I first met Teresa when she came over to my house one Wednesday evening to be interviewed as a babysitter to my two sons. She was around sixteen or seventeen years old, had a smallish frame, short black hair with milky white skin, covered with frackles.
One thing that registered almost at once was her friendliness and her robust smile that revealed her white, almost perfect set of teeth, and made her shiny blue eyes twinkle and immediately draw you in. She was very good with the boys who in turn adored her.
Even though she was just a teenager, Teresa acted as if she were in her mid twenties. She spoke well, using words that only a college educated person would normally use. She knew about almost everything and she and I spent time talking about arts, music, politics, and universities. She was a top student at her school with her grades well over a 4.0 She wanted to attend Stanford University and to become a medical doctor.
Teresa baby sat my children for eight months until my project, which lasted till late in the evenings, ended. On leaving her job with me, Teresa baby sat for one of my neighbors whom I knew well. It was this neighbors who telephoned me one evening to let me know that Teresa had overdosed on sleeping pills and was taken to a nearby hospital. On hearing this news, I knew I had to go and visit her right away.
When I entered the room I almost did not recognize her. She was lying on her back with oxygen tubes stuffed into her nose and she was connected to an IV bag. She looked pale and frail. She opened her eyes and gave me a quick glance. Sorrow and despair had replaced the smile on her face and the twinkles in her eyes. I sat on a chair beside her bed and pulled myself closer to her. She never looked up, as if she was too ashamed to meet my eyes. “It is all because of love, you know,” she said in a very low voice as if talking to herself. “My love for my daddy and his for me,” she continued. “It all started when I was fifteen and when my body was changing. My daddy had always tucked me in and kissed me goodnight. He and I were very close.”
She continued talking and words poured out perfunctorily, like a well rehearsed actress who knew her lines, but had not mastered the art of coloring them with emotion. She was saying, “he used to call me his princess number two. Mommy was his princess number one, and she knew it. My daddy loved us both, that’s what he always used to say, and I believed him. My daddy never lied,” Teresa half heartedly assured me as she continued, “when I was younger, I used to lay in my bed and wait for my daddy to come to tuck me in and read me a story. I felt so happy and secure when he was near me. He would then give me a quick kiss on my cheek and say goodnight. Then, when I was fifteen, my daddy’s kisses lasted longer. At first it was not noticeable, but soon I knew otherwise.” Teresa’s lips quivered as she spoke the last sentence, showing some sign of emotion, and when she looked up to the ceiling, I could see her eyes were filled with tears.
“At first I did not know what was going on,” Teresa went on to say, “he would kiss me closer to my lips and touch me on my neck or brush his fingers against my breasts. That made me very nervous and uneasy, but I thought those were normal things daddies did. My daddy would not do anything that might hurt me. After a few weeks, he started to stay longer in my room. He would crawl into my bed and tell me that he needed me to comfort him. I did not know how. He showed me.”
Teresa was crying hard and her pale face was wet with tears. I held her hand but did not know what to say. I was sorry that I had come to see her. I wanted to get up and run away and go as far away from that hospital room as possible. I wanted to hide somewhere far away and dark so I could cry aloud and not be heard or seen. But Teresa’s hand pressing mine brought me back to the hospital room, “I was trying to make my daddy happy, but I knew I was doing something bad. Many times I asked him to stop doing what he was doing to me. He would tell me he would stop, but he would be in my bed the next night. I used to cry and beg but to no avail. I found myself trapped with no one to turn to. I had no way out but to do what I did.” She stopped and let go of my hand. I was numb and my head was aching. “Let me report this to the authorities”, I heard myself telling her. A simple but definite, “no, absolutely no,” was her answer. I stayed with her for few minutes longer and when the nurse on duty walked in to tell me that the visiting time was over, I hugged her and left, drained.
A few weeks later, my neighbor informed me that Teresa’s parents had committed her to a mental institution.
The mental ward was on the west side of a modern hospital, on the third floor. I found Teresa sitting on the floor, in the corner of a spacious, well lit room not too far away from the nurses’ station. At first I did not recognize her. She at lost a lot of weight, she looked worn out and exhausted. She had no color in her now bony face, and a band of black skin encircled her lifeless eyes. Her hair was unkept and raggedy. Teresa would have scared a wandering ghost! I called out her name as I approached where she was and sat next to her. She did not look at me but continued to stare into the space in front of her, swaying back and forth. I did not know if she recognised me or even knew I was there with her. I held her hand in mine and told her stories about my children, about how much I missed listening to her playing the piano in the evenings, and about her favorite topics, Stanford University and medicine. During the hour I spent with her she never looked up, spoke, or acknowledge me in any way.
Ten days later, I was shocked to read in a local newspaper that Teresa was dead. She had been repeatedly raped by a male patient and during one of these violent episodes, while Teresa struggled to get free, he had suffocated her with a pillow.
Rest in peace my dear doctor Teresa.
