The Man Who Can't Be Moved

The dream is always the same; I’m six years old again and I’m sitting in the middle of my bed -I’d always thought I was a legitimate princess because my grandfather had handcrafted me a four poster canopy frame completely with pink, white and purple tulle curtains that could either be wrapped around the posts or drawn across to shelter me from the outside world- putting braids in my Cabbage Patch Doll’s flaming red hair. Jennifer Rose-Marie; I even remember her name all these years later and I’m pretty sure she’s still packed away in the crawl space in my parents' basement. Jenny had been my best friend; I’d confided in her about everything from the girl at school that picked on me because I talked with a lisp to the older boy in grade three that kissed me under the playground slide to the fact that I’d once cheated on a spelling test by peeking over at the kid’s paper that sat next to me. She also knew about my ‘secret’; the one that I’d been told to never tell a single living soul if I wanted to keep living with my parents and my brother and not end up in foster care and living in some rat infested hell hole where I’d be locked in the basement and not fed for days. I’d been terrified into silence; I’d been threatened with bodily harm and I’d been told that something horrible would happen to my brother if word ever got out about what a ‘dirty, naughty little girl’ I really was.

I’d been terrified to be taken away from my parents; I didn’t want to be sent to live with strangers and I definitely didn’t want to be chained up in the basement like a dog and fed table scraps. And I certainly didn’t want anything bad happening to my brother because of something bad I did. It’s why I’d stayed quiet about it; as long as I kept my mouth shut and pretended as if it wasn’t really happening to me, then Tyler would be safe and sound and I’d get to stay with mommy and daddy and they wouldn’t be mad at me for getting myself taken away. I had gotten used to shutting myself off from the rest of the world when he’d come in to see me. Even now I can’t even think of his name let alone speak it without throwing up or having a panic attack; I’m nineteen years old and whenever I think about what he’d done to me or I even get a whiff of Old Spice -his after shave of choice- I’m immediately transported back to being a vulnerable, scared little girl clinging to her dolly for dear life, tears streaming down her face as she mentally fled to her ‘magical place’; a world far, far, far away filled with beauty and perfection that I’d created and would always escape to because the pain would be so intense.

I don’t have ‘the dream’ that often. It’s not a common occurrence and I can count on both hands the number of times I’ve experienced it in the past couple of years. Something always brings it about; a mention of the ‘uncle’ that had abused me or the smell of the cologne he used to wear. In this case it had been because my mother had informed me that my perpetrator -God I hate using that word, it makes me sound like the quintessential victim and I refuse to accept that title in form of calling myself a survivor- was also in Pittsburgh; he’d come down with my parents in order to ‘talk some sense into me’ and had told my folks he’d drag me back to Sault Ste Marie while I was kicking and screaming if he had to.

The fact that he was in the same city -and currently watching my brother and husband play hockey- after I’d fled from the horrible memories he’d created for me back home had sent my already fragile emotions over the edge. I had created a brand new life for myself in Pittsburgh; I’d left my secret and that monster behind and Max had filled with a sense of security that I hadn’t felt since before my uncle had ever first made his way into my bedroom. And to know that he was a mere half hour away and threatening to infect my new world with his ‘disease’ had been too much for me to bear and I’d snapped. I’d flown into an uncontrollable, near violent rage and had spilled my secret to my mother for the very first time. And pointed the finger at my father and told her that he’d known everything that had been going on.

In turn my mom had told me that I was crazy; it was quite clear in her opinion that I was having an ‘episode’ and that I wasn’t as healthy as I claimed to be and that maybe I needed to back into the rehab place. She’d called me a liar; a pathetic little girl willing to say anything to get attention and distract blame for my illness off of myself and onto someone else in order to gain sympathy.

“I don’t feel sorry for you at all, Emma-Leigh,” she’d coldly spat in my face. “You are a sick and twisted little girl that’s far beyond help. No one can take care of you. No one can save you. And the fact that you’d lie about something like that makes me sick to my stomach and ashamed to call you my daughter. You’re nothing more than a mentally disturbed child with a very vivid imagination.”

My father of course would never come to my aid. He’d listened silently to the entire exchange between me and my father and he’d done nothing and said even less; he’d sat at the table devoid of any emotion and he hadn’t once confessed to knowing about what had happened or even tried to comfort me or defend me. Instead he’d let my mother call me a slew of vicious hurtful names and had watched as she grabbed by the shoulders and shook me violently in an attempt to ‘snap some reality’ into me. And when it was all said and done and silence descended on the kitchen and I’d fought to draw air into my burning, constricting lungs, he’d had the nerve to tell me that the reason I was impossible to love and unworthy of being loved was because I was so vindictive and ‘damaged’.

I haven’t had a panic attack in months and the one that ensued had hit me hard and fast; blood stampeded through my body and my lungs tightened and my heart hammered wildly; sweat immediately began pooling on my brow and cascading down the back of my neck and my hands had clawed wildly at my throat and my chest as I struggled to breathe. And the last thing I remember is the entire room spinning and then going pitch black.

Now the dream.

I feel as if I’m floating above the room and watching and listening to the entire scene playing out below me. I want nothing more to intervene; I want to scream at the innocent six year old as she sits in the middle of the bed playing with her dolly to get the hell out. To run as fast and as far as she can; to take off and never look back even if it means hauling ass out of the house and across the front lawn to the nearest neighbour in nothing more than her Tweety Bird nightshirt. I can see the look of sheer terror in her eyes as she watches her uncle enter the room; I can the way her entire body shakes and she struggles to keep her breath smooth and even. And I wish there was something I could do to stop what’s going to happen next. Some way I could save her a lifetime of torment and self loathing.

“It’s Saturday night, Emma-Leigh,” he whispers, as he takes seat on the edge of the bed and runs a hand over ’her’ hair. “You know what that means, right? It’s time for us to spend a little time together. Our special time.”

“I don’t want to,” ‘she’ gives a dramatic pout and refuses to meet his steady, sickening gaze. “I gotta tummy ache.”

“You have a tummy ache?” he gives a sympathetic smile and reaches out to lay a hand on ‘her’ tummy. “That’s okay, sweetheart. I’ll make it go away. I’ll make it all better. Don’t you love me? Don’t you want to spend time with me?”

“I just wanna go to sleep,” the little girl mutters, and wriggles backwards across the bed. “I’m tired. My tummy hurts. I just wanna go to sleep now.”

“But I came over to see you. To spend some time with you. It upsets me that you’re ignoring me like this. And you don’t want to upset me, do you? You don’t want me to tell your parents about what a bad girl you are, do you? You don’t want to go live somewhere else, right? You don’t want to never see your mom and dad or your brother again, do you?”

“No…” ‘she' whispers.

“I’ll take care of you, baby girl,” he lays a hand on the back of her head and strokes her long, dark tresses. “I love you and I’ll take care of you. You’re so pretty, you know that? You’re so pretty and you have such beautiful hair. And I just want to…”

******

The dream always ends there. It always concludes just at the point where I smell the cologne that clings to his clothes and the alcohol that seems to emanate from every pore. I never dream about the actual assault; he leans in to kiss me and that’s when I wake up. Usually kicking and screaming and failing and always with a dull, throbbing ache between my legs and a vicious stabbing sensation in my lower stomach; phantom pain that always comes crawling back whenever I think about what had happened.

Tonight is no exception; I awaken with a horrifically loud gasp and bolt straight up into a sitting position. I’m usually alone; I’m always by myself in bed and forced to not only calm myself down, but to talk myself into realizing that it was just a dream and that I’m no immediate danger. That I’m no longer a six year old girl being subjected to something so horribly disgusting; I’ve gotten through my nightmares and I’ve slain my demons and I’m okay now.

Except now there’s someone holding me down. Or at least attempting to. And all I can think is that it’s him; my uncle’s come to reek the same havoc on my life and my body now as he did way back when. I struggle against his tight embrace; I shriek in terror and cry for help and I thrash my legs about the bed in a vain attempt to escape. And I expect for his scent to assail me any moment now; I wait for it to waft over my face in the same way I wait to feel his rough, tobacco stained fingers making their way under my clothes.

Only none of that comes. No scents, no sounds, no unwanted touch. And my brain suddenly becomes aware that everything I’m feeling and everything I’m experiencing is ‘right’; it’s welcome and reassuring and strong yet comforting all at the same time. Instead of that overpowering, nauseating stench of cologne I breathe in a mixture of sweat and Axe body spray and instead of those massive, gross hands pushing me back down onto the bed in an effort to take advantage of me, familiar ones are wrapped tightly around me; one hand on the back of my neck and the other on the small of my back as they hold me against a solid and warm, welcoming body.

And then there’s the voice. That smooth accent and the mixture of French and English as the words seek to both soothe and sedate me. Everything about what I’m experiencing tells me that I’m okay now; this is what being safe and protected and love sounds, feels and smells like. It’s an all encompassing sensation that effectively brings me back down from the heights of my nightmare and within minutes my legs cease their frantic kicking and I stop trying to flee and instead wrap my arms around my husband’s neck.

“It’s okay, Emma-Leigh…” his lips are pressed against my ear and his warm breath wafts against my cheek. “Everything’s fine. You were just having a bad dream. That’s all. You’re safe now.”

I refuse to cry; I refuse to give my uncle the satisfaction -whether he’s in the room or not- of knowing that he’s affected my life to this extent. And as much as I want nothing more than to bawl into Max’s chest and play the victim and whine and bitch about what had happened to me, I hold it back. I’m not that weak and pathetic; I won’t be a vulnerable little girl that can’t take care of herself.

“Where am I?” I mumble into his chest, and then glance over my shoulder at the surroundings; a weathered vinyl recliner parked by the window, the crisp white sheets emblazoned with the hospital’s initials and the IV pole parked by the side of the bed. It’s then that I’m aware of a sharp, stinting pain in the top of my right hand, and looking down I see the blood that streams out of my skin and the bright red blotches on the sheets and an abandoned IV. “What’s going on?” panic creeps into my voice as I pull away from Max. “Where am I? What’s…?”

“You’re in the hospital,” he tells me, and I noticed that he’s talking a little funny. Like he’s suddenly developed a lisp. And I can’t hold back the startled gasp that erupts from my mouth when I look at him and I see the swollen, split bottom lip and a hint of the gaping hole where his bottom front teeth use to be. And I can’t help but notice that from the waist down he’s still in his hockey equipment. There’s Crocs in replace of skates but he’s still sporting the long socks and the CCM pants and is clad -tummy up- in an underarmour shirt and a disgusting, sweat stained backwards ball cap.

“What happened?!” I cry, and lay one hand over my mouth in shock and place the other against his lips. “What in the hell happened to you?!”

“I’m a hockey player,” he says in a way of a response, and gives me that patented grin and a playful wink. “I can’t always be beautiful. Hockey players get beat up.”

“Someone beat you up? This was from a fight? You look like this because you fought someone? What does the other guy look like? Worse? Did you at least pummel him? Did you at least…”

“It wasn’t a fight…” he cradles my face in his hands and presses a tender kiss to my lips. “…I just had…an altercation…with someone.”

“What did you say to them? You must have said something. Altercations don’t happen unless you were yapping someone. Who…?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he silences me with another peck. “All that matters is you. You’re the one that’s in the hospital. You’re the one that’s sick and all you can do is worry about me?”

“You have no bottom teeth!” I exclaim, and prod his lips open with gentle fingertips. “You have no teeth and your mouth is all swollen and cut up and…”

“Emma-Leigh…” he says my name sternly and then leans into me and brushes the tip of his nose against the end of mine. “…it’s nothing for you to worry about, okay? Let’s just worry about you. Let’s just worry about what’s going on with you and…”

“The babies…” dread instantly sets in and I lay a hand over my stomach. “…please tell me that nothing happened to them,” I plead. “Please tell me that the babies are okay. Please tell me that they’re still there. That they’re still inside of me. Please, Max…” tears well in my eyes. “Please tell me that the babies…”

“…are fine,” he finishes for me, and places his hand over mine. “The babies are fine. The doctors did an ultrasound when you got here and everything’s okay. Nothing bad happened to them. But you…” he pats my cheeks gently and shakes his head in dismay. “…you’re not okay, Emma-Leigh. At all.”

“What do you mean I’m not okay? What’s wrong with me? Is something seriously wrong? Am I dying? Am I…”

“The doctor says that your blood pressure is sky high. That you have all the warning signs of pre-eclampsia and that you’re severely dehydrated. And you had a panic attack and fainted. Don’t you remember? Don’t you remember that? You were fighting with your parents and…”

“My parents…” I glance nervously towards the door. “…are they here? They’re not here are they? They’re not with…him…are they?”

“Your parents are with Tyler,” he assures me. “They’ve gone back to his place because I told them if they ever stepped foot back in my house I wasn’t going to waste time calling the police on them; I was going to throw them out onto their ass. Don’t worry about them. You won’t have to have anything to do with them ever again.”

“But what about him?” I inquire.

“Him?” Max arches a quizzical eyebrow. “Who’s him?”

“My uncle,” I explain, and watch as his eyes immediately transform into a stormy, furious deep blue. “The one that…you know…the one that did what he did to me. He’s here in Pittsburgh. He was at the game. You didn’t see him with them? You didn’t…?”

“It was just your parents. There was no one with them. Just your mom and dad. Are you sure, babe? Are you sure that he’s here? Are you sure you’re not imagining it or…?”

“They told me he was here,” I insist. “That he came with them to Pittsburgh to shake sense into me and to help them take me back to Sault Ste Marie.”

“Like that’s going to fucking happen,” Max growls. “Like I’d let them just fucking take my wife and my babies away from me. Is that why they’re here? Is that why they came all this way? To take you back to Canada?”

“They think that I’m not in my right mind. They think that I’m sick and nowhere near being mentally competent and that you trapped me into getting married and into getting pregnant. That you have me right where you want me. So that you can keep me under your thumb and control me and…”

“And you believe that?” he frowns. “You believe what they say? You…?”

“Of course I don’t!” I cry. “But that’s what they said! They told me that I was still a little girl who had no business being married or having a baby. And they said that they weren’t going back without me! They said that…?”

“Listen to me…” his hold on my face tightens and he rests his forehead against mine. “…no one is taking you or those babies anywhere. Understand me? They can’t bully me, Em. They can’t walk all over me and expect me to take this kind of shit lying down. And if you’re uncle so as much shows his fucking face here…”

“Please don’t get upset,” I beg, and press a kiss to his lips. “I don’t want to talk about them. Or him. Can we talk about why I’m here? And about the babies?”

He nods -reluctantly- in agreement and draws away. “Look what you did…” he glances down at my bleeding hand and shakes his head in dismay. “…you pulled out your IV. I’ll go and get one of the nurses and…”

“No!” I protest, and wrapping my arms around his neck, press my body against his. “Don’t leave…” I whisper, as I nestle my face into the space between his neck and shoulder. “Please don’t leave…”

“I’m gross, babe. I’m sweaty and nasty. I must smell.”

“You do smell,” I confirm, and then tighten my hold on him when he attempts to draw away. “You smell like a man. My man.”

He presses a kiss to my shoulder and I feel him smile against me.

“Please don’t leave, Max…” I close my eyes and relax against him. “Please don’t leave me.”

Those strong, powerful arms engulf my entire body yet again and he places his lips against my temple.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises. “Ever.”

I speak from experience when I saw that Max Talbot always keeps his promises.