Motherless
September 4, 2006
I was thirty three years old when my mother died. I m forty two years old now. Of course it was traumatic. It doesn t matter how old you are when you lose your mother, you feel like an orphan. Suddenly I couldn t call her to ask all those niggling little questions. Do you remember the name of that teacher? How do you blanch a tomato? What s good for mustard stains?
There was something else I wanted to talk to her about. Now it s too late.
I love my mom so much she was a great mom. I have no issues with her at all. Always the selfless one, she gave so much of herself to everyone around her. My regret is that we never really had a meaningful adult conversation about that incident. That I never told her it was all right. I m all right. She did the right thing as best she could.
I want to tell her I m sorry. I m sorry I blamed her for not protecting me. I m sorry I said I didn t want to talk about it. I want to tell her I understand now what she went through. Now I m a mother and I understand the pain she must have felt.
Memory is a funny thing. It s kind of like watching a movie. The reel plays out in your mind. And then when you are older you see it again and see things that you missed the first time, or that you were too young or na?ve to understand. This is how it is with me. I think I blocked these memories out for a long time. Until that winter when all of those cases started hitting the news&
When I was four years old I was sexually molested by a priest. It happened more than once. I have memories of different seasons, different times of day. The time most engraved in my mind is when my mom caught him. She was so angry. I didn t understand at the time I thought she was angry at me.
My dad was the vice principal of a Catholic high school. Father M was one of his favorite priests. He had known him since he was a kid. Dad said when he was a kid in the thirties Father M would take the last weekend team of altar boys out to a nearby lake to go skinny dipping after Mass. He never molested my dad. But even in the 1930 s he was a voyeur.
Certainly Father M was the favorite of lots of people; me, probably most of all. He was outgoing and funny, charming in the way pedophiles are, I guess; when you can t see the sleazoid creep beneath the veneer. We used to have religious over to our house a lot back in the day. Dinners, barbeques, the big game on TV. I think it was January of 1969 when my mom caught him. It was winter, for sure, but there were no Christmas decorations up, so it would have to be after Christmas.
The big game was on TV, as always at my house. My dad was also a high school football, basketball, and track coach. Dad and Father M were in the family room watching. I had to have a bath after dinner, so my mom took me upstairs and bathed me. I wanted to get down there and into his lap, so I was antsy as she slipped my nightgown on over my head and combed the tangles from my wet hair. Finally my mom laughed and said, Okay, you re done. Go.
I squealed and flew down the stairs, across the family room, and into his arms. Father M always made me feel special. He always took the time to talk to me, to slip a peppermint candy into my palm. Even from up on the altar, if he caught my eye he would wink at me. As I sat in his lap and told him all of my little girl stories of my day he started tickling me. This was the part I loved.
It probably didn t look like he was doing anything wrong. He tickled me and I laughed and wriggled, the excitement building you see he wasn t really tickling me. He was masturbating me. And then suddenly as I was sitting there on his lap unabashedly enjoying this he thrust his finger up inside of me. Ow! I yelped.
I pushed at his chest with both hands and jumped off his lap. Ow, I said again, that hurt. I shook a finger at him and said, It s okay if you tickle me, but don t stick your finger inside of me, because that hurts. My mother sitting on the sofa suddenly stiffened. Her pupils shrank; her face blanched. She grabbed me by the arm just above my elbow and pulled me into the kitchen. My father didn t notice or hear; he was too into the game on TV.
In the kitchen I saw her hands were shaking. I could tell she was mad, but I didn t understand why. I thought she was mad at Father M for hurting me, but she seemed too mad. I started to try and placate her. What happened? she asked, her voice trembling. What did he do to you?
Well, he did hurt me, but it s alright. It really doesn t hurt now. It was just an accident. He was tickling me and his finger slipped. Mom made a gasping sound and made me pull down my panties. There was a little spot of blood.
BOB! She started yelling for my dad. Get in here right now! My dad came running into the kitchen. I looked around the corner into the family room and saw Father M standing now, kind of pacing a bit. My mom was saying something to my dad, telling him Father M had hurt me. My dad squinted at her, turned his head sideways and said, What? There must be some mistake&
I want him out of my house now! she yelled. My dad tried to shush her then she said, If he doesn t leave here this instant I m going upstairs to get my shot gun and blow his balls off!
From the family room I heard Father M say, Bob, I m going to leave now. He made a quick exit out the front door. My parents sent me to my room. I was crying now, sobbing with snot bubbling out of my nose, not understanding what had just happened and why I was being punished.
This was when my mom quit going to Mass.
Years later, when I was in 6th grade, I was talking with a girlfriend. It was shortly after Father M had died. Amazingly, she had a story almost identical to mine. We weren t talking about sex, mind you. I was still too na?ve for that still didn t realize Father M had done something wrong. What we were talking about is emotions, feelings. She was telling me how Father M used to make her feel special when she was a little girl. Used to give her candies and talk to her and pick her up into his lap and tickle her. (Sigh) No one could tickle like Father M, she said. And then she said one day he suddenly stopped. Stopped treating her special.
That same thing happened to me! Suddenly Father M wouldn t even look at me. When I was on a class field trip in first grade I saw him as we walked down the street and I started waving and jumping up and down like crazy to get his attention. Hi Father! I said, Hi Father M! Hey Father M! Hi! Finally Sister Anita tapped his arm and with her head pointed in my direction. He looked at me briefly, looked through me really, then gave a little wave.
It made me feel so sad, I told my girlfriend. He used to be so nice to me and then all of a sudden he didn t even see me. That must be what it feels like when a boy breaks up with you. We both decided at that point that it was a little weird. Then we had a laugh over Father M and his little girlfriends.
When I was older, in my early twenties, I remembered again what had happened. It made me angry at my parents. I decided I would never speak about it. I didn t want anyone to know. I didn t want anyone to look at me and know that about me. I couldn t stand the idea of being a victim.
Much later, after I became a mother and the stories from Boston started to hit the news, I remembered once again. I realized her pain. I suddenly saw the whole story from her perspective. I so want to hug her, to cry with her, to tell her how sorry I am for what happened to her the way her faith was crushed. And I want to thank her for a wonderful childhood. She did the best she could. I wish I could talk to her about it.
The man was never punished. Well, not in this world.
And I really miss my mom.
~ Missy
September 4th, 2006 at 10:48 pm
I am the furthest thing from religious….but he will have punishment.
I hope you find peace with this post and the comments that come with it.
September 4th, 2006 at 10:49 pm
Oh, and so sorry about your Mom…it really hurts when they go.
September 5th, 2006 at 10:42 am
Thanks, Anne.