City Love(66)

“Probably not.”

“We’ll go with definitely not. More convincing.” Shirley rounds up some extra glues and passes them through the window. “I’ll be out in a sec.”

“Take your time. It’s pretty quiet out here. Everyone’s absorbed in their jewelry boxes.”

“Oh good, I was hoping the girls would like them.”

“What are you doing with the boys later?”

“Planes. Same as the jewelry boxes: they put them together yesterday and they’re decorating them today.”

“Have fun. Thanks for the glue.” When I get back to our table, Momo’s not there. A counselor sitting at the other end of the table points to the water fountain. I watch Momo take a sip of water. Then she just stands there, facing away from the group. She takes another sip.

The counselor comes over and whispers in my ear. “She jumped a mile when that thing fell.” She looks at Momo, concerned.

I go over to the water fountain. Momo is breathing hard. She’s all sweaty.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“It scared me.”

“What did?”

“That loud noise.”

“That clanging noise?”

She nods.

“Shirley just dropped a supplies tub,” I explain. “That’s all.”

Momo takes another sip of water.

“She won’t drop another one,” I say.

“Promise?”

“If she does, I’ll be right there next to you. Okay?”

Momo glances back at the arts and crafts hut.

“Should we go back to our table now?” I ask. “We have glue. You can show me where you’re going to put the purple glitter.”

“I might use purple and pink,” Momo says. “They’re my favorite colors.”

“Those are the best colors.” We walk back to the table. I sit close to Momo, trying to project soothing energy. Momo debates the pros and cons of putting glitter on only the sides versus the sides and top.

“Overusing glitter is a mistake,” Momo informs me. “It doesn’t look good if you pile on too much. What if I do squiggly lines on the sides like this. . . .” Momo squeezes squiggly lines of glue on one side, immediately followed by careful glitter application.

“That looks really good. Very glamorous.”

“Thanks.” Momo sprinkles more glitter. “It’s good we’re making jewelry boxes.”

“Because every girl should have a jewelry box?”

“Also because I used to have one, but I don’t anymore.”

“No? What happened to it?”

“I told my mom a secret I wasn’t supposed to tell. My jewelry box was taken away as part of my punishment.”

“Are you ever getting it back?”

“No.” Momo touches one of the rhinestones. “But that’s okay. Now I have a jewelry box I designed myself.” She curls over her jewelry box protectively.

Something about her behavior is familiar. I recognize part of myself in Momo. What she said about being punished for telling a secret . . .

When I was eleven, I was molested by a family friend who lived down the street. No one would ever suspect him. He was older, like in his forties, but he never got married. He lived alone in a tiny house and worked at a meatpacking plant. He was always friendly to everyone—the kind of neighbor who would help you shovel your driveway or give your car a jump start. He took me and my little sister out for pizza and to Lincoln Park Zoo. He even took me and my brothers to a baseball game at Wrigley Field once. He was like an uncle to us and a good friend of my dad’s.

One day when I was over at his house playing Scrabble, he moved his chair around to my side of the table. He grabbed the sides of my face and forced his lips against mine.

“Does that feel okay?” he asked.

I had no idea what to say to that. I made an excuse to leave and went home.

Things got worse over the next few months. He would repeatedly grab me and try to kiss me. He touched any part of me he wanted. One time at a neighbor’s cookout, he trapped me on the way out of the bathroom. He pulled down the zipper of my jeans and put his hand inside my underwear. Everyone was outside having a good time. I could hear my mother laughing through the open window while he violated me on the other side of the wall. I tried to avoid being alone with him, but he told me that if I stopped coming over or if I told anyone he would hurt my little sister. Then he would attack me. So I never told my parents what was happening. When I got really scared that he was going to attack me anyway, I told my best friend at the time what was going on. She told her mom. Her mom called my mom.

My dad confronted him. Of course he denied everything. There wasn’t enough evidence to convict him as a sex offender. Since he never raped me or even took my clothes off, my dad didn’t have a strong enough case. But he made sure everyone in town knew what a scumbag that guy was. Eventually he moved away.

Could Momo be going through the same thing I did?

Last night when we were talking about affairs, Sadie said how people who’ve experienced the same type of pain gravitate toward one another. Like they have a special radar set to the tone of that particular pain. It’s one of the reasons why some marriages don’t work out. When you’ve been through trauma, you feel like no one else in the world understands how you’re feeling, except for people who’ve been through a similar experience.