The Kept Secret

DEDICATION

This book is dedicated to Lane – my friend, my confidant, and supporter throughout my life and throughout this writing. She is the one who is always there to help me and who continues to believe that I can do anything if I just try . . . like The Little Engine That COULD.

And I dedicate it to RIPLEY . . . The Princess . . . a rescued gutter cat who was neglected, starved, and became my soulmate.

Some wounds heal and leave only a surface scar, and life goes on. But neglect and abuse, not only of animals but also of humans, leave scars that, forever, remind us of the pain endured, and trust of the offender is never truly regained.

So, this book is to remind us to carefully consider the consequences of our actions. For what is said and what is done . . . may be forgiven but is never forgotten.

As you take this journey with the characters in this book, turn the key ever so slowly to unlock The Kept Secret and its consequences.

P.A. Colombaro

An Important Message from the Author

Before we get into the heart of this book, I have one simple request, dear reader. Please do not forget to leave a review for this book in the marketplace where you purchased it. The value of book reviews – even just a single review consisting of a few words – can have a tremendous impact on the trajectory of a book, the people who read them, and the authors who write them.

If you could spend the next 30 to 60 seconds leaving a review for this book, it will not only help me tremendously, it will help readers just like you who are searching for thrilling stories like the one you’re about to read.

Whether you choose to leave a review for this book now or later, by simply sharing a specific character or scene from the book you personally enjoyed, you will be supporting my writing and the United States Humane Society, to whom $1 is donated for every book sold. If you feel like going above and beyond by giving The Kept Secret as a gift to a loved one or simply spreading the word, your generosity helps to abandoned and injured animals off the streets and find them loving homes.

You can learn more about the Humane Society of the United States here.

Most of all, I am extremely grateful you have chosen to purchase this book and are taking the time to read it. You’re in for a real treat.

Thank you,

FOREWORD

Everyone has a story to tell. The reader becomes part of that story by identifying with the characters, feeling their emotions, and seeing events unfold through their eyes.

If the reader identifies with one character or one emotion, the imagination of the reader is ignited and that imagination will paint a unique picture through the filter of the reader’s life experience.

The chemistry of the actors and their choices, together with their talents and skills, bring the story to life.

To take words and craft them into thought-provoking messages was not only entertainment but, more importantly, a work of art.

The overriding message intended for this book is that we must be vigilant to save the children and protect the animals from those with no conscious, no heart.

While life is said to be a play and we the characters, unlike a play, the script of life cannot be rewritten to change its outcome. We must live each moment and make each choice with this in mind.

CHAPTER ONE

Green putrid-smelling bile spewed uncontrollably from my mouth like flames of fire from an enraged dragon. I woke up startled, gagging, both hands grasping my throat. Even though it was only a dream, the taste of that bitter, acidic, greenish-brown fluid filled my mouth. I tried to swallow but my throat was dry and raw.

The recurring dream was my act of contrition, hoping to purge myself from those hideous nights, I suppose. The horrific images would not go away. In the dark of night, as soon as my eyes closed, they returned more vividly and more forcefully than ever before. I would awaken disoriented with drums beating in my head. Pounding. I needed a drink.

My bare feet touched the cold concrete, toes catching the sharpness of each crack. Alert, realizing my surroundings, I returned to the drab olive cot that had become my only refuge. Time passed as I stared at the ceiling, grayed from the accumulation of years of filth and dirt. Chilled now, I pulled the scratchy wool blanket tightly around me and wrapped myself in a protective fetal position.

The thick air was humid and stuffy, hanging around me like a cloud of cigarette smoke.

I was hot again. My hair was stringy, damp, and clinging – no longer styled. I pushed my drooping bangs out of my eyes, wiping away beads of sweat from the nightmare. It was difficult to breathe. My claustrophobia kicked in.

I raised my head and rubbed the taut muscles of the back of my neck. This was the worst episode in quite a while. Everything I did was unpredictable; my thoughts were fragmented as were my actions. I ran my jagged nails through my hair as if combing it. Perspiration rolled between my breasts and my white undershirt clung to my chest. My face and ears were hot to the touch. Maybe I was feverish from the flu or maybe it was menopause. No, the nightmare was to blame!

I threw the faded navy blanket onto the floor. Lifting my body up, the cot creaked. Tiptoeing toward the door as if on broken glass, I realized many a person had walked the same painful path.

I craned my neck to peer down the long narrow hallway. My eyes were drawn to the dim fluorescent light bulbs-the only source of light to this dreary place. Flickering lights bounced off the chipped, dingy cinder block walls, telling me this place was old and poorly maintained.

I did not know the time of day. I had no watch. There was no clock. I could only estimate time by the daily routine sounds that I had grown accustomed to hearing over the last two years.

Pacing one foot in front of the other like a caged animal, I dragged my hand along the cracked, grimy walls, moving ever closer to the only source of comfort – the coolness of the metal bars against my face and arms. I ripped open one more snap of the soiled orange jumpsuit that had branded me criminal, erasing my entire existence.

Seeking escape from this symbol of imprisonment I grabbed the metal bars, pressing my gaunt face between their hard coldness until I felt numb from the pressure. Cooler now, I listened to the snoring and tortured crying around me.

God . . . God? Where are you NOW, I screamed so loudly its echo reverberated in my head. My question went unanswered. Strict Catholic upbringing had certainly forsaken me. There were not enough Hail Marys that could redeem my soul or absolve my guilt.

Pray for us sinners . . . pray for us sinners voices chanted.

I needed to feel something, anything, something other than anger and mental anguish. If the pain of mashing my face against the bars was all that was possible, for now, it was a damn site better than the torment of relentless memories, nightmares, and dreams that plagued my existence.

When you die, do you still have nightmares, I cried out again

through the bars. All I want to do is get OUT of here, which ignited more jeering taunts from down the hallway and across the aisle. Enraged without remorse for my vulgarity, Shut the fuck up, you sluts, I retaliated. The bitches continued their fun. I placed my hands tightly over my ears trying to block their contempt.

The more I tried to make sense out of life and choices the more facts became entangled . . . each taking on a different reality like a chameleon. Everything was mixed up. Nothing was the same. Like characters in a play, I watched them come and go. I was a loyal catholic keeping each players’ secrets safely buried, locked away – never to be divulged. The secrets can tie you together, but over time even a strong thread frays unraveling the knot.

Stop it. St-op it! Please, will you just stop, I screamed back.

Releasing the bars my body slid to the floor – defeated.

. crumbled. I could not take any more. I wanted it to end. God PLEASE make it stop! Stuffing my fingers in my ears to mute the hags’ scorn and squeezing my eyes shut to erase that image of my father’s haunting face were all to no avail.

Disheveled, crying uncontrollably out of despair, my soul screamed primordially like a cornered animal knowing there was no way out.

One moment of rage, one moment of hate had crushed my life; and, now, my soul. Years of kept secrets had shattered around me. Ironically, the steel bars offered the only comfort and security I had ever known. Physically, the bars protected me from the perils of my past, but, emotionally, I was more vulnerable. I tried to control my wounded psyche, but this time was worse. I was drowning.

Shut up you fucking cry baby!

Suddenly, I heard a man’s voice and heavy footsteps hastening toward me. I bit deeply into my lower lip, as I had done many times over the course of my life. The pain and taste of blood brought me composure. I stopped crying.

There ya go, now, honey. Calm down. That’s right; go to bed and to sleep, he commanded through clinched teeth, retreating and slamming the metal door, causing my bars to vibrate.

I immediately did as ordered and got back in bed, keeping my eyes firmly closed. My lip biting was not about mutilation. It was about being empowered for the first time, empowered enough to stop the madness. When you have seen what I have seen, then you can dare to judge me.

My character slowly took shape, given the kaleidoscope of events throughout my life. Calmer now, lying down, I rubbed my forehead, letting out a deep sigh of relief. I tried to make sense of what had happened to my life but, instead, my mind was in control and, literally, driving me insane.

Curled up with my knees to my chest and my back against the wall, I allowed my thoughts to wander to a time when life was so different, and I wondered – how did I, a psychiatrist, an expert in human behavior, get to this place. I guided people through the maze of life and taught them to make the choices that brought them success and happiness. What happened to me? When did I go into the weeds and get lost?

Rocking back and forth, I comforted myself by chanting the engrained Hail Mary, full of grace the Lord is with thee . . . yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow . . . . . . Hail Mary, full of grace the Lord is with thee . . . yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . Confusion took hold and domineered each day. Like a child, playing with the shards of a shattered life, I tried to put the pieces of the puzzle back together that would make me whole again. Hail Mary, full of grace, Judgment Day is approaching.

CHAPTER TWO

I wondered if my mother was naïve, a victim of her own fears or perhaps it was just easier to choose to close her eyes to reality and the needs of her only child. Studying her at dinner, I could see through the façade. As a child, especially as a Catholic, I wondered why it was just me – why I had no siblings. Was I a mistake? As I got older, I knew the answer to that question.

Although most mothers and daughters were close, sharing thoughts and loving moments, by eleven, I came to realize Mother and I were quite different. We did not have that bond. I would go to her with my made up questions, needing answers – any answer. Guidance, Mother. I just wanted to feel my mother’s love. I wanted her arms around me to comfort and protect me. But I would get nothing to the point I would actually have to fake crying just to get her attention. Her repetitive comeback was, Don’t be ridiculous, Lisa . . .

I would say Mother did little when it came to parenting. In fact, not until noticing the blood on my panties and shorts, not to mention the toilet full of blood, did I realize she did not prepare me for this part of womanhood. On the contrary, she seemed repulsed having to explain the rudimentary facts of menstruation.

Never did she dote on me. Never did she offer any praise for me or for anything I accomplished. I was so desperate to hear Mother say, I love you Lisa, as scared as I was of her answer, one day I just came right out and asked her if she did. My fear was realized but not the way I thought. She simply did not answer. I said, Mother did you hear me? to which she responded, Yes Lisa, I heard you. Well, that made me wonder even more if she even wanted a child, let alone me, who seemed more a burden than a blessing. There was one time that I did get to feel what it was like to have a mother nurture you. It may seem like a small thing but for me, it was huge. It was when I was an adult. One night I was so distraught about an incident, I went to my parents’ home to sleep. During the night, to my surprise, Mother came into my room, pulled the covers over me, and lovingly tucked them around me as if I were a little girl in distress. She must have sensed I was hurting and wanted to ease my pain. At last, I knew what it feels like to be comforted and loved. The memory of that moment – the joy, the expression of warmth and caring became a treasure that I cherished for the rest of my life.

From eight on, Mother started grooming me for the inevitable – a husband. Starting with my looks. Much like a drill sergeant, she was ice cold, distant, and critical – At some point, Lisa, you are going to have to learn how to cater to and please your future husband. It’s for your own good.

Instead of being proud that I looked just like her when she was younger, she rather chose to belittle me and mock my hair and clothes calling me homely. I’m guessing she forgot that she is the one who picked out and bought my clothes . . . always with Father’s approval, of course.

Father reigned. Mother obeyed. I was irrelevant. For me, his word was God’s. I learned straightaway not to disobey. I dealt with him by studying his behavior and absolutely showing no emotion. I had tried temper tantrums and crying but had gotten nowhere.

Father was always complimenting me, especially, about my shiny long black hair and sky-blue eyes. He repeated so often I was his sweet girl. Needless to say, I felt uncomfortable. He was different toward Mother. At dinner, he was punitive, constantly picking her apart for the most ridiculous reasons – why is dinner cold; the meat’s dry and overcooked; you know I don’t like peas! Nit picking . . .

needling . . . nit picking. Nothing would stop him! I prayed to be sent to my room to escape the noise and disrespect but that never came. Later at night, I would hear his ranting from all the way down the hall. What I did not understand was why she never cried when his comments cut like a knife. Rather, she would smile, shrugging her shoulders as if to silently convey, You can’t hurt me, prick! I am the Teflon queen.

Growing up I tried my best to understand her – an only child – and why she behaved the way she did. Mother’s parents had also

emotionally abandoned her. I believe she wanted me to feel that same detachment and loneliness. But it was Father, not her, who delighted in telling this story over and over at meals to demean her. To my admonishment, with each assault, she listened stoically with the greatest respect, showing no sign of hurt that his recounting had stripped her of any dignity left. I learned much more about Mother when her parents had died. Not even at their funerals did she shed a tear nor did it seem to bother her at all that she was alone in this world. Grandmother went first, only in her mid-sixties. Mother told me I had to go to the funeral; I could not stay home; it was not proper. The very idea of approaching the casket to pay my respects made me ill. I stopped dead in my tracks. But Mother would not have it and with a commanding push forced me forward to view the made up, bloated wax figure impersonating my lovely grandmother. My memory of the whole dreadful event provokes endless nightmares.

Whereas, when Mother’s father suddenly died, neither did she attend the funeral nor require me to do so, thank GOD!

Both grandparents had suffered from heart issues relating to obesity and alcohol. Wonder if that is why Mother never drank and why she was overweight. Over time, at only five feet tall, she ballooned to two hundred and thirty pounds. With each pound, my despair deepened as this gave Father another opportunity to humiliate her in front of me – his great joy – trying to impress me with his manhood. I could not defend her. She did have a Buddha belly, which was obvious whenever she wore her form fitting dresses. As if I needed an explanation, one day she warned me, Cover up whatever you don’t want exposed to the world. She was beautiful, though, and stately, always dressed as if she were going to church or an event – a Sunday dress, a scarf around her neck, to match, or a dark tailored suit with pearls, and every hair sprayed perfectly in place. Her hair was dark brown and wavy when I was growing up and she had big, dark blue eyes. I could see why Father had been attracted to her.

He was a handsome guy when he was young, I’m told – jet black wavy hair, mustache like Hitler’s, dark brown eyes, and was short but muscular. Now, his hair was white and his physique was like Archie Bunker’s, and like Archie, HIS chair was the recliner with a remote.

His manner had become not only abrupt and loud but also abusive.

Oftentimes, I wondered why the Hell Mother chose to stay with him, let alone honor her vow to love and cherish until death do us part. I am guessing she knew that she could not make it on her own. She was unskilled and had never worked outside of the home. Not only was Father older, he had completed three years of college by the time he had married Mother who was not even a high school graduate. On the other hand, she could have stayed because of Father’s stern religious upbringing. He was a strict disciplinarian, a devout Catholic, who did not believe in divorce. Once a vow was taken, Hell could freeze over, but he would stand by his church. He believed that going to confession was enough to wash away his sins of abuse and the sins of his father. Father was only abusive at home – never in front of others – as if he were entitled. I decided my marriage was going to be different – loving, respectful, a thing of beauty, not abuse.

When I started going out with boys, it was absolutely understood that Father would chaperone . . . period. As a matter of fact, rumor had it that Lisa could go nowhere without her father tagging along. His bizarre behavior became a school joke but for me it became my cross to bear.

Any friend of mine – man or woman – was viewed as competition and was met with Father’s rudeness and resentment. If a woman came, Lisa isn’t home; if a man, Lisa is seeing someone else and not here, slamming the door in his or her face. He did this even when I was home. Sometimes I would watch this scene from the top of the stairs. He knew I was watching and would look up at me with an arrogant smile, asserting an unspoken dominance. It only took a few times and no one dared to return.

Mother and Father made all my decisions leaving nothing for me to decide. It was annoying. It was embarrassing. It was quite simply their way, or I was dismissed and sent to my room without dinner – hungry, no discussion.

Years later at college, I was clearly a loner and started joyously making my own decisions. I knew I was different and did not fit in, but what made me happy was it was I who made the decision to cloister myself in my room allowing my mind to explore English literature, Greek mythology, and the Sciences. I was certainly not outgoing, and my classmates labeled me a bookworm, as if there were something wrong with that.

CHAPTER THREE

After I graduated, I moved back home, and much later, Mother finally found Mr. Wonderful – James Gavin, eleven years older – through one of her bridge friends. He was not someone I would have wanted, but Mother selected him to add stability to my life. After years of neglect, suddenly, she seemed to take an interest in me. She introduced me to him at tea. Mother loved impressing her friends by inviting them to tea. She addressed him as Mr. Gavin, as we sipped tea in the living room, he on one side of the coffee table and us on the other. Mother and I sat on the pale green embroidered sofa facing him. All I could see were his sandy brown hairy arms that overpowered the fragile velvet tea chair. His hands were cupped between his open legs resting on his crotch. He seemed intent and sincere, hanging on every word Mother uttered.

Barely listening, I chuckled to myself as the three of us sat with tea cups in hand trying to impress each other. We had