One day, she puts her arm around my shoulders.
For years, I cling to that exception: she initiated healthy contact. I see it as approval; fondness; let’s even say pride. Until it strikes me that it occurred in front of witnesses. How could I have been so naive for so long? Probably because I needed to be.
She speaks well of us to other people. We admire her loyalty. Plus, it means that in some way or other she likes us—at least a little. It doesn’t cross our minds that this is part of her game plan.
Acting kind, patient, and compassionate in front of others and then being despicable behind closed doors, without ever getting mixed up, requires the skills of a Hannibal Lecter—
—you know, the psychopath created by Thomas Harris. Always in control, he fascinates readers and viewers even though he feeds on human flesh.
She ate away at our souls.
“You’re so lucky to have a mother like her.”
I’ve been fed that line forever. Since the world worships her, if she tells me I am almost beyond repair, it has to be true. She knows me. She knows about those murky, nauseating parts of me that I can’t see. I’m lucky that she dares to tell me the truth, because other people are afraid to.
“Other people”… That faceless crowd I have learned to be wary of. The ones who don’t say anything to me directly, but who express their concerns to my mother. I am so used to living in fear and shame that I would never check with them, to verify her version. I don’t doubt my mother, for starters, and I’m convinced that they would confirm everything.
Nor do I confide in Mamita, my other grandma, despite how close we are. What if she finds out about the flaws that my mother is striving to correct, and realizes that she is wrong to love me? I have no grasp of the concept of unconditional love. I have too much bad inside me, hidden in strange places—all the way to my bones, to the very marrow.
“Your friend wanted to talk to you on the phone, but first she asked if you were in a good mood. Keep that up and you will soon have pushed everyone away.”
“Some of the kids’ mothers are wondering about you.”
I have a best friend from about ages four to ten. I am number one in somebody’s heart! We make potions with cleaning products (it was the eighties), play outside, and tell each other everything (except, in my case, what’s going on at home). When we are eleven, she grows close to one of our classmates.
“The other girl’s parents gave her roller skates. You don’t matter to her anymore. Now she’s that girl’s best friend.”
I fall right into the trap. Deeply upset, I will pull away from my friend without a word.
