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“I dreaded you going out, darling. I feared you would make a mistake, you know, go with the wrong type, and I would get a call telling me you were in trouble or you would return home hurt, not just dumped, but worse, forced.” She paused, and I held my breath, unable to interrupt. “I thought one of them might rape you.”
The nausea enveloped the back of my throat. It had been induced by the smell of dirty dishwater, the unwashed pans and plates, which gave off a pungent aroma. My feet glued to the spot, I sucked air through my nostrils, attempting to calm my rising sense of panic.
How little I had understood her. I’d been convinced she’d kept a tight leash on me because she wanted to spoil my fun and, above all else that she hadn’t trusted me, except she had. She’d fretted over her inability to the control actions of the unknown youths who followed me about and wooed me.
I’d assumed she would blame me for my rape. I never told her because of my shame and the circumstances of my relationship with my rapist. I reeled in my memories, re-living those spurned phone calls and visits, my constant excuses when she’d rung, and the lies I’d given her countless times in the weeks after my assault. My continuing denial had been born out of that deception—lying to my mother—and once I’d learnt the art of lying to her, everything else came easily, especially lying to myself.
I bolted out of the kitchen, charged upstairs, and retched into the bathroom toilet. Thankfully, Mum didn’t follow me upstairs. Instead, she called out for Jason.
He held me until I had nothing left to bring up. I sweated buckets, feeling the perspiration pool on my brow, upper lip, and armpits. I battled the desire to faint. Jason lifted me up, carried me to my old bedroom, and laid me on the creaky single bed.
“Keep taking deep breaths.” He squeezed my hand.
I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back down. I concentrated on breathing and focusing my eyes on the contents of the room—my chi
ldhood bedroom, which lacked my adolescent decorations and ornaments, creating an unfamiliar appearance. Even the bed was situated in a different location, and the wardrobe had been re-varnished at some point to cover up the stains.
“She foresaw my future,” I croaked. “My rape....”
Jason’s pallor was unusually pale, and he sighed heavily. “Gemma, we’ve done the blame game. Don’t seek to blame yourself or your mum.”
I propped myself up on my elbows. “I know it’s not about blame. I’ve lied to her for years. If anything were to happen to Josh or whoever comes next, how would I feel if he never told me or didn’t share the crap things in life. It would hurt and isolate me. I never gave Mum the chance to comfort me because I was busy playing the shame and blame game. Throughout my childhood, she kept me safe and tried to protect me, which I resented, and I repaid her with lies. All that time, she saw danger lurking, and I assumed she didn’t trust me. I took a path and it ended—”
“No, Gemma, will you stop with the fate and destiny. He targeted you, as he did the prostitutes and the student and others, maybe. Prostitutes don’t go to the police about rogue punters. They went because they knew he was dangerous.” He helped me sit up. “You assume she will judge and blame you, because that is how you see it. Why don’t you find out? Talk to your mum.”
“I can’t tell her, Jason.” I dropped my voice lower, cautious of the bedroom door being ajar. “I don’t want her to know about us.”
Jason rose and nudged the door shut before sitting next to me, perching on the edge of the bed. “Us. There is no us in what happened to you. You were held captive by a man who beat and raped you. She doesn’t need to know any more details than what you tell her. Your dad, too. Don’t forget your father in all of this. He may be the quiet, stoic type, but that doesn’t mean he’s uncaring.”
I rested my head against his chest for a while. In the silence, the warmth calmed my frayed nerves.
“Gemma?” The door muffled Mum’s voice. “Darling, are you all right?”
“Come. I’m with you, babe,” Jason said, holding my hand.
Returning downstairs, we found Joshua dashing about in a maniac fashion, like toddlers do when they’re overtired. We decided to put him down for a nap. Strapping him into his pushchair, I rocked him in the kitchen, watching my son fight then give in to sleep. Creeping away, I joined the others in the lounge.
“Are you unwell, Gemma?” asked Dad. “Mum said you were sick.”
Sitting next to Jason, he put an arm around my shoulder. I cleared my throat. “I’ve something to tell you.” I thought of countless painful, nerve-racking things I had done that were easier than sitting in my parents’ house and telling them about my rape.
Mum sat rigid with horror as I told her how one day, over five years ago, I had gone to a man’s house. A man whom I’d slept with many times. I whispered how he tied me up, beat me unconscious, and raped me. I left out the nature of our relationship—that he’d spanked me on other occasions with my consent—and I made no mention of how he covered me with blood, nor did I describe his verbal abuse or the threats to my life.
“Where is the bastard!” raged Dad, leaping up with clenched fists. “Why isn’t he in prison, why no police or court case?”
My mother’s transfixed gaze didn’t leave my trembling body as she assimilated my abridged account. My husband’s face remained impassive—he had heard my tale many times and hid his anger.
A small tear trickled down my cheek, and I hiccupped “Afterwards, I felt ashamed and believed no one would believe me. He wasn’t a stranger, and I thought I knew him. I was wrong.”
“Five years ago,” repeated Mum. “You haven’t told me for five years. When did this happen?” She seemed to counting back in her head, nodding with each passing year, and before I could answer, she remembered. “Those weeks you pushed me away. When you didn’t visit or ring me. That was five years ago. Oh, darling. Why?”
“You said yourself in the kitchen—that I put myself at risk. You were right, and I couldn’t bear you being disappointed in me.” I looked at the carpet, tears dripping off the end of my nose.
“Disappointed! Gemma, please, you’ve never disappointed me. I wanted so much for you back then, and it was unfair of me. I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.” Her voice broke, and I glanced up. Her face had aged into a line of grey wrinkles and puffy eyes, and in her lap she clasped her fingers together, turning the knuckles white, as if in prayer. I couldn’t bear to see her miserable for another second, and I dashed across the room as she flung open her arms.
She rocked me, and we both cried for a while. Ignored by the men in my life, we did what women have to do: we became extremely emotional and apologetic. Wiping away each other’s tears, we held our mutual sorrow in check. I turned to face my father. He, too, had aged dramatically in those few minutes. An introvert who let his emotions out through music and his ardent need to care for people through his career as a pharmacist. Now, blinking back watery eyes and red-faced with rage, he was adrift.
“I’m okay, Dad,” I said, leaving my mum’s side. “I have Jason, now, and he takes good care of me. You know that.”
