The Worst Day of the Week

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NEW PROMPT:
Recall a very early memory of time spent with your father.
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“There you are, my good girl. Come sit on my lap.” I heard this softly spoken comment while trying to sneak past him on my way to the bathroom. That was the only room with a lock and my sanctuary that evening. Mum had just left us three girls in the care of her husband for a couple hours. She went to the PTA meeting on some Thursday evenings to learn how we were doing in school.

My two older sisters were upstairs in their rooms doing homework and did not hear me when I crept down the stairs. Coming into the living room, I could see him sitting in his easy chair facing away from me. He had his evening newspaper in front of him, and I thought, Maybe he won’t notice me. I tried to hold my breath so he wouldn’t hear me as I tiptoed behind his chair.

Even though I was only around nine at the time, I was familiar with his odd behavior when alone with me. The previous month at a family trip to the ocean, he had sat down on the beach. When he spread his legs, I could see something all wrinkly in one loose leg of his swimming trunks. I did not like the smile on his face when he looked at me even though I did not understand it. That was the beginning.

* * *

The first time Mum left us on a Thursday, I was almost asleep when I felt someone sitting down on the side of my bed. Even in the darkened room, I knew who it was. He slowly pushed back the blanket and sheet covering me, and his hand gently began rubbing one of my legs.

“You are my good girl, aren’t you?” This whisper accompanied the movement of his hand slowly sliding under my nightgown up to my thigh. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to touch, that’s all. Be still now.”

I lay there too scared to move. For what seemed to me like hours but was probably only 30 minutes or so, he explored my young body with both hands. Fingers went into places they shouldn’t, and I could hear his breathing become faster and harsher as time passed in that dark room.

“Sweetheart, I’m home. Where are you?” Mum called out from downstairs, finally back from the meeting.

I wanted to cry in relief when I heard a reluctant sigh from him. He slowly removed his hands from me. The last words he said before leaving my bedroom were, “Don’t tell your mommy I was here. This will be our secret.”

I should have listened to him. The next morning after he had left for work, I waited until Mum and I were alone before telling her what her husband did.

“You are lying,” Mum angrily yelled. “You’re a liar with a dirty mind. I don’t ever want to hear such disgusting things from you again. Do you understand?”

I backed out of the room without daring to say anything else about her husband. It was on that day, at a very young age, I learned not to trust my parents or expect help from anyone.

* * *

After that first Thursday, I learned to avoid Mum’s husband by quickly going into the first-floor bathroom. I kept the door safely locked until she returned from her meeting, only unlocking it if one of my sisters demanded to use the room. While she was inside, I stood close by in the hallway silently praying he would not see me there.

The Thursday PTA meetings went on for a handful of years, and then Mum finally stopped going. By then I had matured with my body changing. I lost count of how many times he “accidentally” touched my chest. I could feel the heat of his big hand through the dress or blouse material, but knew complaining to Mum was useless. I found ways to never be alone with him and looked forward to graduating from high school.

The graduation ceremony was on another Thursday evening, and I knew this would be the last one I’d have to spend in the same house with him. The following Monday, I started working in a Boston insurance company while delighting in the safety of my tiny, fourth-floor flat on Beacon Hill.

Over the following years I’ve made many mistakes in my life, some small and some big, but I never again let myself get close to anyone enough to trust them. For years, until my parents died, I kept reminding myself, I am not a liar, and I do not have a dirty mind. Well, perhaps the latter might be true a bit now since I do enjoy writing erotica.

Thursday is still my least favorite day of the week and probably always will be.

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Microsoft Word count = 813

"The Writer's Cramp - Poetry Week!"  daily winning entry for 04/07/10
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