Missing Parts

I think of that day as the day I began to lose myself. To lose my body.

In hindsight though, I must have been well-practiced in letting myself slip away by then, given all that had happened before, when my father was still around. But that was then, and this was now. And now, here I was diffusing myself, disappearing again.

It was the day my mind joined my body in its departure, when my nine-year-old self thought: “I’m going to leave now, because this feels creepy.”

I remember how my soon-to-be-stepfather’s voice got lower. How it suddenly had a guttural, growly sound, like a motor revving beneath his surface.

What he did was jarring, but it really wasn’t so much about that. What stings most about it all is what my mother did – or didn’t do. And, what she said:

“Oh, she said, “Well…you shouldn’t do that.”

And then she left the room. Left me – or what was left of me – there, in that room. With that motor. And with him. Almost like she couldn’t hear the motor revving.

Or maybe it wasn’t really there.

At least that’s how I remember it. Why was I in that room with him? What were we doing? He was putting on his shoes, and we were getting ready to leave.

The three of us were going to a restaurant. Where were my sisters? Why only the three of us? If they had been there – even one of them – I don’t think I would have lost myself.

Maybe his motor would have idled, and I wouldn’t have disappeared…or at least started to.

Maybe he wouldn’t have suddenly transformed the way he did, gripping my shoulders so tightly together and pulling me toward him. My body dragged through air suddenly thick and heavy with his…his what? Daring, lust, desire, control? My shoulders strained out of their sockets, leaving my heart trailing behind…not sure it could, or even should, catch up.

I don’t think it wanted to.

Before this, I’d never heard that revving noise from him, and I liked the pre-engine almost-stepdad, Jerry. I wasn’t ready to give up that feeling of liking him, or even needing him. That would take years.

So, I disappeared.

I’ve heard our bodies store all memories, locked away in each cell and membrane. Where is this one stored in me? Is it the creeping, snake-like ooze in my throat? The heaviness in my chest? Or that sticky, twisting, dark, persistent stomach knot?

I suppose it’s in all my cells, all my membranes. In their buzzing and humming. Vibrating, begging me: Don’t stand still. Run. Move. Go.

Bad things happen in this house.

But, we still went out to dinner, so that was something.