Indescribable Read online

  My first play is Winnie the Pooh, and I am Roo. I love it so much and make so many friends. I especially love the adult actors in the production. My favourite is an actor named Michael, and we also perform in Noddy, The Wizard of Oz and Oliver! together. Michael is so wonderful and caring, he makes me feel really special. I sit on his lap and chat for hours.

  I like this world, acting and making an adult friend who isn’t taking from me or hurting me. The strange thing I’ve learned about most adults is that they want to spoil all your fun, make something out of nothing and leave you feeling dirty, bad and guilty. Michael is different, he makes me feel so safe.

  Then my mom gets a phone call from the director of the theatre company, telling her that I am sitting on Michael’s lap and that I am being too loving towards him. This information is passed on to Dad and he confronts me. He is furious.

  “What are you doing? Don’t you know what strangers can do to you? You could get hurt. You mustn’t sit on Michael’s lap, he is not your father.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry is not enough.”

  As punishment, Dad doesn’t speak to me. I go back to the theatre company and don’t talk to Michael. I’m scared of him now and think he is like Dad. I feel bad, dirty and guilty, and I need to sort out the bad with Dad.

  My options are:

  Talk to him, tell him I’m sorry and that I won’t sit on anyone’s lap again.

  Stand naked and cold in front of Dad and make him happy.

  Number two seems to be my only option. It is the only way he will forgive me. A week has gone by without Dad speaking to me and I can’t take it anymore; I have to take control of the situation.

  Touching happens every day now, sometimes in the mornings, sometimes at night, on weekends and during the day. Dad’s touching-me moments don’t take up much time, maybe fifteen minutes in his busy twenty-four-hour day. When Dad’s not touching me I am touching myself.

  I am also praying a lot to G-d. I’m not sure if he is Jewish or Christian, I just know that he is out there listening to everyone’s stories. He must have an amazing ability to remember everyone and love us all. When Mom was married to Lionel we were Jewish, I even went to a Jewish nursery school and celebrated Pesach and Rosh Hashanah. We ate matzah and gefilte fish. Then Mom married Dad and we became Christian, or should I say Christmas people, as Gran is the only one who goes to church. We don’t talk about religion in my family and I don’t mind, as long as I know G-d is my friend. Sometimes I think he must be too busy with other things to take care of me, but I carry on praying just in case one day he listens.

  Mom and Dad have bought a house at the Vaal River. It reminds me of a tree house: it’s beautiful, small and has a thatch roof. To get to my room I have to climb up a rope ladder. I love our little house and I love being at the river. We have a boat and I’m learning to water-ski. It’s the biggest boat on the river and Dad called it Agape, which he tells me means G-d’s love for humanity. It took me a couple of tries to stand up on two skis, but now I’ve got the hang of it and Dad is so proud of me. I love it when he is proud of me, I feel on top of the world. Impressing Dad feels like I’m impressing G-d, and that feels good.

  Dad can be mean to Mom but she doesn’t say anything. Sometimes he forces her to drive the boat while she cries. She hates arguing with him. She is always trying to keep the peace and make him feel like her king. Mom and I are Dad’s subjects. Kim’s not really involved in the family. Most weekends, she sleeps out at her girlfriends’. Dad doesn’t mind. They’re not soul connected. Kim sees him as her stepdad. I see him as a step above the rest.

  The days at the Vaal are long and lazy. We eat, ski, sleep, my mom cooks, Dad drives the boat and the tractor. When dad is on a mission to touch me, he takes me to the garages behind the boat club. Dad holds my hand tight and I follow my pied piper into the large, dark, musty room. Dad disappears and his dark friend enters. I also leave, looking for a speck of light. Like a moth I’ll go to it and stay there until Dad’s friend is done.

  Afterwards we walk back to my mom. Our little house is glowing in the late afternoon sun. Mom has started making the salads for tonight’s dinner.

  “Hungry?” Mom asks, smiling.

  “Very.”

  Dad can never take away my appetite.

  The best thing about going to the Vaal is that Romy has started coming over on the weekends. I love having her with us; she still holds my hand and tells me stories, and it’s as if she never left. There are moments I feel very jealous of her because Dad has been paying her a lot of attention and is ignoring me. This makes me so mad, I’m not Daddy’s little girl when Romy is around. She is more of a tomboy than me and is better at water-skiing. Dad likes this. I feel very lonely and lost and have decided to make a stand and never water-ski again. This backfires because Dad tells me if I don’t water-ski then I’m not allowed on the boat. I have no idea why, but all of a sudden I am terrified of skiing and I am beginning to think that my body has become the boss of me. It can create a fear through me. I get into a big panic and can’t explain it to anyone. It doesn’t matter, though, because I’m not allowed on the boat anyway.

  “Candy, come on, don’t be like this, come water-skiing.”

  Romy’s being kind, I can’t stand it. She’s all tanned, blonde and has the bounciest curls and greenest eyes I’ve ever seen.

  “No, I’m not skiing and it doesn’t matter anyway because Dad won’t let me on the boat.”

  “You’re being silly.”

  I’m screaming in my head: I’m not being silly, I’m scared, I can’t move. Can’t you see? Are you blind? I respond with “Whatever,” and walk off.

  I make a friend. We go exploring and find a broken-down old caravan in one of the nearby caravan parks. The door is locked but we climb in through a window that is slightly open. We find a bed and sit down.

  “Let’s play a game,” I say.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m the daddy, you’re the mommy.”

  “Okay.”

  I come close and put my mouth to hers, it feels small and cold. She responds and we kiss and touch. I like the feeling as we rub against each other. This feels good, nothing else exists, no mommy, no daddy and no Romy. They’ve all gone off on the boat and will never come back. I don’t care; I don’t want them to come back. I kiss harder, touch harder, rub harder and make myself twinkle again. We’re finished, lying there together, silent. I feel sick. I think the Devil entered my body and I’m bad, really bad. I get up off the bed.

  “See you around,” I say, hoping never to see her again and climb out the window, praying that G-d wasn’t watching.

  I run and run and run until I can’t run anymore. I’m bad and I hate my insides. I walk home slowly. When I get there they’re all there laughing and chatting. I see we’re going to have a braai.

  “Have you stopped sulking?” Dad asks.

  Romy’s looking over at me, smiling, loving me. I hate her.

  “If you’ve stopped sulking, come and join us.”

  I have stopped sulking. I touched, ran and walked the sulk away.

  I sit down and join in the laughter. I like my happy family. It’s a warm evening and the river is still. I feel still. No more running tonight. I’m just going to sit and enjoy. Enjoy my happy family. I’m nine. I know the difference between good and bad and I am both.

  still nine

  My favourite colours are blue, green and white. Is white a colour? I like blue and green because they bring out my eyes. I like white because it makes me feel innocent.

  I am nine and still the smallest in my class. My hair is dark brown and scruffy. I like to swim even though I’m not very good at it and I’m still a mascot for school sports events (it’s better that way because my short legs mean I’m not very fast). Mom comes to all my events. She always looks perfect, hair never out of place, outfits showing off her best assets. Mom looks good in bright colours, especially pinks and bright sun yellows. I also like h
er in blue because her eyes are just like mine and blue makes them look shiny and happy.

  “You look so much like your mom.”

  “Thanks,” I say, grinning.

  My mom laughs louder than all the other moms, she also talks the most, she makes everyone feel good. I watch my mom talking to all the other mothers: she is so beautiful and I wonder if I’ll look like her when I grow up. I wonder if Daddy loves me the way he does because I look like Mommy, and I wonder if looking like Mommy is a good thing, after all.

  Things I’ve learned at nine:

  Adults lie.

  My mom laughs the loudest but is sometimes the most unhappy.

  Beauty is dangerous.

  Learning lines for plays is easy.

  School sucks.

  The best way to keep secrets is to pretend you know nothing.

  I don’t like tomatoes.

  I love movies.

  I want my hair to grow.

  I’m damn pretty, pretty sad.

  I’m moving schools because I’ve been struggling badly. I can’t spell or do maths, my oral reading has gone downhill, I’m disruptive in class, play too rough and can’t concentrate. So it’s off to an educational psychologist for me.

  “Are you happy?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Do you love your stepdad?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you draw your family for me?”

  I draw Mommy, Gran, Romy, Kim and myself very small and Dad as big as a bear.

  “Wow, you must really love your stepdad!”

  “Yes.”

  Session over.

  I’m a slow learner and must go to remedial school. I am prescribed Ritalin for my overactive behaviour and enrolled at Bellavista (a school for the not so fast – and I don’t mean running.) The Ritalin makes me crazy. I’m too chatty, have too much energy and am way too boisterous. I am taken off the Ritalin, and my new school life begins.

  I actually like Bellavista: it is smaller with fewer kids in the class and the teachers are kind. Well, most of them. Especially Mr Baxter, whom I love. He has a round moon face and a bald head except for the sides, and laughs at all my jokes. I could hug him all day, which I do a lot of, just not all the time. He’s the round version of the dad I’ve never had.

  Teachers are beginning to notice that I’m hanging on to Mr Baxter. They don’t like it; they don’t like it at all. A quick phone call sorts it all out. Headmaster speaks to Mom, Mom speaks to Dad and Dad speaks to me.

  “Candice, what are you doing?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you always hugging Mr Baxter?”

  “He’s my teacher and he’s nice.”

  “Well, stop it. Just stop it. Don’t you know what men can do? You could get hurt. He’s not your boyfriend.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry is not good enough. Just stop it and do your school work.”

  “Okay.”

  I hate Mr Baxter and he is now my enemy. He is bad and I am scared of him. Tomorrow I won’t talk to him, look at him or answer questions in class. I’ll just be my school book, the ink, the paper, the tree before it was the paper.

  Bad Mr Baxter, bad Candice.

  Thank goodness for weekends: they are my favourite, especially in the summer. We always drive to the river on a Friday evening and spend the whole weekend in our swimming costumes. We run, we sleep, we eat and we play. I am still banned from the boat but I don’t really care anymore, as I don’t like water-skiing. I go on long walks by myself and imagine I’m going to marry Michael J. Fox. I also talk to the flowers and hug the trees.

  List of the good and the bad at the Vaal River:

  Good

  Breakfast of fried eggs and bacon.

  Long days.

  Games.

  Playing in our caravan at the back of our house.

  The café nearby that sells the best salt and vinegar crisps and toffees.

  Holding Romy’s hand and going for long walks while she tells me stories.

  Bad

  Dad touching me there.

  Dad forcing me to lick his hard-on.

  Dad making me kiss him with my tongue.

  Dad licking me down there.

  School is going well. I’m captain of the netball team in which I play centre, I’ve made some good friends, I’m doing better than I was when I was at Linksfield, all the teachers like me, I’m not scared of Mr Baxter anymore, and I get an A for effort on my school report.

  I like being nine. Soon I’ll be old enough to leave home and start a new life. Maybe I’ll change my name, go to a place where no one has been hurt, where people are good and animals are your best friends.

  “Stop it. Please don’t hit me.”

  SMACK.

  “Dad, I’m sorry.”

  “Not sorry enough.”

  “Please stop, it wasn’t me.”

  “Stop lying.”

  SMACK. SMACK.

  I stop crying. I am too sore and I don’t care anymore. Silence.

  SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.

  I start talking to myself, “Go on, hit me. Can’t you see I’m strong, stronger than you?”

  I think my silence stops Dad and he walks out of my bedroom. I am left alone, my loud pumping heartbeat and my angry head have joined my body in hate. The three of us will survive, we’ll beat this man I call Dad.

  It all started because one of my schoolteachers phoned my mom and told her I’d written in a textbook. Mom told Dad, Dad confronted me. I said I didn’t do it and this made him furious. The rest is history.

  A few days later the teacher phoned Mom and told her it wasn’t me. Mom told Dad, Dad didn’t bother to apologise, and the incident was over, never to be spoken of again. Dad’s moods are starting to bore me, and instead of feeling afraid I’m starting to get mad.

  I love the pretending of acting. If you play a fairy, you become one; if you act like a rag doll, you are one. It’s the best escape ever.

  A fairy plus a gnome plus a rag doll plus a Roo does not equal Candice Derman.

  I love playing Pac-Man; maybe one day I’ll be a champion.

  I also love long summer days and afternoon thunderstorms. The thunderstorms wash away the heat of the day and bring coolness to the night. I like it when the night is cool; the cool eases my warm sweaty body, it eases my panic. Lately I’ve been waking up at two in the morning and falling asleep at about four. These hours are paralysing and I feel such fear. The house is silent, everyone is asleep and I keep having thoughts that someone will break in and attack my family. In these frightful two hours I can’t move, I hear loud noises, laughter and silent echoes and then eventually I manage to fall asleep again. I wake up at six, get ready for school and am raring to go.

  A new day, no one attacked us. Silly me, silly, silly me.

  Some days I wonder if I’ve made it all up, wonder if Dad has never touched me and if it’s all been a nightmare. I get so confused on a love day when Dad tells me I’m beautiful, I’m clever and he’s so proud I’m his daughter. I love it when he tells me that even though he’s not my biological parent, he loves me like a father would love his daughter. On these days I melt into the love and feel all dreamy, cloud blue and pink.

  It’s easy to keep a bad secret; I’m not bursting to tell anyone. I’d rather pretend to be a part of Mom’s white-picket-fence fantasy. I’m so good at pretending, even I believe in happily ever after.

  I sit on Dad’s lap, pleased as Punch, a princess with an invisible tiara. My stepbrother, Richard, asks me if I know about the birds and the bees. I don’t answer and get a confused look on my face.

  Dad to the rescue, “Come on, Candice doesn’t know about that stuff.”

  I look at Dad. He winks, a private wink between the two of us.

  I play along. “The birds and the bees, what do you mean?”

  They laugh and run off, leaving me on the lap of my strong, loving dad.

  I feel his private getting hard. �
��Soon I’ll show you about the birds and the bees,” Dad says, kissing my forehead. My invisible tiara clatters to the floor.

  I smile, terror behind the grin.

  Things I love at nine:

  Touching myself.

  Gum.

  Acting.

  Ice cream.

  Spare ribs.

  Netball.

  Kissing girls.

  Movies.

  Things I hate at nine:

  Touching myself.

  Secrets.

  Night-time.

  Fighting.

  Vegetables.

  I open my legs and look down at my flower. I believe she is evil: she feels things I don’t want to feel, and she makes me touch myself and demands the twinkle. How can a place where you wee from cause so many problems; why does Dad like her so much; why does she have different moods?

  I look in the mirror, into my eyes. I think they are pretty but when I start looking longer, I think they are sad, ugly and hold a secret they can’t reveal. I close my eyes, get up and walk away from the mirror. I don’t want to see the saddest girl in the world. I promise not to look at myself again for too long. I’m such a good actress; even when I’m not in a play, I’m acting. No one knows my dark secret; they all think I’m the happiest girl in the world and that’s the way it must stay.

  I have a new problem: I’ve started to worry if people are cross with me. It’s a terrible feeling and most of the time I spend wondering if I’ve said or done something wrong. I’ve started to go around asking all my friends and teachers if they are cross with me.