The sale of Rebe’s house would close within three weeks, and she’d take the cash and finalize the purchase of her new home next month. She’d spent two months looking at houses and finally found the one. It was in Broward County, in Hollywood, Florida, in a gated community called West Lake Village. She felt the four-bedroom, pale-yellow stucco, a mile from the ocean, close to schools and shopping, was far enough away from her current place to help her shake off some of the bad memories of the house she’d won in a divorce settlement, the same house she was raped in, nearly killed in, the house where her daughter stabbed her own mom’s attacker.
The move would be just in time to get settled in before the birth of her second child, decades after the first.
A little after midnight, Rebe was home wearing an extra-large-tall T-shirt, cuddled up in charcoal satin sheets, still sleeping in the guest room.
The electric fireplace glimmered an artistic, tie-dye-like glow on the pale blue walls.
It was a Friday night.
She was forty years old and nearly seven months pregnant.
She was manless.
Her baby would be fatherless.
She hadn’t yet wrapped her brain around that fact. There was no room for such thoughts yet.
She was suddenly jerked from her mental ramblings by the ringing of her home phone. Looking at the clock, seeing that time had slipped into the next day, she wondered who it could be as she reached over, saw the caller ID, and picked up the receiver. “Hello.” She sounded like she’d been fast asleep, but she wasn’t. Her tone was tainted more with a self-warning about the caller than that of being tired.
“Sorry to wake you.”
“I’m still up.” Her heart insisted she should have an attitude. Her head was too crowded and too exhausted to comply.
“Good.” The voice was familiar and deep, slow and reserved. “How are you?”
“Fine, Randall. How are you?” Her words were insincere.
“Good.” His word was elongated. He paused. His inhale-exhale could be heard. “Listen, I’ve wanted to have a talk with you for a while now. Is this a good time?”
“Yes. What?” She said both as fast as one word.
“Rebe, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. For cheating. For lying. For leaving without taking the time to talk about giving us another try. For getting someone pregnant before you had a chance to even file divorce papers. For hurting Trinity. And for the fact of what happened to you with the guy who broke in. It’s bothered me for a while. I want you to know I’m glad you survived.”
“Really?” Rebe wondered why his speech was so slow. She sensed a slur. Knowing him as she did, she was willing to bet he’d been drinking. It brought back memories. Memories of how the only time he’d talk was when eighty-proof something chased away the fear of communication.
“Yes. You’ve been through enough with your mom as it is. Really, I’m sorry that happened. I should’ve told you this before now, but when I heard, all I felt was anger over what he did to my ex-wife. I’m sorry Trinity had to see what she saw, and that she has to live with the fact that she stabbed someone. And in our house. It’s bothered me. All of it. I just didn’t know how to say it. Until now.” His breathing was heavy.
Him saying our house had her on guard. She said what she thought would be best. “I got the card you two sent.” Rebe behaved but couldn’t say his wife’s name. “Trinity told me you guys sent your thoughts and prayers. All that.”
“Well, we did. But this is from me. I want us to find a way to be okay with all this, good and bad. I want Trinity to see us getting along. I want Chyna to see that. I want her to know you. And, I want your new child to see it, too. By the way, congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Rebe shook her head a bit to make sure her ears weren’t failing.
He sighed. “Well, I guess that’s what I wanted to say.”
She shifted the phone to her other ear. “My goodness.” She just had to ask. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Life. Tired. Trying to find a way to say I’m sorry. To forgive. Hell, to live. Plus, I’m fuckin’ drunk.” He gave a laugh along with his admission.
Rebe offered a laugh in return, not surprised one bit.
“I fucked up a lot, Rebe. The life I led in the NFL opened doors that weren’t always the best for me, but still I indulged. Even after, it was just hard to stop pushing the envelope. But, I’m tired of hurting people. Bad decisions hurt people. And hurt me.”
“I see. Well, I’m fine. But obviously, I’ve been pissed off for a long time. You both know that. Trinity knows that.”
“I know.”
She couldn’t not say it. She turned to her side and went there. “And by the way, Magnolia told me.”
“I figured she would.” He didn’t miss a beat
“But why didn’t you?”
“I never would’ve.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Believe it or not, I did it because I could. I didn’t do it to hurt you. Telling you would have been hurting you. I took the small chance that she wouldn’t tell you. At the moment it happened, I went for it. But, I knew when I went to bed that night, doing that only made things worse. Though that was my mentality. I wanted it all. I just can’t do that anymore. At least I know I need to try and do better. And Rebe, Magnolia fought it. She left fast.”
“Whatever. That was messed up on both your parts.”
“It was. And to be honest, I was surprised you didn’t call me and go completely off.”
“Me, too.”
“I’m just sorry. Don’t know what else to say.”
“Wow. Those two words, I’m sorry. I think if it’s true that love means never having to say you’re sorry, then I guess I’ve never experienced love before, because I’ve received and owed more I’m sorrys than anyone should ever have to.”
“You’re strong. You’re a survivor. And I want you to know I’m glad you took this call. Thank you.” He sounded extra drained.
“Good-bye, Randall.”
“Good-bye, Rebe. If you need anything, I’m here.”
“I’m fine.”
“Good. Oh, and by the way, good luck with the new house. I got a notice about the sale, verifying the quitclaim.”
“I know.”
“Good luck. Maybe we can stay in touch. Call me on my cell.”
“Bye.” And Rebe hung up.
She turned to her back and rubbed her forehead with one hand, having never expected that conversation, and placed the other hand on her belly. Randall’s voice was still in her head. “Did he just say he’s sorry?” she asked out loud. “My God.”
She looked over at the two photos of Trinity beside her bed. One from when Trinity was a toddler. Barely two years old. Trinity was in her white and pink Easter dress with a real, live bunny rabbit on her lap, looking half thrilled and half scared to death. The other was a recent photo of Trinity that was taken while she was in Las Vegas. She stood in front of a roman statue at Caesars Palace with a drink in her hand, looking happy, and carefree.
Carefree was all that Rebe wanted for her offspring. Not bringing a baby into her confused life was her goal. She wanted that feeling for both her adult child, and her expected baby. A life different from the one she’d lived thus far. She wanted her children to have a life free from pain, free from anger, and free from tragedy. If she could. Or at least, she wondered if Trinity, unlike her, could be normal? And could her new baby be happy with a mother like her?
Rebe could have sworn she felt a kick. And then another. She said, “If that was a yes, I’m smiling. If that was a no…well, I’ll just believe that two kicks means yes.”
She felt the new life inside of her in the form of a tiny fetus, and in the form of her own newness, awaiting her own new life, ready to no longer be a product of her childhood, but a shining example for her children of what life can be like, especially when given a second chance.
She fell asleep. Mother and daughter. Alive.
INT.—OFFICE OF VICTIMS’ SERVICES—PINECREST, FLORIDA—LATE MORNING
The next day
It was a new counselor. One who Rebe was meeting for the first time. The neuropsychologist she had before transferred during the couple of months Rebe stopped going, but Rebe felt it was time to again try to get her mind right.
Trinity had been attending her sessions, but for the moment was out of town in New York trying to get a modeling agent. She’d dropped out of school and Rebe didn’t push it. Rebe was learning to let go and cut the cord. She gave in to the fact that Trinity was a grown woman, and had been through more than enough to earn her independence stripes.
The counselor was a bleached blonde, conservative, middle-aged woman, plain Jane type in a tight top and knee-length skirt, oddly bordering on pinup-girl curvy. With her legs crossed, she sat in her small, sparsely furnished office in a tweed desk chair facing Rebe.
Rebe sat on the tan sectional, with her hands cupped in her lap, wearing a purple top that showed the full shape of her expectant belly, a pair of gray drawstring cotton pants, and gym shoes. She’d taken out her braids and her dark brown hair was flat ironed past her shoulders. No makeup, no expression, just words.
Ten minutes into the allotted hour, Rebe looked at the woman at times, and at times out the window toward the tropical, butterfly-like palm trees, spanning into the beauty of the heavens above.
“Dr. Love, my mom’s in jail. She’ll spend the rest of her life in prison. I’m ashamed and I totally reject the blood ties that bind me to her. Violet Palo. I don’t like to say her name, but, Violet Palo is a child killer. Violet Palo is a mother, a woman, and she’s convicted of child murder, and attempted child murder. She’ll spend the rest of her life in prison. Double life. My mother. Violet. Is a convicted killer.”
Pain was spelled out on her dark face. “I really, truly don’t want her in my soul. I pray every night that she’s not. I’ve been determined to break the like-mother, like-daughter curse. I keep telling myself I’m not the seed of a monster. But I am. My mother is just like her mother. My grandmother, named Opal, committed suicide after beating her own children for simply forgetting to brush their teeth. Her own mother threw boiling water on her husband while he was sleeping, because he was snoring.”
Rebe waited a minute.
Dr. Love let her wait.
“My story was in the headlines back in 1982, you know? Not sure if you heard of it.” Rebe’s big, dark eyes lifted Dr. Love’s way and flashed a question mark.
“No,” Dr. Love said, showing focus and patience, shaking her head.
“Ocala, Florida, where I grew up, was on the map. The headlines read that when the prosecuting attorney asked me who hit me on the back of the head with a hammer, I said, ‘My mom.’ Sad.
“Some of it I remember, some of it I don’t. All I know is my brother Maestro had gotten in trouble the night before and got a beating before he went to bed, as usual. That happened every night. He was fifteen and six foot three, and still got whippings. Every night.
“By then my father had left my mother and was out there, chasing women, usually the younger women, fed up with my mother’s temper tantrums and her ‘ugly ways’ as he called it. In his absence, my brother found males to bond with. In the streets.”
Her eyes sort of lit up.
“He was good at basketball, having played in the neighborhood when he could get out of the house, which was rare. He wasn’t allowed to play sports in school. We weren’t allowed to go anywhere after we got home from school. A lot of rules. I liked to dance, so I’d just dance in my room, to silence. No music allowed in the house either. Another rule.
“By then, my mother had actually found a way to start preaching at a nearby church. It was the epitome of a holy, sacrilegious, hypocritical, Bible-toting, false prophet, Christian claiming mess. She was the last person who should have been preaching the word of God. If anyone needed to be literally born again, rebirthed, it was her. Violet Palo.
“I do remember some of that night when the devil took my joy. And I know it went something like:
“Rebe come here.” Her loud, raspy voice always sounded like she had phlegm stuck somewhere between her tonsils and her esophagus, like she was about to choke. I wish. She wasn’t a smoker. Not even a drinker. Not on drugs. Just naturally evil. The sound of her words stung from the living room and seeped past my bedroom door, which I was never allowed to close, and right into my ears. My lobes sweat upon hearing and feeling the sound.
It was about six-thirty and it wasn’t dark yet outside, but the house was dark. Blackout curtains throughout, you’d need a light on to see anything, any time of day. I ran straight from the tiny room I shared with Maestro. He wasn’t home yet. I knew that woman, called my mom, would be in a bad mood just because of that.
“Yes, Ma’am.” I stood before her, my feet on the tattered throw rug. My toes flexed. My knobby knees shook. Skinny as a rail, I wore yellow shorts and a pinafore blouse. I’d just finished cornrowing my own hair. She never did my hair. Never called her mom, you know. Never did.
“Barefoot, she was reading the Bible, with only the light of the floor lamp behind her, reclining all the way back in her beat-up black leather chair, and though the Bible was opened to a certain page, her bloodshot eyes were zeroed in on me. The closer I got I smelled the usual calamine lotion on her scaly, itchy forearms and elbows. I still don’t know what caused it. It was nauseating.
“So. How was your day?” Her gray hair seemed grayer, hanging loose but stiff and broken off, barely touching her shoulders.
My puberty-ridden stomach turned. “Good,” I told her almost sounding like I was asking instead of answering.
“Really?” She always had a look about her that made me feel like she had the ability to see my every move, every second of every day, even when I was shitting, like she knew the color and smell, but asked about it anyway.
“Yes.”
“You do anything after school?”
“No.” My armpits were dripping already.
“You do anything after school?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“You do anything after school?” This time her look changed.
I knew better. “Yes.”
Silence. Frown.
I spoke on. “I went to my friend Alicia’s house.”
Silence. Deeper frown.
“That’s it,” I said, sounding like a mouse.
“Alicia’s mother called.” She closed the Bible, placed it on the end table, and adjusted the handle on the side of her recliner to sit straight up. Her scent was even stronger.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Caught you hiding in the closet. With Alicia’s older brother.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that part?”
“Ma’am?” Oh God, I felt like, what more does she know.
Silence.
“Because it was nothing. Alicia wasn’t supposed to have company and I didn’t want her to get in trouble.” I felt like Pinocchio. My nose grew like a weed.
“Naked, Rebe? You and her brother were in the closet naked?”
I felt a little pee leak from between my legs. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Go to your room.” She reached to the other side of the chair.
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Get naked.”
Physically, I did what my mental begged to reject. I moved slowly, and then looked back to see her, two steps behind me, her hands behind her back, the impatient, wild look in her eyes. One eye was bigger, angrier than the other. I sped up.
“Lay down.”
My room had only the light from a low-wattage lamp, aglow on my bed like a mini-spotlight. I lay on my back on my twin bed, plaid covers, and she hopped on top of me in her leggings and baggy brown smock, and right away, slapped my left cheek and then my right, left, right, left, right, over and over while I kicked my feet and blocked my face with my hands.
“Move your hands.”
She socked my hands and arms, and punched me in the head.
“You’re a tramp. You’re twelve and you’re a tramp already. Mark my word, you’re gonna end up pregnant.”
“No. I’m not.” I screamed bloody murder.
“Shut up. You’re a whore. Did you have sex with him?”
“No.”
“Yes, you did. Turn over.”
“No. Please.” I closed my eyes and started swinging.
She jerked back and yelled, “Did you just hit me? Turn the hell over.”
I heard the neighbor’s German shepherd, named Queenie, barking and whining like he’d heard an ear-piercing siren.
She shouted, “You’re a damn ho!”
I opened my eyes as she stood and held my breath, turning over, and then as soon as my belly and face touched the bumpy mattress, I heard, “Mom. No.” And in an instant, it was like someone shot me in the back of the head. I tried not to scream but my voice failed. I tried to talk but my words slurred in my head. I went black.
When I awoke, I was in the hospital. My brother was dead. And my mother was in jail for first-degree murder, and attempted murder. Funny thing was, even though my mother said my brother hit me over the head and that she was the one who saved me after managing to fight him off, hitting him on his forehead in self-defense…that night, it was her, Violet Palo, who called 911. The ambulance was there in five minutes. That call saved my life. Otherwise, I would have been dead.
I was in the hospital on the day of my own brother’s funeral. I testified against Violet Palo six months later.
Rebe scooted back and massaged her shoulder, just at the point where her brother’s name, Maestro, was tattooed on her skin.
Dr. Love said, “My goodness. Are you going to be okay, Rebe?” She checked Rebe’s face, expecting an oncoming barrage of tears to match her cracking voice, and offered a box of tissues.
“Yes. Thank you.” Rebe took one and balled it up in her hand. She went right back into speaking again. “I lived with my father here in Florida while I healed the first year. I missed that year of school. I was recovering from a depressed skull fracture. It was the blunt force trauma that dented my skull bone, causing a hemorrhage in my brain. The dent was one-half inch deep. They operated to get rid of the bony pieces in my head, and when they inspected my brain for injury, they relieved the bleeding that had begun between my brain and skull. It was from the rupture of a vessel. I had a brain injury caused by Violet, well, caused by my own mother.
“My father couldn’t keep his fast self home often enough to raise me. He said he was depressed about losing his son. So he kept chasing women like he’d been doing when he left us in the first place. I kind of raised myself. In high school I met my friends Darla and Magnolia, two girls who were more like sisters than anything. The other kids in school who heard about my mother and what happened said I was weird, some said fast, some said crazy. Oh well.
“So, that’s when I met my daughter’s dad, Trent. I got pregnant, didn’t even tell my dad, and moved in with Trent in his small bachelor apartment while we were still in high school. Dad moved back to Maui. It was no big deal to me. I thought I’d be better off under the same roof as Trent, but he had as many problems as I did. He was an addict, broken like me. I thought we were the perfect pair. But like he said, I had a temper. And people didn’t believe it but, as fast as everyone thought I was, I hated sex. He loved it. He left, and later died of an overdose.
“So anyway, I’ve been on these hormone pills all my life, and then on these new hormone therapy pills that I think finally kicked my sex drive into fifth gear, and on Zoloft still, even now. But no matter how much I started craving sex, or how much my depression lifted, I still haven’t felt lovable. Just unhappy.
“Doctor, I’m sure you know from reading my file, but the same thing that happened to me when I was twelve happened to me at forty. To have my own daughter save me while being attacked is more than I can bear. It’s more than I want her to bear. Our demons are not something I want my unborn child to have to inherit.
“As a mother, I now realize that she didn’t have babies so she could love them. She had babies so they could love her. She was a narcissist. A sociopath who didn’t feel empathy. She was hard on us from day one. So hard that we couldn’t love her. And now I know she couldn’t love us either. She couldn’t identify with another person’s feelings. It’s like we were a burden to her.
“By the way, just like her, I got pregnant at seventeen. But now, the legacy of this anger gene can’t be mine. I don’t want to screw up this chance at having another child. At times, I’m this doting mother, and then I flip into a distant mom, unavailable, unable to empathize, like my mother. That’s not normal. And with all the money I have, it won’t buy my happiness. Please. Help me.” She sniffled and tried to hold it. But this time a tear did flow, and then another, and Rebe sniffled and wiped her eyes and nose. “I miss my brother.” Rebe’s slow tears turned into a full-out cry. She covered her face with her hands, and just let it out.
Dr. Love’s face saddened, and she again offered more tissues, but Rebe didn’t look up. The counselor pulled out four tissues and leaned forward, rubbing Rebe’s arm and putting the tissues on her lap. Rebe took them and wiped under her eyes with mascara running, and fanned her face with her hand, blowing her exhale past her lips.
“I’m sorry,” Rebe told her, looking embarrassed.
“Oh, no. Please don’t apologize. You’ve been through a lot. Your brother tried to protect you. That was a tragic death. Surely it’s hard to take still.”
“You know, my mother never cried. Ever.” Rebe sniffled more and fought to make herself calm down.
“It’s good that you can cry, Rebe. Very good. It kind of cleanses, like rain. This is major stuff that’s happened to you. Would you like to take a break and get some water or coffee?”
Rebe looked down at her hands that maneuvered the tissues. Her nose was red, her eye makeup was smudged, her foundation was all but wiped off. “No. No thanks. Really. I’m okay. It’s just that I really miss my brother. We were all each other had. I’m surprised I haven’t had a total breakdown by now. There was so much evil back then. So much that went wrong. Even though I was born on the day of love, Valentine’s Day, it still didn’t make a difference. ”
Dr. Love reached over and touched Rebe’s arm.
Rebe looked up.
The doctor sat back. “Rebe, yes, a lot of evil. Though one thing I can tell you is, I don’t believe you have some ‘evil gene.’ Psychopathy can be an inherited trait, but I know for a fact there’s nothing wrong with your moral compass. It works. If it didn’t, you wouldn’t have raised Trinity the way you did, being there for her, making sure she made it through school, and providing for her like you have. I think at some point in your life, there was enough nurturing, probably from your father, as distant as he was, or from your older brother, to overcome the traits of your mom. From what you tell me about Trinity, you broke the curse. Yes, Trinity and this new baby are your bloodlines, but they don’t have to suffer. Trinity needs to keep coming in and she needs to continue her victim’s advocacy counseling. She nearly killed a man. That’s extremely traumatic. She needs consistent psychotherapy. You’re smart, Rebe. You’re a college grad. You can even help other kids, just like you can help your own children. Victims of heinous crimes are the best advocates for victims’ rights.”
Dr. Love picked up a clipboard and pen and started writing. “I want you to continue coming. I won’t prescribe meds for you. Based on your history of brain injury, you need to consult with your neurologist, and also with your gynecologist if you still need pituitary stimulants for your brain injury, like hormone therapy, but only after the birth. I think still being on Zoloft, which is a category B drug, is fine, just don’t breastfeed while taking it. But in my opinion, taking it outweighs the risks of not taking it.” She picked up a paperback book from her glass desktop. “But I will ask you to read this book called Trauma and Recovery by Dr. Judith Herman. I suggest Trinity reads it, too. It covers the aftermath of violence for those who might experience posttraumatic stress disorders. It’s a good source of finding a way to feel good based on our thoughts, and not buying into our negative thinking.”
Rebe’s face was still flushed. Her eyes glassy. She took the book and looked over the cover. “Thanks.”
“But most important, enjoy the rest of your pregnancy. Live in the present. And I’ll see you next week. Okay?” Dr. Love’s voice sounded as though she was prompting Rebe’s agreement.
“Okay.” Rebe reached for her suede purse that was on the coffee table in front of her.
“And Rebe.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” Rebe said while placing the book inside the middle compartment of her bag.
“First of all, no need to call me Ma’am.”
“I’m sorry. I know better. I hate that, too.”
Dr. Love caught Rebe’s eyes and they both smiled. “What I want to tell you is, you need to forgive your mother, forgive yourself, and heal by bringing closure to the past. Enjoy the rest of your life. Your brother lost his life so you could live. So live.”
Rebe blinked on hearing the doctor’s last word, and another tear fell. “Thank you, Dr. Love. I will. In his honor, I absolutely will.”
Her hand on her belly as she stood, she felt the life in her kick.
And Rebe’s lips spread into an enormous smile.