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The girl’s chapped and overworked hands scrubbed furiously at the dishes soaked in the soapy water that filled the old, chapped sink. Her breathing came hard and heavy; her body pulsed with the worst kind of adrenaline. She was sweating all over, and her muscles burned; but she didn’t, couldn’t stop.
With a breath of relief, the girl finished the last of the dinner plates in the sink. Now, just a few more pots and pans, and she’d—
“You! Brat!” Suddenly there was the sharp sting of a slap to the girl’s left cheek. The girl gasped and staggered, stumbling into the cabinet next to the sink. She turned her petrified face away, not daring to look up at the woman standing over her; but that didn’t spare the girl her captor’s punishment.
With a horrible crack, the woman swung a heavy frying pan into the girl’s shoulder. She screamed in red-hot agony, remaining on her feet only because of the clinging grip her fingertips had on the counter. Tears streaming down her young cheeks, the girl looked up with wide, terrified eyes, and her gaze found the face of a certain Mrs. Julie Richmond.
Mr. and Mrs. Richmond were the girl’s foster parents—the third set she’d had since her parents’ death when she was six months old. But in her entire thirteen years of life, she’d spent only eleven months in all of her foster homes, total: the rest of the time she spent at the East End Home for Children in New York City. And although the orphanage was relatively well-maintained, it was not where the girl wanted to be spending her entire life.
Anywhere was better, though, than the Richmonds’ house. The husband and wife had three children, all under the age of four; and they were all difficult children, too. Their parents hadn’t wanted to spend money hiring a nanny, so they contacted the orphanage, looking for a girl to help them out. They kept their true motives ulterior, though, and the orphanage’s director had no reason to suspect that Harold and Julie Richmond were giving the thirteen-year-old anything but a loving and supportive home.
Now Julie Richmond stared into the girl’s dark eyes with not even a trace of remorse. Raising the cast-iron frying pan threateningly, she growled under her breath, “You’ll stand up straight, girl, if you don’t want another one.” The girl’s back was on fire, but she somehow found the strength to pull herself to her feet and stand up. She wobbled a bit, but she stayed on her feet. She had to.
Mrs. Richmond waited for a few seconds in a deadly calm; then, with a sudden, shocking fury, she flew at the little girl. “I told you to have those dishes done a half hour ago!”
The girl was tense, craning back against Mrs. Richmond’s awful fury. “Yes—I know—,” she gasped through tears, “but your son Peter broke a vase and cut his hand, and I had to—”
“What?” The woman grabbed the girl’s silken black hair, pulling hard, so the girl gasped and was forced face-to-face with Mrs. Richmond. “I’ve told you time and time again how precious those vases are; I’d have hoped at least some of it had managed to stick in your retarded little mind! Why did you allow that clumsy fool to break a vase? What idiotic scheme were you up to, girl? Why weren’t you doing as you were told?”
“I was!” the poor girl gasped, horrified. “You told me to dust the parlor, so I was; and then I heard Peter screaming from upstairs, and I went to get him, and I found him by the display closet, reaching inside, with his hand bleeding and the green vase shattered on the floor!” She didn’t let on how scared she’d been to leave the feather duster to go upstairs to investigate the boy’s yells, and how scared she’d been to not do so.
“And did you clean up the glass, girl?”
“Yes ma’am!” she cried immediately, not daring to delay. “Yes, of course I did!”
“Well, then, you worthless brat,” Mrs. Richmond said, “we’ll have to find another way of properly punishing you tonight.” She thought for perhaps five seconds; then she turned back to the orphan. “You will be in the parlor tonight at seven-thirty, and not a second early or late. You will bring with you one of the old windowpanes from the attic, from the window we boarded up last year.” She turned and, with ice-cold eyes, searched the girl appraisingly. “You will not scream.”
The girl’s breath caught in her throat and tears sprang into her eyes. She cupped a hand to her mouth and swayed on the spot, trying to steady herself against the cabinet.
“Well?” Mrs. Richmond slapped her cheek again, hard. “Don’t you have something to say?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” the girl whispered, petrified. “I’ll remember, ma’am…”
At seven-thirty that night, the girl stood, panicked and fear-ridden, just inside the parlor door, holding a small glass windowpane. Mr. and Mrs. Richmond sat on a couch across from her. They gazed at each other; then, slowly, Harold got up from the couch and advanced towards the girl. She shied away, her back pressed against the wall. He snatched her collar and dragged her towards the middle of the room, forcing her to her knees. Then he grabbed the glass and broke it into dozens of knife-sharp pieces.
“Because you let our son cut himself with glass,” the man “explained” in a rough growl. Then he raised one of the longest, most threatening sharp pieces, and began stabbing the girl’s back with it.
The girl yelled. Fire attacked her skin at once. The minute the glass touched her skin, it pierced it, and blood streamed from beneath her thin shirt. She pressed her head to the ground, as Mr. Richmond ordered, “Do not scream, girl!” Her teeth were barred and her mouth was open; she was clutching her head and rocking back and forth. He stabbed her again and again and again, and she whimpered and moaned and wailed, somehow managing not to scream in her agony. She kicked her feet hard against the ground, distortedly, distantly hoping that somehow it would help; and yet the pain didn’t subside. It didn’t lessen. It didn’t stop, and she couldn’t take it…
She couldn’t take it—
“Annalise!” Her father’s voice, full of panic, cut sharply through Annalise’s nightmare. With a sudden start, she bolted upright, her face shining with tears. Her breathing was rough and heavy; she was hopelessly tangled in a bedsheet, soaked through with her cold sweat. Her hands were clenched in fists of fear.
Annalise, with effort, blinked open her eyes to see the face of her adoptive father swimming above her. She let out a sudden breath, filled with relief; her father was here, the nightmare had just been a dream, and she was safe.
But as Annalise’s heart rate slowly calmed and her father combed his fingers gently through her dark hair (a remnant of her Chinese heritage, which she was quite proud of), tendrils of the dreamland kept creeping back into her mind. Her time at the Richmonds’—which had ended only about eight months ago—never seemed to stop frightening her, no matter how far away it was. The constant terror associated with living with a woman who could beat her with a frying pan on a whim, with a man who could stab her twenty times with a sharp shard of glass, didn’t leave her alone. She still lived with the all-consuming fear and with the dark, haunting memories that popped up out of nowhere. They would attack her blindly, make her gasp or whimper at any seemingly random moment; and she couldn’t dispel them. Annalise couldn’t seem to make the memories go away.
Her father, a certain James Trotter, sighed and sat down on the bed next to her. He began to rub his daughter’s back gently, breathing softly and calmly. He didn’t know exactly what had caused Annalise’s fitful dream, but he had quite a good idea. James was familiar with the toxic memories left by years of abuse; he knew how hard they were to acknowledge, to discuss, to forget. They were painful and personal, perhaps the worst type of twisted souvenirs one could bear. And it pained him to see Annalise have to go through the pain associated with them.
Slowly, Annalise rested her head on James’ shoulder; he wrapped his arms tightly around her shoulders and began to stroke her hair. “Nightmare?” he asked in a gentle undertone.
Annalise waited a long time before answering. Then, ever so softly, she replied: “Yes.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“All right.” There was silence for a few minutes; then James spoke again.
“Was it about the Richmonds?”
“Yes.”
“Was it a memory? Or was it an imaginary situation?”
“It was a memory.” James jerked his head in shock at his daughter’s tone in answering that particular question. Her voice had been quiet and still since she first opened her eyes that night, but when she had spoken then it had been dull and hopeless, like an empty, barren wasteland. If her dream had been a memory, it had been a particularly bad one.
“Oh, sweetheart.” James pulled Annalise into a strong embrace. “I know it’s hard. You’re safe here, and I know you know that; but the memories are still rough. Believe me, I know, Annalise. Just… I’ll always be here, darling. You know that, right?”
“Yes.” Her voice was husky now, trying not to cry. James shifted slightly, and she jolted and squeezed his arm tightly. “Don’t go, Dad.”
“Oh no, Annalise. I won’t. Not until you ask me.”
“Good.” Annalise relaxed in his arms. But James could tell from the way that her breath kept hitching slightly that she was having trouble putting her nightmare out of her mind.
The girl’s father remained quiet for a long time, turning the situation over in his mind, trying to think of what he could do to comfort his daughter. Clearly, there was a good answer; but he didn’t like talking about his past or what he’d gone through with his aunts…
But if it would help Annalise…
Finally, James summoned the courage and said quietly, “Annalise?”
She raised her head slightly, her eyes meeting his. “Yes?”
He bit his lip and took a deep breath. “How much did I tell you about what… what I went through when I was a kid? With my aunts?”
Annalise didn’t break his gaze. “A little bit. Just basics. No examples. I don’t know any specifics.”
James nodded slowly. “Well, I suppose that’s about right… Well, you ought to know more. It’s not all that different from your situation.”
Annalise remained silent, but her black eyes didn’t leave her father’s face. She just looked at him, barely blinking, quiet.
James closed his eyes, his heart beginning to pound. He had thought quite a bit about the abuse he’d gone through during his childhood, and over the course of several years had even managed to forgive his aunts, but that didn’t mean the memories weren’t still painful. They were hard to think about, and even harder to talk about.
But he had to do it for Annalise.
James exhaled and began to speak.
“My parents died when I was seven years old; so, unlike you, I still have a few memories of them. I was taken to an orphanage for a short time, but the matron there quickly located my two aunts. It was their policy that children were to be sent to family immediately, and they didn’t really do background checks.” He paused. “I only spent five days at the orphanage before I was sent to Spiker and Sponge.”
In spite of everything, Annalise raised her eyebrows and stifled a slight laugh. “Those were their names? Spiker and Sponge?”
James smiled too. “Indeed. But they’d fly into a rage if anyone but them ever mentioned it.”
Annalise’s voice was dark. “From the little I’ve heard, they’d fly into a rage over almost anything.”
“That’s true, too,” James admitted, with the ghost of a smile fighting for control over his face. He let out a breath. “But they held a specific hatred for me, from the moment they set eyes on me. I didn’t understand why at the time. The thing is… their hatred made them want to hurt me without any sort of excuse. Spiker preferred to hurt me psychologically, and Sponge’s preference was physical punishment, so—between them, I guess you could say all of the bases were covered.”
“Dad….” Annalise snuggled into her father’s arms. “That sounds awful…” She trailed off, looking horribly upset.
“Oh, Annalise, don’t worry; it’s over now. But—but you’re right, it was pretty bad. They were good at finding reasons to punish me when I really hadn’t done anything wrong, and for that reason the abuse was almost constant. There wasn’t a day when I didn’t have a new cut or bruise or welt… or when I hadn’t heard someone tell me I was worthless or lazy or stupid. They kept telling me that the rhinoceros that killed my parents was going to kill me too, if I wasn’t careful… and they would insult my parents horribly, because they knew that hurt me… and they would always, always tell me that nobody would ever love me.”
Annalise hugged her father tightly, tears in her eyes. And then she drew back and bit her lip, a question on the edge of her mind. James noticed this and quietly waited for her to speak. Eventually, Annalise gently raised her head and whispered,
“And how… how did they hurt you physically?”
James closed his eyes and collected himself. When he finally did speak, his voice was even heavier.
“There were lots of different things,” he sighed, eyes downcast. “The most common punishment was beatings… they’d beat me horribly, generally with a belt or a broom handle. There were other things too… that was just the most common one.”
With a breath, James slowly unbuttoned his nightshirt and took it off, turning his back towards Annalise so she could see the dozens of violent scars that still covered his flesh. Some of them were clearly from a belt buckle; others clearly weren’t, and Annalise, seeing some of them, gave a quiet gasp, and reached out a gentle finger.
“These are burn scars,” the girl breathed, her hand brushing against a few of the marks on her father’s back. “And they’re bad ones.” She looked up, pained. “Did they burn you a lot, too?”
James turned back to her, his eyes curious and disbelieving—and also more than a bit concerned. “How did you know they were burn scars?”
Now Annalise looked down, her shoulders slumping. She shook her head, the strands of her black hair bouncing and falling back into place in just the way James knew they would. Annalise let out a breath.
“I have them too,” she admitted, her gaze still downcast. Then, suddenly, her eyes swiveled up to meet her father’s, and he saw that they were dark and full of pain. She sat there helplessly, tears brimming in her eyes, just staring pleadingly at him. James had no idea what to do; he was shocked into silence, seeing his daughter hurting so much.
“Oh, Annalise,” he breathed, stunned, unable to do anything else.
Slowly the girl reached out and took hold of the left sleeve of her long-sleeved nightgown and began to roll it up. James gasped and gave a choked sob as he saw her bare arm, pockmarked with dozens of small, circular burn scars.
James grasped his daughter’s arm firmly and stared at the scars. “These… Annalise, these are from cigarettes,” he said quietly, his eyes probing hers. Then, suddenly, it was all too much.
“Oh, darling,” he choked, and swept her into a tight hug, crying. After a few seconds, Annalise began to sob too, shaking in her father’s protective embrace. That only made him squeeze her tighter, and for a long time the two of them just sat there, with tears wetting both of their faces. Annalise relaxed against her father’s body and stayed there, not moving, not speaking, just leaning against him.
James was in a state of emotional turmoil. He knew the Richmonds had greatly abused Annalise—that was one of the main reasons he adopted her just weeks after he met her for the first time—but the girl had never shown him any of the burn scars on her arm. Yes, he’d seen some of the marks that had been left on her body (it would be difficult to miss the long, vertical scar on her cheek left by a knife), but the cigarette burn scars were something new entirely. On the one hand, he understood completely why she hadn’t shown him: it wasn’t necessarily that she didn’t trust him; scars were just a very personal thing and it was entirely likely that she simply hadn’t wanted to talk or think about it. Yet on the other hand, it completely shocked him: James hadn’t had any idea that she had any secrets or any hidden scars; she had been pretty upfront about the physical traces of the Richmonds’ abuse.
“Annalise,” he whispered quietly, as he stopped crying, “I am so, so sorry for what they did to you. Please—please know that I love you with all my heart, and you can talk to me about this whenever you want, or not at all, if that’s what feels right. I know it’s hard, and it will take time, but it will get easier, Annalise. Do you understand me?” Annalise gave a half-choked gasp that James assumed was a yes. He nodded slightly and continued. “And I promise you, Annalise, I will do everything in my power to help you through this. I promise you that I will always, always be here, if and when you want me. I think I understand what you’re going through, and I know what it feels like… so whatever you need, please don’t be afraid to come to me. If you want me to talk with you, if you just want me to listen, if you just want me there… I promise, Annalise. I promise I’ll be with you.”
Annalise looked up, and her eyes were filled with gratitude. She just hugged him tightly, so immensely grateful. “Thank you,” she whispered gently. “That means… a lot.”
She looked down. “It’s so hard! I can’t stand thinking about it, but then I can’t not think about it. Does that make sense? Every single day something happens that triggers a memory, something reminds me of something else and the pain all comes back. I want to forget it, but I just can’t.”
“I know.” James spoke softly, stroking her hair. “I know, Annalise.”
“It bothers you less,” she cried. “You’ve… not come to terms with it, exactly, but… but something! How?”
James looked at her sadly. “It still hurts me, Annalise; you’ve seen that tonight. But you’re right too, it’s gotten easier for me.” He sighed. “Part of that is time. Part of that is thinking. And part of that is… I’ve found a way to forgive my aunts for what they’ve done to me, and that’s helped. And, Annalise? I think it would help you too.”
“What?” Annalise sat bolt upright with an exclamation of shock. “You want me to forgive the Richmonds? You want me to forgive them for breaking a window and stabbing me twenty times with one of the sharpest shards of glass—because yes, they did that, and that’s what my nightmare was about! You want me—how? I’m sorry, but I can’t! They ruined my life!” Her voice broke here and tears cascaded down her cheeks. “They ruined everything!” she sobbed. “I can’t say they were right!”
James waited until her sobs subsided. Then he spoke quietly.
“I’m not saying they were right,” he clarified gently. “I’m not saying they did anything short of horribly abuse you. But—”
“But you want me to forgive them!” Annalise broke in, and her voice, while not furious, was not passive. It was definitely the angriest tone she’d ever spoken to her father in; though there was quite a bit of anguish in her voice too.
James waited silently for a few seconds; and Annalise, somewhat embarrassed, quieted and lowered her head. Finally, her father spoke.
“Annalise,” he said softly. “No person is inherently evil. If anyone is ‘bad,’ if anyone is cruel or heartless or bigoted, it’s not because they were just born that way. Somebody, or something, taught them how to hate like that; taught them how to hurt, to maim, to kill. They didn’t know that naturally; they learned that somewhere.” James paused, and was touched by the fact that his words appeared to have had an effect on Annalise, who was looking away now.
“Annalise?” James asked quietly, and she slowly turned to look up at him. “I’m going to ask you a question,” he told her, “and I want you to think carefully and answer me honestly. Okay?”
Still not trusting herself to speak, Annalise nodded.
“If you had lived with the Richmonds for five years straight, until you turned eighteen,” James said gently, “and, during that time, faced nothing but the same torment and abuse that you went through during the year you did live there; and you never ever heard a kind word or felt a gentle hand—if all of that happened, Annalise, do you think it’s possible that you would want other people to feel that same pain?”
Annalise looked up, her eyes wide. “Of course. I… I have felt that way sometimes, that I wanted other people to feel the way I did. I wanted somebody else to know what it felt like to take that much pain. I only felt like that on the worst days, but… but I have felt like it.”
“I felt that way too, sometimes,” James admitted softly. Then he swallowed and continued. “And, Annalise, do you think it’s possible that if all of that happened, you would actually start hurting other people yourself, to make them feel that way?”
This time Annalise slumped and turned away, her cheek pressed to the wall and facing away from her father. She looked defeated, exhausted; hopeless, even. James put a concerned hand on her shoulder; she didn’t react. And finally she turned around.
“Maybe,” she whispered. And then she looked into her father’s eyes. She sounded terribly worried as she answered, “I think so.” And then Annalise burst out: “What’s wrong with me? Why would I say that? I don’t… I don’t like hurting people, it’s just that… if I hadn’t felt any kindness… if I just needed someone else to feel pain… I might… I feel like I might…” She began to shake and tremble, dropping her head into her hands. “Oh God; what’s wrong with me? What is wrong with me?”
“Annalise.” James’ voice was gentle and comforting. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. I want you to remember that, okay? You are kind and sweet and a wonderful little girl, and you are absolutely fine. There is nothing wrong with you.
“But what you said, about how you might want to hurt somebody if you’d grown up with years and years of abuse? Have you ever thought that maybe that’s what the Richmonds feel like, Annalise? You don’t know what they went through and you probably never will; but what if Mrs. Richmond was hurt or tormented as a child? What if she’s just in pain and she needed to take it out on someone? What if something had happened to them that you didn’t know about—a parent or grandparent dying, or a friend in a rough situation, or financial problems they weren’t telling you about? I’m betting you didn’t know much about their personal lives; so it’s actually rather likely there was something that was bothering them but that they didn’t tell you about. And if that made them angry, it’s likely they just took that anger out on you.”
Annalise was looking conflicted; James looked at her and quickly deduced what was bothering her. “Oh, I’m not saying what they did was okay, Annalise; far from it. I’m just saying that there was almost certainly a reason behind it. And with you being as compassionate and as smart as you are, I’m sure you can see why pain—both old and new—would make them want to hurt someone; which just so happened to be you. Do you think you can understand that?”
Annalise nodded slowly. “Yes. I think… I mean, I do understand it, I really do.”
“And do you think that under some certain circumstances, you might be tempted to do the same thing?”
Annalise’s voice was far quieter and weaker this time, but again, her answer was affirmative. “Yes. I absolutely do.”
“Then… do you think you have it in you to forgive them?”
Annalise stared into her father’s eyes.
“Can I say I blame them for hurting me, when I don’t know what they were going through themselves?” she said softly.
James looked at her, suddenly curious. “Can you?”
Annalise scoffed as though this were obvious. “Of course not.”
James’ eyes shone as he looked at his daughter, seated next to him on the bed with the covers drawn up around her. “Oh, Annalise… you don’t know how precious that makes you. You… you make me so proud to be your father. And I hope you know that, Annalise Nadia Xiao Trotter.”
The girl in question sank back, her head resting on her father’s shoulders. Then she exhaled deeply and looked up at him.
“And… tonight’s talk has made me feel a lot better, too,” she admitted. “Like… like a weight… a huge weight is gone from me. I feel… freer, and lighter, too, like there’s something I don’t have to worry about anymore.”
James smiled and ruffled her hair lovingly. “I told you forgiving the Richmonds would make you feel better,” he told her, voice full of affection. “And I have a feeling the nightmares won’t bother you as much anymore.”
She smiled. “They’re already less painful. And it can only get better, right?”
James laughed. “Right!”
There was a timid knock at the door, and another girl poked her head in: Emlyn, an eight-year-old girl, about six years younger than Annalise. She was James’ other adopted daughter; she had come from a ragtag, bankrupt orphanage on the city’s west side. Many of the older orphans had been members of street gangs, and all in all it was an unpleasant and scary place to be. But under James’ care, her green eyes always glimmered with optimism; her tawny hair always had a shine to it. She was enthusiastic and energetic, and always seemed a bit too hyper for the given situation; but she had a sweet and caring side, too, and James and Annalise loved her dearly.
Right now, Emlyn’s face showed deep concern. “Is Annalise all right?”
James looked over at Annalise, prompting her to answer. She smiled and nodded at her sister, beckoning the younger girl over; “Here, come sit with us.” Emlyn’s face lit up with enthusiasm and relief that her sister was okay; then she bounded over to the bed and leapt on it, making the bedsprings—and, by extension, the entire mattress—bounce rather joyfully. James, Annalise, and Emlyn all laughed.
Then Emlyn wrapped her arms around her sister’s shoulders, and her face took on a more serious note. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said. “I thought I heard you crying out in your sleep.”
Annalise looked down. “Yes, you’re right. Just a nightmare, though; and Dad talked through it with me. I’m feeling much better.”
“About… about that one dream, or about everything?”
Annalise looked up into her father’s smiling eyes, and she grinned herself, feeling the weight of the world lift from off her shoulders. “About everything,” she whispered.
“Good!” Emlyn bounced on the bed. Then, in an voice much too loud for that time of the morning (it was 2:00 a.m., and yet she was feeling completely awake), began to sing one of the songs her primary school choir was performing at her upcoming third grade graduation ceremony.
“Emlyn—” James began to scold gently, with a half-amused, half-exasperated look on his face; but Annalise cut him off.
“Oh, let her have her fun; we might as well. What’s the harm in singing?” She breathed. “I wouldn’t have been allowed to do that when I was eight, and you wouldn’t have been allowed either, but she—well, even if we don’t encourage it, we don’t punish it. So we might as well let her. Just this once. Besides, I’m already wide awake.”
James looked at his older daughter and burst out laughing. Annalise laughed too; Emlyn, blissfully oblivious, went on singing: “‘The voice said, neighbor there’s a million reasons/Why you should be glad in all four seasons/Hit the road, neighbor, leave your worries and strife/Spread the religion of the rhythm of life!’”*
James looked at his youngest daughter and smiled. “Hey, Emlyn!” he called over her singing. “Since we all seem to be awake for the day—how about some chocolate-chip pancakes?”
“Ooh, yes!” Emlyn called, clapping and jumping up and down before returning to her song, this time adding some wild dancing. Then Emlyn clasped Annalise’s hands, forcing her to spring into an energetic dance. Annalise smiled and joined in enthusiastically, clapping hands with her sister and singing the harmony part that Emlyn had taught her.
“‘For the rhythm of life is a powerful beat/Puts a tingle in your fingers and a tingle in your feet/Rhythm on the inside, rhythm on the street/And the rhythm of life is a powerful beat!’”*
James looked at his daughters and smiled, then rubbed the sleep from his eyes (where they got their energy was beyond him) and bustled downstairs to make his daughters’ favorite breakfast.
They both deserved it.
*From “The Rhythm of Life” by Cy Coleman; one of my favorite choir songs