That Day, That Woman

There she was in all her infamous glamour. Red acrylic nails with a weave flowing down her back; typical. I hated her. How could he bring her along today? He only graced us with his presence once a week since he moved out a month ago and I was still adjusting when he showed up with That Woman in the passenger seat. My pearly whites betrayed my sinking heart. Smiling while having a dagger plunged and twisted into my core was now common. I craved for my mother’s nurturing at that moment, but I had to be strong and set an example for my three siblings. I swallowed every painful word that wanted to escape and held on firmly to every salt laced drop that begged to stream down my innocent cheek.

The four of us were sitting on the porch when the blue minivan drove up and parked with That Woman in the passenger’s seat. He leaned over her and yelled for us to jump in. Without hesitation the boys gleefully ran and slid the side door open, taking the last row of seats. I stood smiling before turning to take my baby sister’s hand to descend the stairs. Asia and I climbed in the middle row and were prompted by our dad to say hello to That Woman. We did as we were instructed in unison, and I buckled Asia in before we took off.

It was a Sunday in October, and I knew wherever we were going to eat had to have the Giants game, which would be a welcome distraction given the circumstances. We were a football family that never missed an opportunity to take a shot at each other’s team, and since my brother Kalen loved the Giants, it was his turn to suffer. The boys were arguing over who was going to win when my dad made an unwelcome announcement. He decided that since That Woman didn’t like football, we would go somewhere and have a quiet meal together to become better acquainted. I swallowed hard.

In what world did he think this was okay? At fifteen, I knew this was wrong. I’d heard the adults whispering when my dad moved out. Everyone was under the impression that my mother was cheating and instead of beating her as the other husbands in the neighborhood would have, he did the honorable thing and left. What a good man. Huh?

Did they know he moved his things out in the middle of the night while we were all sleeping? No, I don’t know where my mother was and when asked she would shut down and become withdrawn or lash out and throw a tantrum. What I do know is the next morning was the first time I’d experienced heartbreak. The empty hollowness in your gut, the throbbing pains in your head, the heavy ache in your chest, the waves of self-doubt that wash up on the shore of bitterness and cause you to bellow in agony. I didn’t touch my breakfast as I sat across the round kitchen table from my youngest brother, both of us weeping uncontrollably. My sister was only six, and could not understand why we were crying, and my other brother just sat in silence, not expressing any emotion.

Mom’s wrinkled forehead and clenched jaw exposed her irritation with the locksmith over his rates, but she moved forward with the job anyway. Dad’s timing was monstrous. Not only did he do this on my sister’s birthday and five days before his and my mother’s wedding anniversary, but he also knew my mother just received news that her older brother was in the hospital dying. This was her Irish twin, and there was no one in the world with whom she was closer. Dad came by in the midst of the lock changing and she let him in to talk to us, refusing to give him eye contact.

He sat us down on the big couch in the family room and told us that there were going to be some changes. I immediately tuned out. Going to be? They were here already. Going to be, means you are telling us something that will happen in the future. Last night, hell, last week would have been a better time to discuss the upcoming changes. I was quietly trapped in my thoughts, but my tears screamed loudly.

Now, here I was tuning him out again while in this minivan on our way to eat with That Woman. We got to the restaurant, and it was a buffet, which was cool because I could get up and pretend to get food when I felt the rage kicking in. I couldn’t sit across from That Woman and feign happiness for too long. That woman who was going around town spreading rumors about my parents' marriage and making my mother out to be nothing more than a lazy housewife. That woman who was sporting a huge rock on her ring finger while my mom was never gifted a nice piece of jewelry by my dad. That woman who my dad declared in his angry rant last week, was a better woman than my mother. That woman who terrorized my mother by constantly calling the house only to hang up on her every day since my dad left. That woman who my cousin told me was at my grandmother’s house for dinner with my dad. That woman whose pictures I found hidden in a kitchen drawer at his new apartment. That woman whose KY Jelly and Norforms I discovered in his medicine cabinet. That woman was now here in the flesh, and I was expected to be nice and welcoming to her. I thought that the definition of child abuse should be expanded to include whatever this mess was.

But I must set a good example, so I did. I was a child expected to stay in a child’s place and if I didn’t, I would get the backhand. I emotionally detached from the situation and cruised through the meal only smiling and nodding when expected. Once home, we didn’t talk about our trip in front of mom. When we were alone playing video games, I asked my brother, Kalen, who is two years younger than me, if he liked That Woman. He said she was okay; he didn’t really care one way or another. I expressed discontent that dad would bring her on the one day we had to spend with him, and Kalen agreed, but thought we should just get used to the idea that she might come along from now on.

I turned to my youngest brother, Kevin, who was always wise beyond his years. At his tender age of ten, he said it wasn’t a good thing and we should probably ask him not to bring her. That was all I needed to hear. I marched right to my mother and told her That Woman was in the van with us and went to eat with us and we don’t want her coming with us again. I knew mom would take care of it, and she did in the most dramatic fashion.

She was apparently keeping track of situation through her various gossip channels and found out That Woman lived in her parents' house with her four-year-old daughter. Mom got dressed up and drove to the house and informed her parents That Man their daughter was dating and welcomed in their home, was married with four children. This was a fact dad neglected to reveal to her super-religious parents and they were pissed.

Of course, that caused dad to lose his mind and set in motion a series of unfortunate events over the next few days. He stalked mom, ripped hoses out of her engine while she was inside the drugstore, leaving her stranded. Luckily, her good friend Lisa was able to pick her up. Dad only called the house to yell at her and tell her how worthless she was. Why try to tear her down? Didn’t he know we were in the house with her? How did he think she would react to us if he continued to pick fights over the phone? Did he think about our well-being at all?

I was seething but no one would know because the angrier I got, the wider my smile. The only man I could talk to was dying, and my mom was running back and forth to the hospital every day to take care of him. Mom got the car fixed the day after my dad’s sabotage, but it didn’t run the same. She was not comfortable driving the forty-five minutes to visit my uncle in fear that it would break down. She called my dad the next morning and must have taken him on a serious guilt trip because he was kind enough to lend her his brand-new luxury vehicle to go take care of her brother.

Around 3:30pm that afternoon the house phone rang, and I answered it. My dad was on the other end asking for mom. I told him she wasn’t home yet, and he began one of his rants. Apparently, she was supposed to have the car back to him by 3:30pm, and he began to berate her for her lateness. I could feel heat pulsate through my body with each demeaning word he uttered. The filth flowing from his mouth directly into my ear unlocked the fury I’d held in for weeks.

I stopped him and first tried reasoning with him. This was before the cell phone era, so I told him she probably hit traffic and would be there soon. He continued to insult her and said she was nothing more than a trifling bitch. I erupted and told him that woman he paraded around town was a trifling bitch and called her a few other names that I’m sure sent a jolt to his senses. He hung up on me, and I felt powerful; no longer helpless. I’d stood up to him and proudly stood up for my mother. I placed the phone back on the hook and the smile I flashed now was genuine.

That all lasted about thirty minutes. My mom came home, and my dad was right behind her. I was sitting in the top bunk when I heard my father angrily asking my brother where I was. Just as I jumped down from the bunkbed dad charged through my door like a bull. His unstoppable momentum slammed me into the wall as the back of his hand violently turned my face the left and I felt a warmness trickle down my chin. I quickly grabbed my stinging lip and looked down at my hand to see red. We were both breathing heavily, just staring at each other with contempt. Then just as quickly as he came, he left, and said nothing on his way out.

I stormed into the living room announcing furiously that if he ever hits me again, I will call the cops, father or not. If the only people who can protect me from him are the police, then he was going to be locked up. At that point, the village had to get involved and he agreed to never lay a hand on me again, but our relationship changed.

That day I learned to speak up and speak out. That day I learned just how much I loved myself. That day I found my voice, and the stepford smile that painted my face was gone forever.