Teenage Love Affair (19 page)

I
remember blaring sirens, someone asking my name, and someone else taking my pulse
.
But I don't remember how I got to the hospital.

My eyes were puffy and swollen painful slits. From where I lay in the hospital bed, all I could see were clean white walls, the doctor, my mother, and Malachi.

“Hey, baby,” my mother said while patting my hand.

I don't know why but I wasn't at ease when I heard my mother's voice. I was tense. I was looking at her and I knew that I was me and she was her, but for some reason I felt like her reflection and I couldn't stand it. Somehow, I had to get out of there.

My mouth was parched as I looked at Malachi and tried to smile. He smiled back, but I could tell that he felt sorry for me.

“How do you feel?” My mother held a cup of water to my mouth and I sipped.

“Sore and tired,” I said.

“Well,” the doctor said, “you took a pretty bad bruising, young lady. You'll be sore for a couple of days but nothing is broken and you will heal. Once everyone is done here, I would like for you to participate in a domestic violence group we have here at the hospital for victims. I'm recommending you attend, prior to discharge.” The doctor stepped to the doorway and said, “Call me if you need anything, but I'll be back in a while to check on you.”

Counselor? Group? Victim?
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I felt dumb, like why did I let this happen to me? Why was I laying here with them thinking I was some kind of victim? I didn't exactly mind labels, but I was not going to own that one. “I'm not a victim and I feel fine,” I said, despite the tears burning from my eyes. “I don't need to see any counselor or attend any group.”

“I'll go with you, Zsa,” my mother insisted.

“Zsa.” Malachi walked over to the side of my bed and wiped my tears. “It wouldn't hurt for you to go.”

“Don't.” I shook my head, ignoring the pain in my neck and back. “You of all people know how I feel. Don't insist that I do that.”

I looked at my mother and her face was wet with tears. “Not my child,” she mumbled under her breath. “Excuse me for a moment,” she said, walking out of the room.

“Malachi,” I said, feeling him caress my hand. “I'm not weak or anything like that.”

“Zsa, you don't have to talk about this right now.”

“But I want to. I went to see Ameen.”

“Ameen?” Malachi blinked. “Ameen did this to you?”

I broke down and started crying. “I only went there to tell him to leave me alone, but when he snatched my ring off I lost it and I smacked him. I probably should've just stayed home or maybe kept my mouth shut and things wouldn't have gotten out of control.”

“Ameen did this to you?” Malachi said again. “Ai'ight.” He nodded. “Straight,” he said as if he were confirming a conversation he was having in his head.

“And things just got out of control,” I continued on.

“Zsa.” Malachi kissed me softly on my forehead and then wiped my eyes with the soft tips of his thumbs. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“But I did. I should've stayed home or not have gotten smart with Ameen.”

“It didn't give him a reason to put his hands on you!” my mother said, startling me and charging back into the room, followed by a police officer. “You hear me?” She walked over to my bedside. “Don't you ever let me hear you say that again! The police are here to get a statement from you, and Ameen's going to jail. Right now, today! Now tell the police what happened.”

I was in shock, like I couldn't move and I couldn't erase the flashback of my mother carting me and my sister in and out of the police precinct to press charges on my father. I swallowed. I had to bring myself back to the present and erase the past from dancing before my eyes.

I shook my head no, and I knew at that moment I wasn't telling the police a thing. It's not that I was hung up on not being a snitch or anything stupid like that. I just couldn't bring myself to be like my mother, to warp into her or be some type of victim. No. Not now, not ever. Having to call the fight between me and Ameen “domestic violence” was a stretch for me. I knew boys weren't supposed to hit girls, but girls shouldn't hit boys either and I did slap him.

I mean, I wasn't not saying that he should've beat me like that, but still…still…it was only a fight. Nothing more—nothing less. And if I could just stay away from Ameen then he'd go away. Right?

“No,” I said, looking at my mother and then to the officers. “I'm not doing it.”

“Malachi, officers”—my mother turned to them—“can you excuse us for a moment?”

“No problem,” Malachi said as he squeezed my hand before he and the officers walked out of the room.

My mother exploded once they were gone. “What the hell do you mean ‘no'?! Are you serious? I know you don't think Ameen loves you.”

“I'm not even with him!” I screamed back. “I love Malachi and you know that!”

“You need to love yourself,” she spat back. “Now, I like Malachi and he is a good catch and all of those things, but you need to deal with you and why you allowed Ameen to put his hands on you! I swear”—she shook her head—“I'ma beat him. I told you to leave that loser alone, but did you listen? No,” she said, answering her own question. “Instead you lied to me!”

“You were never home long enough to know anything about me. Don't start acting like you are mother of the year because you're trying to butter me up so I will one day accept Kenneth.”

“This isn't about Kenneth!”

“And it isn't about you, either,” I snapped. “You think Ameen is Daddy? No, he's not, he's Ameen and I'm not you. I left my abuser. I didn't need to wait for him to die. Now, if you have unresolved issues with Daddy then take them up with the grave. Not me.”

My mother stood silent for a moment and then she said, “I don't care what you say, I'm pressing charges. You are a minor and I'm in charge!”

“I said no!”

“Is everything okay in here?” Malachi peeked in. “Kinda loud down the hall.”

“Everything is fine,” I said.

My mother looked back at me and shook her head.

“You guys can come back in,” I said.

“Are you sure?” Malachi said to me but looked at my mother.

“Yes,” I said sternly.
“I'm sure.”

“Ai'ight,” he said, “well, everybody's out here waiting to see you, Zsa.”

“They can come in.” My mother wiped her eyes. “And ask the officers to come in as well.”

I don't believe she's doing this.

“Diva!” Courtney walked into my hospital room with Asha and Samaad following close behind him. “The nurses at the station said we could all come in for a few minutes.”

“Yeah, Zontoe,” Cousin Shake said, walking in with Ms. Minnie behind him, “I told them we needed to see you now or I was gon' turn the E.R. out.”

I mustered up a smile and a small wave. Hadiah walked over to me and started crying.

“Hadiah, it's okay.” I rubbed her head. “I'm okay.”

“I was so scared when the police came to the house and said someone found you on the ground and you were at the hospital. I thought someone killed you.”

“Shh,” I said. “Don't cry.”

Ms. Minnie hugged Hadiah. “Let's go and get something to drink. Your sister is fine, okay? And you heard the doctor tell us in the lobby that she'll be home by morning.”

“Yes, I remember him saying that.” Hadiah sniffed.

“Okay, so let's go.” Ms. Minnie held Hadiah's hand and they walked out of the room.

“Here.” Courtney placed a purple boa around my neck. “I made this for you.”

“Oh, hell, no,” Cousin Shake said, placing his hands on the wall and spreading his legs. “I swear I was gon' pay them tickets,” he said, looking at the officers.

“Cousin Shake,” my mother said, tight-lipped, “get off the wall. They are not here for you.”

I looked at my mother and whispered, “Please don't embarrass me. I can't deal with this right now.”

“We will deal with this. I will not let Zach—Ameen,” she stuttered, “get away with this.”

“Please, make them leave. They can come back later. I'll talk to them then.”

“Okay, but if they leave now you have to promise to go to that group and not try to get out of it.”

I quickly nodded in agreement.

“Officers,” my mother said, “can I speak to you in the hallway for a moment?”

They followed behind her and Cousin Shake said, “Zoo, let me tell you something. If somebody you know did this to you, all you have to do is say the word and I'll have er' cousin you got from the state of Georgia and North Carolina come up here to turn it out. All you got to do is say the word and tell me the deal.” He flipped his cell phone open and quickly dialed a number. “Sha'Pookie,” he spoke into his phone, “get your manz and them on standby. We may have an emergency.”

“Cousin Shake,” Malachi said, looking at me, “tell 'em it's cool. This one's on me.”

“Malachi.” I shook my head no.

He ignored me and turned to Samaad. “You ready to roll?”

“Ain't nothin' but a word, son.” Samaad nodded.

I looked at Asha. “Don't let them go.”

“I'm sorry, Zsa, but Ameen needs his behind beaten,” she said as Malachi and Samaad left the room with Cousin Shake running behind them. “Don't leave an old man hanging!” Cousin Shake screamed. “I know how to put in work.”

“Asha,” I said, “that's not funny.”

“No, it's not.”

“Suppose they kill him?”

“Suppose he had killed you?”

Silence.

“Zsa.” My mother walked back into the room. “The police are gone. But you have to speak with them at least by tomorrow. Ameen cannot get away with this!”

“I don't want to talk about this now, Ma.”

“Then when?”

I closed my eyes. I couldn't do this right now. I didn't want to think, I just wanted to be still and maybe sleep. Yeah, that's it. Sleep. I turned over on my side, left Asha and my mother in this world, and drifted, at least for a few hours, into my own, where there was no pain, no police, and no Ameen.

H
ave you ever been in a rush for life to speed up so you can get to the good parts again? Well, that's where I was at. I couldn't take another minute of thinking about Ameen, and abuse, and I hated the damn memories and dreams that had haunted me since I'd been in the hospital for two days.

I was due to go home, and I prayed like heck that I could leave everything that I brought there—pain, misery, and embarrassment—on the hospital's white sheets, between their walls, and on their floors. There was no way I could travel with that ache hovering over me. I needed it gone, out of my emotional pockets, and dumped in the gutter where all the nonsense belonged.

My mother sat on the edge of the hospital bed and asked me, “Zsa, are you sure you don't want to press charges?”

“Why are you doing this to me? Huh?” I snapped. “You can't bully me into doing something you never had the courage to follow up on. So get off my neck, please. I just want to go to this stupid meeting and be done with it.”

“I really think we need counseling.”

“Well, you go for the two of us, because I'm not getting involved.” I sucked my teeth. “And I'm only going to this meeting so that I can be discharged from this hospital.”

“It's girls your age, Zsa.”

“Who I have nothing in common with.”

“You're in denial.”

“Then I guess it's hereditary.”

“Okay,” my mother snapped, “I think I've had enough of your smart mouth. You're pushing your luck.”

I didn't even respond to that. I'd learned that sometimes it was better to have your parents think they'd shut you down, when in reality you were just ignoring them.

We waited for the nurse and I wondered why there would be a group that celebrated your problems. That was so crazy to me. I mean, why would there be a teen domestic violence group? Why would teens want to meet every week to share stories and talk about their problems as if they were badges of honor?

That's how I knew that this group thing wasn't for me and I wouldn't relate to any of these chicks. I'd rather not deal with my problems than to be standing before a crowd acting as if I collected issues for sport. Not.

“Good morning, ladies.” The nurse walked into my hospital room with a goofy smile on her face. “The meeting will be held in room 411. The counselor's name is Jona. She's really nice, so be sure to introduce yourselves to her.”

“Thank you, nurse,” my mother said as I sat there unfazed.

“Take care,” the nurse said before turning to walk out of the room.

The meeting room was only an elevator ride up to the next level.

When my mom and I walked in the room, everyone smiled at us and said, “Welcome.” There were about two or three women who looked to be my mom's age, and they were holding teenage girls' hands. I assumed the pairs were mothers and daughters. The girls were every color and creed you could imagine—White, Black, Latin, and Asian.

My mother's face lit up like Christmas as we took our seats. I gave a small wave to everyone and my mother said, “Hello. I'm Jazmyn and this is Zsa-Zsa.”

“Thanks for coming,” the counselor said as she introduced herself. “I'm Jona and I represent every girl and every woman in the world who wants to say ‘no more' to domestic violence. We are a weekly group, and you can choose to share or not to share. We don't push you to do anything”—Jona looked at me—“so you speak when you are ready to.”

Don't ask me why but tears filled my eyes. I did my best not to cry.

“Okay, ladies, let's begin with our opening prayer.”

For a moment I laughed to myself, wondering if she would be thanking Jesus or Julio, like Cousin Shake had.

Everyone stood up and held hands.

“Let's bow our heads,” Jona said. “Father on high,” she began, “we thank You for blessing each and every girl here with the will and the strength to say no more. We thank You for their courage and we ask You to bless us to continue to touch the lives of those who need to hear our stories and know they are not alone. We ask this as we ask all continued blessings in Your son Jesus' name, Amen.”

We all took our seats, which were placed in a circle. “Who would like to begin?” Jona asked.

“I would.” A blond-haired, blue-eyed girl raised her hand.

Jona nodded and the girl began to speak. “Hello, my name is Susan. I'm sixteen, and I represent every girl in the world who has to take a stand and say no to domestic violence.”

Tears rolled down Susan's face. “I never thought of myself as a victim—”

Then why are you here?
I shook my head and then looked her over. She looked like your average, everyday Valley Girl. Something I was not and could not relate to, leaving me certain that nothing she said or did would have an effect on me.

“But then I realized that I was a victim,” Susan continued. “I ran away from home a few months back because I thought I found the man of my dreams. He was twenty-five and I was only sixteen. Past the age of consent so no one could do anything about it. Not even my parents. And I was happy, in love, and free…so I thought.

“My love was charming and he filled a part of me that had been empty. All of my life I didn't feel good enough. I mean, my sister was smart. And I thought she was prettier. She was always rewarded for doing well in school. While I was just…just…here. I was Susan. Average student, nothing to write home about, nothing to miss. Just there like a bump on a log.

“So I attached myself to the first man that made me feel worthy. I did whatever he wanted me to do, and there was nothing my parents could do or say to me. He had the control. And when the first slap came because I didn't know how to cook his favorite dinner the way he liked I accepted it—and tried to forget it. Especially since he apologized and swore he would never do it again. He was stressed, you know”—she hunched her shoulders and pushed her hair behind her ears—“and I knew I couldn't stand to be without him and I didn't want him to leave me. But that didn't stop the next slap, or the next punch, kick…or rape. Me being silent only made things worse, and not until I said ‘no more,' you will not do this to me anymore, was I able to call my parents and confess to them what was going on. I just wanted a way out. They came and got me. But he still haunted me, stalked me, and called me nonstop. I took out a restraining order, but that didn't stop him. He caught me one night hanging out with my friends at a local club, and he dragged me from the club to his car, beating me all the way. I don't remember what happened after that. All I know is that he's in jail for a long time and I can't walk now.” She lifted the blanket from her lap and revealed the wheelchair she sat in.

“So I'm here to talk about how it feels to be saddled with this for the rest of my life. If I could just change one girl's life by telling her to listen to her parents, to her friends, just listen when they say something is not right. Hear them when they tell you they only want the best for you, because they mean it. Thank you for listening to my story.”

I thought for sure she was going to fall apart, because I knew that my heart ached for her.
The difference between us, though, is that I broke up with Ameen on my own and when he hit me, I hit him back.

The group clapped for Susan, and then Jona said, “Who would like to share their story next?”

A short and petite Asian girl raised her hand. It was obvious that someone had beaten her up pretty bad because her left eye was swollen shut. I thought for a moment that we had nothing in common…but then I remembered what my face looked like. So me and this girl must've resembled to everyone else in here.

“Hello, my name is Kai-Ming, I'm seventeen, and I represent every girl in the world who has to take a stand and say no to domestic violence.”

Everyone clapped and said, “Welcome, Kai-Ming.”

“A lot of people think leaving is such a simple choice and that we can walk away one day and not look back, but it's not true.” She shook her head. “I grew up with my mother being beaten by my father. Day after day after day, and night after night after night, he beat her. And if me or my brother got involved he would beat us.” She closed her eyes as if she were fighting off a bad memory. “We would beg my mom to leave my dad, but she never did and she never expressed a desire to. I felt so alone. I had no self-esteem, and because we lived in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey, we appeared perfect on the outside, but inside of our house was hell.

“So when the first guy who promised to love me forever came along, I believed him. He was thirty and I was fourteen. He had his own place. He was always there when I needed him. I never had to call—he was always calling me. Shortly after we hooked up I was pregnant with my son. He promised to take care of me, and he said that he wanted to raise our son differently than I had been raised. So I ran away from home with a baby and a pocket full of dreams. My mother didn't care and my father didn't look for me. So when my boyfriend moved us hours away from everyone and everything and said he wanted me all to himself, I thought that was cool. He wouldn't allow me to get a job, and when I told him that I couldn't take it anymore and wanted to leave, he slapped me and I took it. I felt that if he hit me, then he had to love me, because hitting was the only type of love I knew.

“By the time I was pregnant again, I was sixteen. My boyfriend beat me all through my pregnancy, and shortly after I had our daughter, the beatings got worse. But what made me leave was my son. He was three, and every time he got mad with me he would jump on me to fight me. And he would say to call him Daddy. I knew I had to go then. But I didn't know if there was any place for teens. Because everybody thinks you have to be old, like in your thirties or something, to be beaten by your boyfriend. But it's not true.

“I saw the number for this program in the phone book. So I called and they came and got me when my boyfriend was at work, fleeing with nothing but my children and our lives. I went to a shelter that night and have been there ever since. He doesn't know where we are, and I plan on moving far away so that he can't ever get to us again. And I hope that wherever I go or wherever I land that I am able to change someone's life by telling them you are beautiful, you are special, and you don't deserve his hands on you.”

Why is a river of tears running down my face?
I had to get out of there, and when I looked at my mother to tell her we needed to be ghost, she was holding and hugging the Chinese girl, thanking her for her story.

“Anyone else?” the counselor asked.

“Yes.” A Latino girl with thick, black curly hair stood up. “I would like to share. First, I want to begin by saying my name is Consuelo, I'm seventeen, and I represent every girl in the world who has to take a stand and say no to domestic violence. I hear a lot of people and girls, you know”—she hunched her shoulders—“speak about their boyfriends hitting them, and their boyfriends are like these old dudes. Or the girls say they ran away from home and lived with these men. So I never thought that this”—she pointed around the room—“was me or could be me. My boyfriend was seventeen, like me. A basketball star. We went to school together, but we didn't live together. He started out perfect. We met in the hall every day for a quick kiss. We spent all of our free time together, and his parents gave him a lot of freedom. I was able to chill in his house and everything, no questions asked. I could even stay over some nights if I wanted to. He always had money and bought me anything I wanted. I accepted a lot of nonsense from him. He cheated on me, talked down to me and everything, but I thought I could love him enough to change him.”

Consuelo twisted her lips as tears rolled down her face. “But that was such a joke. He started out grabbing me by my collar when he would get mad or I didn't answer my phone. Then the grabbing went to pushing me, and then the pushing went to slapping, and slapping turned into getting beat down on the regular. I would always lie to my parents or people who asked and tell them that I was jumped, or in an accident at school. I would never tell the truth, because I loved him and he was always
soooo
sorry.

“Eventually though I got tired and couldn't take it anymore so I broke up with him. I thought it would be simple. Leave him and he would be free to cheat and do his thing. But he started stalking me, and calling me all the time. Things got worse after we broke up and one day he cornered me on my way home, and he beat me so bad that I woke up in the hospital with no memory of how I got there. He was arrested and went to jail, where he is now.

“But I feel guilty, like I brought this on myself, and my mind keeps playing the what-if game—what if this, what if that. I don't know. All I know is that I'm here and I'ma keep coming back until I get it. Until I understand what made me take the abuse. And once I know what is it, I'ma deal with it, and then maybe I'll be able to feel like myself again.”

My heart sank in the middle of my chest. These stories were driving me crazy. I wanted to feel like none of these stories reminded me of my life or the choices I'd made, but they did.

I couldn't stand it. I didn't want to be one and the same as these girls because then what would that say about me? What would that say?

I was not this weak. No. I shook my head. I looked at my mother and said, “I'm done. The doctor can decide he doesn't want to give me my discharge papers, but I'm leaving.”

I got up from my seat and hurried into the hall. I could hear my mother on my heels. “Zsa,” she called, but I was trying to get away. I wanted to be far away from that place.

My mother ran over to me and blocked my path. “Stop.” She placed her hands on my shoulders. “Where are you going?”

I started to tell her to hell but I couldn't get any words to form. Then I started to tell her that those girls weren't me although it felt like it, but that wouldn't come out either. I didn't know what I could say. All I knew is that this had to end, and it had to end that day.