Breaking the Silence

By Nancy King

“Dad, there are things about my childhood I’d like to know.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It would only hurt your mother.”

“But Dad, you’re the only one who can tell me.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It would only hurt your mother.”


Secrets. Lies. Silences. Stories told by parents and their families to protect themselves. A father who defends his wife despite her damage to their daughter’s health and welfare. A mother, shielded by her husband, who perpetuates murderous acts of violence against the daughter, and keeps secret her husband’s sexual “play” with the young girl.

And yet … Nancy King, determined to learn the truth of her childhood and the heartbreaking effects it has had on her adult life, uncovers the secrets. Sees through the lies. Breaks the silence.

Empowered by the stories she told herself as a child, she learns to use stories as part of her work as a university professor teaching theater, drama, world literature, and creative expression. Gradually, with the help of body work and therapy, she finds her voice. Says no to abuse and abusers. Reclaims her self and life. Writes a memoir.

She climbs mountains. Weaves tapestries. Writes books. Makes friends. Creates a meaningful life.

This is her story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terra Nova Books
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781948749565

Book preview

Kristoff

1. Mother’s stories

Over the years, my mother repeatedly told me funny stories—stories I did not find funny. I often wondered why she told them to me. Why she repeated them. Why I never asked why?

First story:

"After the delivery, the nurse brought me the baby. When I looked at it, I told the nurse, ‘This can’t be my child; it’s too ugly.’

The nurse looked at the necklace with the name. You’re right, Mrs. Rubin. I’m so sorry, this is not your daughter." She returned with a second baby.

"I told the nurse, ‘This can’t be my daughter—she’s even uglier than the first one.’

"The nurse assured me, ‘This is your daughter. See, look at the name on the necklace.’

"I asked the nurse, ‘Can’t you give me the first one? She wasn’t so bad.’

The nurse said, ‘No, this is your daughter.’

After telling the story, my mother would laugh and say, Isn’t this a funny story.

Second story:

I was born with a mop of black hair so thick my mother says that when she saw me for the first time, she told the nurse to take off the ugly black cap. When the black hair fell out and turned red, she yelled at me. You’re nothing but a showoff. Soon, this too fell out, and the blonde hair that replaced the black and red was the color of sunlight on snow, according to my father. My mother says she told my father, We have a daughter who can’t make up her mind. First black, then red, now blonde. She’s nothing but trouble!

Third story:

You were so thin my sisters kept asking me what was wrong. I got tired of telling them you were fine, so I made your father make an appointment with a big-name pediatrician in New York City. After the doctor examined you, he told us that although you were thin, you were healthy. Then he said he thought I needed to see a psychiatrist. Can you imagine? Such a waste of money!

This is 1936. How many pediatricians in 1936 recommend that a mother see a psychiatrist?

Although I heard this story many times, it’s taken more than seventy-five years for me to make the connection between my mother’s behavior and mental illness. The first time I heard that my mother was in a mental hospital was when my Aunt Esther told me after my mother had died, but she said she didn’t know where or when or why. While my mother was alive, no one ever suggested she was mentally ill. I was always the problem—so much so that over the years, my mother sometimes told people I was schizophrenic, and at other times manic-depressive. One of my mother’s friends, upon hearing this, recommended I see a therapist because she thought I might need to be on medication.

I agreed to see the therapist, a German-born Freudian analyst. When she asked what my mother and I fought about, I shrugged and said I didn’t know.

Boys?

No.

Chores?

No.

School?

No.

Allowance?

"No?’

Clothes?

No.

Vas? she bellowed.

Vas, indeed. I had no answers for her, and mutual frustration ended our sessions.

Many years later, after both of my parents died, my father’s sister told me she had asked my father if he knew of a therapist for her husband. According to my Aunt Esther, he said, I’ll give you the name of Ruth’s psychiatrist. Yet when my mother saw one or what the diagnosis was, my aunt didn’t know. She had told me my mother was in a mental hospital for most of the year I spent living with my mother’s oldest sister and her husband when I was four, but no one in either my father’s or mother’s family ever corroborated this. When I asked, they all said some version of not knowing, but they also looked embarrassed and quickly changed the conversation to some version of: That’s the past. Forget about what happened. You’re doing all right now.

One of my English teachers once said about a character, He’s an unreliable witness. I think my family members can be similarly described.

2. From an EMDR session, 1993

The therapist says to follow her arm movement with my eyes and to tell her what I’m seeing. At first, I don’t see anything except her arm moving from side to side. Suddenly, it’s like someone turned on a television.

I see myself naked, lying on the changing table. My father is stroking me with his penis. I giggle when he pushes it into my vagina. He is laughing, crooning, You’re my sweet baby girl. Daddy’s girl. My little girl.

Suddenly the door opens, and I hear screaming. My mother is yelling, "You little bitch! He’s mine, not yours!" She’s punching me. I scream in pain. My father grabs me with one hand and holds my mother away from me with the other. He dumps me into the crib, ignoring my crying. He cradles and soothes my mother. He holds her lovingly as they leave the room. I am alone. I am afraid. I am cold.

I’m shivering uncontrollably, although the therapist’s room is warm. I can’t stop shaking. I don’t know what to make of what I’ve seen. I don’t even realize I have spoken out loud what I saw in my mind’s eye. The therapist puts a blanket around my shoulders. She tells me it’s a memory. How can I remember something that happened when I was such a little baby? Then again, why would I make up such a horrible story? One thing I know is true. My mother was always murderously jealous of me. Is this why? Is this when it started?

3. Rescue?

We live near Rockaway Beach. Once we’re at the beach, I go near the water and play in the sand. I see Mommy laughing with a man. I bring my pail and shovel to where Mommy is talking and tell her I have to pee. I keep saying, Mommy, I have to pee, but she never stops talking to the man. I keep trying to hold it in. Suddenly the hot pee gushes down my legs, wetting me and my bathing suit and the sand. She smacks me. You know better. Then she says sorry to the man and takes me to the bathroom to wash my bathing suit.

We might as well go into the water since you’re already wet.

I’m afraid of the big waves, but Mommy laughs and says playing in the waves is fun. She pulls me to the edge of the water. The waves tickle my feet. She holds my hand and we walk into the ocean. I want to stop. It’s too deep. It’s up to my chin. I tell her I want to get out, but she keeps going. I can’t feel the bottom.

Her hand pushes my head down into the water. I try to get away. Her hand keeps pushing me down. I can’t breathe.

Then a hand lifts my head out of the water. A deep voice says, It’s okay, honey. You’re okay. He is holding me up out of the water. He tells Mommy that I’m all right, that I just swallowed a little too much water. He swims me out of the ocean and helps me stand on the sand. I can’t stop shaking.

Mommy thanks him with a big smile that scares me. I hold on to the lifeguard. Mommy grabs my hand and says we have to go. She doesn’t let him see how angry she is. He doesn’t see her smack me across the face.

We leave the beach and go to the house where my doctor and his wife live. They are friends of Mommy and Daddy. He has black hair and a little black mustache under his nose. His mustache scares me. When we walk into the house, he swoops me up into his arms. I fight and wriggle and try to pull away until he puts me down. I run. I need to find a safe place in the room full of laughing people. I can’t find a place to hide, so I curl my body behind Mommy’s knees.

He loves you, protests Mommy. She puts me into his arms. I let him hug me. I let everyone hug me. I wait for the touching and hugging to stop.

4. Bad Girl

Mommy is mopping the floor in the kitchen. I am eating breakfast. I stand on the chair and pick up the milk bottle. I pour milk into my glass, but some of it spills on the floor. Mommy screams. I just finished cleaning this floor. Look at the mess you made! She grabs my arm and pulls me off the chair. She is yelling. You’re a bad girl. You’re a very bad girl.

She picks me up. She’s holding me too tight. She’s hurting me. Why can’t you behave? What’s wrong with you? She carries me to the stairs. She’s hurting me. I bite her. She lets go for a minute and I run, but Mommy is in my way. She pushes me down the stairs.

I hurt all over.

The last thing I remember is Mommy crying.

5. Peter and the Duck.

Mommy takes me to see a performance of Peter and the Wolf. After it’s over, I feel bad. The story ends with a man saying in a very deep voice, And, children, if you listen verrrry carefully, you can still hear the duck quacking in the wolf’s stomach, for the wolf in his hurry swallowed the duck alive.

Doesn’t the duck ever get out? I ask Mommy.

Mommy is annoyed. That’s the story. That’s just the way it ends.

I don’t want the duck to stay in the wolf’s stomach. I want the duck to get out.

You’re not the author. That’s the way the author wanted it to end.

But I don’t want it to end like that? It isn’t right!

Mommy is even more annoyed. It’s a performance. That’s the way the author wrote it. There’s nothing you can do about it, so shut up.

Well, not for the first time, she was wrong. Thirty years later, as part of my M.A. in theater, I am required to make a performance piece. This is my chance to fix my upset with the ending of Peter and the Wolf. I write a script for the second half of Peter and the Wolf, matching the music and sound of narration with the first half. A friend who works in radio helps me and my actor record the new hour-long version. Now the performance ends with the duck, freed alive from the wolf’s stomach, accompanying the hunters as they take the wolf to the zoo. Very satisfying. An old wrong righted.

6. A Way of Life

I never know what makes Mommy hit me. I’m always afraid. I watch to see if she is angry. If she is, I run away, but she always catches me. Mommy tells me I need to be good. When I tell Daddy that Mommy is hurting me, Daddy says I shouldn’t upset Mommy. When the yelling and the hurting start, I close my eyes. I wait for it to be over. I wait for Mommy to go away. When I’m alone, I curl up into a little ball like the cat across the street that the girl lets me pet.

I’m in my room. I don’t see Mommy’s fist. I feel my head smash into the wall. I feel the rug on the floor. I barely hear Mommy screaming and crying. I don’t listen to Mommy blaming me for being bad. I lie on the floor. I wait. I know the hurting and screaming will stop when Mommy gets tired. When she stops, she says she has a headache. She lies down on her bed. It’s good when she sleeps. I rub the hurting places on my face.

7. Dislocated Shoulder

I put on the new dress Mommy made for my doll. It’s really pretty. Sometimes Mommy is nice to me and I’m happy, but when Mommy runs into my room shouting, I feel scared. I don’t understand her words. I run to the closet, but Mommy grabs me. She throws me against the wall. I fall down. She picks me up and throws me against the wall again. My shoulder is burning. I cry. Mommy slaps me and tells me to stop crying and get up. My shoulder is burning and hurting. Mommy slaps me again and tells me to stop crying and get up. I stop crying. My shoulder is hurting. I can’t move it. No matter how Mommy yells at me, I can’t get up.

Mommy runs out of the room. The room is moving. The room is turning upside down. My shoulder is hurting. I hear Mommy yelling, Irving, you have to come home. Now! Nancy hurt herself.

Daddy is in my room. He touches my shoulder and it hurts. It hurts when he doesn’t touch it. He tells me he will fix it, but it will hurt a lot more. He is holding a glass of water. He gives me two white pills and tells me to swallow them with the water. Mommy is crying. Daddy tells her to get ice cubes and a towel. He grabs my shoulder. There is a big hurting.

When I wake up, I am in my bed. My shoulder is freezing cold. I can’t move my arm. I see Daddy holding Mommy. I can’t stop shivering. Daddy takes the ice cubes away. He gives me two more pills and tells me to swallow them.

When I wake up, Annie is sitting in a chair next to my bed. She is the babysitter I like best. Your daddy went back to work. Your mommy went to the movies. I’ll stay with you until your daddy comes home from work.

I have to pee, but it hurts too much to move. The pee wets the bed and my pajamas. Annie doesn’t yell at me. Annie says, I’ll help you. Don’t worry.

When I wake up, my pajamas are dry. My bed is dry. Daddy says I will feel better soon. He gives me two more white pills to swallow. I wish Daddy would stay with me. I’m afraid of Mommy. Daddy tells me Mommy is very sorry I hurt my shoulder.

When I wake up, it is morning. My bed is wet. Mommy yells. You’re too old to wet your bed. Daddy comes in. He says he will change the sheets. He tells Mommy to make me toast and an egg. Daddy wraps my shoulder so that I can’t move it. He helps me out of bed. He washes the pee off me and helps me get dressed. My shoulder hurts every time I move.

He helps me walk to the kitchen. Mommy puts my breakfast on a plate, but I have trouble eating with my left hand. She tells me it’s good to learn to use both hands. I’m too tired to eat. Mommy yells, You need to eat.

Daddy says, Ruthie, leave her alone. She’ll eat when she’s hungry. When I go back to bed, the bed is dry. Daddy gives me two pills to swallow. He kisses me goodbye and leaves for work.

8. Attempted Murder

I am running away from Mommy. I trip and fall against the table. I grab the tablecloth and all the dishes and glasses and silverware fall off the table. There’s a loud crash. Mommy runs after me. She yells, You’re a bad girl. You’re the worst four-year-old I know." I know I’m bad. I didn’t mean to pull the tablecloth off the table and I didn’t mean to break the dishes and the glasses and the vase that was holding the flowers and I didn’t mean to splash water and flowers all over the floor. I try to tell Mommy I’m sorry, but she grabs my neck and pushes me down to the floor. She’s screaming and choking me. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.

Daddy rushes in and pulls Mommy’s hands from my throat.

I hear Daddy saying, Oh, honey. Oh, sweetheart. I see Daddy picking up the broken plates and glass. I pick up the flowers. Mommy screams I’m nothing but trouble. She grabs the flowers out of my hands. Mommy is hurting the flowers. Mommy is killing the flowers.

Daddy tells me to go to my room. Daddy tells me not to come out. I fall asleep. When I wake up, it’s dark. I’m hungry, but I’m afraid to leave my room. I have to pee, but I’m afraid to leave my room. I worry that I’ll wet my bed and then Mommy will hit me again. I have to pee very badly and I can’t hold it in much longer, so I tiptoe to the bathroom as quietly as I can. I don’t flush the toilet. I don’t want to hear Mommy yelling at Daddy.

Daddy leaves for work. Annie comes to take care of me. She gives me lunch and snuggles next to me at naptime. Mommy comes home. She looks angry. I don’t want Annie to leave, but she says she has to. As soon as Annie leaves, Mommy starts screaming at me. I hate it when Mommy screams that I am bad. I hate it when she says she wishes I’d never been born. I don’t know what I did to upset her. I must have done something. If only I knew what it was I wouldn’t do it again. I hide behind the couch. I hug my doll. Mommy finds me. She grabs me by the neck and drags me out. I struggle to get away. Mommy smacks me across my face and tells me she wishes I was dead. What is dead? Maybe Mommy will stop hurting me if I stay very still. Mommy takes a pillow from the couch and throws me down on the rug. She puts the pillow over my face and pushes against my face.

I can’t breathe. Mommy’s legs are pushing against my legs. They’re heavy. They’re hurting me. I can’t move.

I hear a deep voice. A hand pulls the pillow away from my face. I gulp as much air as I can. Daddy is hugging Mommy. Daddy is taking Mommy out of the living room. Daddy doesn’t come back. My body is hurting. My neck is hurting. I hide behind the couch.

Daddy finds me. Nancy, it’s time for supper. He picks me up and carries me into the kitchen. Mommy is setting the table.

Daddy tells a story about a lady in his store.

Mommy laughs at his story.

I’m not hungry.

Daddy puts me to bed.

The next morning, Daddy says Mommy isn’t feeling well. He says I have to live with Aunt Ida and Uncle Walter for a while.

I don’t want to live with them.

It’s only for a little while.

How long is a little while?

Nancy, stop asking questions.

"But, Daddy. . . .

"That’s enough!

I curl up against the car window. It’s hard and cold.

We drive a long time. We cross the Holland Tunnel, and I see the sign. One side says New York; the other says New Jersey. We’re in New Jersey now. I’ll be living in a different house with different people in a different state.

Why can’t I live at home? I tell Daddy I’ll be a good girl. I promise to be good, but he keeps driving. He says I need to be a good girl and do what I’m told. Daddy drives me to my aunt and uncle’s house. I don’t like the way Uncle Walter looks at me. I can’t stop shaking. Aunt Ida does not look happy to see me. My cousins are not happy I am going to live with them. Live? I ask Daddy. When can I come home. He says soon. How long is soon?

Daddy and Aunt Ida and Uncle Walter talk for a long time. Sometimes they look at me. I watch Daddy say goodbye to my aunt and uncle. I hope Daddy didn’t tell them I was bad. I hope he knows I never tell anyone about the games he plays with me. I never tell anyone about his special loving. I never tell anyone about the way Daddy’s softness becomes hard as I kiss it and suck it. He always tells me to swallow the love juice. I want to be a good girl, so I never tell anyone how he puts his hardness into me until it becomes warm and soft and sticky. He told me not to tell. He told me good girls listen to their fathers. I listen to him. Even though Mommy says I’m a bad girl, Daddy says I’m a good girl.

Daddy is leaving. He hugs me. Kisses me. Tells me to be a good girl. Tells me to obey my aunt and uncle. I know what obey means. It means to do what I’m told.

I ask Daddy when I can come home. He says, Soon.

I know about days and weeks and months. How many days, Daddy?

Soon, he says.

How many days? I ask him again.

Stop with the questions, he says. He gives me a hug and leaves.

I’m afraid to ask my aunt how soon is soon.

9. Uncle Walter

I wake up. It’s very quiet. My uncle isn’t snoring. I hear him get out of bed. I wrap the blankets around me as tightly as I can. He throws them off me. Off the bed. He shoves his hand over my mouth and puts something in my mouth so I can’t make a sound. He presses me down in the bed and puts a pillowcase over my head. He ties it around my neck. It’s hard to breathe. When I try to untie the knot he ties my hands behind my back. I struggle to free myself and kick him. He whacks my head so hard I can’t catch my breath. My aunt wakes up. "What’s wrong, Walter?’

Uncle Walter says, Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep. Aunt Ida doesn’t ask where he’s going as he carries me out of the