Acceptance
By: Queen Bee
She bowed her head and prayed. Warm blood ran down her cheeks like tears, as if a crown of thorns had been placed firmly upon her head.
“Just do it,” She growled, crying at the same time. “Call the damn police.” Picking up the receiver, Moina remembered her husband’s warning.
“If you ever call the Police, I’ll kill your father, and I’ll make you watch. I am a Cop; Cop’s protect Cop’s — don’t forget it. Darrow, wiping the chill off his face, grinned. “Then you’ll be six feet under baby, where no one will ever find you.”
In her foggy state, she remembered him hollering at her in a stupor.
“Screw you; screw your whole family — I’ll shoot you all, one by one, and you can watch until the end. He staggered about the room, and smiled crookedly. His twisted blond hair plastered to his head, closely shaven; the hard sweat pouring off of it.
She screamed at their wedding picture on the wall: “No more — No more.”
He’d make good on the threat, Moina believed. She knew her husband would make the trip to California – or one of his pals would do it just for fun. He despised her family, especially her father, Rodger Browne.
A cold sweat swathed her face; she lifted the receiver. Weariness, the panic of a blackout, made her body twitch. Moina heard the numbers bleep in reply to her touch: 9-1-1. “Come on, just pick it up,” Moina shouted into the receiver. Static murmured, and a loud buzzing in her ears drowned out the voice that answered, “Officer Polk speaking. Hello? Is anyone there?”
***
Broken slivers of glacial blue, clear jade and bright emerald wrestled within her blood shot whites; overpowered, they lurked below their orbital rims. Moina, passing in and out of mortality, lay motionless in the hospital bed.
“She’s been like this for nearly a week — what’s the prognosis?” Roger Browne asked the Doctor.
The youthful physician answered indifferently. “This won’t be a quick fix Sir. Your daughter suffered severe bruising, several fractures of face and the nose, and the left orbital rim of her eye is extensively damaged.” He paused. “She’s not in a coma anymore, and that’s good — we were able to keep the brain swelling down. She will need to have some surgery, and a number of her teeth replaced. The blow she received to her cheekbone has left it recessed 2 mm. This may need further surgery, or may just be a cosmetic issue to consider. I’m not sure yet. We’re working on it.” He adjusted the green scrub cap that exposed a bit of blond hair. “Leave your number with the nurse’s station and we’ll keep you updated. You should go back to the hotel and rest; glad we were finally able to reach you.” With a polite smile, the young Doctor shook Browne’s hand and left the room.
Roger Browne sat heavily in the green chair in the corner of the room; he was happy his wife wasn’t alive to see this tragedy. He stared at his daughter’s battered body covered with white sheets and connected to a variety of machines. Browne often thought of her as tall and resilient, but now she looked very small and vulnerable — like a child. He was furious at his son-in-law for the abuse, and more upset at Moina for not revealing it. Browne’s grimace turned to a grin as he remembered Darrow had made a “fortunate” slip-up; he killed a cop during his escape. “This makes the mess a little easier to clean up for Moina,” Browne thought out loud. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about chasing Darrow around the courts; it’s straight to jail for him.”
Roger Browne had been an attorney in Trenton, New Jersey for over thirty years, then semi-retired to Carmel, California after his wife’s death. He felt guilty, but thanked God that Darrow killed that cop, otherwise he would have wriggled out of the abuse charge. It was unfortunate for the dead cop, though. He was just a kid. Nearly all “first time” abusers plead guilty to misdemeanor charges, and at the very worst they got a few years probation. The Judge would probably order a risk evaluation and send him to a certified anger management-counseling program, which he’d have to attend and pay for of course, but not now. Darrow killed a cop. Browne knew Moina would not want him embarrassed in court by the whole abuse scandal. She worked with him at the law firm for years as a teenager; she knew the drill. Rule one: Family laundry was never exposed.
***
White sheets merged with perspiration restrained her as she thrashed in the bed. Bells and whistles began to sound off, and a hurried Nurse burst into the room.
“You’ll have to leave — pronto!” she ordered. “Just take it down the hall,” the sizeable
Nurse demanded, motioning for Browne to leave.
Moina’s father looked at his daughter with desperation and rushed from the room.
***
“You never want to have sex.” Dennis complained.
Moina continued to convulse as the nurse injected her IV. She was in her bedroom at home, yet she knew something was peculiar; as if she were in a trance. Dennis looked so real, she thought, but something just wasn’t right. She knew it was a matter of time before the beating, and observed the usual pornographic glossies he left lying open on the bed, and the video camera propped on his dresser. “For future viewing,” she thought with disgust. Moina could smell the cheap shaving cream he used moments before. She felt unusual, as if she were going to just fade away.
Dennis Darrow, in the darkness of her memory, turned on her, shouting loathsome, vicious things. He jerked her body towards him, kissed her hard, and back handed her across the face.
She sensed his anger — her heart raced. Moina was held spellbound within the rerun her mind had conjured up. She opened her right eye, but could not see the nurse who leaned over her. Moina replayed Darrow yanking her off the floor. With brute force he threw her on the bed. Her head smashed against the wooden back board. She was about to give up. Life was not worth living this way anymore. Letting her neck go limp she allowed Darrow to gain the force he needed to send her into straight into eternity.
Just before Moina slipped away, little fingers opened the doors of her murky memory. A small voice from her past whispered, don’t give up — remember? She scarcely recognized the voice, and then she remembered. Moina felt a surge of strength and chose life in the midst of death.
***
Moina focused on the jumble of artifacts she had collected over the summer: she held in her little hands three shells, five rocks, and one massive crab claw. She grabbed the crab claw and opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. Shifting artwork, papers and mountains of comic books a small spot materialized where the crab claw could safely be hidden. Her mother insisted it reeked of dead fish and demanded its removal earlier this morning. At age eight, Moina of course, did not comply. “There,” she whispered. “If you sit quietly and promise not to smell, Mom won’t find you.”
Moina always spoke to her things as if they were alive, for in her mind they were. This claw for instance could actually be the key she had been searching for. Moina gazed at the claw and touched it — eager to transform into something more powerful. She pictured herself in a sleek red outfit, with a perfectly fit body, and hands that would transform into enormous fiery claws anytime she said the words, “Lobster Woman”. She closed her eyes, and earnestly whispered, “Lobster Woman.” Moina opened one eye and noticed there was no sleek red outfit, or claws of any sort on her childlike body. Holding her breath, Moina Browne tried again and shouted, “Lobster Woman!”
Giggles burst from behind her. Moina’s little brother was laughing uncontrollably, and her mother, who had been watching from the bedroom door, rolled her eyes. “Brian, go clean your room,” she ordered. Brian bounced away, shouting “Lobster, Lobster, Lobster Woman!” and continued in fits of hilarity.
“Hand it over,” Moina’s mother ordered.
Moina lifted her precious link to the super human universe out of its hiding spot and said, “You don’t understand.”
Her mother took it from her hands. “You are right, I don’t. Moina, your time would be better spent studying your math — dinners in a half hour.” She walked out of Moina’s room and closed the door.
Sliding the bottom draw shut Moina looked over toward her desk. Math, Science and English books sat, uniformly arranged, awaiting the touch of her long freckled fingers. Underneath the pile was a tattered English composition book with pages thickened by over use. Moving her schoolwork to the side, she reverently held the worn book, and opened to the first page. By now, Moina knew the following questions word for word.
Ten ways to tell if you are Super Human:
1. Do you have superhuman strength, courage, or the ability to fly?
2. Are your five senses more powerful than regular humans?
3. Do you feel the need to protect others, and do you have a secret identity?
4. Have you figured out what your super-theme is?
5. Do you have a costume? Is it super strength?
6. Do you have arch enemies?
7. Do you have any superhero friends?
8. Do you have a secret control center?
9. Do you have a super weapon?
10. How did you become a superhero?
Moina opened to the page her pencil was stuck in and placed a big “X” through her cartoon of Lobster Woman. This was one of many pages that had big “X’s” through other super human identities that hadn’t worked out. Moina was getting close to the end of the notebook. If she didn’t find out what sort of a super human she was soon, she would need to start Book Two. “So far,” Moina whispered, “I have plenty of arch enemies, feel the need to protect others and have a secret identity that I really don’t like. That’s it.” Moina closed the book, and hid it in her desk drawer. Walking toward the mirror Moina asked, “Aren’t you ever going to change?” The solemn looking eight year old stared back at her and seemingly whispered, “Sorry”. Moina picked the blue comb up off the dresser and brushed her hair. It really didn’t help; the girl in the mirror was still as plain as ever: thin brown hair, sad jade eyes - nothing special. She wasn’t ugly, and wasn’t pretty — just plain, pale and freckled. Worst of all, there wasn’t a hint of anything super. Moina tried looking intently at the girl, seeing if her eyes could shoot paranormal laser beams into the mirror that might shape her features into something a little more interesting. It would also take care of number two on her list of super human requirements: powerful senses.
“Moina – Dinner!”
Her mother’s voice broke Moina’s concentration.
“I’m coming,” Moina shouted.
After she took her seat at the table, Mom put a big plate of spaghetti in front of her. It looked like worms in tomato sauce, and Moina swore one was squirming.
“But Mom,” she complained.
“Before you start, we were all out of shells, sorry.” her Mom said. “Just dig in and don’t look.”
Moina listened to Mom and Dad talk about their latest legal cases and watched her brother Brian clank his fork slaying his spaghetti worms. Her sisters Maggie and Irene were fighting as usual. Moina tried a few bites, but just couldn’t erase the image. She had a bad feeling about school tomorrow; her stomach started churning as she pushed the plate away. Deciding to try and make the “worms” work for her, Moina put on her best under the weather face. “Mom, I don’t feel well,” she said.
Her mother scanned her with an invisible sick child sensor glance and proclaimed, “You’ll be fine. You don’t have to finish, just scrape the plate clean and put it in the sink, OK?”
Moina threw the squirming pasta off her plate, into the trash, and left like a flash. The stairs creaked as she climbed them. Moina noticed it was starting to get colder. It was only the beginning of October.
***
“Mrs. Darrow, look at me and FOCUS!” the Nurse ordered.
Moina reemerged, staring with her one good eye into the dark skin of a woman she did not know, and began to weep.
“Stay with me now,” the nurse said opening the curtains.
Sunlight flooded the small room.
“I’m dead,” Moina whispered.
“My name is Sara, I am your nurse, and let me assure you — you won’t die on my watch. It was just a dream — a very bad dream.” Sara Jones checked a few things off on the chart at the end of the bed. “You’ve been out of it for quite a while — welcome back Moina,” she continued, re-taping the IV to her right hand.
Moina began to move her left hand cautiously towards her face.
“Don’t go there yet honey — Ok?” the veteran nurse asked.
“I feel like crap, and I must look worse,” Moina answered lethargically.
“I’ll let you look tomorrow, if you follow my orders today.
Familiar bells and whistles began to sound off, and Moina fell limp.
Nurse Jones shouted, “Damn,” picked up the phone, and yelled into the receiver, “Code Blue — get the crash cart in here now!”
***
Moina put on her blue checked Catholic School uniform, and readied herself. She still felt uneasy — like something really bad was going to happen. But bad things always happened to Moina at Mary’s Blessed Academy, and she wondered why the panic over today. The weekend was great. She had a grand time with her first friend — plus an overnighter! The first sleep over she had ever been invited to. Kate was a new transfer student from California, and invited Moina to her home Friday after school. They caught tadpoles together, laughed and played, and told secrets before bed.
Moina had a real friend now, even thought the rest of the school hated her. “How could anything be wrong?” she whispered. Rushing down the stairs, Moina bypassed the kitchen.
“Well at least take your lunch,” her mother said rushing after her.
“Thanks mom.” She answered giving her mother a nervous peck on the cheek and grabbed the crumpled bag. Opening the door, a rush of spring air greeted her drying the sweat on her forehead.
For Moina, going to the bus stop was a nightmare. She stood alone, praying to God that they would leave her be, just this once. The wind blew her hair around and she began to hear them whispering, laughing. A bright splash of yellow crested the hill, but not before Moina felt a sharp crack to the back of her head.
“Bullseye!” the large one shouted, “I hit it in the head with a rock — score!”
The boys snorted and laughed.
Moina felt a tear start to fall, but reminded herself firmly that super-humans don’t cry. She pretended not to notice the growing lump on her head and grabbed her book bag. The
yellow bus came to a shrieking halt and the familiar doors opened. Monia grabbed the seat right behind the driver.
“Look at its new hairdo,” a cluster of 10-year-old girls behind Moina giggled, “Doesn’t it look pretty!”
The largest of the bunch stuck her hand in Monia’s hair and messed it up.
“Yuck, you touched its hair,” one of the other girls shouted.
“Knock it off and get to your seat,” the ancient bus driver growled. He had seen how the kids treated Moina earlier in the year; he’d save the front seat for her each day by laying his dirty coat across the bench. “Just shove it over when you board,” he whispered to Moina one morning early in September.
It was April now, and Moina was grateful. She didn’t care if the coat was dirty and smelled of cigarettes. Moina thanked God for the ancient bus driver. The bus pulled forward with a lurch. Moina knew the Nuns and Priest allowed the bullies to control the turf at Mary’s Blessed Academy. It wasn’t worth mentioning the increased swelling of the lump on her head.
In fact, Sister Bridget told Moina one afternoon, after another “incident,” that harassment and brutality helped form character, and Moina might make a fine Nun herself one day because of it.
“Don't be late. Don't chew gum. Sit up straight,” a group of girls whispered, mocking Sister Bridget, as they hung up their coats in the closet.
It was a huge closet Moina thought to herself, and then she saw Kate and smiled. She couldn’t believe she finally had a friend!
Kate looked nervously over at the group of girls still standing near the door. “Tell her,” one said with a glare. Kate rolled her eyes and pulled Moina in the closet. “Moina,” Kate began sadly, “I can’t be your friend anymore. They all told me about – well, you know,” she said looking at Moina.
Moina hung her head in the dimly lit space. “They said they’d treat me like you if we stayed friends.” The two girls locked eyes: Moina’s were pleading; Kate’s were brimming with tears.
“Gotta go, sorry,” Kate said, and she hung up her coat and left.
Monia felt hot tears sting her cheeks, and she wept. The super human rule was broken, but Moina didn’t care anymore; she angrily wiped the tears off on her sleeve, and left the closet.
***
Nurse Jones watched Monia breathe heavily and noticed tears rolling down her cheek. The monitors suggested that she might be having another dream, or she might be in pain. She checked the chart and injected her IV with morphine. She was just about due for it anyway.
The door creaked and Roger Browne entered softly with a cup of coffee. “How is she?” he asked quietly.
Nurse Jones looked up into the blue eyes of the anxious father and answered, “She’s stable. That’s real good. All we can do now is wait, and pray. Moina’s strong, and in my opinion she’ll pull through this just fine,” she affirmed with a smile.
Browne ran a hand through his thinning hair and laughed. “You’re right — she’s strong.” Sitting down in the corner chair his demeanor revealed that he intended to keep vigil tonight; Nurse Jones left the room and whispered, “Call me if you need me.”
Browne watched as Moina’s body twitched and moved.
She didn’t appear at all peaceful.
“How could she be?” Roger thought pensively. Raising a grey eyebrow, he remembered that tomorrow would be Easter Sunday. Browne recalled sharing car rides with Moina when she was little, and helping her to memorize songs for school. She had such a lovely little voice; too bad it was snuffed out by that wretched place. “Why did she wait so long to tell us?” He thought rubbing his tired face. Moina never told her parents anything. Browne remembered the day she came home with a broken nose. The Superior Nun called him to the office and informed him that there had been “other mishaps” in the past, and perhaps God wanted Moina to suffer as Christ had suffered.
“What a load of crap,” Browne growled. He was still annoyed at his wife for not letting him sue the Catholic School once he found out the truth.
Moina asked him not to sue as well; she just wanted to forget about it all and he respected that.
Peg Browne was willing to agree to send Moina to Public School, and he knew this was a big step for his wife to make. Peg was a strong willed woman, and a good attorney, he remembered. She emigrated from Ireland and he knew when he married her that Catholicism was a big part of her life.
He still missed Peg, and hoped that she didn’t mind, wherever she may be, that he left the Catholic Church after she died. He couldn’t stomach it any longer; once she was gone he was free of that religious burden. Browne found a nice country church in Carmel near his firm. It was small, the Pastor was kind, and he felt comfortable there; closer to God. Browne knew Moina would too if she decided to return to California with him.
Nurse Jones reappeared after an hour or so and busily checked the monitors. She changed the IV bags and made sure Moina was as comfortable as possible.
Browne said, “It looks like she is in pain – she keeps twitching and mumbling uneasily.”
The Nurse sighed, and responded. “I noticed that before – thought it might be the pain. She’s probably dreaming again – it’s common for abuse victims to have some pretty wicked
dreams. Post Traumatic Stress – you should read up on it,” she added earnestly.
They both looked at Monia: Skin like white Carrara marble draped her fine features.
They bowed their heads and prayed.
Nurse Jones prayed to Jesus for help.
Roger Browne prayed to God and damned his son-in-law to Hell.
***
It was Thursday; Moina hated Thursdays. She was a nervous wreck as she climbed the worn steps of the choir loft.
One boy pulled her hair.
Moina acted as if it never happened.
Ms. Polite, who was anything but polite, expected perfection from her pupils. She towered over her students, and they cowered under her stout silhouette. She was known to be the meanest teacher at Mary’s Blessed Academy, and she wasn’t even a Nun!
Although her father practiced Ave Maria with Moina on long private rides through the countryside, Moina just couldn’t make the lines stick. They slipped through her memory like the sand in an hour glass.
Dad laughed, “Don’t take it so seriously honey; you don’t really have to sing if you don’t want to – just mouth it. Trust me - no one will ever know.”
But Moina knew something her father didn’t: Ms. Polite was a pitiless music teacher who whipped students' hands with her baton if they sang off key, or messed up the words, and sometimes she did worse things.
Moina shuddered remembering her last “punishment”.
Ave Maria would be practiced today in preparation for the Spring Cantata tonight; all parents and parishioners were invited to attend.
Music was not Moina’s super human strength — at least in her opinion.
Ms. Polite kept time with a staff she cracked on the floor; there were craters left in the choir loft floor; craters Moina wished she could crawl under.
As the organist began a run through of Ave Maria Ms. Polite reminded her students that, “The Latin language can be easily learned through memorization and music drills.”
Moina remembered her father’s words this morning: “the ability to study music is a God-given gift.”
But what if God hadn’t given me this gift? she wondered. Monia prayed that Ms. Polite would make her rounds, bang her staff, and forget all about her, but she didn’t.
As childlike voices resounded in Latin, the Music Teacher paused in front of Moina and shouted, “Stop!”
“Ms. Browne, you’re not singing…,” she growled.
Moina didn’t know what to say. She froze.
Ms. Polite gripped her staff tightly. She towered over Moina, and her wrinkled lips curled into a crooked smile. “What, no answer? What a pity,” she bellowed, “I guess you’ll have to sing it for all of us then, in Latin, clearly, and ALONE!”
Moina grew faint and shouted a feeble, “No!”
Students began to snicker.
Ms. Polite drew her arm back with the intent of striking the girl. Moina crouched into a ball trying to hide.
A strong hold seized the flabby arm and spun the shocked Music Teacher around. Glacial blue, clear jade and bright emerald seared angrily in the eyes of her challenger. She grabbed the staff out of Ms. Polite’s hand, broke it over her knee, and tossed it over the loft. The pieces clattered as they hit the marble floor below.
“Get the hell out of here – Now!” she shouted. Ms. Polite scampered down the choir steps as rapidly as an overweight rat after a piece of ripe cheese.
The Challenger whispered to Moina kindly, “don’t give up – remember?”
From her crouched position on the floor Moina looked up into familiar eyes, smiled, and she remembered. Moina extended a frail white hand to a parallel hand with mirrored freckles.
“Remember what Dad said, you don’t have to sing if you don’t want to,” the Challenger whispered.
Moina thought about it solemnly, and decided, “I don’t want to sing. I don’t want to stay here anymore; will you finally forgive me?”
The Challenger paused, searching through a scrap book of painful memories, and answered, “Yes,” as she received the childlike Moina back into her spirit.
Moina sighed contently, “I’ve been waiting for such a long time. Why did you forget about me?” she asked.
The Challenger laughed. “I might have tried for a while, but how could I forget
about you! We’re super humans you know — and without each other we can’t succeed. That’s the link we’ve been searching for all these years. We’re part of each other — we need to help each other - we’re the key!”
****
Moina pulled up to her former home in her tightly packed pick up truck. The “For Sale” sign gleamed in the sun, and was soon to be replaced with a “sold” sign. She still wore sunglasses outside, even though her eye surgery had been completed months ago.
The Doctor said her left eye would be light sensitive forever. As for her other injuries Moina healed incredibly well.
Hopping out of the truck, she grabbed the keys looking for the appropriate one. Unlocking the front door, she headed up the stairs. Looking at the packed boxes in the living room below, she felt both a wave of both panic and relief. Moina stood in front of the bedroom door and paused.
“Well, let’s get this over with, shall we!” Moina said with determination. The last things she had to do were to pack her suitcase and then something a little harder. After that, she was on her way to a new life at the lake house upstate.
Her father wanted her to return with him to California, but she said she needed to make a fresh start on her own. Moina rationalized, while pleading her case to her father, that he could see her more often, as he used the lake house in New York State as an escape from his job in
Carmel. Fishing was his passion, and he loved the east coast’s fall foliage. They could now enjoy both things together.
She smiled, remembering his observation that she was as persuasive as her mother, and she should become an attorney.
Moina had little interest in anything regarding the law. She was actually giving thought to furthering her academic career and pursuing a Master of Arts Degree at a University upstate. She knew here father would approve. Moina opened the box marked “clothing” and pulled out enough to last her a week. She carefully packed the suitcase. The movers were bringing the rest of what she wanted to keep to a storage facility near the lake house. She’d decide what to do with all of it later — when she had time to think and she was settled in to her new life.
“Now for the hard part,” Moina whispered. She had gone through her photo albums in her desk last week. Most of her married life was in the trash, and a small piece of her past was still under consideration. Monia lifted the two photo albums and leafed through the yellowed pages. There were several blank sheets; those were the photographs she asked her mother to remove. She remembered the day well.
Her Mother advised, “Don’t get rid of all the school pictures of my poor little Moina – Remember, the teasing and abuse wasn’t her fault. One day you might actually want her to be a part of your life.”
Her mother was right, of course, but at the time Moina was a teenager, in her senior year of High School, and trying very hard to dispose of her past and was about to lurch into a worse one.
Her mother agreed to remove all the photographs, if Moina agreed to keep one, wrapped safely in her grandmother’s handkerchief.
Moina pealed back the aged linen and exposed a small photograph of a forlorn girl robed in blue tartan; their eyes locked. For the first time, Moina smiled and touched the little face.
“Well, small one, we are going on a journey together just like I promised,” she said holding the picture close.
The snap shot wasn’t damaged, and Moina had picked out a perfect little frame. Reaching into her purse she pulled it out.
Moina carefully slid the photograph behind the glass and said, “Well, we may never actually be super human, but we can still do super things and maybe even have a little fun for once in our life!
Moina let out a deep sigh of relief, and bowed her head and prayed thanking God for the little friend she had finally found.
“We’ll make it on this journey – together.”
Moina slipped the frame into the right pocket of her leather jacket, and slung her purse onto her shoulder. Closing the suitcase with a double snap, Moina grabbed the handle and headed down the familiar stairs for the final time.
They were free at last.
