is called the New England Sanctuary for… Abused Youth.” He sighed, sounding rather weary.

“Abused youth.” I must have sounded disappointed. “Am I one of theses ‘Abused youths’?” I asked. He slowed and pulled on to an even narrower drive.

“I don’t think you seem to be in the typical sense, but that… that doesn’t matter. What I think, I mean, that doesn’t matter.” He eyed my slacks and my black turtleneck. He thought I was looking out the window still but I knew he was looking me over. “You certainly seem older. More mature, I mean.” He finished hastily. The car halted and I stared up at the wrought-iron gates.

My stomach knotted when I saw them. They were just like the kids at school, a bit scruffier perhaps, but just the same, with their rows of chunky bracelets, the blue, sparking eyeliner, the jeans either two sizes too small or ten sizes too big; just the same, with their cold stares.

Some woman, named Cynthia, took my bag and pulled me into some room, which was filled with a circle of chairs, about twenty or so. They all were filled, except one, and she motioned me to sit down. I obeyed, smoothing my clothing to resist the urge to gnaw at my nails.

The woman must have introduced me to the group as someone new, but I didn’t hear what she said. Instead, I stared out a window, tracing with my eyes the patterns the falling leaves made in the air. Soon everyone else was going around and announcing their names, but I barely only caught them.

“And now,” Cynthia said, “tell us your name and something about yourself? Go ahead, stand up,” I rose, struggling to keep my fingers at my sides, and my gaze darted around the group.

“I’m Toria Ardeux, and… I’m…” A sudden rush of insults from my father overtook my mind. Stupid, Ugly, Foolish, Ignorant, Lazy, Untalented, Clumsy… I started to feel shaky.

“I’m a daydreamer.” I said, sitting down quickly as some around the circle made eye contact smugly. I just sighed and was about to look down at my lap when he caught my eye. Sebastian stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, giving me a pleased, reassuring smile.

I sat watching them all leave, chattering, all of them, even with the dark circles under their eyes and their bruises. Finally I was alone, left all alone with only empty chairs for company. I felt lonelier than I ever had, yet I loved to be alone.

I stood and wandered outside, kicking at the pebbles, scuffing at the ground with the toe of my shoe. I chewed at my nails and sat down on the front porch wistfully, staring up at the red brick façade.

I couldn’t forgive my mother then, as I sat there. She had said that that was the only way, and she was my mother. I should have believed her, yet why did I have that feeling of mistrust? That feeling that her motives were not pure? Why did I have that sense about anyone?

Someone sat down beside me, but I didn’t look up. “Hey…” I heard Sebastian say, some serious tone overtaking his voice. He nudged into me with his shoulder and I gave a slight shrug. We sat there for a moment and finally he asked, “Are you doing alright?”

I gave a dry laugh. “Sure.” My laughter turned to a strangled coughing. “I was just thinking about my mother.”

“Yeah?” He seemed interested.

“You wouldn’t understand.” I said abruptly, standing and opening the door to head inside.

“Here’s your room, hon. I guess you’ll be sharing with… Gabrielle! Uh-huh, I guess you’ll be with Gabrielle! She a super sweet girl, you know? It’s jus’ that, well, I’m not really sure how I’m s’posse say this, but well, she’s… jus’ give her some space, ‘kay? She’s… well, you’ll meet her tomorrow, hon.” The girl bounced on her toes and dropped my bag at my feet. “An’ my name’s Viva, in case you want anything!” She gave a crooked, child-like smile. “Sweet dreams to ya!” Then she bounded down the stairs, her feathery blonde hair flouncing on her shoulders, her red converse sneakers thudding as she ran.

“So what’s wrong with you?” A girl demanded. She sat on one of the two beds, the one with the rumpled covers. “What’s… wrong with me?” She snorted. “Yeah, everyone has to have something wrong with them to get sent here. Some were beaten until their brains are half-gone, some were starved, some, like me, were raped twice a day.” She said nonchalantly, toying with a frizzy orange curl.

“I’m sorry.” I said, moving towards my own bed. “Don’t be.” She said harshly. “What’s wrong with you though? Some have bruises and scars. Broken bones, weak hearts from malnutrition, some people limp. One girl is here because her mother made her deal drugs. One boy was kept tied up in the basement from eight days.” She spat. “So what is wrong with you?” Her words hit me like grains of rice in a windstorm. “You don’t look abused. So why are you here, taking up my extra space?”

“Never mind.” I whispered, dropping my suitcase, crawling into bed without undressing.

The next morning it was difficult to sit with them all, while they talked, shouted, and threw things across the table to each other. I pushed my soggy cereal around in the bowl, making the tiny O’s float around like fishing boats on the sea. Eventually I stood up and went outside, sitting down at on the steps of the porch. As I walked out, I saw Sebastian in a room that I passed, and he looked at me, giving a long, sad glance as I hesitated, making brief eye contact. He smiles slightly, but then looked away, as if trying to hide something that was in his eyes. I just headed outside, eager to be alone, to feel the breath of autumn in the wind.

I heard Cynthia open the door and step on the porch. I glanced up, watching her squint at me, her mouth pulled tight, like the top of a bag of pearls. She tried to smile at me, but even that seem strained, contrived. “Toria, you should try to get to know the others. You’ll be less lonely if you do.” I shook my head. “That won’t help.” I muttered. “Well…” I looked up. “What am I suppose to do here?” “Well… she said again. “We have counseling. You’ll be going everyday, and as you recover you’ll go less and less. We have group meetings once a week and—“ “What about school?” I demanded suddenly. She looked shocked. “Ou-our teenagers do complete schoolwork, but usually we left our new arrivals settle in a bit first…” “So what am I suppose to do?” “Well…” She said, before walking inside, without answering my question.

“He destroyed my piano. He was alcoholic. He would throw things and shout… and…” “How did you feel about this?” The man was scribbling furiously, barely even looking at me as I spoke. “That’s none of your business.” “Toria, I can’t help you if you close yourself off, and you need help.” My lip trembled.

“You’re worthless!” He snarled, grabbing a glass out of the liquor cabinet. I just stood there, my eyes shining with fear. “You clumsy, useless girl…You’re just rubbish!” He hurled the glass at me. I ducked underneath the table as it shattered on the wall and started to cry. “Get out from there!” He yelled, picking up another glass. I scrambled out and pushed my back against the wall. He overturned a table and it toppled towards me. I darted up the stairs, crying so hard that the tear were dripping down my throat and settling in the front of my blouse. I ran, taking the stair two at a time while I listened to him clambering up behind me, his heavy, foul breath, his angry, meaningless words. The panic that raced through me was so intense, the feeling you get when playing tag, ten times stronger. My legs felt shaky, my heart pounded, and I could hear him gaining on me, getting half of a step closer…

“Yeah.” I croaked, blinking back a surge of tears. “I’m the one who needs help.” I murmured sarcastically, anger pumping through me. How could that man, with his round glasses and wrinkled trousers, how could he understand what I had felt, what I had seen? My own mother didn’t even understand what emotions I had in my heart, and she had lived with his rage, his drunken fury. How could this psychiatrist even hope to ever understand me?

A week passed and I was mostly left alone. The psychiatrist, his name was Moorely, asked questions about school and my hobbies. “I keep a journal.” I said and he nodded approvingly. I just shrugged when he inquired about my grades, which had dropped from A’s to C’s. I often ended up storming out, frustrated by his slow inquiries. After my hour-long “therapy” session each day, I was generally ignored. I would go and sit outside and just think.

Once a large window was open on the second story and I could hear girls talking. “So, she’s emotionally abused?” I heard one of them say.

Another gave a snort of laughter. “Oh, poor baby! Did daddy tell you to pick up your toys without saying please?” She mocked.

I recognized the next voice as she said, “You know, Toria could really be disturbed.” Viva giggled. “But…Jeez, that’s awfully dumb.”

“She’s a freak. She had to come here because her father said some mean things to her? Emotional abuse? That such a stupid claim!”

I buried my face in my hands. How did they know? I asked myself, over and over. Who would have told them?

I sniffed and gave a hopeless sigh. They hated me too, just because they didn’t grasp what “emotional abuse” was. They thought I was a pansy, a crybaby, but they just didn’t understand. No one would ever understand…

I climbed the stairs with dread, knowing Gabrielle would be in the room. I opened the door cautiously and crept in. She looked up and sourly frowned. “He never laid a hand on you, did he?” She asked derisively. “No, he just threw things at few times.” I collapsed on my bed without waiting for her retort. I turned towards the window and tried not to cry.

I didn’t go to therapy the next day. I couldn’t anymore, I couldn’t sit there and listen to someone, someone who knew nothing about me, tell me what was wrong. I couldn’t stand feeling of feigned care, those tight smiles and sloppily penned notes on my behavior. I wanted to feel connected yet I only felt lonelier.

I strolled outside, breathing deeply. The air was so crisp and shocking, painfully cold in my lungs but invigorating. It was nice to know that I was alive.

I headed for an overgrown path I had seen the day before. It twisted in the wood, winding through the tight spaces between the trees. I walked, careful not to slip on the damp fallen leaves, and suddenly I was aware of it, the feeling of how nice it was to simply live without fear, walking downstairs to get a glass of water without looking over my shoulder, turning on the radio whenever I liked.

I followed the path, pushing my way through gates of branches and over logs, eventually reaching the shore of a lake, shallow and green-tinted, sitting in the middle of the forest. I continued walking around the edge, watching a mallard duck paddle lazily across the surface, making out the silhouette of a person on the opposite side.

“Toria?” Sebastian looked up and smiled. He sat on a tree trunk that had fall and was supported by another tree, forming a high bench. I scrambled through the tall weeds and sat down next to him, saying nothing. “It’s nice out here.” I whispered after a moment, watching him smile again. “Yeah, “ he said with a sigh. I raised my eyebrows.

“Why are you here? I mean, this place for mistreated teenagers.” He looked over at me. “Well, my professor thought that it would be a good experience.” I smiled finally. “You’re majoring in psychology, then?” He grinned and nodded slowly. “I guess so. It’s just that, well, I’m not sure if it’s what I want anymore. After coming here I’m so sure I’d be any good at psychology.”

“You don’t like it much?” He looked sheepish. “Well…” His tone gave away everything. “I don’t like it either.”

“Oh?” Sebastian didn’t sound surprised. I laughed slightly. “I guess it’s better than having shot glasses thrown at you. But I still feel… lonely. No one understands what it’s like. Nobody cares.” “No one?” I looked at him and started chewing at my nail. “It’s strange. I don’t really know who I am. I’ve spent so long listening to what people tell me…” He looked rather sad. “Toria, I think you truly know who you are. You just don’t know it yet.” He smiled wryly, jumping to the ground. “Oh, and Toria? I care.” He said before walking away, leaving me to sit there alone.

“I hate him.” I said, definite in my words. Moorely, who had started forcing me to attend therapy after a week of skipping, scribbled something into his notebook. Dr. Moorely sighed and threw his pen down and sighed. “Toria, you don’t hate you father.” He leaned back and I gazed at him, biting my nails, watching as he rolled up his sleeves to the elbow and then took of his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “But, Dr. Moorely, I do, really, I hate him.” He sighed again and laid his glasses down. Sunlight shone through the lenses and made prisms on the wall. “Toria, you do not hate your father.” I stared at the prisms. I leaned back in my chair as well, still looking at the wall, sighing. “Do you drink, Dr. Moorely?” He shook his head. “Mmmh. That’s good.” I murmured dreamily, thinking that his office, which was on the second floor of the house, smelled strongly of cigar smoke and leather. “We’re hear to talk about you, Miss Ardeux.” I chewed at the nail on my index finger.

“Toria, how did you feel when your father…” He hesitated. “when he treated you the way he did?” I looked over at him. “Stupid… foolish, ugly. Angry. Angry but frightened.”

He cleared his throat. “Stupid? He told you that you were stupid?” I just looked at him for a moment, watching the folds around his mouth move and he spoke, the way he rubbed at his bald patch occasionally while flipping through his papers. “I am stupid.” I could tell that he was resisting the urge to sigh heavily. “And do you believe that?” he asked, tapping his left temple lightly. “Is that what you think?” I just watched him and shifted in the chair. “Why do you get angry then, if your father is telling you things that you, yourself, believe?” I swallowed and looked away.

“I think you’re a strong girl, Toria. You’re passionate and creative and strong. You may think that you believe that you are stupid, but inside you are screaming the opposite. You don’t accept any of those things that your father tells you.” I looked back over at him. He was starting to sound sympathetic. “You just think you do. You were frightened, confused, and afraid of your father. He held power over you so you took what he said as the truth. You didn’t truly believe those words. You don’t believe them now. You’re a strong girl, Toria, and you are not stupid.”

The large clock struck twelve. I stood up, nodding slowly. “Goodbye, Moorely.” He gave a weary smile. “Bye Tor.” I walked out, passing a girl on her way in, a girl with scarred wrists and a nose broken so many times it seemed foreign to her face, as if it was suppose to belong to someone else. I passed her and headed down the stairs, shocked at what a psychiatrist could know. Maybe I was the one who didn’t understand and he understood perfectly.

Weeks passed. I didn’t cry anymore when someone called me an idiot. I didn’t truly believe that I was stupid any longer, but Dr. Moorely insisted that I wasn’t ready to return home. “But I feel…” “I know.” He said, cutting me off. “You’re fine now but if you go back now…” He shook his head. “I’m just afraid. I don’t think you’re ready.” I sat down glumly. “You don’t trust me.” I said. He sighed. “Tor, I do trust you. I know that you understand what happened. You don’t believe what your father said, but I’m not sure if you really know who you are yet.” I raised my eyebrows at him. He grinned at me. “I think you need to do, as cheesy as it sounds, some soul searching.” I laughed and walked out.

Autumn had passed gently, dying quietly and letting the new queen reign. Something was in the air as the first snow fell. It was unusually early, just November and still quite warm, and the first snowfall melted into a pitiful slush. The pond in the forest was gone and the mallard duck had disappeared, as all duck eventually do. Sebastian had lost his tan. Something was not right.

I sprawled on my bed, my arms hugging covers, my chin propped up and I watched as sleet fell down in heavy sheets. Something was not right, though things should have felt better than they had ever had. There was an emptiness in my heart, something that even I, myself, couldn’t explain or comprehend. I only knew how I ached inside, something pulling at me. I only knew that I on longer felt alone but still I felt no better.

Sebastian was moody as the snow first fell, too. “Working on your thesis?” I teased, though he found little humor in it. “I don’t even have my bachelors yet.” He would snapped, grabbing his books and walking off. I would smile as he’d leave, but truly it hurt to see him like that, irritated with me. Sebastian was really my only friend, and he was probably too old to be counted as that too, though the others began to tolerate me more as time went by. I suppose that the longer they thought of it, the clearer it became; while they were starved and beaten and had parents who would leave for days at a time, they probably had suffered emotional mistreatment along with the physiological abuse. Perhaps the idea didn’t seem so inane to some after a time.

My days were still filled with solitude, days spent walking in the forest by myself, daydreaming in bed during all the sunlit hours, but I didn’t take refuge in isolation to escape the outside world, as I once had. The quiet didn’t make me desperate as it once did, before. It was lonely but peaceful. My days were easy, filled with mugs of hot chocolate in the morning, hot cider and toasted bagels at midnight, worn, trashy paperbacks all afternoon. I would lay and listen to the humming wind, like a whispering conscience tapping at the window. I suppose I was fairly happy, unstressed, relaxed, but I was not complete. I knew something was not right inside. I just couldn’t find it.

It was a violent night, thrashing with wind and a heavy mixture of snow and rain. The whole house creaked and though it was cold outside my house was stifling. I tossed with restless dreams and night and then suddenly awoke, fully conscious, beads of sweat clinging to my temples, tears glistening like minuscule diamonds on my lashes. I took a deep breath and trembled, turning over on my back, recounting the dream, so vivid in all its color and life and brilliance, yet so hazy in its meaning. Suddenly it struck my mind with force and my mouth went dry at the thought of it. My mother…

“Dr. Moorely. “ I called, tapping my knuckles against his heavy door. “Toria?” “Yeah,” I slid inside and latched the door behind me. “Come sit down, Tor.” I smiled, a little bit nervously, and sank into his cool, leather chair.

“Moorely, I’d like to go home. “ I said hesitantly, not meeting his eyes, silently praying to myself. He set down his fountain pen and sat back against his chair. “Toria, you know how I feel about this.” I nodded, trying to breathe. “But Dr. Moorely. I really need to do this! It’s for my mother!” I swallowed. “He’ll… My father… He’ll destroy her too.” I finally finished, at last glancing at his face. He looked overwhelmed, caught between two decisions. “Well, Toria, I really think you would be better off if you stayed here. But we can’t force you to stay…” He smiled sadly at me. “If you want to leave us, Tor, then you can leave.” I gasped, my eyes lighting up. “...R-really?” He shrugged. “But I’d be sad to see you go.” I grinned at him. “Thanks Moorely.”

I walked out to the wooded lake once more, for one final farewell to the forest that I had loved so well. I made my way around the lake I saw a figure, silhouetted against the snow. “Sebastian?” I cried, walking faster. He turned, a regretful expression poignantly showing through his sad smile. “I heard you were leaving.” He murmured, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Yeah…” I said, kicking at the muddy snow. “This afternoon.” He swallowed slowly and nodded. “Didn’t the psychiatrists says that you weren’t ready to leave?” He asked quietly. “It’s for my mother. I don’t think I should go either, truthfully, but I think she needs me.” I looked at the ground. Sebastian sound mildly surprised in a contented way in what he said next. “Maybe you are ready to go home.” He smiled.

“Sebastian?” I took a few steps closer. “I just… I’ll miss you.” I blurted out, suddenly turning faintly red. “I mean, you were really my only friend, unless you count Moorely.” I gave a short laugh and he smiled slightly. “I probably wasn’t the greatest company, but I just wanted to say that I do appreciate your smiles from across the room, the way that you can just listen but make me feel like you’ve said a thousand words of good advice. So, thank you.” I leaned over and hugged him. I felt his cheek against my hair as he nodded. “I understand.” He said. I believed him. I stood up on my toes to whisper “Bye, Seb,” softly in his ear, before releasing him, dropping my arms to my sides with a bittersweet smile, before turning, as I felt my heart twist in my chest, and walking away.

I stood, gazing up at the old brick building. The brown stone was crumbling and shingles had been blown from the roof and the ancient windows made the whole house looked forlorn and dejected, especially in the light drizzle, but that house was special. As I turned towards the car, I realized that I would miss it after I was gone. I realized, as I flung myself down on the passenger seat, that I missed it already.

The train ride home was long but not tedious. My mind was swarmed with so many things that I often I could not nothing but close my eyes with my face in my hands. As the train sped away from the station my confusion, which had been lingering in me for the past few weeks, got even worse. It felt as if my heart was being ripped in two different directions.

As I gazed out at the countryside, my thoughts kept returning to Seb. Poor Sebastian, who was never quite like anyone else I knew. As the train rounded sharp turns, hugging the curve of the track, as it floated over the rolling hill, I smiled, know that I loved Seb. I wasn’t sure if I loved as a friend or a brother or just as a boy, a boy who was too old for me, but I was sure that I loved him, and I hoped that somehow he loved me.

I felt a flood of relief as the taxi pulled through the slimy rainwater, halting in front of my house. I paid the driver and then stepped out, breathing in the air as if it was my breath on Earth. “Home…” I whispered, but as I said it a sudden jolt hit me. , How could I be so sure where home was anymore?

I grabbed my suitcase hastily and strode towards the door, knocking soundly, creating a sound stronger than my confidence. I heard slow footsteps pacing down the stairs and then my mother opened the door and had me in her arms, pressing kisses on the top of my head. “Oh, Toria, you’re back! You’re back!” she breathed, clinging to me. “But why are you back?” She wondered, pressing another kiss on my cheek, running her fingers through my hair. “I was worried about you Mama. I was afraid for you…” I told her in a whisper as tears flooded to her eyes. “He’s gone, Tor. He left a few days ago… and I don’t think he’ll be back.” I pulled away from her, wide-eyed. “Go look for yourself.” She told me with a gentle smile. “I’ll put some tea on.

I left my suitcase lying by the door and climbed the stairs, both anxious and frightened, hesitant. When I pushed open the door to my room, I gasped, not doubting who had ruined my things. My bedclothes had been torn from the mattress and overturned to the floor. My notebooks were scattered and everything had been flung from my desk. A broken lamp hung from its cord like a dead man in a noose. My clothes were everywhere; my perfume bottles had been thrown against the wall, staining the paint. My drawers were slipping out of the bureau, like the six tongues of a massive, panting dog.

I knelt and began to pick up my possessions, making my way across the floor, after a few moments reaching a picture frame laying face down. After that, the damage had ceased, as if looking seeing the picture had made him stop his rampage of destruction.

I turned the frame over, spilling shards of broken glass. My mouth dropped suddenly as I stared the photo. It was a picture of me, atop my father’s shoulders when I was four or five, a red kite clutched in my hands. Tears flushed as I gawked at the picture, which had been taken when my father was young and without wrinkles or thinning hair. I was perched on his shoulders, my little feet kicking against his chest, as I shone a pearly, baby-toothed smile that matched my father’s in exuberance. We looked happy, as the wind ruffled my then-curly hair, as I clung to the precious kite.

I collapsed to my knees and suddenly I was sobbing on the floor with emotion, anger and regret, but most of all simple sadness. I remembered those times, those time when we all were happy, before my father started to drink, before his affair with his secretary, before her baby. I remembered those times and I remembered my father, his smiles and laughter, his quiet perseverance, his gray eyes that I inherited.

I recalled that day of the sailing kite as I lay crying on the floor, the smell of the grass, the force of the wind, the marvel of watching the patch of scarlet float among the sea of blue. I remembered the excitement that had surged through my tiny body and the laughter of my father, the laughter of a young man, a new father. Suddenly, as memories flooded back, that emptiness inside vanished, that nagging feeling was gone.

Perhaps my father had not gulped the vodka and the rum to be cruel or hateful. Maybe he didn’t do it to torture my soul. Maybe he didn’t drink to cause me heartache or loneliness. Perhaps those were things he had himself, sorrow and anguish weaved so deeply into him that they could be torn out. Perhaps he drank because he was just as scarred as I was.

I could not forgive that drunken man who had terrorized me. I could not forget the thrown glasses and the smell of whiskey and the way he sang of key and shouted. I couldn’t forget the way I had cried, how lonely he had made me feel. I could not forget what he had done to me. I could not forgive that cruel alcoholic.

But I could forgive my father, that smiling young man with a girl, not even in kindergarten, upon his shoulders. That man who had read to me while I was sick and who had pointed out Orion in the sky. I looked at the picture for several more minutes and then began to smile through my tears, just as the teakettle began to shriek down in the kitchen. I could forgive my father and I would love him, whoever he became.