afterwards by night terrors and dreamlike memories of these ordeals.
The last time she’d plucked up the courage to accuse him was a couple of years ago. But, as always, he had denied everything, told her she was an evil liar, and claimed the rapes had only happened in her overactive imagination.
He made her question her own sanity.
He made her wonder whether the blood she recalled trying to scrub off her sheets after each attack could, after all, have come from some sort of self-harm.
For a long time he had kept her quiet with such brainwashing. But, in recent months, the horrible and disgusting memories had come flooding back – no longer as dreamlike sequences but shatteringly graphic, specific and real – and Leoni had regained some certainty that it was not she but her father who was the evil liar in the family.
That had been her state of mind when she’d quarrelled with her parents yesterday afternoon, and she could see with new insight how her incredible rashness and stupidity with the OxyContin tablets had been directly connected to the rage and hate she felt towards her dad.
So far, so bad … But now, after her brush with death, there were other, even more agonising and confusing matters to ponder. Although she didn’t understand the mechanism, she had somehow witnessed Mom admitting, in a very horrible way, that she’d known about the rapes all along. And there had been the strange talk about someone called Jack, and clearing up the dead wood – whatever that meant.
This was all new and worrying, but what made it more problematic was the peculiar way Leoni had come by it. Was her out-of-body eavesdropping just a hallucination cooked up in her druggie mind, or had her mother really known about the rapes when they were happening? If she had known, and encouraged them, then what kind of set-up was that?
And who was ‘Jack’?
Leoni had asked for a sketch pad and half a dozen Magic Markers when she’d been moved into the convalescent suite, and now she was sitting up in bed, her back propped against a pile of pillows, working on a drawing of the Blue Angel. She was struggling to get the likeness of that perfect face, the high cheekbones, the almond eyes, the indigo skin, when her parents appeared in the doorway. For some reason she felt guilty and closed the pad, sliding it beneath her covers as they advanced.
To her irritation, they had brought Adam the miracle child sulking in tow. The obnoxious ten-year-old scowled a reluctant greeting, made a beeline for the sofa by the window, switched on his Nintendo and was soon slaughtering aliens in
Metroid Prime.
Mom and Dad settled in the armchairs on either side of Leoni’s bed.No one spoke for some minutes, and the tension in the room began to rise.
Finally Mom leaned forward and hissed: ‘Adam knows you overdosed. He couldn’t miss it. It’s been all over the TV news. I need you to apologise to him.’
Leoni’s blood boiled: ‘Apologise? To Adam? What for?’
‘For the distress and embarrassment you’ve caused him at school.’
‘Well, maybe he’d be even more distressed and embarrassed if I told him where I got the OxyContin tablets I overdosed on …’
Dad cut her off: ‘Let’s not talk about your drug habits today.’ He flashed a warning look at Mom. ‘This is just meant to be a nice family visit.’
‘Nice for who?’ Leoni retorted. ‘Nice in what way?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper: ‘Would it be so nice if Adam knew what you used to do to me?’
Adam had ears like a bat and was curious about ugly, disturbing and contentious matters. ‘Dad,’ he asked. ‘What was it you used to do to Leoni?’
‘Nothing, Adam,’ Dad snapped. ‘Leoni’s suffering from an illness. It’s called false memory syndrome …’
‘Fuck OFF!’ Leoni screamed, ‘I’m up to HERE with your bullshit. My memories aren’t false. It really happened …’
‘But WHAT happened, Dad?’ wheedled Adam. ‘I wanna know.’
‘You wanna
The last time she’d plucked up the courage to accuse him was a couple of years ago. But, as always, he had denied everything, told her she was an evil liar, and claimed the rapes had only happened in her overactive imagination.
He made her question her own sanity.
He made her wonder whether the blood she recalled trying to scrub off her sheets after each attack could, after all, have come from some sort of self-harm.
For a long time he had kept her quiet with such brainwashing. But, in recent months, the horrible and disgusting memories had come flooding back – no longer as dreamlike sequences but shatteringly graphic, specific and real – and Leoni had regained some certainty that it was not she but her father who was the evil liar in the family.
That had been her state of mind when she’d quarrelled with her parents yesterday afternoon, and she could see with new insight how her incredible rashness and stupidity with the OxyContin tablets had been directly connected to the rage and hate she felt towards her dad.
So far, so bad … But now, after her brush with death, there were other, even more agonising and confusing matters to ponder. Although she didn’t understand the mechanism, she had somehow witnessed Mom admitting, in a very horrible way, that she’d known about the rapes all along. And there had been the strange talk about someone called Jack, and clearing up the dead wood – whatever that meant.
This was all new and worrying, but what made it more problematic was the peculiar way Leoni had come by it. Was her out-of-body eavesdropping just a hallucination cooked up in her druggie mind, or had her mother really known about the rapes when they were happening? If she had known, and encouraged them, then what kind of set-up was that?
And who was ‘Jack’?
Leoni had asked for a sketch pad and half a dozen Magic Markers when she’d been moved into the convalescent suite, and now she was sitting up in bed, her back propped against a pile of pillows, working on a drawing of the Blue Angel. She was struggling to get the likeness of that perfect face, the high cheekbones, the almond eyes, the indigo skin, when her parents appeared in the doorway. For some reason she felt guilty and closed the pad, sliding it beneath her covers as they advanced.
To her irritation, they had brought Adam the miracle child sulking in tow. The obnoxious ten-year-old scowled a reluctant greeting, made a beeline for the sofa by the window, switched on his Nintendo and was soon slaughtering aliens in
Metroid Prime.
Mom and Dad settled in the armchairs on either side of Leoni’s bed.No one spoke for some minutes, and the tension in the room began to rise.
Finally Mom leaned forward and hissed: ‘Adam knows you overdosed. He couldn’t miss it. It’s been all over the TV news. I need you to apologise to him.’
Leoni’s blood boiled: ‘Apologise? To Adam? What for?’
‘For the distress and embarrassment you’ve caused him at school.’
‘Well, maybe he’d be even more distressed and embarrassed if I told him where I got the OxyContin tablets I overdosed on …’
Dad cut her off: ‘Let’s not talk about your drug habits today.’ He flashed a warning look at Mom. ‘This is just meant to be a nice family visit.’
‘Nice for who?’ Leoni retorted. ‘Nice in what way?’ She lowered her voice to a whisper: ‘Would it be so nice if Adam knew what you used to do to me?’
Adam had ears like a bat and was curious about ugly, disturbing and contentious matters. ‘Dad,’ he asked. ‘What was it you used to do to Leoni?’
‘Nothing, Adam,’ Dad snapped. ‘Leoni’s suffering from an illness. It’s called false memory syndrome …’
‘Fuck OFF!’ Leoni screamed, ‘I’m up to HERE with your bullshit. My memories aren’t false. It really happened …’
‘But WHAT happened, Dad?’ wheedled Adam. ‘I wanna know.’
‘You wanna
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