Mercillia II

It wasn’t long before we arrived at the house. As we were pulling up into the driveway, it hit me like a ton of bricks—this is home. Suddenly the fond and not-so-fond memories of Pall Mall Road came rushing back to my mind. What have I done? I thought to myself. But before I started sweating, Poppa B opened Merci’s door and escorted her out of the car. It would’ve been really disrespectful for me to just sit there like a lump on a log, but I really didn’t want to get out. They hurried Merci into the house where you could hear cheers erupting, while I straggled along in no big hurry to get there. Don’t get me wrong; the place was beautiful, but it wasn’t mine. I put on a smile, hoping that my mood wouldn’t interfere with Merci’s joy. But truthfully, I didn’t know how long I would be able to pretend. Entering the house was strange. I had never been treated so warmly while feeling so out of place. Merci enjoyed hugs and kisses as Poppa B took me to our room to drop off the luggage. The house was really beautiful; it was a two-story colonial with a wrap-around porch. Everything about the house was fine except the fact that it wasn’t mine. I began to feel like a kid again, living at home. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, especially since I had a wife and we were newlyweds, if you get my drift? As Poppa B left the room, Nat arrived. She entered slowly. I thought she was going to be sarcastic like she had always been, yet she was very quiet. She just stared at me. I didn’t know what to make of it at first, but then I remembered her condition. At first, we just stared at each other. She held her head low as she walked over to me. Without a word, she fell into my arms. I knew then what she needed—her big brother’s love and protection. It touched my heart to see her so fragile when she had always been so strong. She seemed to be adjusting as well as a rape victim could, but it had changed her. She appeared very quiet and demure. She held on to me like she never wanted to let go. I struggled to know how to respond to her, and instinctively, I rubbed her belly. She flinched at first and never looked up at me and then her grasp around my neck tightened. "It’s okay. I’ve got you,” I reassured. She nodded silently in response. Looking down at my sister, who had been violated and left to put the pieces of her life back together, helped me to understand Merci’s fears. I couldn’t imagine the internal scars that had to be there; it made me want to hit something when I thought about it. As a man, I struggled with the violent thoughts that permeated my mind. Two women in my life had been violently stripped of their virginity, and nobody was paying for the crime. Deep hostility welled up in me, but I held back my emotions trying to comfort Nat. Eventually, she let go of me, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, then turned toward the door, and left the room. I made my way downstairs with the family and was greeted by a barrage of family members. I got hugged so much that by the end of the night, I was sore and all hugged out. I’m all for affection, but that was way too much. I spent the rest of the evening avoiding all the women. We partied for days. Did I say we partied nonstop? But it’s all good, it was a Christian celebration. By the time we left for our honeymoon, we were worn-out. During our long walks on the beach in Hawaii, Merci reminisced over her past hoping that the changes that had taken place within her wouldn’t hinder her relationship with her family. At first, I didn’t understand because they seemed to be the type of people that would love you unconditionally. But Merci questioned if they could love who she had become. On one occasion, she seemed to drift off into a thought that sent tears rolling down her face. Investigating the source of her pain, I asked, “Baby, what’s wrong?” Attempting to brush me off, she responded, “Oh, it’s nothing.” Not buying her response, “Baby, nothing doesn’t make you cry. What’s wrong?” Hesitantly she opened up to me and exposed her fears, “I just don’t know if I will fit in with my family anymore.” “What makes you feel that way?” I questioned because in my sight the Bridgeforths were perfect. She explained, “They seemed to have stayed the same after all these years, but I am a completely different person.” Still not understanding, I probed more, “So what’s wrong with that?” Raising her voice in frustration, she declared, “Husband, you don’t understand. The last time they saw me I was so naive about life. I still had an innocence about me that was so pure. Now, I have experiences that I can’t begin to explain to them. How can we go back to the way we were? And I know they are going to want to know what happened.” “Why do you feel you have to explain? Your parents love you. It’s not like they don’t know what happened.” “Husband, that’s just it. They know what happened, but they don’t know what I’ve been through, and it’s those experiences that have changed me. I no longer think or act the way I once did. I’m afraid they won’t be able to relate to me anymore, and I’m even more afraid that I won’t be able to relate to them.” I had nothing more to say. I couldn’t give her counsel on something I myself was struggling with. I just held her. It made me recall how much I had changed, and how I felt like I couldn’t relate to some of my family members either. It’s funny how one moment you are closer than ever and the next you are acting like you don’t even know each other, or worse than that, you don’t care to know each other.