This story continues the tale I began in "Walking Away". As always, the
characters herein are not my own, but belong to the producers of 7th
Heaven, or the WB, but not to me. The encouragement and demands to write
more have been most appreciated, both here and on the 7th Heaven boards at
Mighty Big TV (http://www.mightybigtv.com). I have always been a big fan
of good family drama; I suppose I am writing this critique of 7th Heaven as
much because I am saddened at the fact it could be so much better than it
is and because I am troubled by the show's message that obvious abusive
behavior and mental illness in a spouse and parent is somehow funny or not
to be taken seriously.
* * *
PART 1
You could pass by the house and never know it. A big house, yes, in a comfortable neighborhood, with a lawn and a wide front porch and a garage and even a room over the garage. Almost a cliché, really, this house. Middle class Americana.
A home?
Perhaps.
Look inside.
Some time had passed. It grew colder; not truly cold, for this was southern California, but colder than it had been.
Inside the house, inside the cliché of middle class America, things were quiet.
They knew why this was, those that lived there did. Even as the routine settled over them like a shroud, even as they learned to watch their words carefully in a way they had never had to before, even as they spoke in quite whispers lest they be heard, they knew.
For the pictures were gone and the name was not to be spoken.
#
Quiet, perhaps late at night. Forbidden words, spoken in a hush.
"I miss her."
"Yeah. Me too."
"You think she'll ever come home?"
"I don't know. I just wish ...."
Silence.
"I wish we knew. I wish I could tell her I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
#
And there was peace, of a sort, in the house. You learned never to stand out, never to attract your mother's attention. Because there was always an edge now, to her, to Dad. You saw him concede to her, give in again and again. You saw your siblings backpedal for her, saw how you yourself were always neat, always careful, always polite, how you always chose your words carefully.
And you saw in most of them what you felt yourself.
I am afraid.
* * *
It was hard to come home from work. His nose was healing and the children no longer stared, but that wasn't it. It wasn't anything, he had told them; just an accident. I ran into something; clumsy me. This lie ate at him, though, because he knew that they knew it was a lie, but it had only happened once and now the house was calm again.
Calm. What is the price of calm?
He was leading a double life. At home there were one set of rules, rules he knew were wrong but that he followed because the alternative was simply too terrifying to contemplate; if he acted against her, against his wife, it would affect not only her but their children as well. Matt and Mary were adults, Simon nearly so. They would be able to cope. But Ruthie and Sam and David were too young; whatever action he took against Annie would shatter their lives. And it was hard, too, to contemplate leaving Annie. He knew that he wanted to love her, that he wanted her to be better. He remembered loving her and wanted to believe that he still could. So Eric Camden followed the set of rules at home, never saying the name of his second daughter except when he was certain that his wife was not home.
From his office at the church, however, Eric Camden did his best to find his daughter, managing the search as best he could. The last check from her account had been cashed in New Mexico; surreptitiously he had paid for and sent a personal ad to the Albuquerque Journal, asking her to call him at the church, praying that she would see it. He had told no one about this.
That had been weeks ago.
Nothing.
He kept her pictures in his desk drawer, out of sight in case Annie came by, and from time to time he would take one out and look down at it sadly, wondering how he could have let things get this bad. Because he was afraid, too, that Lucy might come back. He was afraid that she would show up at home, tired and battered and hurt, and that her own mother would turn her away.
Or worse.
He had only been hit once, but it had been a hard blow and it was impossible to forget.
Annie needs help. How do I make her go?
She had gone to the counselor, once, refused to go again. He had asked her why.
"I don't like her. I don't know where you found her, Eric, but if she's the best you can do, then this whole idea was obviously a bad one."
What had happened then? He had tried to talk to her, but she had stormed off.
What am I going to do?
I swear to God I can't take this anymore.
But he did.
* * *
It was she, Annie, who held the house together. It was her will, her energy, that made things work and kept the dangerous chaos of the outside world at bay. She knew this; it was a fact and there was no questioning it. Without her the outside world would flood in and they would all be overwhelmed.
But things should have been better by now.
This wasn't right. The kids should have been happy, should have seen that she had done what she had done to protect them. They should be back into their projects and their schoolwork, coming home smiling and interested in telling her about their day. Yet they didn't, save for Ruthie.
Ruthie hadn't changed at all.
But the others, Matt and Mary and Simon, had grown silent. Matt was always away, always out studying. This was good, wasn't it? He was going to be a doctor, like Hank was, and that meant a lot of work. But he should talk to her about it sometimes, not say only a few words about needing to study now and then disappearing out the door.
Mary seldom spoke at all. It was good to have her home and she had moved her things into the attic and was all settled in there. She stayed at home most of the time, her gaze always down, taking care of the twins without protest while Annie was at school. Quiet and demure, doing what she was told.
Perhaps this was because she, of them all, had been the closest to the one who was gone. They had shared a room all those years, had shared secrets and clothes and experiences. And Mary had been the one with the troubles, the one they had mistakenly sent away to Buffalo. It must be hard for Mary, to now have to recover from all that, and maybe Mary saw the wisdom in obedience.
But she still seemed sad all the time.
Simon carried his anger and his hostility with him everywhere. Though he never spoke against her, Annie could feel it in him. And that wasn't right. He was her son, her boy. It was he who had always been so responsible, who had saved his money and started them all on the quip "Bank of Simon." But now that he was a teenager it was like he had become a different person, someone she couldn't talk to.
It wasn't right with them. But it should be. I did what I had to do. Don't any of you realize the pain I went through to save you? I was the one who put my foot down; you saw that I was right and you apologized to me. And I was the one who saw the danger to the family and who didn't yield. Eric wanted to yield, but I wouldn't let him, and I saved him too.
Why can't you thank me?
Why is everything happening like this?
She didn't know. She wanted to scream because the pain in her was so great it seemed to be tearing her into shreds. At night she would lie silently in bed, Eric beside her, and try to close her eyes against the terror and the rage.
Make it stop. Make it all stop.
* * *
PART 1
You could pass by the house and never know it. A big house, yes, in a comfortable neighborhood, with a lawn and a wide front porch and a garage and even a room over the garage. Almost a cliché, really, this house. Middle class Americana.
A home?
Perhaps.
Look inside.
Some time had passed. It grew colder; not truly cold, for this was southern California, but colder than it had been.
Inside the house, inside the cliché of middle class America, things were quiet.
They knew why this was, those that lived there did. Even as the routine settled over them like a shroud, even as they learned to watch their words carefully in a way they had never had to before, even as they spoke in quite whispers lest they be heard, they knew.
For the pictures were gone and the name was not to be spoken.
#
Quiet, perhaps late at night. Forbidden words, spoken in a hush.
"I miss her."
"Yeah. Me too."
"You think she'll ever come home?"
"I don't know. I just wish ...."
Silence.
"I wish we knew. I wish I could tell her I'm sorry."
"Yeah."
#
And there was peace, of a sort, in the house. You learned never to stand out, never to attract your mother's attention. Because there was always an edge now, to her, to Dad. You saw him concede to her, give in again and again. You saw your siblings backpedal for her, saw how you yourself were always neat, always careful, always polite, how you always chose your words carefully.
And you saw in most of them what you felt yourself.
I am afraid.
* * *
It was hard to come home from work. His nose was healing and the children no longer stared, but that wasn't it. It wasn't anything, he had told them; just an accident. I ran into something; clumsy me. This lie ate at him, though, because he knew that they knew it was a lie, but it had only happened once and now the house was calm again.
Calm. What is the price of calm?
He was leading a double life. At home there were one set of rules, rules he knew were wrong but that he followed because the alternative was simply too terrifying to contemplate; if he acted against her, against his wife, it would affect not only her but their children as well. Matt and Mary were adults, Simon nearly so. They would be able to cope. But Ruthie and Sam and David were too young; whatever action he took against Annie would shatter their lives. And it was hard, too, to contemplate leaving Annie. He knew that he wanted to love her, that he wanted her to be better. He remembered loving her and wanted to believe that he still could. So Eric Camden followed the set of rules at home, never saying the name of his second daughter except when he was certain that his wife was not home.
From his office at the church, however, Eric Camden did his best to find his daughter, managing the search as best he could. The last check from her account had been cashed in New Mexico; surreptitiously he had paid for and sent a personal ad to the Albuquerque Journal, asking her to call him at the church, praying that she would see it. He had told no one about this.
That had been weeks ago.
Nothing.
He kept her pictures in his desk drawer, out of sight in case Annie came by, and from time to time he would take one out and look down at it sadly, wondering how he could have let things get this bad. Because he was afraid, too, that Lucy might come back. He was afraid that she would show up at home, tired and battered and hurt, and that her own mother would turn her away.
Or worse.
He had only been hit once, but it had been a hard blow and it was impossible to forget.
Annie needs help. How do I make her go?
She had gone to the counselor, once, refused to go again. He had asked her why.
"I don't like her. I don't know where you found her, Eric, but if she's the best you can do, then this whole idea was obviously a bad one."
What had happened then? He had tried to talk to her, but she had stormed off.
What am I going to do?
I swear to God I can't take this anymore.
But he did.
* * *
It was she, Annie, who held the house together. It was her will, her energy, that made things work and kept the dangerous chaos of the outside world at bay. She knew this; it was a fact and there was no questioning it. Without her the outside world would flood in and they would all be overwhelmed.
But things should have been better by now.
This wasn't right. The kids should have been happy, should have seen that she had done what she had done to protect them. They should be back into their projects and their schoolwork, coming home smiling and interested in telling her about their day. Yet they didn't, save for Ruthie.
Ruthie hadn't changed at all.
But the others, Matt and Mary and Simon, had grown silent. Matt was always away, always out studying. This was good, wasn't it? He was going to be a doctor, like Hank was, and that meant a lot of work. But he should talk to her about it sometimes, not say only a few words about needing to study now and then disappearing out the door.
Mary seldom spoke at all. It was good to have her home and she had moved her things into the attic and was all settled in there. She stayed at home most of the time, her gaze always down, taking care of the twins without protest while Annie was at school. Quiet and demure, doing what she was told.
Perhaps this was because she, of them all, had been the closest to the one who was gone. They had shared a room all those years, had shared secrets and clothes and experiences. And Mary had been the one with the troubles, the one they had mistakenly sent away to Buffalo. It must be hard for Mary, to now have to recover from all that, and maybe Mary saw the wisdom in obedience.
But she still seemed sad all the time.
Simon carried his anger and his hostility with him everywhere. Though he never spoke against her, Annie could feel it in him. And that wasn't right. He was her son, her boy. It was he who had always been so responsible, who had saved his money and started them all on the quip "Bank of Simon." But now that he was a teenager it was like he had become a different person, someone she couldn't talk to.
It wasn't right with them. But it should be. I did what I had to do. Don't any of you realize the pain I went through to save you? I was the one who put my foot down; you saw that I was right and you apologized to me. And I was the one who saw the danger to the family and who didn't yield. Eric wanted to yield, but I wouldn't let him, and I saved him too.
Why can't you thank me?
Why is everything happening like this?
She didn't know. She wanted to scream because the pain in her was so great it seemed to be tearing her into shreds. At night she would lie silently in bed, Eric beside her, and try to close her eyes against the terror and the rage.
Make it stop. Make it all stop.