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“I don’t care,” she said. “I want to see where you sleep. I want to imagine you there when I talk to you on the phone.”
We were fourteen and had begun occasionally holding hands on our walks in the woods. Sometimes she’d look at me and I knew she wanted to kiss me, but I was afraid—not of her, but of God. My father said it was wrong, and even though I knew he was crazy, he’d been the voice of God in my mind since I was little. Maybe God was crazy, too, but did it matter? A crazy God could still send you to hell.
But how could something so sweet be wrong? I prayed on it, but never got any answers. And Selma never pushed me for more than hand holding.
The summer I turned fourteen, my father went on a new medication that was helping, so I took a chance and invited her over. It felt like the least I could do, and I liked what she’d said about imagining me in my own room. I cleaned up ahead of her visit. I even painted and stenciled a coffee can to serve as a vase for the fresh flowers I’d picked in the vacant lot down the street.
Selma was delighted. She even brought snacks – powdered sugar donuts and Doritos. We laid on the bed in my room, eating, listening to music, and talking about school. When our favorite song came on the radio, we’d laugh and sing along.
"I'm glad I finally got to come over," Selma said, her voice barely audible over the soft strains of a slow song filling the room. The warm afternoon sunlight poured through the parted curtains, casting delicate shades of red in her dark hair. This time, it was me who reached out, my hand seeking hers, and when our fingers intertwined, she held on tight. I shifted onto my side, my gaze fixated on her, and Selma tilted her face upward, our breaths mingling on the precipice of a kiss.
That's how my father found us. As he walked past my slightly ajar bedroom door, his eyes fell upon the sight before him—a moment frozen in time, two hearts on the precipice of something beautiful. He erupted in anger, his face contorting from red to a furious shade of purple. In his eyes, it was a boy I was lying on the bed with, not Selma, my short-haired companion.
"I don't know who you think you are, laying here on the bed with my daughter..." he began, his voice seething with rage. Selma and I scrambled to sit up, the realization dawning upon my father that his assumptions were gravely mistaken. When he realized my companion was another girl, his fury intensified.
He stormed into the room, his presence overpowering, and forcefully yanked Selma from the bed. Ignoring her cries of pain, he dragged her down the hall. I could hear her screaming but fear rooted me to where I sat, begging him to stop. I heard the front door open and found the will to rise and run to the window. I put my head out just in time to see him shove Selma down the front steps. She cried out in pain as she hit the ground. My heart sank at the sight of her tear-streaked face. She clambered to her feet, cradling the wrist I would later learn was broken in the fall. Despite her pain, Selma summoned the strength to flee to the neighbors who took her in and called 911. I was afraid for her, for myself. I knew what was coming.
Amidst the blare of distant sirens, my father stormed back into the room, his rage unrelenting. He knew they would be coming for him, and he blamed me.
“Dyke bitch,” he said. “I should have known.”
There was no room to escape. I backed into the corner of my room, trembling as he undid belt and pulled it with a snap from the loops. I made a single, desperate attempt to dart past him, but the room was too slow. He drove his fist into my belly before I could get past him, and I dropped to the floor. My father, my own flesh and blood, loomed above me, unleashing a barrage of blows that landed indiscriminately on my shoulders, my back, my legs.
In the distance, I heard car doors slam. I opened my mouth to scream for help but only a pained wail emerged. I felt myself lifted to standing, if you can call it that. I was weaving from pain and shock. My father abandoned the belt and had resorted to using his bare hands. The room was filled with the sickening sounds of fists connecting with flesh. Time stood still as the violence intensified. My father yelled a name with every blow.Slut. Whore. Disgrace. Filth.
I fought to stay on my feet, to move away, but I couldn’t. I slumped to the floor. As I tried to crawl away my father’s foot caught me in midsection with a brutal kick. Desperation surged within me, as I clung to the hope that this torment would soon end. Tears mixed with blood, streaming down my battered face. I thought I was going to die.
Then, salvation arrived in the form of two uniformed officers who stormed into the chaotic scene. Without hesitation, they intervened, forcibly separating my father from me. His violent rampage had come to an end. Handcuffs were slapped around his wrists. From where I lay curled up in a corner, I could hear him try to reason with them.
“She was with another girl,” he said. “Don’t tell me if that was your daughter you wouldn’t have done the same thing.”
The neighbor who’d called 911 was also a notorious gossip. By the next morning, half the town knew what had happened. The scandalous tale of my relationship with Selma twisted and mutated as it passed from one wagging tongue to another. The rumors swirled, grotesque and exaggerated, painting a lurid picture of forbidden love and immorality. The town drunk’s daughter was a lesbian who’d been caught in bed with another girl doing all manner of perversions. Despite the fact that my father had injured two teenagers – one his own daughter – the locals were divided on whether he’d deserved to be thrown in jail.
In the aftermath, Selma's family made a difficult decision. The combination of the assault on her and the scandalous tales circulating in our community became too much to bear. They chose to uproot themselves, to seek solace in a place free from prying eyes and judgmental whispers. Selma vanished from my life, leaving behind an empty void, a painful reminder of what once was.
I was devastated and never forgave my father. Whenever I put together a funeral bouquet I wonder if there were any flowers at his funeral. I wouldn’t know. I didn’t attend and have fallen out of touch with the mother who stuck by his side after what he did.
My feelings for Selma had been real. I blamed myself for what happened to her and in my mind, the sin of my attraction to her resulted in both of us being punished. My mother, while not as religious as my father, forbade me from even mentioning Selma’s name. “You need to learn to talk to boys,” she said. “Don’t go getting mixed up.”
Mixed up. Her words had hurt nearly as much as my father’s punches. How could I tell her the truth? How would someone like her understand that the only time I didn’t feel mixed up was when I was with Selma? With Selma I not only felt loved, I felt the capacity to give it freely. Selma made me feel worthy.
I counted the days until I could leave home.
I keep looking out the window, keep listening for the sound of Tandy’s pick-up truck. Self-doubt plagues me. What if Tandy has changed her mind? I don’t realize how much I want this until I see her truck approaching my house. It’s 6:27 p.m. She’s right on time.
I take a deep breath and look around my modest little home. It’s not in the best part of town, but the rent is affordable. Barely. I’ve tried to make it a welcoming place, my own little haven. My landlord is pretty cool and was fine with me making cosmetic improvements so long as I understood it was at my own expense. So maybe it isn’t the most financially responsible thing to do, but I’m determined to give myself the home I never had so I’ve bargain shopped for paint and accessories and fixed the place up as I have been able to afford it.
Now the kitchen is a sunny yellow, the little window over the sink hung with antique lace curtains I picked up for three bucks at a yard sale. The living room walls are sage green with a stenciled ivy border at the top. Reproduction artwork gives me something pretty to look at when I can’t bear the view of the cracked sidewalks and pot-holed street.
On the way to the door, I pass the wall mirror and check my reflection. Tandy said she liked my flowered dress so I’m wearing another one today – a sundress with tiny daisies on it. My hair in a ponytail; the holder has a daisy on it that matches the ones on my dress.
My heart flutters when I hear the knock at the door. I open it and the flutter becomes a flip. Tandy is wearing blue jeans and a fitted tank top that shows off her toned arms. She’s in such remarkable shape that I feel soft by comparison. Tandy doesn’t seem to notice, though. She tells me I look adorable as I invite her in.
“Wow, your place is even cuter in daylight,” she jokes, reminding me that the last time she was here was the night she brought me home drunk.
“Yeah, the last time you were here you tucked me in.”
“I did.”
