TheBanyanTree: Disclosure

[pat.martin]

Disclosure





"I have something to tell you," my sister and best friend Marion murmured.
She paused.   "This is really hard for me."


It was late July 2003 and I was on holidays.  I had stopped in Powell River
to visit before heading to Savary Island where I planned to spend three
weeks at the summer cabin.   I had known something was very wrong
immediately; Marion was unable to sit still for scarcely a moment, and she
was volatile.  Being around her exhausted me.  I believed she was nearing a
nervous breakdown, what else could it be, and had offered to pay her
expenses if she would return home with me for a month of complete rest.



Across from the loveseat where I was seated, Marion huddled in the far
corner of a beige couch twisting the fabric of the fuchsia-colored velour
cushion on her lap, one of several I had given to her as a housewarming gift
when she and her boyfriend purchased a beautiful home in the suburbs and set
up house.  The living room was picture-perfect with its vaulted ceiling,
thick carpet and showpiece stone fireplace.  A jungle of thriving tropical
houseplants occupied every corner of the room.



Marion, however, looked ill.  At 33-years-old, her pretty face looked
haggard and pale; she'd lost weight.  The dark circles under her eyes made
her look old, older than me, yet she was 16 years my junior.  She bit her
lip and dropped her eyes.



My body tensed; I leaned toward her.  Eyes glued to her face, I took a deep
breath to steady myself.



"It's okay, Marion," I soothed and waited quietly for her to continue.



She seemed to gather strength.  Lifting her head, she met my eyes.  With a
strong voice she said, "It's bad."



My mind raced as I tried to imagine the worst.  Did she have some incurable
disease, like AIDS?  Cancer?  Was she a secret alcoholic?  Had she stolen
money from me?  From her employer?  What?



"I'm an addict.  Cocaine."  A tormented wail from deep inside her burst from
her lips and shattered the silence.



My stomach somersaulted; I could hardly breathe.  It was important, though,
to show strength and acceptance.  Although my heart raced, my face seemed
set in stone.  I was determined not to make matters worse by breaking down
myself.



"Oh," I said in a calm voice, in contrast to my whirlwind thoughts.



"I was afraid to tell you," Marion sobbed.  "Afraid you wouldn't love me
anymore."



"I'll always love you, no matter what!  Why would you think such a thing?"



"Like what happened with Stanley," she whispered.



Her comment made sense then.  My brother Stanley was an alcoholic and an
arsonist, a man without a conscience.   After years of trying to help him, I
had shut him out of my life when I realized he wasn't willing to do the work
to change.  For my own survival, I had to.  When I discovered he was
lighting fires and endangering lives, I had turned him in to the police. I
considered it my greatest act of love. Later, when he was in jail, I
discovered he had sexually abused Marion, once when she was six and later as
she approached puberty.  I had encouraged her to report him and had
accompanied her to the police station.



Marion stood up, took a step toward me and collapsed on the floor.  Her face
crumbled.



"Oh Pat," she wailed. "Oh Pat."  She wrapped her arms around herself as if
to cocoon her self inside them.   "I hate myself.  I wish I were dead.  Oh.
Oh."



Her gut-wrenching cries cut through me like a knife.  In an instant I was on
my knees next to her, cradling her in my arms, stroking her hair, kissing
the top of her head.



"I love you, little sister.  I'll help you," I said.  "We'll get through
this."




Ms. Pat Martin
CANADA