Pucky split off, came into being, at that moment in that scene in the bedroom when all was exposed. I was a spectator to all that was said--Mommy asking the perpetrator, Did I just see you molesting our daughter? They were arguing over my head. No, of course not, Barbara. You have a dirty mind. Don't you trust me? So she was mollified.
Why didn't she ask me, the victim, Was he molesting you? Was it all right? Did you like it?
Why didn't she even look at me, the tiny child in bed with her naked father and, in spite of his smooth words recognize the power imbalance, the lamb helpless and silent in the grip of the lion? Why didn't she even acknowledge my presence? If only she had made eye contact with me and gently extended her hand--!
No wonder I came to doubt I existed!
So Pucky, the decoy, the liar, emerged to try harder to protect their guilty secret.
But this, after I left counseling yesterday, was new and it came to my mind with the conviction of truth: She wanted to believe him because she wanted to continue having him babysit me while the boys were in Sunday School, so she could have time for herself to write her books.
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