Betrayal

My most powerful and far-reaching memory, my first recalled betrayal, occurred when I was five years old. I was playing at the house of the family across the alley. My older sister played with their daughter, and I played with their son Jay, who was a few years younger than I.

It was a warm sunny day and Jay and I were outside, playing tag in the sunshine. His parents came out of the house to discuss a drive out to the country to visit friends. They were just going to get some fresh veggies and newly laid eggs and come immediately back to town.

Their next door neighbor Bryce was there, a boy of about eleven or twelve. I didn’t know him or recall ever seeing him before.

I was asked if I wanted to join them for their country jaunt. They wouldn’t be long they promised -- just get what they wanted and come right back.

I demurred. Then Bryce began trying to persuade me. “Oh come on. It’ll be fun. It’s just a car ride. You can sit next to me.”

This didn’t assuage my fears. For some reason this made me certain I didn’t want to go. I couldn’t explain it, but I felt uncomfortable about him and reluctant to sit next to him on a long drive.

I was told to go home and ask my mother.

I ran home and flung open the back door. My mother wanted me to go. “It’s a beautiful day. A ride in the country will be nice.”

“I don’t want to go”, I told her.

“Don’t be silly. Why not?”

I shrugged. I didn’t have the words to explain it to her. “Bryce from next door will be there.”

My mother gave me her exasperated look. “Go on. I don’t know why you get so worried. Everything will be fine.”

Unconvinced, I climbed into the back seat to the right of Bryce. Jay sat on his left side. I stared out the window on the ride, enjoying the warm breeze and closing my eyes to feel the hot sun on my face. I usually enjoyed a country drive and I tried my best to enjoy this one, telling myself my mom was right and I was being silly.

When we reached the farmhouse, the family started to climb out of the car.

Bryce held me back. “Why don’t you stay here with me?”

I struggled to get away. “No, I want to go.”

“Oh come on. They’ll only be a few minutes. Why don’t we just sit and relax?”

The others were out of the car and Jay’s mother came to my open window. “Sure. Why don’t you two stay here? We’ll be back in a few minutes. We won’t be long.”

I found myself panicking and didn’t know why. I didn’t want to be alone in the car with Bryce, but there was no way to explain this. I had no good reason why.

He put his arm around my shoulders. “It’s all right. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Suddenly his hand was sliding inside my waistband and down into my panties. I froze.

I sat like a statue, wondering why he was doing this to me. I had never been touched there before and couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do that. It seemed like an eternity before the others opened the door to the farmhouse and stepped onto the porch. I felt as if I had been holding my breath the entire time.

Immediately the hand left my pants, and as the others re-entered the car, Bryce asked them what they had gotten. He was friendly and normal to them, acting as if nothing strange had happened. Had it? Did I just imagine the whole thing?

All the way home he was animated and in good spirits, while I sat quietly in the corner, staring out the window and seeing nothing, confused by what had just happened.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, I quickly jumped out of the car and ran home to safety. I so clearly remember, fifty years later, what happened next.

I ran in the back door. My mother, in the kitchen, met me at the top of the three or four steps that led down to the doorway landing, where I stood.

“How was it?” she asked. “I bet you’re glad you went aren’t you?”

I told her what had happened, or at least as much as my five-year-old vocabulary and understanding could express. “When the others were inside the farmhouse, Bryce put his hand in my pants.”

The next few seconds changed my life forever.

My mother stood stock still for a moment and then a dark cloud floated across her face.

“That’s a terrible thing to say. How can you make up stories like that about someone?”

I looked at her, shocked and disbelieving.

She stared back at me angrily.

I remember clearly how I felt at that moment, even though at the time, I couldn’t have put these words to my emotions. I thought, I can’t trust you. You won’t be there for me when I need you most. I’m alone in the world.

That’s the end of my memory of that day, a mother and child who adored each other, staring at each other in disbelief, standing a few feet away and yet galaxies apart, not knowing what to do next, frozen in time, unable to connect. That moment colored my relationship with my mother forever.

Especially because right around that time, my older sister was playing with her friends in the alley, when a man passed by and then stopped to urinate by someone’s garage.

The girls rushed in to tell my mother, giggling and shrieking, horrified and fascinated at the same time. My mother was so upset by this that she called my dad home from work and called the police.

When the police officer arrived, I was made to leave the room because I was too young to hear. I actually didn’t know the facts of the story until many years later, but the message was clear to my five-year-old heart. I didn’t matter.

Over the years, in trying to sort his out, I see several factors involved.

It was the late 50’s and no one even knew the term “child molestation” yet. My parents were convinced that sort of thing happened with “certain people” but not in our neighborhood. Also, my mom was so shocked and horrified that she didn’t know how to deal with it.

The actual incident isn’t really what’s stayed with me. The trauma came from my mother’s reaction.

All I wanted was my mother’s arms around me telling me everything would be all right. I wanted some loving and supportive words murmured in my ear, and the realization that I had felt something was wrong and hadn’t wanted to go, while she had forced me to go.

I realize now that my mother was probably shocked and dismayed and guilty at her inability to protect me. She reacted with denial – of both the incident and me. Her response cost me my innocence and sense of safety. It also cost her my trust and respect.

Luckily, attitudes have changed since back then, but I don’t know if my mother’s response would have been any different today.

Of course, I probably would have been more aware.

My mother became completely overprotective after that, possessive and clingy. But she always had the same response of disbelief to anything I told her that she didn’t want to hear. I think she honestly believed that if she ignored it, it would go away. If no one talked about it, I would forget it and go on being the joyful, life-loving child that I had always been. It didn’t work.

When a child is molested, he or she does not have the luxury of denial. She lived through it and is now trying to understand the complex emotions and confusion that churn inside her. It will always be a part of her and may affect relationships in the future. Ignoring it is not an option.

Adults need to deal with their emotions on their own time. Their first priority is to help the child.

You can start off by holding them close and believing them, murmuring in their ear, saying something along the lines of “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, but I’m here for you now.”

Don’t be the second person that day to betray them.