What It Is (12 page)

“She must have trapped him, Aron, lied about the pregnancy, something. I don’t know, maybe that’s what he was coming to tell me. That dark, little Spanish man is not my father. Do I look Spanish to you?” Aron shook his head and I got up and walked over to the phone. “I have to call Richard, just so word gets back to Mom that
I
know that Arthur is not my father.”

I picked up the phone and quickly dialed Richard’s number. Richard picked up after one ring, and before he could say “Hello” I was already ranting into the phone receiver.

“I met Arthur and you can call Mom and tell her that she needs to man up and tell me who my father really is because there is
no
way that he had any part in creating me!”

Richard sucked in his breath, “You met him?” he asked incredulously, “Already? I just called you yesterday.”

“Yeah, I met him all right and pretty much threw him out of our apartment.” I paused and then asked, “Did you know that Arthur was a little Spanish man?”

“Um…no,” Richard replied. “Nancy always told me he was tall and had brown hair—”

“Yeah, he had none of those features,” I interrupted. “You mean to tell me that you never saw a picture of her and Arthur, after all of those years you were married, not one?”

“No,” Richard said. “All of the pictures of her and Arthur were cut up; she cut out his picture from every photo they took together.”

I took a deep breath. “Richard, I know we don’t talk a lot, but I need one favor from you. I know you still talk to Mom once in a while because of Emily, and the next time you talk to her, you just let her know I know about Arthur. Just say that to her and leave it at that.” I began to feel like I had power over Mom: not physical power; I had intellectual power. I knew one of her secrets and I was too smart to be outwitted by her. “Please, Richard,” I pleaded. “Please give her that message from me.”

“Next time I talk to her, I’ll pass your message along,” Richard said.

“Thank you,” I said, and without saying another word I hung up the phone.

It is very hard to put into words the range of emotions I felt after meeting Arthur. I had been so anxious to see the man who had the same face as I did, the same face Mom hated so much, and Arthur was not that man. I was hurt because I realized my entire life was a lie; I was angry because of the physical and mental pain I endured because “Arthur” was my father; I had an empty spot in my heart because I did not know who my real father was and I knew Mom would never, ever tell me. I pitied Arthur, in a way; I pitied him for being yet another person used by Mom, but I also hated him for leaving me there with that monster. Even if he knew he wasn’t my real father, he should have had enough human decency to tell the truth at the hospital and tried to save me the day she shattered my collarbone.

I considered getting a DNA test get physical proof that Arthur was not my father, but ended up talking myself out of it. I came to the realization that in the larger scheme of things, whether or not Arthur was my biological father had absolutely no impact on me. I had never considered him a father in the first place and I wasn’t losing anything by not having him in my life. It is what it is, I can’t change the past, but I can choose my future, and I chose to completely close the chapter on Arthur forever. Now I can have hope that one day I will meet my real father, and it will be the most wonderful day of my life. Until then, I am content with my dad Sam.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Aron pulled me to him and kissed me on the mouth. “I’m so happy,” he whispered into my ear. I threw my arms around his neck, looked out at the ocean waves breaking on the beach, and wondered if life could get any more perfect.

After eight years together living in bliss as boyfriend and girlfriend, Aron surprised me on Christmas Eve with a beautiful platinum diamond engagement ring that he had designed and made himself. “I know you never wanted to get married because of your past, because you come from such a broken family,” he said to me as he slipped the ring on my finger, “but believe me when I say I will never hurt you and I will spend the rest of my life doing whatever I have to do to make you happy.”

I broke down into tears. “Yes! Yes!” I sobbed. I had known for a long time that I would spend the rest of my life with Aron and the ring just made it official.

Aron and I decided to elope to the little island of Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. We discussed having a traditional wedding, but I realized that wouldn’t be able to handle looking out into church pews and seeing Aron’s side filled up with family and friends and my side of the church void of anyone who cared about me. I also didn’t want a big, fancy, expensive wedding with caterers and a DJ because things like that weren’t important to me; all that was important was expressing my love to Aron. Sam and Carol accompanied us on our trip to Tortola, and after a week of snorkeling, hiking, and swimming Aron and I exchanged our vows on the beach of Long Bay Beach Resort at sunset with Sam and Carol as our witnesses. It was one the most beautiful moments of my life.

Soon after we arrived back in the States, Aron and I bought our first home together. We were anxious to move out of our little apartment and “grow up,” so to speak. We were also anxious to go back to court and either increase our visitation with Aron’s son Ryan or gain shared custody, and we thought that if we had a real home our chances of getting Ryan more often would be greater.

Over the years since I had been with Aron his ex, Vicki, had become more and more vindictive when it came to Ryan. When I first met Aron, Vicki wouldn’t even allow Aron to see Ryan on a weekly basis, and if she did, it came with a hundred-dollar price tag. When we went to court and obtained the right to weekly visitation, during our visitations with Ryan Vicki would make it a habit to call over and over again, leaving messages filled with hateful threats and screaming that Ryan was her son, not mine. On more than one occasion, Aron and I drove to her apartment to pick Ryan up for visitation and she wasn’t there. The times she was there, she stood in the parking lot as we pulled away with Ryan, screaming obscenities at us until we were out of sight.

Vicki’s name-calling and hatefulness may have seemed awful to most people, but compared to Mom, Vicki was a piece of cake. What I was concerned about was Ryan’s safety. I knew what it was like to live with an unstable mother, and I knew if Vicki was acting this way in front of Aron and me, it
had
to be worse behind closed doors. I watched Ryan carefully when he was at the apartment for any signs of abuse, but I never noticed a mark, and if I did think he was being mentally abused, I couldn’t prove it.

My suspicions were confirmed approximately eight months after Aron and I signed the mortgage for our new home. Ryan was over for one of his visits and we were sitting in the living room eating popcorn and watching
Ace Ventura, Pet Detective
, one of Ryan’s favorite movies.

“I really love it here,” Ryan said out of the blue.

“Well, that’s a deep little thought for a nine-year-old boy!” Aron said jokingly and hugged Ryan tightly. “I love you, big guy!”

Ryan started to cry and I jumped out of the recliner I was sitting in and ran to the couch to sit on the other side of Ryan. As Aron and I held him tight, I heard Ryan say, “She hits me with a flyswatter if I don’t do my homework right.”

My heart stopped and I caught my breath. Aron looked at me quickly with concern in his eyes and grabbed the remote to pause the movie. “What did you say, honey?” he pressed gently. “Your mom hits you?”

Ryan picked his head up and nodded. “Yeah, she hits me if I don’t spell my words right,” he said.

“With a flyswatter?” I asked, suddenly feeling a sense of déjà vu.

Ryan looked at me and nodded. “And her hands.”

My heart broke, and I grabbed Ryan and held him. “It’s never OK to be hit, Ryan, never!” I looked up at Aron and shook my head.

“Tell me more, Ryan,” Aron demanded. I held up my hand and stopped him from saying another word.

“Aron, he’s said enough,” I said softly as I held Ryan in my arms like a mother for the first time since I had known him.

I didn’t need to hear any more about Vicki hurting Ryan, I had heard all I needed to hear. I felt an overwhelming feeling of guilt as I sat there and stroked Ryan’s hair.
What kind of person am I? Why didn’t I see the signs when he visited? Was I so focused on myself that I let this poor child live with a woman like my mother?
I laid Ryan’s head down on the pillow behind me and gestured for Aron to follow me into the kitchen.

“You have to get him out of there, Aron,” I said once I was sure Ryan couldn’t hear us. “You can’t let him live there anymore.”

“How do we do that, Sarah?” Aron asked me. “How do you take a child away from his mother?”

I didn’t know and I didn’t care. What was right was right and there was no way as long as I was around that Ryan was going to endure any more abuse.

“Why didn’t he say anything before this?” Aron asked angrily. “Why now?”

I looked at Aron and simply said, “Because it’s just what people like us do.” I knew why Ryan kept his mouth shut and it was for the same reasons I had kept my mouth shut about my abuse. It’s embarrassing, and children will always feel like the abuse is their fault. The last thing abused children want to do is to draw attention to the fact that they are “bad kids,” and unfortunately, we all believe we are “bad kids.”

We dropped Ryan back off at Vicki’s apartment with heavy hearts that evening. We had considered calling DCFS and having them investigate the situation before we sent Ryan home, but I couldn’t bring myself to dial their number. I couldn’t get forget my first visit from the DCFS lady after Mom rubbed my face into my own urine and how ashamed I felt after her visit and how much Mom beat me after she left; I knew that I couldn’t risk putting Ryan through that same pain. As Ryan got out of the car, I stopped him and held him tight.

“It’s OK to run,” I whispered to him. “It’s OK to run away somewhere safe and call us if you need to.”

Vicki came out of her front door. “Get your damn hands off of my kid!” she screeched, but I paid no heed. “Trust me, sweetheart,” I continued, “I’m not going to let you get hurt anymore.” Ryan smiled at me and to my surprise, gave me a peck on the cheek, which immediately infuriated Vicki.

“What the hell are you kissing her for?” she hollered at him as he walked through the front door. Vicki turned around, flipped Aron and me off, and slammed the front door behind her.

Aron was furious the entire drive home. “How could you of all people let him go back into that house with her?” he fumed at me.

“We couldn’t figure out one way to keep him there with us and keep him safe? We could have called the police, child services, someone!” He pounded the steering wheel in frustration. “Damn it, Sarah, he’s in that house with that woman and there is nothing I can do about it!”

“Aron,” I said, “what good would it have done to call the police or DCFS? Do you really think that Vicki was going to sit there and admit that she hits Ryan? No! She’ll make up some story about Ryan hurting himself and make your son out to be the liar, and then he’ll be too afraid to say anything to anyone ever again!” I shook my head and looked out the window. “No, I’m not putting him through that. We need to call our lawyer tomorrow morning and get in to see him immediately.”

“So what are you saying, Sarah, are you saying you want Ryan coming and living with us? Are you OK with that?” Aron asked.

I turned to him with a look of horror on my face. “What do you mean am I OK with it? What kind of person do you think I am to let a child stay with a woman like Mom? It’s only going to get worse, Aron, and if there is something I can do…” My voice trailed off and I was reminded of the many times I had sat and cried on the floor in my room, wanting to know the reason why I was getting hurt so badly and what my purpose was.
Maybe this is my purpose
, I thought.
Maybe I needed to go through what I did so I could help Ryan.
I was determined to go after Vicki, and I was not going to let Ryan continue to be a victim any longer and suffer as I had.

Exactly two weeks later, Aron obtained full legal custody of Ryan. I contacted our attorney the day after Ryan had shared his dark secret with us, and Aron and I met with him later that afternoon and drafted up the first petition seeking custody of Ryan. As Aron read over the petition, he paused.

“Andy,” he said to our attorney, “we have no proof that she did any of these things to him. I didn’t see flyswatter marks; I didn’t see any of this with my own eyes. What are the chances that a judge is going to believe this?”

Andy nodded. “I agree, it is a lot of hearsay; that’s why I was going to ask if you would consider Ryan testifying against her.”

“No!” I said loudly, and Aron looked at me with surprise.

“What do you mean, no?” he asked. “If we don’t have police reports and we don’t have physical proof, why not have Ryan tell his story himself?”

I looked at Andy to see if he understood why I wouldn’t want Ryan to testify, but he looked as puzzled as Aron did.
You just don’t get it.

“Because, Aron, Ryan doesn’t live with us yet and Vicki will have from now until the court date—and then who knows how long after that—to intimidate him and coach him on exactly what he is supposed to say and how he is supposed to say it.” I felt as if I were describing Mom again. “Trust me,” I said to Aron urgently, “if you want Ryan to be spared any extra abuse, you won’t make him testify.” I turned to Andy. “There has to be another way,” I pleaded.

“Well, can you think of one?” Andy asked me.

I sat back in my chair and thought of Mom.
How would I go after Mom now?
A light bulb went off in my head and I sat up straight. “Psychological testing,” I said, and I remembered something I had heard during a law class in college years ago. “I might be wrong, but can’t we file something that would require Aron and Vicki to visit a psychiatrist to determine the mental health of both parents before a custodial decision is made?”