She was 14. We both knew that we both knew. We just hadn't talked about it yet. It was just the two of us, but we rarely spoke about anything of substance. I had asked her about it several years before, but she denied it. I think her resilience required that the words not be spoken. She wasn't as good at holding it together when she slept. When she was little, she would fall asleep with one thumb in her mouth, and the other thumb and first two fingers softly manipulating the satin edge of her blanket. That's how she comforted herself. She did that into adulthood, but it only allowed her to fall asleep. I don't think she's ever had a good night's sleep.
When she arrived home from school, I was watching an Oprah Show about sexual abuse. I'm not sure why I was home, as I was working full time then. She came in, listened for a bit, and began to retreat to her bedroom. I asked her to sit down with me and watch the show. She didn't argue. She just sat down. We listened together, never uttering a word. When the show was over, she looked at me with her beautiful sad eyes. I said, "Your dad abused you, didn't he?" She said yes, and lowered her eyes. I held her and we cried together. We decided together to report it to the police. I was so angry when my worst fears were finally confirmed, I wanted him to hurt. In retrospect, I'm sure I pushed her before she was ready for the consequences of reporting him. He's her father. To me he's just this disgusting excuse for a human being who hurt my child; my only child.
If there is a good part to this, it was that we had a lot of things to do, and we did them together. Within a very short period, we had called the police, gotten an appointment for her to begin counseling, and enrolled me in a group for non-offending parents. The person I spoke with at the police department told me that the first recounting of what happened is the best. She told me to ask my daughter to wait. My daughter wanted to tell me right then. I know I should have just let her talk. She was ready, and I wouldn't let her talk. It didn't feel right to just cut her off. But I wanted the first telling to be strong. I wanted the police to see what that bastard had done to my baby with all the emotion it elicited. She was coming at it from emotion, and I was coming at it from practicality. It was awful. Lots of guilt. I hadn't protected her before, and now I was turning away from her when she needed me to listen.
Revelation day finally arrived. We were led into two rooms. They were divided by a one-way window. I could see her, but she couldn't see me. There was a recording device in her room. My room was equipped with a speaker so I could hear what she was saying. When she began speaking, I learned that this pacifist was capable of homicide. Not just shoot him or stab him. No, I was capable of ripping him apart, piece by piece, with my bare hands. I had watched several of Oprah's shows that dealt with sexual abuse. What my daughter told that lady was the worst I had ever heard. The physical part was revolting. But the psychological manipulation---I don't have words for it. It just takes my breath away. She's a child, she's your child, you fucking bastard.
To make a very long story a little shorter, the detective who received the tape of my daughter's story retired shortly after receiving it. Nobody could find it. The first telling is the best. A few months later, one early evening I got a call from the District Attorney. The DA was Susana Martinez, the present governor of this fine state. She told me that they didn't have enough evidence to prosecute and she would be closing the case. The case. My daughter's life was Susana's case. I think she said she was sorry, but I was so pissed I didn't hear much of what she said after "closing the case."
I will be telling this story in pieces. My daughter is now almost 34, so it's a very long story. Every piece of it causes more pain than I can sustain for very long. Please be patient with me. I can only do what I can do.