Of Things Unseen Read online

  “Of course I don’t want to suffer. I just—I’d rather find a way to get rid of this once and for all. It’s terrible. I haven’t been to work in months.”

  “Sweetheart, I’m gonna say something to you, and believe me, I’m saying this with love.”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be a martyr. Only a fool would sit up and live in pain every day when there’s relief available. There’s no reward for that, not even in heaven.”

  I sat with that for several seconds. Is that what I was doing? Being a martyr?

  “Are you there?” he asked.

  “I’m here. I hear you.”

  “Do you really?”

  “I do.”

  “Good. Now how can I help. Do you need me to write a script.” Dr. Thomas had a way of asking questions that sounded more like statements. The inflections at the end of his inquiries didn’t go up, they went down, dragging your confidence along with them.

  “What do you think causes this?”

  “Well, this isn’t my area but based on the literature I’ve read, I don’t think there’s a consensus. Often times with fibro, there’s some sort of trauma that corresponds with later onset of the illness. Now with IBS, there is a documented brain-gut connection. That’s not to say it’s all in your head. What I mean is that for some individuals, a disordered mind—depression, anxiety, et cetera—leads to a disordered gut.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “It is. And I’ve had to read up on this because more and more of my patients are complaining of chronic pain. Especially my black patients.” He paused. “Tamara, was there any kind of trauma in your childhood?”

  “Trauma?” I wasn’t a fan of that word.

  “Yes, like a car accident or a bad fall.”

  “Oh no, nothing like that.”

  “Nothing like that, or nothing?”

  I hesitated. “Nothing.”

  “Listen, I’m not trying to get all up in your personal business. Just wondering if there’s something you can pinpoint that might be able to get you to the root of it.”

  “I know you’re trying to help. I just can’t think of anything.”

  Dr. Thomas sat quietly on the other end of the phone. I took his silence as a dare. He seemed to sense that I wasn’t being honest.

  He finally spoke. “Well, it’s certainly a mystery to me, then.” He sighed again. I must have been exasperating. “If there is some kind of trauma in your past, I suggest getting a handle on it if you can. Unresolved issues can impact your health for the rest of your life without you knowing it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Are you aware that black women have the highest infant mortality rates in this country?”

  “I didn’t know that. Even the ones who have good doctors?”

  “Yes, ma’am. This crosses economic lines. And part of the reason for that is stress. And I don’t mean regular old job stress. I mean stress built up over a lifetime. It’s literally killing you slowly.”

  “That’s scary.”

  “It is.” He cleared his throat. “If you won’t let me write you a script, at least take some advice from me, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Mindfulness. Look it up online. There are exercises you can do. Do some deep breathing for relaxation, and make sure you get a good night’s rest every night. Eat food that’s alive, okay? Fruits, veggies, plenty of water. If you have anxiety—and it’s very common so it wouldn’t surprise me if you did—don’t be afraid to talk to someone. A professional. And don’t overwork yourself. You black women have a tendency to work yourselves to death, literally. Don’t do that. Ain’t no reward for that either, dear.”

  “Got it.”

  “And put down your phone sometimes. There’s a lot going on in the world right now and watching that stuff every day is unhealthy. Unplug. The world will still be there when you get back, I promise.”

  “Okay. I will.”

  “How is your husband with all this?”

  “He’s been supportive.”

  “That’s good,” he said, his voice flat. “Sometimes fibro patients struggle with loved ones.”

  “It’s frustrating sometimes. From the outside, I look normal so it’s hard to explain to people how horrible I actually feel. I’m sick but you can’t see it. I don’t think my mom even believes me. She just keeps telling me to pray. But Tony is understanding. For the most part.”

  He chuckled. “And how is Sheila doing?”

  “Same old Sheila.”

  There was a pause. I could tell he wanted to say something, but he was holding himself back. “Well listen, it was nice hearing from you. I wish I heard from you more often. And one more thing. Bring yourself up here sometime. I know Lady would love to see you. So would I.”

  “I will, I promise.”

  DR. THOMAS’ WORDS KEPT replaying in my head. Around and around, they wouldn’t stop. Martyr. Trauma. Stress. Was I really walking around feeling sorry for myself, living in pain when I didn’t have to? It’s not like I ever complained. I hated to even talk about it. And I thought I had a darn good reason not to take those drugs. Maybe I was just making excuses.

  I tried to stop myself thinking about it further because it felt like there was an ugly truth coming into focus. Something I was afraid of. The tide came in. It didn’t work. I looked at my phone, eyes blurry, and made out what looked to be a two. It was somewhere in the vicinity of 2 am and I still wasn’t asleep. My mind wouldn’t stop going.

  Trauma. It was a loaded word for sure, and not one I would have ever used to describe anything in my life. I had never gone to bed hungry, been sexually abused, or suffered through something like war. I’d never been homeless, never been laid off. My life hadn’t been perfect, of course. No one’s was. But I couldn’t say it had been...traumatic.

  Tony snored peacefully beside me. We would have kids one day, and I knew he would be a good father. And my daughter, if I had one, would have someone there to protect her. She wouldn’t lay awake at night wondering if she had been a burden on everyone in her life because her father would take good care of her. And he would bring great harm to anyone who hurt her. Because that’s what fathers do.

  Then again, a father hadn’t seemed to matter for Tiffany. I thought back to the interview. Mr. Scott, clearly broken, struggling to be strong, or at least appear strong for his wife, and all the while she was being the strong one, holding herself together to keep him together. He was a dam ready to burst, and when he did, it wouldn’t be pretty. But Mrs. Scott was a rock. I had never had that kind of strength. It was a marvel.

  Sleep still eluded me. I drifted off several times, but never deep enough. I was out of it, adrift on some other astral plane, but I could still hear myself thinking, my voice so clear in my head I thought I was listening to myself being broadcast. And it was one all-consuming thought that bored itself into my REM deprived brain—Andre.

  There was something about my brother. Perhaps it would be better to say some things. The incidents. Some I remembered clearly, others a blur. Was I dreaming? Or simply remembering? I heard myself cry out, a weak sound, pitiful, but also merciful in that it jarred me awake. Tony was merciful, too. He was still asleep and didn’t see my tears.

  If I read him right, Dr. Thomas seemed to be saying there was a linear progression from trauma to pain. But I wasn’t buying it. Although he did say the words “delayed onset.” That actually made more sense when I thought about it.

  No, it was too easy. Life’s answers don’t come that quickly or decisively, at least not for me. Maybe there was something to it, something worth exploring, but I would have to confront my past to get there, and that was terrifying.

  Chapter 10

  THE ARTICLE, ENTITLED “The Missing Black Women of East Metro Atlanta” went live on a Tuesday morning, supposedly the best day for maximum exposure, but I was too preoccupied to do more than skim over it. From what I could glean, Nikki had, in fact, included the race angle. I felt a flash of an
ger when I read it but there was no time to stew.

  The interview with the Scotts, the talk with Dr. Thomas, the sleepless nights and thoughts of trauma and my brother had hovered over me for days like a shadow, stalking me everywhere I went. I’d felt like a zombie ever since, staggering bleary-eyed through each day, hunting for sleep each night, and it had all led me back to one place—my childhood home.

  I sat down at the dining room table, where I’d eaten meals and done homework and blown out candles on birthday cakes. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, even after I clasped them together, and a dull ache bored its way through my skull, bearable but annoying. I took several deep breaths and willed myself not to cry. This was it. I was finally going to tell my mother the truth about Andre.

  “The kettle is on,” Sheila called from the kitchen. “Sugar and honey, right?”

  “Right. Do you have lemon?”

  “Yeah, gimme a second.”

  I don’t even know why I asked for lemon since I probably wasn’t going to drink the tea. My stomach was in knots and I just wanted to get it over with. Tea was for lingering and that wasn’t my plan. As soon as I was done talking, I was out of there.

  Sheila walked in and set the tray down in front of me before sitting down in the chair on the opposite side. “You always did love tea. When are you gonna start drinking coffee?”

  I grabbed my cup and saucer, hoping my mother wouldn’t see my trembling hands. “Coffee is for people with somewhere to go and important things to do. I don’t have either, so...”

  Sheila’s smile fell from her lips. She looked at me inquisitively. “You have me a little scared. What did you want to talk about?”

  I stared down into the bottom of my cup, where I found no answers and no exit. I was committed. Or stuck, whichever sounds less cowardly. “Well, ...it’s about Andre.”

  My mother sighed loudly and sat back. She seemed relieved, which struck me as odd. She must have been expecting something much worse, like that I was dying. Dre had been the source of so much stress over the years that she probably thought she’d heard it all. She was unshockable. I was about to ruin that.

  “What did he do now?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I mean, it’s not something recent.”

  She frowned. “Okay. Well what, then?”

  I took another deep breath. Just do it. Get it over with. “I don’t really know how to say this so I’m just gonna blurt it out. Dre used to...hurt me.”

  Sheila put a hand over her heart and her shoulders sagged as if the wind had been knocked out of her. “Oh, God. When you say hurt, do you mean...”

  I shook my head quickly. “No, no, not like that. He just used to...hurt me.” My eyes welled up and I had to stop talking.

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘hurt you’?” She was practically pleading. My mother was a pretty woman, her smooth brown skin covered with a light smattering of freckles. Or moles. I never knew the difference because she called them beauty marks and made no attempt to cover them. She was proud of those marks, a sign of her confidence. I always wished some of it had rubbed off on me.

  “He would come in my room and hit me. Or kick me. Or punch me. One time he held me down and choked me until I almost passed out. He gave me a black eye once, too.”

  Her face had gone completely blank and she struggled to speak. “Well...w...where was I when this was happening?”

  “Most of the time you were gone. At work. Sometimes you were asleep.”

  “At night? He came into your room at night?”

  “Yes. I woke up to him choking me once.”

  “Oh my God. What about Erica, where was she? Did she know?”

  “I don’t know if she knew but sometimes she was at home too. He never did it in front of her, if that’s what you’re asking.” It was our special thing, I suppose. Erica got the good Andre and I got the demon.

  “Oh my God,” Sheila said again. “I remember you having that black eye.”

  “Yeah. I think I told you I fell.”

  “Yes. And I believed you.” She said it as if it were an accusation. She dropped her face into her hands. Several minutes passed in silence until she finally looked at me with a peculiar expression. Her brows were knitted together and her lips were pursed. “Tamara...if what you’re saying is true—”

  “Wait, if? What do you mean if?”

  “Well there are two sides to every story, right?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Tamara, just let me finish. What I’m asking is what brought on these fights?”

  “There were no fights. It came out of nowhere. I don’t know why. I was too busy getting beat up to ask him questions!”

  “Lower your voice. Listen to what I’m saying in the spirit I intend. These things don’t just come out of nowhere. What I’m asking—”

  “What you’re asking is what I did to make him hurt me.”

  “Don’t put words in my mouth! That’s not what I’m asking. Believe me, I’m not making excuses for him. He’s a mess. Always has been. I just find it hard to believe that he would just up and beat on you for no reason.”

  “Well, he did.” I lifted my mug to my lips and set it back down without taking a sip. If only it had vodka in it. A seed of pain sprouted in my body and I kicked myself for not bringing any aspirin with me.

  “Okay.” Sheila stared at a spot on the teak wood table. “Honestly Tamara, I don’t know what you want me to do with this information. You picked an odd time to bring this up. I was having a good day today. Did you set out to ruin it?”

  I laughed, a bitter chuckle, and shook my head. I wasn’t shocked at her reaction but it still stung. Was I trying to ruin her day? I didn’t know how to answer, and deep down, I didn’t think she was altogether wrong in feeling that way. It was something that had happened a long time ago, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it now. What was I expecting? For her to call the police? Disown him? Make him apologize? We’re all grown now; nobody can make anybody do anything.

  “I’m not telling you this to upset you.”

  Sheila threw up her hands. “Well, then why are you bringing it up?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I needed to get it out. I’ve been living with this for a long time and I kept telling myself it didn’t matter but I can’t get past it. I love my brother, I think, but I’m not over it.” Hot tears began to stream down my face. “I wanna be over it but I can’t make myself forget.”

  Sheila stared at me for a long time. “How bad was it?”

  I closed my eyes. A hoarse whisper escaped my lips. “It was really bad. My arms were always bruised. My back hurt all the time. Sometimes I had scratches. I never let anybody see.”

  At last, a tear. A single tear fell down my mother’s face. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “I don’t know. I was scared, I guess. And embarrassed.”

  “Why would you be embarrassed?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It doesn’t even make sense to me now as I’m saying it.”

  My mother blinked rapidly and shook her head. I was relieved to see her reacting. “This is too much.”

  “Honestly, I think I just felt alone. I wasn’t really close to Erica and sometimes Andre was the only one who paid me any attention. I think they just...” I trailed off. It was hard for me to say it. “I think they just didn’t like me. They never wanted me around.”

  Sheila closed her eyes. “I was working.”

  “What?”

  “I was working. I was always at work and I left you with them because I trusted them. I thought I could trust them with you.” And then when she came home she would go straight to her room to shower and lie down. I get it now. She was depressed. And drained.

  “You did what you had to do,” I said.

  “No. I was always gone. Don’t you remember that?”

  “I remember but I don’t blame you. You had to work and you didn’t have any help. We had a nice home and we didn’t want for m
uch. That’s thanks to you working. I don’t blame you, that’s not why I’m here.” I had explained to an awe-struck Tony that our big pretty house was paid for with both money and memories. Because she spent so much time working she had no time for us and nothing else to give. But I swear I don’t blame her for it. She clawed her way into the middle class with her kids on her back and held on for dear life with white knuckles. Where would we have ended up if not for her?

  “Yeah but...look at what happened. Oh my God. If I had been home more maybe...” She didn’t let herself finish her thought. She put her hand on her chest and looked to be in physical pain, and I quickly regretted opening my mouth. There I was again, burdening someone. She put her face in her hands again and didn’t make any sounds but her shoulders shook and her body slowly sank down into the chair. She was sobbing, but there was no way she was going to let me see her break down.

  I got some tissue from the bathroom and placed it in front of her before taking my seat and wiping my own face. She finally spoke. “I thought if I didn’t bring any strange men in my home I wouldn’t have to worry about anybody hurting my daughters. But the whole time...” She burst into tears again before she could choke the words out.

  “You stayed alone because of us?”

  “I wouldn’t say I was alone but...I guess I did turn down a lot of dates. I got one proposal, too.” She chuckled through her tears. “I bet you don’t remember Gerald.”

  I shook my head. A lie. I remembered Gerald very well. I was young, but I remember wanting him to be my dad, and then one day he was gone. I didn’t want my mother to know that though. It would only hurt her more. “What happened with Gerald?”

  She sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” She blew her nose and patted her eyes. I just watched her, thinking back to the last time I had seen my mother cry. It had been so long I couldn’t remember.

  “He’s always been troubled. I don’t know why.” She blew her nose again and continued to talk, not even so much to me anymore. “I don’t know if it was your daddy leaving or me not be around enough but...he had a lot of anger, that much was obvious.”