Burn Daughters Read online

  I wave off his concern. Confidentiality. I no longer care about protecting the people in my life who don’t deserve it.

  “I don’t remember my father much….” My lips twist into a frown. This revelation makes me more than a little sad. “After my sister was born, we moved.” I pause and lean forward. “What are you writing?”

  “I’m taking notes.” He points the tip of the pen at his head. “Bad memory. If I don’t write it down, I’ll forget.” His notepad has pages of written words. Either mine or another patient’s.

  I think the words are mine. The story I can’t remember except for a few horrific images. Except for her.

  “You’re filing some kind of report, aren’t you? That’s why you’re here. You are from social services.”

  There is no reaction from Dr. Beaker. He just asks me another question. “You all moved. Then what?” His calm tone sets me at ease again. Sets me to realize there is no way out of this bed except through him. I get it.

  I sigh, taking on the role of audience, observer, to a life that is my own, but feels like another’s. “Not all of us. Evie, Momma and me.”

  “Evelyn, your sister…you call her Evie?”

  “I miss her.” The words fall out of my mouth and lay dead in my lap.

  “I understand.”

  “Do you?” There was no way he could fully get what I’d been through, what we’d all been through. I tell him the obvious: “My sister should have never been with us.”

  “What about your father?” he asks. “You moved, what did he do?”

  “Momma said he kicked us out. That he didn’t want us anymore. I was five. Evie was not even one. He stayed behind.” My eyes start to swell a little. My breath gets short. “How could he do that, make us leave in the middle of the night? Not want his daughter and new baby?” I look away from Dr. Beaker, afraid I am going to cry.

  “I can’t say, Millie. What do you remember about your father?”

  “I remember….” I hesitate, not knowing the answer to that. Not knowing because I’ve never really thought about it. “He was nice. He took me to the playground while Momma was sleeping. When she was awake, they would fight.”

  “Fight. What would they fight about, Millie?” Dr. Beaker’s tone remains calm, keeping me trying to answer his questions.

  “About drinking. I remember them arguing, her exploding and leaving for a couple of days. The way Momma describes him doesn’t fit what I remember. He had kind of reddish, brown hair and hazel eyes, like mine. Everybody said we looked alike. He always made...” I shake my head. “Never mind.”

  “He always made what, Millie?”

  “He made me feel safe. Happy, I guess. Or maybe I made that up. Maybe I made it all up...him being nice.” I clench my cross pendant hanging against the hospital gown, and hold it in front of my face, studying it. I miss my father.

  It sucks not having a father.

  “He gave me this,” I explain. “He said it’s fourteen karat gold, chain and all. Momma said it would turn green. Everything cheap turns green. She said he was just bad. All men are bad.” I look from the cross to Dr. Beaker. He doesn’t look bad. He doesn’t look the type to walk away from his own children. “This cross here...never did turn green, not like Momma said it would. But dads, well, they don’t just abandon their kids unless they are bad, right?”

  Dr. Beaker is busy writing and I know he’s not going to answer that question. I’m right. He asks me another. “Tell me about your mother, Millie.”

  I don’t know what to tell him. Dr. Beaker is not a typical shrink, not stuffy, with a vocabulary that makes you feel stupid. He’s a regular person. My gut says I can trust him, and I’ve learned that my gut seldom lies.

  “Tell me about your office,” I ask him. He gives me a funny look. “Make me forget I’m here, in this hospital bed. If you want me to talk, we’re at your office.”

  “My office is in my home.”

  “Are you married?”

  He nods. “I am married.”

  “Your wife is okay with you bringing clients into your home?”

  “She insisted.”

  “What does she do, for a living?”

  “She teaches piano to children.” He laughs softly. “She wouldn’t feel in her element without kids running around.”

  “She likes kids then?”

  “Oh sure. Loves them.”

  “Do y’all have any children?”

  The expression on his face turns pained, like he’s taken a punch to the gut. “Who’s the psychologist here?” he asks.

  “You avoided the question.”

  “Perceptive.” He cracks his neck. “However, my personal life isn’t on the table here, Millie. We’re discussing you. There have to be boundaries.”

  “Why?”

  “Because that’s the way it works.”

  “But why?”

  “So the lines don’t get blurred.”

  “I’m supposed to lay it all out there?” I shake my head. “Not gonna happen, Doc. Not today.”

  He leans forward, elbows on his knees. His brown eyes shift to the closed door, and then he sighs. “Okay, you win. My wife can’t have children.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not giving anything else.” He sits back. “That’s it. That’s where I draw the line.”

  “Does your wife trust you?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Would you do anything for her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you kill for her, if you had to?” I can already see the truth on his face, whether he is bold enough to admit it or not, it’s there. If someone hurt her badly, yes, he would kill. I spare him from having to say it out loud. “Is she pretty?”

  “My wife?”

  “I bet she is. Pretty, I mean. What color is your office? Let me guess, red?”

  Dr. Beaker shakes his head. “Green.”

  “Dark or light?”

  “Darkish light. A sage color.”

  “Desk?”

  “Pine. Large.”

  “Because an important man needs an equally powerful desk, right?”

  “My wife is the one who picked it out.”

  “You value her opinion then?”

  “Very much.”

  “Couch?”

  “No couch. Two pecan-colored leather wingback chairs. Again, my wife’s touch.”

  “Plants?”

  “She loves African Violets. They’re everywhere.”

  I rest my head on the pillow, shut my eyes, and imagine it: a safe, inviting home. “The only thing missing is the sound of children.”

  A couple without children.

  Children without a home.

  Evie and I could’ve lived there.

  We could’ve been their children. We could have had a different past. Come from a better family. One with honor and Grace. “Can I hear the piano during my session?” I ask the doctor.

  “No. My wife and I worked out a schedule. She teaches in the morning. I see patients after lunch.”

  I lift my head, my gaze connecting with his. “So she’s teaching right now, while you’re here. That’s why you’re in no rush. If you get home too early, you’ll interfere with her lessons.”

  “You figured me out.”

  I tilt my chin toward the door. “The nurses…they respect you.”

  “But did I pass your test?” he asks.

  “What test?”

  “The trust test? Am I worthy?”

  “I guess I trust you about as much as I trust any man.”

  “Ouch. Is that a compliment?”

  “My experience with men…it hasn’t always been good. In my experience…men can be bastards.”

  He taps the end of his pen on the folder, narrows his eyes, “You never answered the question.”

  “What question was that?”

  “Do you trust me enough to remember?”

  I think about that for a long time, never once setting my eyes on Dr. Beaker. I
gaze out the window, trying out my memory; trying to remember what the sun on my skin feels like. I study the door, trying to remember how many doses of medicine the nurses have administered to me. Finally my lips part, and I whisper more than say, “Momma brought men around.” I grab a corner of my bed sheet and roll it between my thumb and fingers. “She said they were bad, but she brought a new one home every couple of months anyway.

  “We moved a lot. It wasn’t just that one time. Every time I started to like where we were, we moved again. I stopped trying to make friends. Stopped caring. We lived over a bar once. In someone’s garage until we became an inconvenience. It sucked.” I focus on the sheets folded over my chest; on the sheets rolling between my fingers. I still can’t look at Dr. Beaker. Doing that would make this too hard, and I want to get this out. I want to remember. It’s been long enough stuffed inside of me, eating me away. “I saw her, Momma, in bed with a couple of them. They weren’t having sex. It was the next morning, after, both of them stretched out naked. It was disgusting. Something you wish you could unsee.”

  “I bet.”

  “Evie didn’t understand. I mean, by then she was used to how Momma was, but she never fully understood what happens between a man and woman.”

  “And you do?”

  “I’m old enough.”

  “But do you understand there’s a difference?” I stare at him, confused, unsure what he’s getting at. He tries to explain, “There’s a difference between two people who love each other and—”

  “I know that...two people just screwing,” I snap. “I get it.” His eyes get so wide I can see them, even though I am still looking away, at my sheets, trying to get this out. “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “It’s okay. You’re expressing how you feel.”

  I force a smile. “You’re starting to sound like a real shrink now.”

  “I’ll try to be more original.”

  “You’re going to take me away, aren’t you?” I ask. “That’s why you’re here, to put me in foster care.”

  “Is that what you want?” He strokes the goatee.

  “Maybe. My family has never been good. I don’t see that it matters, either way.”

  “You shouldn’t be punished for your mother’s mistakes. If you continue to bury how you feel about what she did and didn’t do, the pain will only come out when and how you least expect it. No amount of time heals what we fail to acknowledge and deal with. The problem just compounds.”

  “I’m aware.” My palms sweat. “Somethings you just never talk about. Not out loud anyways.”

  “Make an attempt.”

  I hesitate. “Most of Momma’s boyfriends were drunks. Drunks without jobs. They pretty much left Evie and me alone.” My fingers are suddenly still, and I drop the sheet corner I was holding. “But the last one, Frank….” Tears blur my vision. I blink. Force down the anger swelling inside of me. “Momma would pass out and—”

  “Did Frank inappropriately touch you, Millie?”

  I look directly at him. Angry. “Is a kiss inappropriate?”

  “Depends on what kind of kiss it was. Was it on the cheek, innocent, like a friend? Or did it make you feel like your space was invaded?”

  I’ll just answer my own question. “It was inappropriate.”

  “How often, Millie?”

  I can still feel Frank’s beard, his fat tongue forcing its way in my mouth almost choking me. I can still taste the garlic and alcohol on his spit. He’d stolen my first kiss. And the second and third. I wanted my first kiss to be special. Not with Frank. The kiss was nothing like how I’d imagined it would be. It made me sick to my stomach.

  “What else did this man do?” Dr. Beaker’s face is red. He’s angry. He clenches his jaw. I focus on his hands, looking as if they are about to snap the pen in half. “Did he touch you, Millie? Make you do things to him or make you—”

  “Have sex with him?” I shake my head and swallow hard. “No. Never. Uh huh.”

  “Are you lying?”

  “What reason would I have to lie?” I rub my eyes, trying to get the images of Frank out of my head. I can’t. “I hate the way he stares at my chest, Dr. Beaker. It’s so dirty, so suggestive. I can’t stand it. The way he brushes by me in the hallway. It makes me feel so violated. He walks around our house practically naked and Momma never even notices or doesn’t care. Sometimes, he wears jeans and no shirt; he runs his hands over his stomach making me want to barf.” I squeeze my eyes shut. Pray to God Frank is gone by the time I’m released from the hospital. I can’t go back into that. “He does that rubbing his stomach thing every time he stalks me. It’s like he’s saying, look at my hairy beer belly, Millie, isn’t it the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life? Want to touch it? There’s only one thing I want to touch, his balls with the bottom of my foot. I’d give anything just to kick him.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “A doctor advising bodily harm, nice.” I laugh. It makes my ribcage hurt.

  Dr. Beaker shrugs. “If it’s warranted, then I say go for it. Might teach this man a lesson to not get all up in your space.”

  “Hey, do you think it is possible for a family to be cursed?”

  “I don’t believe in curses, Millicent. Only healing.”

  I look away. “Momma never meant to be the way she was. She couldn’t help it. It was in her veins.”

  “You mean drugs?”

  “No. Evil.”

  “I am sure—.”

  “You don’t know, Dr. Beaker. The meanness some people carry. The selfishness. At first, I felt sorry for Momma, but then I blamed her. It’s hard to have sympathy for someone who can change things, but refuses to. It made me sick to my stomach to see her hurt. Bruised. But after the first couple of times of me crying and begging Momma to make Frank leave us alone and her doing the opposite I figured I was wasting my time and energy on her. That morning, the morning before the Keller’s, Friday, all I could think about was this play at school. It was selfish of me. But for the first time I felt normal. I was excited about trying out for Juliet. Unimportant now, I guess.”

  “You wouldn’t have mentioned it if it’s not important.”

  “I liked this guy I knew would be in the play. Momma said if I stayed after school for auditions, instead of Evie catching a ride home with the lady next door like we normally did, Frank would have to pick Evie up.”

  “What did Frank do to Evie, Millie?”

  “Nothing. I didn’t let it happen. I never would.” My flesh crawls just thinking about it. “Fridays were always the worst. Sometimes I believed Frank encouraged Momma to drink more on the weekends to make her stupid and blind to what was going on around her.”

  “So you figured if Frank was going to use one of you, then it should be you?”

  “I guess.”

  Dr. Beaker rubs his face with wide hands and exhales a lungful of air. He’s kind of green in the face, sickly looking, as if he might puke. He goes on, his words strained, “Instead of leaving your sister…this is how Evie ended up with you at the Keller’s?”

  My eyes fill with tears. I focus on the wall, not the doctor’s face. “Yeah and look where that got us,” I mumble.

  “Where did it get you?”

  “Face-to-face with the monster in my dreams,” I return.

  A long pause expands.

  The door opens. “Time for lunch,” Angie says.

  Dr. Beaker stands and closes his folder, sliding it under an arm.

  The room fills with the warming smell of chicken noodle soup. Red Jell-O wobbles on the brown tray. A carton of skim milk catches my attention—a reminder of home life and the shortage of calcium for young bones.

  Angie slides the tray on the table, and pulls the table over the bed. “The doctor wants you to try to eat something.”

  “That’s probably enough for today,” Dr. Beaker says.

  “Gotta get home—?” I offer a small smile. “Your turn to use the house?”

  He strokes his
goatee. I wonder if he realizes it’s a habit.

  “Tomorrow we’ll try to pick up where we left off,” he tells me.

  I gesture at Angie messing with my IV tubing. “Unless they release me before then.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for a while. Get some rest.” He pats my knee, and then leans toward Angie. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  “Sure.” They step toward the sink and pull the curtain, cutting off my view of the door. Angie’s gloves pop, I hear her step on the lever that lifts the lid of the garbage can, then water comes on. Obviously, they think I can’t make out what is being said, but I can, at least part of it.

  “No television. DVDs are fine, but no news. Understand? She needs time to heal fully, emotionally and physically. She’s having difficulty facing it…memory loss. One look at the news could easily bring on emotions she is unprepared to handle. I would prefer you inform the other nurse to tread lightly. See to her physical needs…leave the other for me.” The curtain is suddenly pulled open; light from the hallway spills in from the open door. Angie is gone.

  Dr. Beaker makes it a point of telling me, “An officer will be outside your door.”

  “Am I in trouble?”.

  “No.”

  I ask, “Then what’s with the restrictions?”

  “Truth?”

  “Please.”

  “We’re looking out for what is in your best interest.”

  “And what is that?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  Chapter Two

  A girl pokes her head in the door and asks, “Got a cigarette I can bum?” Her bleached blonde hair is greasy, roots are black. Fresh blood seeps through the white bandage covering her wrist. When her eyes land on me, she grimaces. “Oh, sorry. You already said you don’t smoke. Forget I was here.”

  Weird.

  As the girl turns to leave I stop her. “Hey, you.”

  “Me?”

  “I’ve never talked to you before,” I say.

  “Yep. You did.” She pauses, waiting for some sign I remember the conversation. I shake my head. “Yesterday,” she insists. “You don’t smoke and you like to be left alone.”

  “Bitch!” Somebody’s yelling in the hall. “Don’t touch me. Let go…get off—”