Because I Remember Terror, Father, I Remember You

The Girl on the Beach: Recovered

I ne v^7ir> on the "De^icn: I Recovered N ow my parents are dead. They can only hurt me again if I let them. Only I can allow this to happen . Except I won't. I can't. It is time to turn my head and gaze in new directions. It is time to practice speaking the new words I have learned, time to hear all the new voices. "Maybe it's time to recover her," Randy says. Her. The little girl on the beach. I think of her alone on the beach, waiting. She waits for me, has always waited for the adult me to feed her, clothe her, love her. She has waited for me because she believed one day I would stop starving our body, waited because she knew one day I would be able to prevent anyone from hurting her ever again. So, yes, it's time to recover her forever, time to understand I'll never lose her. "Come with me, please," I say to Randy. "Will you help me?" "Yes," he says. "Tell me how." I say we must walk toward her, slowly, where she always waits for me to come for her. He must carry the blanket in which to wrap her. "Okay," he whispers. "I'm ready." 252 n N The Girl on the Beach: Recovered ^5j In the distance I see her small form turned toward us, watching for us. Even from here her body scares me. It's too thin, too bruised, too small. Her hair is tangled, her skin sunburned, streaked with salt and with sand. The beach is littered with skeletons of sea creatures cast from the ocean onto this desolate shore. Here, on this beach with no breeze, it's difficult to breathe the stifling air. The little girl must be cooled, bathed, fed. For a moment I am exhausted by the responsibility. I stop walking. "Maybe I don't know how to fetch her." "Tell her you'll always keep her safe," Randy says. "That's all she needs to know." "But she's not wearing any clothes," I say. "She'll feel shy for you to see her." "I know," he says. "Rut I won't see her in the way he saw her. I'll see she's a little girl who needs us to help her." "Rut what will you really seewhen you see her? Her body?" "I'll see she needs to be covered." "That'sail?" He nods. "And that she needs to be protected. Rut you choose now," he tells me. "I'll wait here or come with you—whateveryou want. That's what you need to know now. It's your body—hers. No one will ever tell you what to do with it again. You choose. You. What doyou want?" I know what he says about himself is true. If he approaches her with me he won't see her the way my father did. He'll see her as a hurt little girl. Yet I say: "I don't know what I want. I don't know how to decide. I've never decided." "Then this can be the first time—now." "I don't know, I don't know. Why don't we stop doing this? This beach doesn't even exist. Maybe I'm not ready to get her." 254 B L U E "Oh, believe me," he says. "You're ready. Would you like to try?" I glance at her. I glance at Randy. This is about trust, of course. Do I trust him? Do I trust myself? "Okay," I say. "I want—" I hold out my hand. "Maybe if I carry the blanket. I'll wrap it around her. But I think, yes, I want you please to come with me." By the time I reach her and wrap her in the blanket, she's sleeping . I carry her back along the beach, but as I grow tired I ask Randy if he'll help me. He takes her from me. Her head nestles against his shoulder, sleeping. A small breeze blows her curls. Her mouth is barely parted, breathing. She must be too warm in the blanket, for she stretches out her arms and wraps them around Randy's neck. Her arms, her elbows, her wrists, her hands, her fingers , snuggle closer. Finally, we are safe. She and I...