INNER HEALING | CHILDHOOD TRAUMA | CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

What Happened in Childhood Doesn’t Stay in Childhood

Aubrey the Duck is not a children’s story

In midlife, during a therapy session, I learned we don’t leave our childhood behind. To truly heal, I’d need to go back to understand those younger years in order to free myself from the hold the past still had on me.

In my efforts to heal from trauma, this memory came up in one of my sessions and provided many valuable insights. —

Grandmother gave us duck eggs.

At home Dorothy tucked the eggs underneath our hens, adding to the ones already there, and we waited for them to hatch.

Weeks later, we children laughed, watching the ducklings follow the mother hen, acting as chickens do. The ducklings avoided water, except to drink — their webbed feet wasted on the hard ground.

My being the oldest, I got first pick. I held him tight and told him I’d give him a special name. I chose Aubrey.

“What about Daffy?” Mother said. “That’s a good name.”

“No.”

“Quacky?

“No, Aubrey!”

“You can’t.” Mother stood firm with her arms folded.

“Yes,” I faced her, “I can.”

“No.” Mother’s eyes grew wide, her face hardened. “I won’t allow it.”

But I liked the sound of the name and refused to call my duck anything else. I didn’t care that it reminded the adults of a bad situation.

Aubrey was a young man who lived next door. He used to come to our house to visit, to watch television, or to sit at the kitchen table with my father and drink a dark liquid from a bottle. My mother would sit at the table and sip tea. Dorothy would take a break from housework and join them.

One afternoon, Father’s fist hit the table with a loud bang. “Take your goddamn hand off her.”

“What?” Aubrey said.

Father hit the table again. “Nothing like that’s going on in my house.”

“Sidney.” Mother leaned close to whisper, “Calm down.”

“The hell I will. He thinks he can come here and — .”

“Sidney.” Mother put her hand on his. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”

“Yeah,” Aubrey smirked. “My hand must have slipped.”

“He didn’t do anything,” Dorothy said. She got up and moved away from the table.

“No f…ing way.” Father stood. “I know what I saw.” He reached across the table and grabbed Aubrey by the shirt. Buttons popped. Dishes crashed.

“Get the children, Dorothy,” Mother said. “Quick!”

“Go kids, hurry.” Dorothy ordered, “Run! Get away!”

Dorothy huddled with me and the rest of the kids in the dining room. Chairs hit the floor. Glass broke.

“Sidney, stop.” Mother tried holding him back. “Stop!”

Aubrey stood facing my father, his fists in front of him. “You want to fight? I’ll fight you.”

“You snot-nosed punk!” Father pulled free from Mother. “You think you can take me? I’ll show you.” He charged Aubrey, his hands two large claws out in front of him. He went for Aubrey’s throat.

“Sidney! Sidney! Don’t!”

Aubrey wrestled my father to the floor.

I couldn’t decide which was scarier, the men fighting or Mother’s screaming.

Father staggered to his feet and managed to push Aubrey out the door. He slammed the door shut and leaned his body against it.

“I’m not through with you,” Aubrey yelled and banged on the door.

“Go home, you goddamn little bastard. Get your f…ing ass home where you belong.”

Aubrey pounded on the door and then all fell silent.

Mother and Dorothy cleaned up the mess while Father paced the room, cursing and complaining about Aubrey.

I thought the fight was all over and everything back to normal until Mother peered out the pantry window and screeched, “He’s comin’ with a bat!”

The pounding on the door soon started, much louder this time.

We children cried as the banging continued, as the wood began to split.

“I’ll break this f…ing door down!” Aubrey roared, like the wolf in the story of the Three Little Pigs, he huffed, and he puffed and he wanted to come in. I hoped our house was strong enough to keep him out.

“Get your goddamn ass home! Get the f… outta here,” Father hollered. Then stormed off to get his gun from under the bed. Mother followed, grabbing at his shirt. He pushed her away. She turned, rushed to the phone and called the police. I wondered why the Little Pigs had never done the same.

A few days after the cops came, Aubrey’s mother and my mother met in the backyard.

“Sidney had no need to do what he did,” Aubrey’s mother said. “No need at all.”

“Sidney had good reason.”

“Violet, for Christ’s sake, he overreacted.”

“If Aubrey would’ve left when told, none of this would’ve happened.”

“For God’s sake, I can’t believe you’re blaming this all on my son.”

“Sidney won’t stand for anyone messing ‘round Dorothy.”

“Oh, stop taking up for Sidney.”

“Well,” Mother paused, “you’re taking up for Aubrey.”

“My son didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You don’t know. You weren’t there.”

“You can’t keep Dorothy cooped up forever. She’s a young woman who deserves a life of her own. My God, she’s practically a prisoner.”

“I think you should mind your own business. She’s our concern, not yours.”

“No, Violet, you don’t wanna hear the truth. You just want her doing all your work. It’s not right.”

“I’m through talking.” Mother waved her hand and turned away. “You keep your son off our property. Stay away from us, and we’ll stay away from you.”

Mother then told us not to even look in the direction of their house and never to mention their names again. We were to pretend they no longer existed. I was sad, not understanding what all the fuss had been about. Not understanding why, they couldn’t be friends again and get along.

I took good care of Aubrey the duck. I wanted him to have a good life. I gave him food. I taught him how to swim so he knew he was a duck, not a chicken.

But all the special love and care I gave him, in the end, couldn’t save him.

It was a warm afternoon — the sun bright, the breeze gentle — I carried Aubrey in my arms to Mother’s rain barrels, at the back of the house. I lifted him up and set him down in the water. Aubrey flapped his wings, quacked, and swam. Mother spotted me and yelled from across the yard, “Get that damn duck outta the water. He’ll shit in it.”

Water was scarce, and I knew better. We all had to conserve water. Our well went dry every summer. But I overlooked all that because Aubrey was a duck and he needed to swim.

I grabbed him, lifted him out, placed him on the ground, and waited for Mother to turn away so I could slip him back in. Dorothy and the other kids were busy pulling weeds from the garden. I lifted Aubrey up high to set him back in the water.

He wriggled from my hands, and as he dropped his beak hit the metal rim of the barrel, blood started leaking like liquid from a cracked cup, small at first but then like a bursting dam. Blood poured out. I stood, shocked, then grabbed him and covered my hand over his beak, trying to stop the flow.

Blood frightened me. Blood meant death. I did not want Aubrey to die.

I screamed, “Aubrey! Aubrey’s hurt. Help! I need help! Aubrey’s bleeding. Aubrey… Aubrey…”

Mother and Dorothy rushed to me.

“Stop yelling!” Mother screeched at me. “Stop yelling that name! Stop right now!” Mother grabbed me by the arms and shook me. “Shut up,” she hissed, “or Aubrey will hear you.” He’ll think we’re making fun of him. We don’t want him coming back down here.” She gripped me harder. “You remember the last time.”

I didn’t care about anything other than saving my duck. Aubrey was bleeding and I needed help.

“Oh, Barbara Ann, stop your foolishness. It’s only a damn old duck.”

Aubrey’s blood stained my clothes. I screamed for someone to make it stop.

“There’s nothing we can do.” Dorothy bent over looking at my duck. “We can’t put his beak back together again.”

Oh no. Just like Humpty Dumpty.

All the King’s horses and all the King’s men,

Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.

Aubrey was going to die. No one could save him.

The other children gathered around and made fun while Aubrey kept bleeding.

“Barbara Ann, stop. Stop acting so crazy,” Mother said. “For God’s sake settle down.” She yanked the duck from my hands.

“Get in the house.” She pointed her finger. “Get in there, and get cleaned up before your father comes home. I don’t want him coming home to a mess like this.”

She followed me into the house and roughly pulled the blood-soaked clothes from my body. I sobbed, saying, “I wanna bury him… I wanna bury Aubrey… I wanna — ”

“Jesus Christ Barbara Ann! Don’t you know when to stop?” She turned to Dorothy and said, “Take that damn duck. Throw it in the manure pile where it f…in’ well belongs.”

Dorothy didn’t say a word. She left the house to do as Mother wanted.

The kids continued making fun, chanting, “Barbara Ann’s a big cry-baby, cry-baby, cry-baby.”

I held my hands over my ears, screaming for them to stop.

“Barbara Ann loves a duck. Barbara Ann, up a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“No,” I screamed, “no, no!”

“Barbara Ann, stop screaming!” Mother yelled at me, instead of them. “Shut the hell up!” And I was left helpless with nothing else to do.

I thought Aubrey the duck had died because of me. I thought I’d been punished for disobeying my mother, for going against her wishes and naming my duck a name I wasn’t to use.

It was as if I was constantly being reminded of my badness by the nosebleeds I had. After Aubrey bled to death, I became even more afraid of blood. My nose would start bleeding for what seemed like no reason. Sometimes it happened while I ran along playing.

I’d suddenly feel a warm, wet sensation running from my nose, over my upper lip, and when put my hand to my face, my fingers came away smeared with blood. I’d then run to the house screaming for my mother to save me, just as I’d screamed for her to save my duck — afraid of what might happen.

But most of my nosebleeds happened in bed at night. I’d awaken in a panic, and call out. My mother would rush to my room and sit beside me on the edge of the bed holding tissues to my nose, watching them fill with blood, her tense body next to mine. I sensed her fear and didn’t believe her when she said, “It’ll be all right. The blood will soon stop.”

Through that therapy session, I learned my mother’s fear had kept her from giving me the emotional support I needed with my duck’s death. The teasing and laughter from the other children made me feel ashamed of my love for my duck.

I would learn to hide my feelings to prevent others from hurting me in the future. I felt responsible for my duck’s death because of the name I gave him. Felt if I hadn’t disobeyed my mother and been a bad girl my duck might not have died. And most of all I’d witnessed death up close and feared it could happen to me.

*This story is in my first memoir, Floating in Saltwater. Only, in the book I changed the duck’s name from the Aubrey to Rodney, to help hide the identity of the man the duck was named after.

Barbara Carter — Artist and writer with a focus on healing from childhood trauma, alcohol addiction, and living her best authentic life.

Currently, she’s writing a memoir about healing from childhood sexual abuse. BARBARA By The BAY.