“He loved me,” I acknowledge, trying to make sense of Papa’s definition of the word. “During our childhood, he would get angry. He used to bring home liquor when he wanted to scare everyone. It was always a threat, a scare tactic that he might lose even more control if he drank. But the bottle always remained unopened.”
“I never saw Brent take a sip of liquor. I assumed that’s why you didn’t drink,” Eric says.
“That’s what I thought too,” I murmur, sure I was the good daughter for following his example. I finally face Eric, needing to see his reaction when I tell him the truth. “The night of Marin’s wedding”—I pause, gathering courage—“I was fifteen. Papa did drink the bottle he brought home,” I whisper. “Mama was asleep, tired after the festivities. I was now the oldest child at home.” I can feel the tears start to gather but I wipe them away, needing my strength to admit the truth. “I was sleeping in my bed . . .” I stop, exhale. “Sonya was asleep in her room.”
“Trisha?” I can hear his pain, sure he is already imagining the worst.
“I didn’t remember,” I say, still unable to say the words. “I escaped to Sonya’s room afterward and told her, but the next morning all of it was gone. Like it had never happened,” I cry, wishing that was the truth.
“He raped you?” Eric’s throat rips out the words.
“Yes,” I whisper, seeing his shock and despair.
“Jesus.” He rubs his hands over his face.
“But these images wouldn’t let up. Just fragments of memory, never revealing the face. I was sure it was Sonya I was seeing. The night you came over to the house, the last time we saw one another.” I run my hands down my skirt, feeling exposed. “I remembered most of it. I had a breakdown at my mother’s house; the memories flooded me and Mama told me . . .”
“She knew?” I can hear the fury in his voice, the confusion.
“Papa admitted it to her before he fell into a coma.” With the revelation out, I feel a burden lift off of my shoulders. “I never understood why I feared having a child. Now I do.” He becomes still, staring at me. “I was sure that no matter how much I loved my child, like Papa loved me, I would end up hurting them. I just didn’t know why I believed that.” My head drops, so many things now clear. “Regardless, I couldn’t do that, ever.” I reach for my purse, ready to leave. I glance at him, sure it will be the last time I see him. “I never meant to lie to you. I never meant to hurt you. I’m so sorry I did.”
“Trisha,” he calls out, just as I reach the door. I turn, prepared to say good-bye. “Are you seeing someone for this? A therapist? Someone who can help you?”
I nod. “I’m planning to. I’ll look for someone who deals specifically with childhood rape.” I shrug. “All of it has been a bit overwhelming.”
“I imagine that’s an understatement,” he says kindly.
“Yes.” I try for a smile, finding it easier than I believed. “Thank you for listening to me.” I laugh self-consciously. “Thank you for our life together. You meant everything . . .” I pause, holding back the sob that threatens. “I’ll sign the papers, send them back immediately.”
“Trisha,” he repeats, this time closer than before. Standing right in front of me, he asks, “I wonder if I could attend a few sessions with you? To try and understand what you’re going through?”
“Eric?” I am blown away, never expecting such an offer. “Why would you want to do that?”