CELIA

Luna tells everyone, “Why don’t we step out and give them some time alone together.”

As my brother starts to leave I call over, “Junior, stay.”

He reacts with surprise, and joins us as everyone else leaves. Sean holds my look a second, tips his head and vanishes with the others.

I take the chair next to Junior, all the implications of what they’ve told me swirling in my gut like a sickness I can’t escape. My mom is wiping her eyes as her body shakes. Dad is steady as usual, a tall block of certainty even in the face of all this.

“You were one of the missions,” I whisper. “We were.”

She sniffs, “Yes.”

Picking at my nails I think about it. “After all the horrible stuff I’ve seen, all I have to do is pick any of those women up and put her in this house, pregnant from a rapist with no one to turn to. When I do that, I can put myself in your shoes.”

Hurriedly, Mom reaches across the faded armrest for Dad’s hand. “It wasn’t that. I fell in love with Tonk!”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Mom. I just meant…I can understand.” My eyes are on my lap. “I’m the child of a rapist.”

“You’re my child!” Dad shouts, so defensive of my wounded heart. “You’re a gift, that’s what you are! You’re my daughter!”

My brother reassures me, “You’re more their child than I am!”

Carmen murmurs, “Honey don’t say that!”

Ignoring them, in my own world I figure it out, “That’s why you were so scared when I killed that guy. You’re worried I’ll become evil.”

“Nooooo.”

Meeting her worried eyes I see the lie in them and say, simply, “Yes, you are.” Dad objects but I cut him off. “I know I’m not, Mom. I’m not evil.”

Fearful tears slide down her face, and she can hardly meet my eyes. Dad is cooing to her, trying to get her to let that thought go, and I can tell it’s not the first time he’s told her these things.

“It’s called transference,” my brother begins, his voice cool and detached as it always is when he levels a room with book-learned wisdom. “I’m assuming that if you came straight to this house, Mom, that you never got psychiatric help?”

Dad bristles, “Your mother isn’t crazy!”

With a tone both steady and firm Tonk Jr. says, “She isn’t healed either. The trauma she experienced in that prison still lives in her cells. The distraction of a new life could only last so long. When we don’t heal our past it haunts us. When we don’t listen, the problem becomes louder. Mom’s fear that Celia might be like the men who hurt her isn’t rational. She knows Celia is a good person. That’s why she’s so tormented by questioning that knowledge. But there is a voice inside her that is afraid. It’s been afraid ever since she heard their footsteps coming for her when she was a teenager, sold by her family, loved by no one.”

The sobs that wilt our mother at this proclamation are soul-crushing. I reach for her at the same time Dad does. But she pushes us away. “You’re right! You’re right!” she keeps repeating, wiping her eyes as she stares at her son like he finally broke through the hell she’d been living in.

Reaching for napkins left from the last meal, I hand a couple to her. “Here Mom.”

She uses it while staring at Tonk Jr. “What do I do?”

He extends his hand to me, asking for a napkin, too. I give one to him and watch him blow his nose and wipe his eyes before he can start. “Excuse me,” he mutters, embarrassed at being emotional. “I can’t believe I have something to offer that can help.” Clearing his throat a few times, the used napkin gets stuffed in his pocket. “I’m not a therapist, but here’s what I know. You need to purge the painful memories with actions. If something is physically inside your cells, you have to do something physical to get it out. There are many ways to do this. And they’re not hard, except for the emotional part. Pen to paper is a very useful tool. Once you write out everything as best you can, you burn that paper, watch it catch fire and burn to ashes. It’s a purging, and the fire is the cleansing ritual that heals. You can do this over and over if you need to, until the emotion no longer has a charge. Once you write down the memory and feel nothing, it’s over. That memory is healed.”

Mom’s head tilts, leaning in closer, “How do I write it?”

“How?”

“I mean, what. What do I write?”

“You can either write out what happened. Or you can write a letter to them, the men who did that to you. Don’t worry about anything but your feelings. Punctuation doesn’t matter. Grammar isn’t important. It’s not an essay. Nobody but you will ever read it. You’re going to set it on fire, so say anything you really, deep in your heart, need to say. Swear at them. Plead with them. Get angry, get sad. Anything that feels the hardest and the most true. I’d suggest writing one to your parents, too.”

Mom’s breath hitches, and she chews back the pain that just shot into her. Dad starts to reach over but withdraws his hand, knowing she wants to face this on her own this time, especially now that she believes she might be able to put it to rest with a little work.

Tonk Jr. motions to her, “See that reaction you just had? That means you need to heal the pain your parents left in your heart. And after you do, completely and fully, guess what? Someone could say something about them and it would slide off you like water off a duck.” He leans on his elbow, fingers stretched as he explains, “You can’t run or hide from pain. It waits for a chance to bite you in the ass. So in order to get past something that happened in your life you have to go through it to get to the other side. That’s the only way. Through it to get past it. There is no going around. But the good news is that it works. The emotional charge does vanish.” Leaning back he runs a hand through his neatly trimmed hair. “You can also write a letter to the girl you used to be, and this I’d do last. After you’ve purged the other feelings, however long that takes, you sit down and write a letter to her saying all the wonderful things you have in your life now. It’s a gratitude list. It’s a list of promises for her future. It’s burying the past forever and living only in today.”

We stare at him in wonder, truly amazed. After maybe fifteen seconds of silence my brother shifts his weight and mutters, “That’s just one way, but it’s a good one to start with. I can look up some others if you’d like more ideas.”

Mom jumps out of her chair like she was shot from a cannon, hurling herself to grab his face and shower it with kisses. He laughs and begs her to stop, and I glance to my Dad to see a trace of a smile smoothing his brow.

Her face twists all over again as she turns toward me. “I’m so sorry, Celia.”

“Oh, Mom! I can’t imagine how awful it was. To think of anybody hurting you…”

She grabs my shoulders, insisting, “Tonk is your dad.”

“I know.”

“Maybe you could do what Junior told me.”

“I don’t think we have the same thing. I need to digest all this, what it means for me.”

“It doesn’t mean anything!”

“Mom, Dad, let me just—”

“Guys, Celia needs time. This is a big deal for her.”

“Thank you, Junior.” Taking a deep breath I walk away, stop at the door. “Mom, you need to know that Sean and I care about each other. I hope that’s okay with you. Because I need him. He’s become important to me.”

She frowns, “I won’t get in your way.”

I nod and walk out.