Page 66 of Bartholomew
“How about not buying me silly things like this just to make a mockery of me?” she nearly spat at me. Her vitriol took me aback. What the hell was happening?
“Delilah, I think you have things twisted,” I began again.
“No, I think you have things twisted, Ollie. You think that giving me these little lacey scraps of material is going to make me look better? Make me look good enough for you to touch? Is that it? Is it going to make it easier for you to take me to our marital bed?” Her words were hot with anger, just as her tears were as they cascaded down her cheeks in rivulets. Tears? Over lingerie?
“Delilah, now hang on just a second,” I pushed back, standing from the couch.
“No, I’m serious, Ollie. Wrapping me up in pretty packaging doesn’t change the fact that I’m your wife.” Her tears were flowing more freely now, and she swiped at them with frustration.
“Where is this even coming from?” I laughed derisively. I was so fucking confused. “Seriously, Delilah. We have had this conversation. Many times! I think you’re stunning—”
“But you need to dress me up in frilly things to make it easier?” she spat back.
“No! I want to give you nice things to make you feel like the sexy vixen you are! Life in Zion didn’t give you access to so many things. I wanted to give you something nice, God dammit!” I was letting my frustration get the better of me. I knew it, and yet I felt it getting out of control.
“I can’t help it!” she hurled right back; her hands fisted at her sides. A fighting Delilah? Why was she so upset?
“You literally aren’t making any sense, Delilah! I have told you time and time again how beautiful I think your body is. I have kissed and licked every inch of you. Why won’t you believe me?!” I countered, taking slow, deep breaths, and trying to quell my frustrations.
“Ha!” she chuckled derisively. “You think that a little over a week of giving me compliments is going to erase over twenty-five years of being told everything to the contrary?! Look around, Ollie. Look at your home!”
“What about our home?” I questioned again. Now, she had an issue with our house?
“It’s full of mirrors!” She gestured wildly around the room.
“What does that have to do with anything? They are decorative, and, honestly, a smart choice to bring in more natural light to a home. I have it on good authority that it works well!” I snapped right back. Breathe, Ollie. Control yourself.
“Who cares about natural light? All I see is a house full of mirrors where I am constantly reminded that I am not good enough,” she cried, literally wept. The tears flowed freely down her face now, regardless of if she wanted them to. And based on the look on her face, she did not want them. Not one bit.
“Why would looking in a mirror make you feel like you aren’t good enough? Especially when I, your husband, continually tell you how beautiful you are?” I fought back. This entire fight was asinine. Why were we even arguing about this?
“But that’s just it. Those mirrors always tell me that!” she exclaimed, her hands gesturing wildly in the air. I took another breath, trying to hear what she had to say. It was easy to respond with defensiveness, but that wouldn’t help either of us right now.
“So, tell me,” I finally responded.
“Tell you what, exactly?” she huffed.
“Everything. Tell me what the mirrors do to you. Tell me why your own reflection tells you all these negative thoughts, when I am standing right here telling you the truth.” I held my hands out to her, a gesture of peace, hoping she would take my hands and come sit with me.
“I…” she trailed off, swiping once again at her errant and traitorous tears. “I don’t even know what to say, or where to begin.”
“Anywhere. I’m here to listen.” As much as I wanted to snap and choose defensiveness, I wanted to sort this out. I wanted to erase every ounce of negativity this godforsaken place had tortured her with for decades. Enough was enough. But I could not help her, truly help her, if I didn’t know the complete story. It was time for me to shut up and listen.
“When I look into a mirror, I see me,” she began with a heavy, burdened sigh. “I see the me I was told I was. Always too big, too wide, too broad, too… I guess, always too much.”
I opened my mouth to speak and immediately closed it. Time to listen, Ollie, not speak.
“It started when I was probably eight or nine. My father would stand my sisters and I up in front of the big mirror in the bathroom. My younger sisters would have to stand on stools. He would line us up and have a talk with us.” I already did not like where this was headed.
“He would lecture me, using our bodies to dictate his message.” She spoke so softly; I almost didn’t hear her. I wished I hadn’t heard her. I didn’t want to know where this story was going to go, but I had to. I had to know the truth in order to help her move past such trauma. Because that was what this was. Trauma.
She took a slow breath, steading herself.
“Go on,” I urged her, holding my hands out to her again. She brushed them aside, choosing instead to wrap her arms around her torso in a helpless, defensive pose as though she had to protect herself from even sharing this memory aloud. My soul ached for her; yearned to ease her pain.
“He would line us up and tell me that this was why I couldn’t have the same things as the rest of them.” Her voice was so timid, so small, almost like a child.
“What things?” I asked, needing clarifications, though I had an inkling of where this was going.
