My eight year old daughter’s
toes are sticking out from the fuzzy tiger blanket that only smells slightly
like dog pee, and I hold her close as I read to her. Her
pink nightgown is warm against me, and I am lulled by the sound of my own
voice. Words like Argonath and Lothlórien knot my tongue as we weave our way
through Middle Earth, and her eyes shine when I talk about runes and elves and
tangled forests full of strange creatures.
It is late.
She is breathing
slowly and deeply and I know that soon her eyes will close in sleep. Suddenly she shakes the blanket off, her
hands trails down my arm from where it rested on my shoulder, and I freeze and
struggle to continue reading. Looking
down, I see her tiny brown fingers trace scars that normally hide themselves
under layers of clothing, like thick curtains between my inner world and the
relentless external – that outside world that cannot live without me, that
needs me to be okay. In my peripheral vision I watch as her dark eyes fixate on
years of accumulated pain – thick, raised lines of shame. Her fingers feel cool
against my skin.
“What happened,
Bobby?” she asks, pulling away so that she can have a better look. I hold my
breath for a minute. Think, Damien.
“I used to be in a lot
of pain,” I said, and waited for her to say something, but she didn’t, so I
continued. “It started when I was about your age.” My mind went to a place of
darkness, a life that was black as night.
“I’m sorry,” she says,
and I turn on my side so that I am facing her. For a moment I search for
something of myself in her face, and there it is. It’s a twinkle, a shine in her eyes that tells
me that she feels. I also know that
she is no stranger to pain. Tears run
down the side of my cheek onto my pillow, and my heart is racing. She isn’t
afraid. “Does it hurt?” she asks, and I instinctively shake my head, clearing
my throat.
“It did for a long
time,” I say, “Sometimes it still does.
I just know how to handle it better now.” She nods and a cat climbs up
on the bed and licks my face with a sandpaper tongue. Our hands reach out in
the lamplight at the same time, ruffling his soft grey fur, and we laugh.
