Chapter Thirteen

Jackie D'arce's memoir continues into her teens and there the unhappiness of her childhood and the sexual abuse she experiences catches up with her. But at the same time, her high school days offer a great deal of delight. Light and Shadow once again in this unforgettable chapter.

Hovering Above Myself: A Memoir
by Jacqueline D'arce

Chapter Thirteen

Yesterday, February 24, was my birthday. I ordered a cake from Metro (best cakes in town) and in pink icing it read: “Happy 75^th Birthday Jackie.”  Everyone who read that said, “Seventy-five? But you look sixty.” Great to hear! On the phone when I told callers I’d just turned seventy-five, they said, “But you sound so much younger.” I don’t think people were just buttering me up, because there was genuine surprise on their faces and in their voices when I said: “Seventy-five.”  I really don’t care anymore about this aging thing, but it’s nice to hear you’re aging well.

Joan Baril came to visit on my birthday. She’s a novelist, a short story writer and the webmaster of literarythunderbay. She is a very good writer and an excellent judge of others’ writing. She likes my writing! Yay!

Joan brought me a ‘Cash for Life’ scratch-off card. We laughed.

We went through a photo album of old pictures of me, Mother, Father, Jeffrey (Jane,) Rusty, etc. All black and white of course. Joan picked out photos that would work best with my chapters on the website. I noticed that in baby pictures of me I was always smiling, broadly. Later, no smile.

Jane came bearing a cup of coffee (a rare treat,) books for me to read, her dog, seventeen-year-old Panda and a card. The card pictures a lady in a tight-waisted gown with a huge skirt. At the top of the card it says: “Her Ladyship Eleanor Pillingsworth.” Lower down over the voluminous skirt it reads: “The Gardener,” with an arrow pointing under her gown.

Inside, Jane wrote: “Congratulations on not becoming senile.” Everyone howled.

Stephen, my nurse, came (treated me) and brought a lovely card. He said the cake was the best he’d ever had. (The cake got good reviews from everyone.)

It was a very happy birthday.

I definitely feel more mature now.

I was still very close friends with Tom, next door. He was immersed in reading science fiction, so I tried it too. I loved it. Tom and I also followed the space race. The Americans were testing rockets all the time and we followed these blast-offs closely. Then in 1957 the Russians did it: They got a satellite into space. It was called ‘Sputnik.’ I remember being filled with joy and excitement. I practically ran all the way to Wiley Street to see Tom. Tom was as excited as me. It was a first step in exploring space: The idea was no longer science fiction. As for the science fiction, I’d discover an author, enjoy him, then read everything he wrote. Writers like Issac Asimov, Arthur C. Clarke, Robert Heinlein and others.

One non-science fiction book I read was Tess of the D’Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy. It was a shocking book: A young milkmaid is raped by an aristocrat. I empathized with her so I wrote a book report about it for an assignment. The teacher came down on me. I was too young to understand Hardy’s book. I assured her, I understood it. Then it was: I shouldn’t be able to understand it. I was only thirteen.

 “Please,” I said, “I read the book and I understood it. A terrible thing was done to Tess. Doesn’t my book report sound like I understood the book?”

My teacher was holding the volume in question. She waved it at me.

“Jackie. This is a very sophisticated book. It’s taught in University.”

“So why is it in our school library?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do I get a bad grade because I understood something I’m not supposed to understand?”

“No. No. I guess I have to believe you. It’s a good report. You’ll get an A.”

Nights, just before I fell asleep, I continued my quest for God. I wanted to believe in Him. And such a lovely reward if you did: Heaven. How wonderful to be able to believe (that as long as you are good) Heaven awaits you. And all your family will be waiting for you too. I would see Gramma Cryderman again. And Rusty, because surely a loving God would welcome pets into Heaven. But exactly where was this Heaven? Somewhere between Earth’s atmosphere and outer space? Where? Hard to imagine.

I liked what Jesus had to say about love: God is love. I didn’t know much about love. It was never mentioned at home. I was curious about it. I think I wanted it. People said ‘I love you’ in movies, never in real life. With every book I read, whenever an author said: ‘Love is…’ I read with intensity. So what I learned is: Love is trust. Love is kindness. Love is affectionate. No one was affectionate at home, except to the dog and the cat.

Love forgives. Was I supposed to forgive my father? I just couldn’t. It was almost unbearable being anywhere near him. And what about tolerance? I was passionate about tolerance. I knew I was a little on the odd side. The problem was my brain: It drew, it wrote, it got great grades. Was I supposed not to do any of that so people wouldn’t feel uncomfortable around me? I didn’t want people to be intolerant of my differences. I thought if I was tolerant of them, they would be tolerant of me.

This didn’t prove to be true. When I was in Grade Ten I had a locker that I personalized. On the door, I had taped up some pictures of horses I found in a magazine. One day I opened my locker and saw that the pictures were defaced: Someone had scribbled all over them. Then when I went to put on my snow boots, I found they were filled with garbage. Apple cores, orange peels, banana peels, old crusts. Someone was very intolerant of me. I didn’t know who.

 It was UncaBill who first made me think about tolerance. Every so often he would go on a rant. He sounded like a Nazi as he railed against kikes (whatever they were) wops, dagos, niggers et al. When an immigrant Italian family moved in next door he went into a tirade: They were taking over! And so on. I was proud when Gram went next door, welcomed them into the neighbourhood and brought them some cookies. That was tolerance. I vowed to be tolerant of everyone, no matter what. Love was tolerant. I wondered if anyone would ever love me. I was ready to love them. With tolerance.

I was experiencing the opposite of love. Sometimes I couldn’t stand to be under the same roof as Father—that’s why I escaped to town. One night I wanted to use Grampa’s car—now really Mother’s car—for transportation. Mother said: “No! You have to stay home.”

We yelled back and forth for a while, then I just ran out into the winter night, barely taking time to grab a winter coat. I had just washed my hair so it hung around my face in wet strands. The night air was freezing. In high dungeon, I marched down the driveway to the highway and trod on. It was seven miles to town. I could do that. Shortly, though, a pickup truck pulled over. I went up to it and peered inside. A nice young man. Yes, I would love a lift to town. By now my hair was frozen. I sat shivering, thawing. We drove off.

The boy and I talked. But then things went weird. He drove down a sideroad and pulled up next to a field. I was instantly scared. What had I done? He reached for me, but I resisted. “I won’t hurt you,” he kept saying. Oh yeah? Just touching me hurts me. He kept trying and I kept pushing him away. He didn’t try very hard, thank whatever entity might be out there. He was breathing harder and harder. Suddenly he shouted, “Oh!” arched his back while turning toward the other door. I was mute with fear, my black cloud was shooting out thunderbolts. But then he turned the truck around and went back to the highway. He dropped me at cousin Gord and Dora’s. Dora called Mother and she came and picked me up. We drove home in silence. I would never hitchhike alone again. It just wasn’t safe anywhere.

When I reached fourteen, Janice got me a job at Loblaws, the big grocery chain. One of the chains that was gradually starving my grandfather out of business. I talked with him before I took it. I wanted to be sure he was not hurt. He understood I needed to make some money. The $4000.00 I made with Silversmoke Kennel was all gone, spent on plain living, and winter coats and clothes for all the kids. I was too busy with high school to breed Lisa yet again, so I had to find something else.

I was put in the produce department, surrounded by all the fruits I had always craved: Peaches, pears, nectarines, apricots, grapes, cherries. The evenings I worked I stayed at 544.

Another event when I was fourteen stayed with me. I was at the movies and the show was Anastasia starring Yul Brynner. I couldn’t take my eyes off Yul: Striding around in his black outfits, his high black riding boots, proudly bald in a time when baldness was considered unattractive. Then, halfway through the movie, I felt a strange tingle travel all through my body. What was it? It was a delightful feeling. I watched Yul intently. I had the feeling again. Then I figured it out: It was sexual attraction! I had never felt sexual attraction before and this feeling was a revelation. It was a long, long time before I felt it again.

I was still in a special advanced class in Grades Ten and Eleven. History was exhilarating. We were supposed to be studying Canadian history—for the umpteenth time. What lifted the boredom were our political discussions. Our teacher (I can’t remember her name) encouraged this debate which raged every period of history. The class rushed through the material we were being taught to get to the exciting part: The big political debate.

The debate boiled down to two people battling it out. Sheldon Gilbert was a Conservative and I was a CCFer—the socialist party. Sheldon and I tackled the issues of the day, from very different points of view. (I got interested in socialism because of Father’s affiliation with the party. Alert: This was socialism not communism—the CCF brand of socialism allows for capitalism.)

Science with Mr. Gayoski continued to be spellbinding. We studied chemistry and physics. Chemistry was okay but physics was riveting, even though it was too early for quantum mechanics and quantum physics—I would learn about these later from readings I did on my own. English meant Shakespeare. Yea! Art, of course, was great—even when it meant drawing pleats.

Somehow I met a boy who lived on Wiley Street. His name was Rocco and he was sort of average cute, black hair, brown eyes, swarthy complexion, not exceptional. We began to date and soon we were going out every weekend in his 1950ish black Ford. He was Italian so my family wasn’t happy about that. He was out at the farm with me on one occasion and it came out that in Italy he’d trained as an upholsterer. By now Father had some pull at his work. They needed an upholsterer. Father invited Rocco to come in and demonstrate his skill. Father said all he asked Rocco to do was to sew a straight line. He could and did. Rocco was hired.

Mostly we went to the Drive-Inn Theatre. I think we did a fair amount of necking, but I have no clear memories of that. We’d dated a couple of months and one night he drove me home to the farm. We sat in the dark car, kissing. Suddenly, somehow, he turned me around so my back was to him. He jerked down my pants and before I could even react something hard was shoved into me, painfully. I struggled but he held me firmly. There was a piercing pain and then a pop! and he pushed even further into me. Then it was over. It took me a few moments to figure out that he had just taken my virginity. I was furious. My virginity was mine! Mine to choose who to partner with. After everything I had gone through with Father, he had never done that. Rocco—You bastard! I scrambled from the car, fumbling to pull my pants up, and ran into the house. 

Intercity Drive-In, Thunder Bay

I sat on the toilet and saw blood. He had raped me. I was only fifteen. I cried for a long time. I was so ashamed I never, ever told anyone and I never went out with that creep again.

Frankie, my dancing partner from the Mountain Road Community Centre’s teen night was in one of my classes, I forget which one, maybe Latin. He sat a couple of seats behind me in the row beside mine. We never talked, at least, not much. I didn’t really have a crush on him but I wanted to try an experiment. I wanted to see if I could attract him. Just for the heck of it. So glanced back at him, making sure he could see me. I crossed my legs so one leg hung slightly into the aisle. My skirt was at the top of my knee so my entire lower leg was visible. I thought I had rather nice legs. I would maybe find out.

After a few days of me dangling my leg nearly in the aisle (it was amazing people didn’t trip) Mother called me at Gram’s one evening. She said that a boy named Frankie had come by to see me. I chortled in delight. It worked! I saw Frankie at school the next day but there was no conversation. Understood. I wasn’t on the diet pills so I was slightly chubby, therefore not acceptable as a girlfriend. I knew what was up. He wanted to pick me up at home, drive to some dark road and ravish me. Time after time he came by asking for me and every time I eluded him. If I wasn’t good enough to be a girlfriend in public then I wasn’t going to be a girlfriend on the sly. Frankie came by many times. I never went out with him. Ha ha.

I reached my sixteenth birthday and Mother surprised me. She took me shopping for my first store-bought dress. I had long yearned for store-bought clothes. The dress we found (at my favourite store, Chapples) was blue with a fitted top and a full, flaring skirt. It took three tulle crinolines to make it stand out. For some reason, my cousin Gary called and asked if I would like to go for a drive with him. Of course I would. I adored him! So Gary picked me up in his cream and salmon Ford Fairlane and we drove around, laughing and talking. Then Gary drove me home. He came into the house with me. I walked through the kitchen and into the living room.

“Surprise!” yelled a bunch of people. Mother had arranged a Sweet Sixteen party for me! She’d invited the kids from the Mountain Road Community Centre’s Teen Club. We played records and danced. But I didn’t feel any more popular than I was. Which was: Not very.

My glasses just broke so I’m writing half-blind. I can see the letters, but they’re fuzzy. I called my delivery company and they sent Mike. He Googled optometrists and found one nearby. What would I do without this delivery service!

My access code phone rang. I buzzed whoever in, couldn’t understand them on the lobby speaker. It was Mike! He’d fixed my glasses all on his own. What a sweet kid! I gave him a five dollar tip.

Even though I kept on top of my schoolwork and my housework, I was unhappy most of the time. I remained best friends with Janice and we continued the pursuit of Brian. (It had progressed. Sometimes he walked with her in the school corridors.) I went to hockey games and screamed and hollered like everyone else. Sometimes I stayed at 544, but I wasn’t supposed to go out on school nights. Well, I couldn’t bear to stay in. Janice was alerted and ready. I got gussied up then crawled out the basement window, snuck over to Grampa’s car, an old grey Chevy, and drove to Janice’s. Janice eluded her older brother Marvin and dashed out to the car. God knows where we went, but wherever it was it was fun. I also went skating at Fort William Gardens Friday nights. One day I got a call from Carol. She had been approached by someone named Gerry. This Gerry had seen me skating and he wanted to get to know me.

“What does he look like?”

“Not bad. He’s sorta blond. Fair skin. Come skating with me Friday and I’ll introduce you.”

I dressed in black pants and a black sweater: My most slimming clothes. My longish red hair was in a ponytail and I had curls hair sprayed around my face. I also had more confidence: Mother broke down and allowed me to wear some makeup. I found something magical. In my eternal quest for beauty I discovered…mascara. I didn’t care about lipstick. My lips were acceptably red but my eyelashes and eyebrows were still an invisible blonde, like an albino. The mascara came in a little box, a black cake. There was a tiny brush that I wet and scrubbed on the black cake. This loaded up the mascara. I peered into the magnifying shaving mirror on my dresser and stroked my blonde eyelashes. I brushed away and when my eyelashes were sufficiently black, I leaned back and observed myself in the big mirror over the vanity. I stared. It was a miracle! I looked like a different person. The change was dramatic. I looked well…really rather nice. After all these years of yearning for such a miracle and all there was to it was a bit of mascara. And eyebrow pencil. There was another little miracle. A few months back I’d noticed my skin looked especially white. Something was different. I stared at myself in the mirror. What was it? I stared and stared. My freckles. My freckles were gone! Completely. It was as if I’d never had them. Yay.

I went to Fort William Gardens where Carol was waiting for me. We stood leaning against the boards and talking. I was nervous. People skated by, skates rasping on the ice, organ music playing. In minutes, a guy in black skated up and slid to a dramatic stop. Snow sprayed from his skate blades. He grinned and said, “Hi Carol.”

Then he looked at me and grinned even wider. “Hi. I’m Gerry. Would you like to skate with me?”

“Hi. Sure. By the way, I’m Jackie.”

“I know.” He smiled again and held out his arm. I took it and off we went. He was a superb skater, much better than I. Also very strong. I could feel muscles under his jacket. We skated for awhile then he asked if I would like to go for a hamburger.

I would. We changed out of our skates and he took my hand (thrilling!) and led me to his car. He had a great car. Turquoise and white, big and shiny, I think it was an Oldsmobile. I hate to admit it but a snazzy car definitely got my attention, shallow though that is.

He helped me into the car. He started the car and music immediately played—a rock and roll station. It was 1959 and one of the year’s top Hit Parade songs was Bobby Darin’s ‘Dream Lover.” It was playing now. Such a poignant song! Good taste, I thought.

Gerry drove to a hamburger joint and up to the drive-through window. We both ordered cheeseburgers, and when it came time to say what we wanted on them, Gerry glanced at me and said, “Onions?” I waited a beat then said “No thanks.” They asked him and he grinned at me and said no. I had just let it be known I wanted to be kissed. So he would think I was fast—but after this evening, I’d probably never hear from him again.

Went to the dentist yesterday. Big chunks of two back molars just fell off. There were a few warning pains from one of them so I got to the dentist as fast as I could. Janice, owner of ‘Driving Miss Daisy’ accompanied me. The teeth were pulled, so even less chewing power.

I hate this version of Microsoft Word. Every key seems to have multiple functions. Hit the wrong one and all your work goes haywire. The old version worked just fine.

Gerry drove out to the airport and parked where we could watch the planes. I remember snow banked up against the chain-link fence we parked near. Stars shone in the black winter night. We ate our burgers and talked. He was very easy to talk to. He told me his family was Dutch and they had come to Canada when he was five. He had been in Holland during the Nazi occupation. He was twenty-one now. He had a Canadian accent. But he still had bad memories of the Nazi occupation. He lost his brother in the war to them. Now his family operated a dairy farm but he had branched out and had begun raising chickens for their eggs. It was the latest thing: The chickens were housed in long low buildings. They stood on wire so the droppings would fall through to a lower level where they could easily be cleaned up. They laid their eggs and the eggs rolled out of the enclosure into a trough for collecting. I had no idea then that this was quite lucrative. Or, that it wasn’t very good for the chickens. Gerry was quite excited by it.

We finished our burgers and Gerry turned to me. He took a long look at me, his eyes shining. I wasn’t afraid of him. Then he put his arms around me and pulled me close. He kissed me. It went on and on. It was the best kiss I’d ever experienced. Oh Gerry! I’ll never forget you!

We continued kissing for quite a while and he never presumed to touch me inappropriately. I really needed this genuine affection after the treatment by my father and by Rocco and, perhaps, by my family. It showed me that not all men were monsters. Some men were trustworthy. Soon I was attending church with him. Didn’t understand a word, it was all in Dutch. After church I went to lunch at his family’s home. We went out for the next year.

During this time, my baby sister, Jamie Lou, did not improve. Mother was frantic over her. She put so much store in being the producer of superior babies, she couldn’t bear one being less than perfect. She took her to doctor after doctor looking for a cure. She went through all the doctors in the Twin Cities so then she took Jamie Lou to Winnipeg. To no avail. I’d lean over her crib just staring at her. She was so beautiful! Golden red hair, opalescent skin, vacant blue eyes. Around that time I got interested in drawing portraits. Then in painting them with the only paints I could afford: Watercolours. So I painted Jamie Lou. It was a good image. This knack for portraiture came in handy a couple of years later when I was in the Air Force.

I am fighting a toothache. Just had two teeth pulled, now another one’s failing. Can’t get in to see the dentist until next Thursday—today’s Friday. Yesterday I called the pharmacist about which pain medication is best. That’s why I’m taking two different pain killers: I take two Tylonel’s and two Advil Extra Strength on top of my regular pain defenses: Marijuana, morphine and Oxycodone. All this only kills the pain for a little while. Now the other side of my mouth is aching. With all those medications, I am only pain-free for a short while. Really mulling over false teeth. No more waits in pain for a dentist. No more gap-toothed smiles. One last dentist bill! Hummm. I decided to procrastinate.

I had to have been around thirteen when, one morning, while I was getting dressed, I found blood on my inner thigh. This happened just before we moved out to the farm. I was in the basement, in our room with nothing for privacy. I stood there, a little baffled about what this might mean, when I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Before I could react, sure enough, worst nightmare coming true, it was UncaBill, seeing me nearly nude, with a bloody leg. I gave a little shriek and grabbed the covers and held them over me. “Oh” cried UncaBill. And he turned around. I called behind him: “Could you get Gram or Mother? I need help.” Wordless, he left, probably as embarrassed as me.

I knew what was happening. We studied it in Health. And all the girls at school whispered about it and the one who had just gotten her period was treated like royalty for a day.        

Gram came. Apparently, you had to wear an elasticized belt to which was attached a pad that went between your legs. I had an ache low in my belly. No one said this would hurt. But I went to school a little excited about what was happening. Well, I wasn’t a popular girl, but that day I was. Those who already had had their period commiserated in a superior fashion; those who hadn’t plied me for details of what it felt like. I stood under a tree in the playground at recess and many girls clustered around me. They treated me as if I were fragile. And I felt fragile.

When I got home to 544, I ran down to my cave and was startled to see an old bedspread had been strung across the entrance to my room. Privacy! Guess I got UncaBill’s attention.

Mother never said a word to me about this, ever.

Jamie Lou got sick yet again. Mother was gone most of the time. She spent her days and her evenings at McKellar Hospital. Then she came home, Father trailing along behind her. Jamie Lou had died. Pneumonia. Then we were at a funeral parlour. A tiny white casket sat in view up front. It was so pitiful. We all sat in the front row staring at that casket and listening to the song: “Night is drawing nigh…Shadows of the evening steal across the sky…” All the children burst out crying. Me, too. We sat, tears gushing and pouring down our faces, staring straight ahead. She was such a beautiful, innocent little creature. Jamie Lou was only four years old.

Well, I was in high school now and Gram and Mother stepped up their politicking. I should be a teacher or a nurse. Stop thinking about art and writing. You can never make a living as an artist or a writer. Only a few lucky people got to make a living writing or painting. And, of course, you can’t be both. It is just impossible to excel at both endeavours. I never mentioned that biology and physics also attracted me, but again, where in the world did one get a job as a biologist or a physicist? (My math wasn’t really good enough to be a physicist.) Besides, going to university was not a possibility. It wasn’t even discussed. It wasn’t even dreamt of. This was before Lakehead University came into existence. We could never afford university in Toronto or Winnipeg. Actually, we couldn’t afford it in Fort William. And I hadn’t heard of student loans.

        

For the first two years of high school I got by without seeming too crazy. I had Janice for a friend, Gerry for a boyfriend, Lisa for a dog. I loved the schoolwork and Father hadn’t touched me in a while—not that I felt safe from him. Then I turned seventeen and entered the eleventh grade. I had no boyfriend. Gerry and I had just dissolved, I don’t know why, we never argued. And Janice was busy with Brian. Except for Lisa I felt so alone.

I had days when I could barely get out of bed the feeling of sick dread so overcame me, almost paralysing me. The little black cloud never left me. I talked with Jeffrey about it. Father hadn’t touched her. Thank God. If He exists. But she had guessed something weird was going on with me and Father. I began to have difficulty paying attention in class. I couldn’t make myself do my homework. I was in Grade Eleven Latin one morning when I just put down my pen, got up and walked out of the class. I didn’t say a word to my teacher. I went to my locker and got into my winter coat. I walked outside to where the Chevy was parked, got in the back seat and lay down. I was utterly drained. I knew I was getting in trouble with school and with Mother. I was sorry this was so, but I couldn’t do anything differently.

I didn’t sleep. I was in some sort of removed daze, not completely in my body. Dissociated. I dreaded going home and seeing Father. But when I stayed in town, I missed my brothers and sisters. They were cute and entertaining and they were my brothers and sisters! I cared for them, deeply. I just felt so awful and I couldn’t even cry. Then there was a knock on my window. I looked up. Yes. I was in trouble.

Outside the window, I saw Mr. McKay, the vice principal. He was smiling and gesturing at me to open the window. I blinked. I stared at him.  He looked so kind and benign, I opened the window.

“Jackie. Are you sick?”

“Hi, Mr. McKay. I’m not sick. I just don’t feel right.”

“Do you want to go home?”

        

“No!”

He looked at me for a long moment. It was late fall—winter was imminent. Behind him naked black branches stretched for the grey sky. His breath came out in visible little puffs.

“Tell you what. I’ll come around and sit in the front seat and you sit there too and we can talk. See if we can get to the bottom of this.”

An adult wanted to help me? Quelle surprise!

I sat up. I watched him walk around the front of the car and get into the driver’s side.  After a moment, I got out of the car and went and sat in the passenger’s side. 

“Tell me what’s wrong. You’re not in any trouble. But when I see one of our finest students hiding in the back of a car during class time, I worry. I want to help.”

“I dunno, Mr. McKay. I couldn’t sit in class a moment longer. I just feel bad.”

“Parents getting along okay?”

“Oh, they have arguments, but it’s no big deal.”

It was getting chilly in the car. I wished I would just die. Be through with all this. I couldn’t tell Mr. McKay what Father was doing. I stared straight ahead through the windshield at parked cars, rows of houses, barren trees. All so plain, so Fort William. How would I ever escape this town? I felt like a prisoner.

There was a long silence.

Then: “Mr. McKay? I don’t feel right. Maybe I should go to my Gram’s and lie down.”

“I’m not letting you drive. I’ll drive you.”

I know he took me to Gram’s but I don’t remember anything after that.

Next was a grey haze. Somehow I was out at the farm. I was missing school. One night I was in the kitchen making school lunches for the kids. I had many, many slices of bread laid out on the counter and I was slathering them with margarine. Father entered. He was naked except for a pair of white jockey shorts. Mother was upstairs. He got up close to me and pressed up against me. I snapped. I raised the knife I was holding and waved it at him. I screamed, “Get away from me! Don’t touch me!” I couldn’t help it. But how would my family survive when he was gone, because now Mother would kick him out for sure. I had really done it: Wrecked my family.

He immediately began yelling: “Don’t believe her, June! Don’t believe her!”

I was astonished. He was inadvertently admitting his guilt! Mother came down the stairs. I was weeping and cringing away from Father. I can’t remember what was said. She put her arm around me and walked me upstairs to my bed. I lay down and she sat on the bed beside me. Even though I was crying, I got out the whole story of what he had been doing to me. All the while he kept yelling from downstairs, “June! Don’t believe her!”

More grey haze. The next day I was at Gram’s. She had been informed and she went to her doctor and told him about it. He told her that young girls often fantasized this sort of thing, when really, nothing had happened. Fantasized! No! It happened! How could I fantasize such a thing when I was just three years old? Impossible.

I couldn’t go to school. I couldn’t do much of anything. After a few days passed and Mother had not thrown Father out, I felt a mix of despair and relief. The children wouldn’t starve. His income would continue to come in. But it was now impossible for me to be at the farm. I decided I should just die. I was of no use to anyone. If I was dead then Mother could live with Father guilt-free. Everyone would be much better off if I just checked out. It made perfect sense.

I took a whole large bottle of aspirin and Gram’s heart medication. I went out thinking I had some time before the pills kicked in. I walked to Grampa’s store and just visited with him and Gram. They didn’t know I was saying goodbye. I had to fight not to cry, thinking it was the last time I would ever see them. Then I set out walking again and found myself at Auntie’s. She was alone in the house and she seemed quite happy to see me. She insisted we have tea. I told her I wasn’t feeling well. She said, tea, then you can lie down for a while. We sat at her yellow kitchen table across from each other, a blooming purple violet between us. At first we just talked in general. Then I choked up. Sitting here with sweet Auntie pretending I wasn’t going to die. I cried for a while. Auntie sat patiently.

“When you can talk, Jackie, tell me what’s going on.”

I told her everything. When I got to the part about him grabbing me on the drive home from breeding Lisa, Auntie broke in. “Was that the night we were all visiting at your Gram’s and you came running through the living room and up the stairs holding yourself across the front?”

“Yes! Do you remember that?”

“Yes. I knew something was wrong! Jackie, your Gram and your Mother may not believe you, but I do.”

It was a great feeling to be believed.

Then I confessed I had taken all those pills. She went immediately and called her doctor. She told him what I had taken and he said I would just need to sleep them all off. That I’d have a bad headache in the morning. Auntie comforted me and then she put me to bed between her crisp, white, sunlight-smelling sheets.

So I survived my first suicide attempt. Days went by and I didn’t know where I was or what I was doing. No one talked to me. I was telling lies about my Father, wasn’t I? Then on Friday night I went out to a dance. Jeffrey went too. We somehow got alcohol of some sort and I got a little drunk. Then I was sitting in the back seat of a car with a strange guy and Jeffrey was in the front seat with another guy. We were outside Gram’s house. An argument began. Then a boy poured beer over Jeffrey’s head. I was furious! This was no way to treat my sister. I hit the boy who poured the booze. He slugged me back, in the face. There was yelling. Then I was in the house. It was full of people. Mother and Father were there. Everyone was milling around in the living room and the dining room. I got a razor blade and went into the front porch and cut my wrists. I wandered around, wrists bleeding. Nobody noticed. They were all arguing. I don’t know about what. The bleeding kept stopping so I had to cut more. It didn’t hurt—I was numb all over.

Then I was in the Emergency Room at McKellar Hospital. A doctor was angrily stitching up my wrists. He was furious with me. He said: “I’m not going to freeze this. You’ll just have to put up with the pain while I stitch. You did a terrible thing trying to kill yourself! I’m reporting you to the police.”

Then I was in a private room, a police officer stationed outside the door. I was there for several days.  Then he jerked the line hard with each stitch, so it hurt even more.

Next I found myself in courtroom accused of attempting suicide. I couldn’t deny it. I didn’t know it was something I could go to jail for. I thought my life was my business, not the government’s. There were only a few people in the audience section. Father was one of them. He gave me a chill. Probably here to see if I was going to rat him out. The judge asked me several questions. I told him I felt better and that I was planning to go to secretarial school. He let me off.

 I was given an appointment with a therapist out at the insane asylum. I drove out there and met with a tall, dark haired, genial woman. I told her everything. She believed me! What a relief! To have someone in power, and an expert about these matters, believe me. Then I told her that I was thinking of joining the Air Force. She said that was a very good idea. I said I thought they would take care of me: House me, feed me, supply my clothes. I wouldn’t have to worry about anything except to follow orders. I wouldn’t have to think! Thinking was beyond me.

The therapist went on to say that they had very good psychological help in the RCAF and that I should get some as soon as I possibly could upon joining.

I got depressed writing this part. Then one of my nurses, Claudia, came to take care of me. She chatted about her son. I told her I felt depressed and just saying it, it let up some. Then I checked my email and there was one from Joan Baril that my Chapter One on her website literarythunderbay which had disappeared was now restored. Yay! Then I noticed she had a list of the top ten books she had read recently. I was on it! For my mystery novel Foreclosure (now re-titled Hot Blooded Murder and available at amazon as an ebook.) In the same list was Charles Wilkins great book, The Land of Long Fingernails. I felt flattered I was in such good company! No more depression. Hopefully…?