But Listen, Gina Ann Watkins

Chapter 1  Foundation of Qualms

 

     Inhaling the heavy scent of honeysuckle drifting through the screen window, I slipped my pale body down into the steaming tub. I sank past billowing clouds of bubbles intended for a shield of security.  My heart raced wildly as prickly senses forced my attention toward the jiggling doorknob. 

 

Blast him!  He had figured out how to jimmy the lock.

 

     A fierce scream ached to be released from the depths of my persecuted soul. I leaped in the blink of an eye in wrenching horror, silencing the inner fear as I cleared the warmth of the water into the cool air.  I had barely enough time to grab the handle of the bottom drawer to the vanity and jerk it into the path of the door as it inched open, thus refusing passage to this egotistical intruder.  Whew, me oh my!

 

     Settling just as fast back into the caressing warmth of the bath water, a hostile glance towards the ceiling vent was necessary to confirm the washcloth was still stuffed into it’s crevices, wearisomely placed there earlier before I nervously undressed. Oh, no! The cloth was falling fast, brushing past my cheek as I dodged it, landing lightly onto my bare shoulder now covered in phenomenal goose bumps. Cringing, I dunked under the water.

 

 

     The nerve of these two family members enraged and terrified me, as one wasn’t aware of the other stalking his victim at the same moment as he. For an adolescent child, my life of torment began around the age of five before adoption into this allegedly better home and safer environment. Our loving then-single teenage mother was scoffed at for living at poverty level.

 

 

     Who were they kidding?  This lifestyle had actually become a struggle for the survival of my sanity.  Who am I kidding? At times the battle was a fight for life itself.  It was clear to only me as to why I became such a rebel, only because nobody paid attention.  Memories are not always treasures.

 

 

     From the wrap around porch on her one-of-a-kind self-designed log home situated on a breathtakingly scenic hillside in Tennessee, Lydia, our heroine, was settled into her hand carved porch swing to tell the inside-out upside-down story concerning her abusive life.  The sequences led her to found a haven of refuge for other sexually violated or otherwise abused children, women, and even men.

 

 

     Prepared to do battle with an intriguing contentedness about her, she amusingly rearranges the piles of quilted pillows under and around her she had sewn as a teen.  Everything about her was like that, heartspun.

 

     After several moments, with misty eyes and a radiant smile on her still-too-young-to-be-old face, Lydia continues her powerful story after gazing far into the distance past the fussy birds arguing at the nearby feeder, down through the whispering woods toward the audible bubbling creek several hundred feet below us, but beyond on to a long ago time when all was not as it seemed to be when one child’s pain and anguish was not heard.  In a unique storyteller fashion she begins as I capture the pictures drawn into my receptive imagination as words, knowing ahead of time she may not have all the answers, but she knows the roads well enough to contribute wisdom to today’s world.

 

 

     I can remember few snatches of my earliest childhood memories. They are etched deep into the folds of my mind as vividly as if they had occurred most recently.  Did you ever bump your toe one day and the next still feel the throbbing?  Yeah, that’s the way it is with everything concerning my life.  My mind shares the weight of these haunting recollections with my heart as they pop up persistently with a will all their own.

 

     The scenes are my only links to a childhood without photographs, a beginning to the very fragile life I walked.  Mind you, they appear within a fog or cloud, jolted at random without a known cue, never changing specifics through all my years. The one thing that stood out above all else was my beautiful Mother full of love.

 

     After reminiscing, Lydia states that her story is as she perceives the sequences to be accurate and that the very first recollection places her in a specific time period of the Deep South. It took years for its awesome meaning to sink in, but you’ll have to wait until the end of her journey to come to the same conclusions as she.  As if inspired, she continued.

 

     This is my road, my life in bits and pieces, with thought provoking messages woven in for the doubting Thomases.  So, folks, come on, snuggle into that oversized recliner with a cold drink or a pot of coffee and maybe a snack to keep the growlies at bay. Considering my story might save your child’s life, you won’t be able to put this enlightening book aside until you’ve read it’s every page. 

 

     Don’t forget the sequels, either.  They complete your education and at the same time help provide a haven for children forced into similar suffering as I.  Maybe you’ll learn all soap operas are not fiction, without a lot of dialog.

 

     Now full of passion for her mission, Lydia opens her heart wide with an optimistic childlike, not childish, approach and lets the story unravel at a mesermerizing pace.  Do not miss a beat as we journey into the past to provide for the future.

 

     Once upon a time, not too awful long ago, there was a lovely little girl……………………………………………… 

 

     Enormous plush trees, dressed in their lacy green finery, lined the one end of the ocean sized cotton field.  Cotton, cotton everywhere cotton!  Plump, soft balls dotted the rows of branches where the cheerful three-year-old girl skipped between them excitedly holding dear to the large hand that led her along.

 

     The hand bore multiple distended veins creating dark paths across his sunbathed flesh.  The owner of the hand remained faceless, unknown, always leaving the imagination to sculpt and re-sculpt. The image of a strong male, she obviously adorned with trust, always materialized.  It led her down the field towards a gathering of folks, colored and white.  No disrespect intended, but that was how we were taught to relate to each other. Stay with me, now.

 

     With the sun beating down, workers were side by side packing their sacks with the white balls while several others were gathered around a wagon with a determinedly sort of man supervising the scales that sat next to it.  The heat magnified the tension beneath the calm, as a faint wind brushed softly against scorched flesh.  Women, dressed in three-quarter length skirts, would briefly wipe the sweat from their brows before continuing alongside the men plucking the balls and dropping them into the sacks they drug along.

 

     A colored man, bent with fatigue, cautiously approached the towering loud-mouthed overseer at the scales with his pickings. Several tired sets of eyes followed him without raising their heads or missing a beat from their tasks.  It was as if they knew what was about to take place.

 

     Before the weight could be dealt with, another man sprang forward with the intensity of a tiger.  He shoved his one arm length into the sack and as if it were a grand prize, yanked the large stone out and skyward for all to see. Cursing furiously, he threw the stone at the presenter, missing his head by a dodge.

 

     There isn’t much else to describe; facts after this revelation escaped preservation.  I always wondered about the picker and his state of mind, whether he was devious or hungry.  My guess was that ultimately he learned a valuable lesson that day.  One can only speculate with numerous realistic theories as to why he attempted to cheat his authority.  Perhaps he was weak with illness and his family depended on him or maybe he was just plain greedy with a lazy streak. Who knows?!  With pity I never forgot his exhausted face.

 

     In the next cloud, the scene is a little cruder than the first scenario. Two women on a porch were so wrapped up in a fist-fight-to-the-face brawl between them; they didn’t notice our car slowly pull up the very long driveway to their duplex homes.

 

     Leaving the occupants including myself seated in disbelief, the male driver exploded out of his seat bounding with ease onto the high porch.  It seemed before his feet touched the floor that he threw the women apart with such force they fell on their butts with skirts parachuting over their bloody faces.

 

     They were having a field day with choice vocabulary when we first stopped, screaming names at each other and belting out murdering threats.  After they fell on their butts from the rude awakening, they stumbled to stand again, rubbing their eyes as they quietly cried crocodile tears creating grotesque masks of their makeup.

 

     I believe they would’ve been bald had our hero not pulled them apart when he did, considering the hair pulling contest in between the wallopings. Both had long, beautiful hair. As I sat there I imagined how they would look bald in place of their tresses. I couldn’t laugh at my imagination though.  The violent episode was brutal to such a small child’s emotions, especially when one was her mother.

 

     Flash forward within the same duplex. It was the earliest I remember my brothers, Matthew and Lucas.  Matthew was two years younger than I, while little Lucas was three years younger. We were the best of buddies.

 

     We lived in the larger of the two homes in the duplex, or should I say survived?  The latter probably fit the bill.  It was really clean, mind you, but there were only two sets of bunk beds and nothing else.  Zilch!  Nada!

 

     We were tucked under the covers in our own bed with Mother giving each of us a drink from the same paper cup of water.   Calling each of us by name with tears in her eyes, she spoke tenderly with grand details of her love for us.  I can still see her in a pink plaid dress sitting on his bed sniffling as Lucas playfully dabbed at her steady tears, similar to the way a kitten would a dangling ball.

 

     No furniture, accessories, dishes, or frills of any kind existed in this home.  One huge room included a kitchenette with lots of cabinets.  Floor to ceiling curtainless windows allowed the cheerful sun to dance on the bare wood floors.

 

     Watching the little dust particles dance around with the sun as their spotlight was amusing for the imagination.  I would make up names for a few particles and imagine them with a variety of costumes including a ballerina, clown and angel.

 

     Keep in mind that at least we had a roof over our heads and a warm bed, but my gut instinct tells me our family had nothing else to our names. Knowing mother loved us made it ok somehow.  Nothing else seemed to matter. 

 

     There were no fancy clothes or flashy food packages, nor any shiny appliances.  It was just a stark room made warm by a mother’s love.

 

     In a quick clip, the cloud effect is hardly even noticeable in this conspicuous vision. The four of us were walking down a sidewalk between buildings of a red brick housing project.  Trailing along the walkway were clotheslines weighed down with laundry waving in the humid breeze.  Many children were outdoors this beautiful day, playing in the shadows of big trees dripping with Spanish moss. Their laughing out loud in sheer delight was contagious to our parade. I couldn’t help but notice a few adults quietly observe us from their dark windows or shadowed stoops.  I followed mother, soaking in the ambiance.

 

     The next remembrance, I can detect faces, smells, and fear as if they were in front of me this very moment. We lived in an upstairs apartment above an aged ramshackle country store, the kind that sold fresh sandwiches with soup. The apartment had lots of windows enchantingly dressed and lots of comfy furniture accessorized by captivating whatnots to compliment the home. There doesn’t seem to be a problem at all.

 

     A bustling street ran in front of our building with its sparse grass poking out of the sandy yard. Varied flowers generously surrounded the foundation while climbing roses worked their way up the banister and shutters.  Already noisy traffic raced by, adding honking in apparent impatience.  The board siding needed a paint job; large ringlets draping some boards.  I presumed the owner stayed too busy managing his store below. The stairs began at his backdoor, ending at our only door fifty steps above. I would count them often for practice to Mother’s smiling, clapping approval.

 

     From our heavenly roost, mouth-watering aromas drifting continuously found direct paths to our nostrils, frustrating our hungry bellies into knots. Mother was a good cook, but it seems more times we went without than with.

 

     This particular day, Mother left us without supervision at age three, two, and one or so.  We must’ve been used to this arrangement, because we seemed comfortable until our stomachs, getting the best of us, prompted us with pangs to follow the aromas.  With sweet Lucas sleeping in his baby bed, Matt and I slinked downstairs, unaware that our door locked behind us.

 

     Following our noses, we moseyed around in the store behind the counters, thinking no one could see us.  Colorful cans of this and that, interesting boxes of cereal and loaves of bread, which smelled fresh from the oven like Mother would sometimes bake, were stacked at our eye level neatly on shelves.

 

     But we were on a mission.  There were aromas of ready to eat food that summoned us.  Peaking in unison around the corner, their amused stares locked with our startled ones!

 

     Stricken by fear, we froze in our tracks for what seemed like forever.  A lady behind the glass counter stepped towards us.  We turned and ran as fast as our little legs could carry us back up the steps, slowing down at the top only to grab an un-budging doorknob.

 

     Harried, we stood on the tips of our toes to glimpse through an opening in the pretty stained glass of the door to check on Lucas.  He was standing in his bed holding on to the yellow railing while waltzing from one foot to the other along with hysterical crying as he glanced around for us.  The dramatics produced our own tears to pour by buckets.

 

     Out of control, we sobbed desperately while rattling the doorknob repetitively without results, causing more intense wailing from little brother. What would happen to Luke?  What would Mother do to us?  Why were so many sad people standing at the bottom of our steps?

 

     The final cloud is one that contains multiple scenes interconnecting our most disturbing trauma up to that time. It affected my entire childhood and followed me on through maturity.  There are unexplainable gaps between the memories, but the puzzle fits together anyway.

 

     Another day in yet another upstairs apartment much like the previous charmer, but definitely much tinier, we find harmony. Or so it seems. A plump elderly lady, wrapped in a lavish shawl that included scattered sequins and plush roses, worked on a quilting project on her lap as she sat in her rocker with exhaustion written on her face.  She was babysitting.

 

     Not asleep, but out of Whistler’s-Mother’s hair, we were snuggled in under blankets in yet another set of bunk beds that practically sat in the cheerful kitchenette.  I felt warm, safe and happy as a snug bug in a rug as I took turns watching her sew while in deep concentration and Matt silently entertaining Lucas by creating comical shadows on the wall with his hands.  Out of the stillness, footsteps pattered faintly up the steps.

 

     Mother bustled through the only entrance to the apartment, triumphantly smiling, successfully juggling an overflowing grocery bag and other fanciful sacks.  She plopped the parcels onto the cabinet and turned toward our gazing.  She dropped to her knees with a Cheshire grin and spread out her arms in a familiar signal to us that hugs were ours for the taking.

 

     We rolled, galloped, and tumbled toward her, laughing and giggling all the way, hitting her all at once, and knocked her mischievously backwards.  It was a joyous cluster of arms, legs, and smiles wrestling around on the floor until she stood up to get her breath.  She signaled us again in a flagging motion with one hand and the other balancing Lucas by the feet.  He was slung over her shoulder like a bag of flour. Gasping for a breath, she sputtered, “Uncle. I give up.”  We cheered in victory and rolled her to the floor once again. 

 

     It was over as suddenly as it had begun.  Just like that.

 

     I detected sadness in the pretty eyes that matched mine.  She often reflected I was her look alike. For once hers would not look back into mine.  Something was up, and I knew it!  I felt a fierce current pass through me head to toe and back again repeatedly.  The sensation didn’t leave momentarily either.

 

     Mother and I prepared a delicious meal. She comically dictated the correct preparation methods for the special recipes of which I amazingly remember; turkey, chestnut stuffing, and a cranberry delight to die for.

 

     After she fed us and washed the dishes, Mother sat on one of the beds with us gathered closely. With great pride several little “gifts” of clothing and toys were put into our hands while we closed our eyes.  Stunned, we sat holding our treasures for a spell as we admired them.  Our favorite candy, orange circus peanuts, was granted sparingly, and then placed inside the refrigerator.

 

     A gift of lacy socks trimmed with seed pearls, red satiny slippers, and a realistic tiara, plastic with oversized jewels, made me feel like a regal princess.  Prancing around, I scarcely watched the boys zoom their shiny airplanes through the air and around the small abode as they boogied in their new cowboy boots and extra-oversized sunglasses made for a giant.  What took place next sadistically shattered the exhilaration that totally captivated our senses.

 

     Yes, for whatever reason, it was a joyous occasion, until that fatal moment the knock on the door changed Mother’s pretty sunshiny face to a somber ghostly creature.  After allowing our visitors dressed in blue into the apartment, tears raced down her face.         

     With an agonizing expression, she unexpectedly began wailing in exhausted repetitions, “Take them! Take them!” as she crumbled into a kitchen chair. The racket was ear piercing, causing my radar to begin pulsating, as I considered an invisible submarine in the same room.  I knew there were sharks!

 

     A frozen-in-time moment later, Mother managed to scramble recklessly across the room with her head held high and retrieve the peanuts from the refrigerator.  The silence was deafening.  They all seemed to be talking with their eyes.  Mother was shaking like a leaf as she held her stomach, while the babysitter smirked and grimaced her way.  The officers kept their heads tucked toward their feet as if their shoes needed constant surveillance and casually shot glances directly toward each woman. Was this a game?

 

     Following one last nourishing embrace for the each of us, Mother ceremoniously, or so it felt, handed me the coveted candy. After locking eyes, she silently relayed from deep within her heart to me that the game was in my field now.  The perplexing insight connected like a bolt of lighting zapping me to full attention.  A million questions wanted to tumble out of my mouth all at once; however, it was then our ties were severed.

 

    As the good little kids we were, we minded the instructions the police officers gave directing us quietly out the door in equal bewilderment.  Lucas waved bye-bye, not realizing the full depth of his words.  We linked hands together and allowed the one officer to lead us down the steps. 

 

     A statuesque lady was at the bottom of the stairs, remaining rigidly silent as we crossed in front of her to reach the patrol car where we were being herded more quickly than before we came out the door. Was she the mastermind to this joke of a game?  She sure wasn’t laughing! Neither was anyone else.

 

     From the top of the stairs Mother began screaming repetitively, “No! No! No! Oh, my God, no! Please no!”  I could feel her breaking heart connecting with my heart, as she continued to wail.  I felt her heartbeat racing.  I felt the stinging of her salty tears.  I could still smell her sweet vanilla cologne somehow.  This was impaled deep into my heart breaking it into a zillion razor sharp pieces which made me feel as if there were as many of me; each with a different exploding reaction.

 

     As we crossed the yard in a daze, I continued to glance backwards in hopes to see Mother following, running as hard as she could run to hop into the patrol car with us. It didn’t happen.

 

     One at a time we were shoved into the back seat in a last minute scramble.  Lucas started crying shrilly, dodging from the manipulating hands. He must’ve been two.  Matthew was four, and attempted to get back out of the car with terror reflecting from behind a river of tears. His outreached arms bore fingers rapidly gesturing for Mother to retrieve him.

 

     I wanted to scream, let them know my feelings existed.  “Please tell me what is going on!” swirled dizzily in my thoughts as I glared back at the statuesque lady.  Attempting to kick and squirm out of their ironclad hold, I gnashed out barely nipping them both. They tossed me into the car with slight grimaces from the pain, slamming the door shut behind me before I hit the seat rolling.

 

     Recoiling and angrily grasping only to find there were no door latches, I turned wanting to kill and focused on the babysitter mouthing and erratically shaking her index finger in Mother’s tearing face.  She was constantly rubbing her belly, in pain I thought, staring softly right at me.  I placed my hand on the window and waved a finger, receiving a tiny grin from Mother as she plopped down on the top step.  She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked, finishing with a kiss via airmail.  By then the boys had cuddled with me sobbing softly as they mimicked my outreach.

 

     The car remained parked for a few minutes.  The driver answered a radio call as the other officer scrutinized their special charges.  He was as nervous as a pacing dog.  Could it be real tears glimmering in his eyes?

 

     To distract us, the officer at the wheel turned toward us as he wiped his eyes and blew his nose into an oversized hanky. Poking it back into his pocket, a thought seemed to come to him.  After sticking one finger in the air momentarily and clicking his tongue, he turned to reach for something. He passed his revolver to the boys. 

     I could hardly move staring wide eyed at their marveling investigation. The other officer continued to show them how to turn the clicking barrel of the dangerous revolver as the culprit revved the engine boisterously. I was awestruck that they allowed children to play with their gun!  He had even showed them how to push out the bullets and place them back in again! I swore I’d never trust anyone, let alone a police officer again.

        

    As the cruiser sped away from the apartment home, we were oblivious that we were being shuffled from Mother on a permanent basis, not to be seen or felt or heard from again for many excruciatingly lonely years. They eloquently spoke of travel in tones that didn’t match their male personalities.  We had to leave Florida and the ocean behind for now. 

 

     I distinctly remember requesting to go back home, that I wasn’t ready to grow up yet.  I saw a big tear roll from the driver’s eye, but nothing was said in response.  All we could hear for a long time was the sputtering of the engine until we rolled past the familiar countryside.  Stopping at a red light, both officers dropped their windows, taking in deep shaky breaths.

 

     The ocean, with the screeching seagulls and whispering sea oats, had a comforting lull, consistently crashing onto the pure white sandy beach and retreating to the deep dark unknown.  Our coast was a green blue majestic creation.  Were they suggesting that our fantasyland of castles, ships, and water worlds was coming to an end?

 

  How dare they take us away from this breathtaking place?  May we take our shells along? I had so much to ask.  

 

     The starchy lady that had earlier been evaluating our ordeal from the bottom of the stairs met us later that day at a hotel.  Mrs. Kabe now possessed a sweet smile, but had the “hiding something” sly look written all over her face in bright red.  Even though we were reluctant of her gentle attentions, each of us accepted her peace treaty of gift wrapped brand new storybooks. It must have impressed me enough to make me forget the changing of the guards.

 

     The relaxation allowed me to momentarily disappear safely into that book.  Going for a suggested drive, tucking the books under our arms as friends, we all wound up at the airport.  Aircraft buzzed and thundered everywhere.  To our dismay, we were instructed to leave the books that we were now clinging to, behind in the car.  We looked at each other, fidgeting in disbelief, but obeyed.  “Oh wow! Look at that!” I directed the boys, finally catching on to what Mother transferred to my heart.

 

     As we boarded one of the extraordinary aircrafts, I could see the books still lying near the back windshield in Mrs. Kabe’s nice red Cadillac where we had placed them a little earlier.  The strange thing was that when we landed at our destination from our vague flight, the very same car awaited us; as well as our beloved books.

 

  Wouldn’t you have loved to seen our beaming faces as we skipped steps one and two at a time to reach the tarmac?