Minnesota

 Recollections 

Connie pushed the oversized platter into the cabinet, without success. It stuck out like a sore thumb. No matter, I'll leave it out until she gets back. She tried to close the cabinet doors when a small heart-shaped pendant caught her eye.

            'For the best little Girl', the engraving read. In the two weeks she'd known her, Nena hadn’t mentioned any immediate family. Nena spoke a great deal about Lars and his late wife, but no one else.

“What are you doing?” Nena asked from behind. Connie turned.

“It was stuck back there.” Connie tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t sound as if she was snooping around. Nothing came to mind.

Nena quivered. Tears ran down her face, her complexion turning ashen.

“Oh, my, I'm sorry.” Connie hurried up and a toward Nena, took her by the hand and lead her toward the sofa.

“Let me get you some tissues and a strong cup of tea, okay?” Nena nodded.

***

Connie returned with tissues, tea and cookies. Nena managed a thin, perfunctory, smile while trying to pull out a wad of tissue. Her hands shook so badly all she managed was to shred them. Connie did it for her.

“I'm sorry. I should’ve tossed it, I just couldn’t.” Nena eyed the pendant lying on the worn coffee table as if it was a snake, ready to bite. Connie put an arm around Nena and pulled her closer. They sat there, embraced, one woman crying, only moving to throw the wet tissue on the floor while Connie handed her fresh ones.

“If you want to talk, I'll listen.” Connie brushed Nena’s hair out of her face.

The young woman trembled. “I feel that if you know, you'll like me less, somehow.”

Her breath became shallow and fast. Connie, fearing Nena would faint from a lack of oxygen, rubbed her back. “Yeah, I hear you. I won’t judge. I promise. Of course, you can always poison my pastry if I do. How would I know the powdered sugar is actually arsenic?” Connie tried her best lopsided grin, hoping it would put Nena at ease. Nena nodded but didn’t say anything. She sipped her tea and occasionally wiped her nose. Connie, already convinced the young woman wouldn’t talk, was surprised when Nena's soft voice began talking.

“Why can’t I just through this damn thing out? I mean, it’s the only nice thing she’s ever done for me. And I bet she stole it or found it on the street. No way that woman would have spent money on something nice, not for me.” Nena scoffed, staring into her cup. “She beat me. And then sold me to men. Including my father.” Nena jumped up, dropped the cup that, somehow, didn’t shatter into a thousand pieces, and stared at Connie.

But Nena did shatter into pieces. “I was eight; Why do I have to tell my story like that? Why can’t I just say that I have two younger brothers? Why can’t I know where they are? I don’t even know if they have kids?” Nena paced the small living room, pressing out the questions.

“Why me?” She paused, stared at Connie with red, puffy eyes, begging for an answer.

“I don’t know.”

The realization that life was destructive, miserable and unbearable for some humans hit Connie like a speeding car. The sudden awareness of not knowing the reason or cause left her feeling numb.

She always thought her childhood was crazy. Then, when she met Lance, when he told her about his father beating his mother, the alcohol abuse, she remembered how lucky she felt. Still, it felt unreal. How the hell can anyone want to do this? Why? Because some folks are assholes. Because all human beings are human, but not all humans are human beings. Connie shook her head, ridding herself of the intrusive thoughts.

She looked at Nena, realizing that wasn’t an answer, not really. She padded the sofa cushion, prompting Nena to sit down.

“I don’t know.” She repeated. “I don’t know if what I think would actually help you.” She sighed, thinking for words to say to Nena. “Do you want to tell me details? Do you believe it would help you?”

Nena shook her head, ran her hands through her matted hair. “In counseling, we’re told to use the word ‘rape’. It isn’t easy. My stomach tightens; I get dizzy thinking of saying ‘my parents sold me to their friends for sex after my dad did it first to teach me how to do it.’ It’s like someone else is saying it. And as if one small word could tell what it’s like. How I can’t escape my own fears. They’re with me every minute, every second.”

Nena put the teacup on the table and blew her nose. She wadded the tissue into a neat little ball. “Every day of my life, I feel broken. Worse, I don’t think I can fix this. To look at others, knowing what they have is real, what I have is shit. What is wrong with me? Why me? No one can answer that.”

Constantina watched helplessly as this young woman fell apart.

Nena got up again, paced the room, staring at the print of Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin.

“Sometimes, I walk down the street, someone passes me, smelling like the soap my mother used. I don’t know how to say what happens then; my head goes numb. I can’t think or breathe. I’ve run into traffic, fearing she’s behind me, that she found me, and she’ll punish me for running away. Sometimes, I want to ask her if she knows how I stayed out of the streets after I ran from home, wonder what she would say that I sold my body to have a place to stay and food in my stomach.”

She laughed cynically.

“Once you're damaged beyond a certain point, there is no returning, no healing, only accepting and moving on. For years, I didn’t talk to anyone, I tried hard to disappear. But being alone with your thoughts isn’t the best idea.” Nena glanced at Connie with hollow eyes, reminiscent of a puppy in pain, waiting for its handler’s soothing voice to comfort it.

Constantina struggled to find words to say. There’s nothing you can say. She did the only thing she could think off. She kept listening.

“Worst, nothing I do changes anything. If I told you I had kids, would you believe me?” Nena glanced at Connie.

Connie’s eyes grew large at the revelation. “You have kids?”

Nena nodded. “Three. One girl, the oldest, and two boys. I was married. We lived in a small town in Oregon. We were so young, but it was a good time.” Nena began picking up tissues. Not finding the garbage can, she dropped them on the table and sat down again, rubbing her palms over her face.

“Until social services showed. At first, I thought they came because of what happened to me. I remember the haze I was in. It felt like I sat there for hours before I finally realized that I had not escaped my past. I just repeated it. They didn't come because of my past. They came because my six-year-old daughter revealed sex abuse by her father.” The tears began flowing again, her cheeks now red and puffy. Constantina held her through the new wave of grieve. How does anyone think of doing something like this? Her thoughts felt fuzzy as if she'd had too much to drink.

“For the next two years, I was offered services, counseling, even school to finish my GED. I had evaluations done. That's when they found out that I had dyslexia and a lot of other problems. I know a lot of people are always mad at DHS and for a time, so was I. Everything someone said to me, I managed to take it personally. But nothing anyone could say to me was as bad as what I told myself. At night, when everything was quiet, I felt like this is what I deserve. That I was an idiot for believing I deserve better.”

She sniffled. “My counselor tried to explain that these beliefs were not mine, that I had internalized the words and actions of my parents and now used it to judge myself. I thought she was crazier than I was. It took me five years to understand just how right she was. By then, my kids were no longer my kids, not legally anyway. They were happy and healthy in their new home, and I signed the adoption paperwork. I still get cards and pictures and even phone calls.” Nena smiled.

“Every so often, my mind takes me back to that time. I can hear all the well-meant advice. Every one of them starting with 'Nena, my dear ...' followed by words like 'don't give up', 'you're too young to be this angry.' It drove me nuts then and still does.” She chuckled.

Connie nodded; Lance had said the same thing to her many times and she, too, hated any sentence that begun with these words. Almost like an emotional allergy.

“A family in Fond Du Lac, Wisconsin, adopted them. It’s not too far from here. I wanted to leave Oregon anyway. I thought that it'd be closer to my kids, but it wouldn't be close enough for me to bug them until after I figured out how the adoptive parents felt about me. They’re nice folks and told me it’s okay to visit, offering to pay for a hotel room. Lars has been looking for someone to help so that I can go. For the first time in my life, I have the feeling things are going for me.  What if it's false hope?” Her mouth smiled, but her eyes remained hollow, void of any hope.

Connie sighed and realized she had been crying, too. She reached for the box of tissues. There were only two left. Connie pulled them out and stared at the empty container. I feel as empty as this box looks.

Nena refilled their cups when she suddenly froze. “Wow.” She whispered.

Connie panicked. “What’s wrong? Are you feeling okay?”

Nena looked at her, pale as snow. “Yeah, I guess. I’m just surprised I told you all of this. I mean, I never thought …” She slumped, studying Connie’s face. “Do you hate me now?”

“No. Never. This isn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.” Connie reached for Nena’s tiny, cold, hands. She cradled them, trying to warm them. Then she had an idea.

“I’ll do your shifts at Lars’ so you can go visit your kids. You should go, go soon. You need to see them, be with the people that raise them as their own. You need to know that everything is okay.”

Nena sobbed. “Are you sure?” The words slurred.

At last, something I can do. Connie thought, hoping it was enough to help Nena, to give her a semblance of hope, a glimmer of a brighter day.

I’d do anything to help her. Connie nodded.

“And then we’ll burn, crush, stomp that stupid pendant.”