“Dee Dee, I just wanted to make you feel better.”

  “I know, you’re really sweet. But you don’t understand. Right now I can’t be close to anyone, not even you.”

  “Why not?”

  I should tell Skylar the deal. I had been robbed of my innocence. I’d been made to feel like a dirty rag, and I couldn’t wish it away. If Skylar was going to bolt, he might as well leave now. We might as well get it over with. But I didn’t tell Skylar what was up with me. Instead, I traced the raised pattern on the balled-up comforter over and over again with my finger. It reminded me of my old-fashioned pink bedspread from my childhood. It had raised tufts that were like tiny spitballs. I used to roll them around in my fingers over and over again. I used to pretend like I didn’t have a care in the world.

  Skylar’s voice was full of concern. “Dee Dee, what’s wrong?”

  I didn’t respond. I felt far away. I’d already disappeared. I didn’t travel to the ceiling and look down like I did as a child. Maybe only children can fly. But I was still gone, just the same.

  I heard a far-away voice pleading, “Dee Dee, are you gonna be okay? Do you want me to call somebody? Please say something.”

  Suddenly I felt the bed shake. I heard my cat purring and felt him rubbing against my neck. Langston usually shied away from Skylar, so I was surprised by his appearance.

  “Is the cat okay up on the bed?”

  “He’s fine,” I said, petting Langston. Being close to my cat gave me a secure feeling.

  “Is your headache better?”

  “It’s a little better,” I answered weakly.

  “Dee Dee, what do you want me to do?”

  I looked at Skylar blankly. I felt safe with Langston and I felt safe stroking my comforter. That’s all I felt I could handle right now. “I’ll be okay, you can go,” I mumbled.

  “I’m gonna give you some space,” Skylar said. “But I’m not leaving the premises. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

  I needed to be alone. I wasn’t totally alone, because Langston was by my side.

  After Skylar left the room, I began fantasizing about blowing my stepfather up into a jillion pieces. And cutting him up into a jillion more. And beating him with bats and pipes and shooting him with automatic weapons and drowning him and setting him on fire. Finally, I grew exhausted from killing a man over and over again who was already dead.

  I felt like a fountain of sludge was shooting out of my mouth and hands. I couldn’t hold it back, even if I wanted to. I had no choice, the need to release it was so powerful. I felt that it represented the shame I’d carried with me most of my life. I knew that I needed a safe place to continue to heal. A place where people would understand what I was going through. I was lucky that I had close friends to turn to and that Skylar might be supportive. But I knew that neither my friends nor my boyfriend nor even I could handle the brunt of my pain without my getting professional help.

  A few minutes later, Skylar came back upstairs to check on me.

  “Dee Dee, I called Tyeesha and arranged for her to keep Brianna overnight. I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  “Skylar, I’m an incest survivor,” I said in a clear voice.

  “I knew it had to be something big.” He sighed. “Dee Dee, I’m really sorry that happened to you. Do you feel like talking about it?”

  I shook my head. “Not right now.”

  “Dee Dee, I want to be supportive. Just let me know what I can do, okay?” Skylar asked with caring eyes.

  “Skylar, that’s nice of you to say, but you know you don’t have to travel this road with me. If you wanna bolt, there’s the door.” I pointed. “In fact, I will understand. This is no easy walk.”

  “Dee Dee, what’s the point of being on an easy walk, if I’m not on the path with the woman I love?”

  A couple of days later, I was still tripping on my flashbacks. Yesterday, I’d spaced out and cut a couple of my fingers while washing a sharp knife. And today, I’d already burned my arm on an oven rack, while removing a pizza.

  It was time to face my pain. I called my HMO about getting into a survivors’ support group. Dr. Hamilton chastized me for not ringing her back sooner.

  “It’s already March again,” she reminded me. “It’s been a year since we’ve spoken.” Dr. Hamilton said they’d been inundated with calls from people during the holidays, but the good news was, she could offer me a spot in a brand-new group that was starting in two weeks. It fit with my schedule, and I felt relieved.

  “I’ve burned myself and cut myself, lately,” I confided over the phone. “Not deliberately,” I quickly assured the doctor. “I’ve just had a couple of accidents.”

  “It’s common for abuse survivors to be accident-prone when repressed memories start to surface and they begin to address them,” Dr. Hamilton informed me. “I’m glad to hear that you’re not injuring yourself deliberately.”

  “I would never do that,” I answered truthfully. “But I understand why women cut themselves, so the outside matches the pain they’re feeling on the inside. I guess they’re trying to cut through all the denial around them, too.”

  “I think that’s a pretty good analysis. Well, be careful and be gentle with yourself. If you think you might be suicidal, though, ring me up right away.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not suicidal, I’m homicidal.”

  “You are aware that if you threaten to harm yourself or harm anyone else, I am required by law to act on that information, aren’t you?”

  “I was only kidding. My perpetrator is already dead.”

  “That’s right, you told me your stepfather passed away over a year ago.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Daphne, I’m looking forward to having you in the group. I’m going to transfer you to the receptionist now; she’ll enroll you. You’ve taken an important step today.”

  “I know, but the thought of actually facing what happened to me makes me feel so vulnerable,” I confided.

  “This time you won’t be alone with your vulnerability, dear. Everyone in your group will feel vulnerable also. Vulnerability is the core of strength.”

  Skylar commended me for enrolling in the sexual abuse survivors’ group during our phone conversation that evening. I warned him that I would be going through some emotional changes. There would be times when I was going to need his support. Sometimes, I would just probably need time alone. Skylar assured me that he would support me in any way that he could.

  Then I wound up agreeing to babysit for Brianna. She’d been sent home from school with a cold this afternoon. Skylar said that she was getting over it, but he’d like to keep her home tomorrow, just in case. I was free until my evening focus groups, so I agreed to pitch in. After all, we were a team. Even if we were still missing an important member.

  I loaded up on garlic tablets, vitamin C and echinacea and golden seal after I got off the phone. Brianna might be contagious. I wanted to have a strong immune system when I faced that child tomorrow.

  “You still have a slight temperature,” I reported, after pulling the thermometer out of Brianna’s mouth the following day. I glanced down at her puffy, reddish face. She was sitting up in bed, surrounded by her Beanie Babies.

  “You only ate a little of your lunch,” I continued. “I’m glad you drank most of your orange juice. I’m going to bring you some hot tea.”

  “What did you mean by ‘the ball’s in Brianna’s court’?” she asked before I could leave the room.

  “You mean why did I say that the last time I was here?”

  Brianna nodded.

  “You have a good memory. Well, I meant like in tennis,” I explained. “Do you know who Venus Williams is?”

  Brianna nodded again. “She has all those beads in her hair.” She coughed and added, “She’s cool.”

  “I’m glad you remembered to cover your mouth. Anyway, when Venus hits the ball over the net, it’s in the other player’s court, right?”

  “Right?”

  “And it’s up to her to hit it back over, right?”

  “Sí.”

  “So, what I’m saying is, I’ve tried to be your friend, but I can’t be your friend unless you try back.”

  Brianna paused and looked like she was pondering this concept. “How would you like it if your cat got a cat girlfriend and she was always over at your house, meowing. And nobody ever asked you if you wanted her there or not?”

  “I guess I would want to have a say in it,” I conceded. “Do you think I’m over here too much?” I asked softly.

  Brianna wrinkled her forehead. “How about if you come over once a week.”

  “Do I get to spend the night?”

  Brianna nodded.

  Damn straight, I’m spending the night, you little control freak, I thought.

  “Okay, that sounds reasonable,” I said, diplomatically.

  “How would you feel if your daddy talked your mommy into having an abortion?” Brianna blurted out.

  I was momentarily speechless. My heart went out to Brianna. It was like I could feel her pain. “Your father just wanted to be a great daddy and he wanted your mother to be a great mommy. And he wasn’t sure that they could give a child everything he or she deserved. But your mother had to make the final decision.”

  Brianna wrinkled her forehead again as if in deep thought. She sat up and hugged her knees. “Okay, then.” She sighed. “How would you like it if when your mother was pregnant with you, your father was ambivalent?” Brianna asked quizzically.

  “Do you know what ambivalent means?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Mommy says it’s when you have mixed feelings. My daddy had mixed feelings about me.”

  “Well, if he ever did, it was before you were born. Your daddy fell in love with you the instant he laid eyes on you. He told me that.”

  “He did?” Brianna asked with a smile.

  “Yes. Your father loves you more than anybody in this world.”

  “Even you?”

  “Yes, of course. Your father definitely puts you first. And I’m sure your mother feels the same way about you. Brianna, you’re number one.”

  Brianna stood up on the bed. “I’m number one!” she bragged, holding up a finger. She bounced up and down on her bed and chanted, “I’m number one! I’m number one!”

  “Girl, you’d better sit your butt back down in that bed,” I scolded playfully. “You’re supposed to be sick, remember.”

  “I’m glad that they let me be born,” Brianna said, sitting down and hugging a couple of Beanie Babies.

  “A lot of people are glad that you were born, Brianna,” I heard myself say. “And I’m one of them.”

  “You are?”

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly feeling a flood of maternal feelings. I sat down on part of Brianna’s bed. “I’ve never said this to you before. But Brianna, I love you.”

  Brianna looked up at me with her liquid green eyes and answered, solemnly, “I recognize that.”

  No hug, no “I love you, too,” just, “I recognize that.” Spoken like a true Californian, I thought to myself, as I wiped away a joyful tear.

  On Sunday morning, I woke up to a blanket of fresh snow. Skylar had invited me to attend church with him and Brianna. I swung by and picked them up after digging my car out. Brianna was excited by the sudden, late winter wonderland. It was the first time in over a week she’d really had enough snow to play in. Later this afternoon, she planned to make a snowman.

  The church that Skylar and Brianna attended was a progressive, predominantly black church that billed itself more as a spiritual center than as a religious institution.

  The three of us were lucky to find seats. The pews were packed with people and their heavy winter wraps. I felt touched when Brianna announced that she wanted to sit between Skylar and me.

  I felt uncomfortable when I noticed in the program that the title of the sermon was forgiveness. I wasn’t in the mood to have anybody preaching forgiveness at me just yet. I still had a high degree of pissosity in my system toward my stepfather. But I good-naturedly joined the choir in singing “This Joy That I Have.”

  “We’re partying for the Lord twenty-four-seven, three hundred and sixty-five days a year,” the regally dressed woman minister declared after we finished singing. “I woke up this mornin’ with my mind stayed on spirit,” Reverend Cassandra Taylor added. “And I wanna talk about forgiveness this mornin.’”

  Well, I’m not sure I want to hear about it, I thought, folding my arms and readying my defenses.

  “Last week, I had to go to court and face the boys who gave my grandson the alcohol at the fraternity party that killed him,” the minister continued, her voice choked with emotion. “I prayed to God to give me the strength to see past my own grief and be able to forgive. I asked the Lord to let me find it in my heart to forgive these boys. That’s not to say that I didn’t want them to receive some form of punishment. But I didn’t want to continue carrying hatred in my heart for them.” Reverend Taylor paused. She was a commanding figure. Even Brianna’s eyes were fixed on her.

  “While I was praying for the strength to forgive those boys,” Reverend Taylor continued, “all of a sudden I saw in my mind the face of this man who had wronged me several years ago. Now I could forgive the boys who gave my grandson the alcohol, because although they acted recklessly, they did not purposely kill my grandson. But I had no intention of forgiving this other man. What he’d done was purposeful. He’d done my daughter dirty.” She paused and narrowed her eyes and raised her right arm. “You know, there’s a group over here that you can kind of smooth over what they did and forgive them, but then there’s another group over here that you can’t.” She raised her left arm. “When I saw that other man’s face in my prayers, that man I had no intention of forgiving, I said, God, I ain’t ask you nothing about forgiving this man. I asked you about forgiving these boys. Lord, now you meddling.”

  Many people in the congregation laughed, including me. But my smile quickly changed to a serious expression as I pondered whether I would ever be able to forgive my stepfather in my heart for what he’d done to me. I could forgive my mother for not knowing and not sensing, because she was in denial. But I wasn’t sure I could’ve forgiven Daddy Sherman even if he’d begged me on his deathbed. Although I would’ve liked to have seen him do it.

  The pastor’s words interrupted my thoughts. “I read once that when I forgave someone, I set a prisoner free—and the prisoner was myself. I said, and that prisoner was myself.

  “Forgiveness can be a powerful thing,” Reverend Taylor continued. “It can be a truly liberating experience.”

  You have to be ready to forgive, I was tempted to shout out. And only you have the right to make that decision.

  “But forgiveness ultimately has to be a choice,” the minister added firmly, as if she were reading my mind. “We often make kids kiss and make up, but sometimes life isn’t like that.” She shook her head. “Sometimes we’re not ready to forgive. Sometimes it takes time. And maybe for some things, we’re never ready.

  “Some people are unable to forgive until after the person dies. I’ve heard of people going to someone’s grave site and forgiving them. Some people even write a letter to a deceased person. It’s more powerful if you can forgive a person when they’re alive, but it’s never really too late to forgive. Because whenever you forgive, you’re ultimately doing it for yourself.

  “Please stand and repeat after me,” the minister instructed.

  I reluctantly stood, prepared to mouth whatever I was commanded to say. I rarely felt comfortable with people putting words in my mouth. I expected that I might end up feeling like a robot.

  “God is the only power in my life,” Reverend Taylor pronounced decisively. The congregation, including me, repeated her words in unison. The pastor stretched her arms high above her head.

  I knew that God was the highest power in my life, but I wasn’t sure that God was the only power in my life, I thought skeptically.

  “Nothing from without can touch the perfect life of God within me,” the minister continued.

  That’s a nice concept, I conceded.

  “No past experience has power over me.”

  I wish, I thought cynically.

  “I am a perfect child of God.”

  I like the sound of that, I acknowledged.

  “And nothing that anyone has ever done or said can interfere with my divine inheritance.”

  That’s reassuring, I thought.

  “The power of God is greater than any circumstance in my life.”

  That is empowering, I agreed.

  “The strength of God is mine to use.”

  That’s comforting, I admitted.

  “Turning away from all feelings of inadequacy, I discover that all I need is within me right now.”

  That’s good to remember, I told myself.

  “As I forgive the past I find that I have nothing to atone for and nothing to run away from.”

  I sighed, feeling compassion for myself.

  “Casting off the old me, I discovered my true self.”

  I took a deep breath. I felt a sense of hope.

  “I take dominion in my life.”

  I planted my feet more firmly on the floor and nodded in agreement.

  “Old habits have no power over me,” the minister continued.

  “Conditions have no power over me.

  “Personalities have no power over me.

  “I take dominion.

  “I’m whole.

  “I’m free.

  “I’m complete.

  “Now and forever more.

  “And so it is!

  “Say yes!”

  “Yes!!!!” I shouted with the enthusiastic congregation. My voice sounded vibrant. I had indeed been inspired.

  “Hallelujah!”

  “I’m whole! I’m perfect and I’m free!”

  “Now and forever more!”

  “And so it is!” the minister proclaimed jubilantly. A tenor soloist stepped forward from the choir and sang “I Believe I Can Fly.”

  The congregation joined in, still on its feet. My voice rang out clear and strong.

  Brianna clutched Skylar’s and my hands and swung them in time with the music.