Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, I counted each leaf as it crunched beneath my little pink boots as we strolled the bike path that evening. I always had to count things when I was a little kid. The sun was slowly disappearing into the Autumn evening while we talked about school and Halloween. I wanted to be a princess that year. I had already picked out a costume with a white dress, with a light-blue sash, and imitation glass slippers from the costume store. I was five years old, but I remember it as vividly as if it was all yesterday. Cinderella was my favorite movie at the time, and the glass slippers were the most important part. I couldn't wait to where them any chance I got, even though there was still a good week and a half till Halloween. I would have worn them to school if she had let me. I couldn't wait for all the other kids in my class to see my costume, I told my mom. I remember how pale she was that day. It was the same year she had lost so much weight. Her long, black hair clung to her bony, tired looking face. The air was crisp and cool, but my hand felt warm in hers as she squeezed it. I always admired my mother's hands. She had the long, thin fingers that my grandmother always referred to as piano player's hands. She had been playing since she was a child. She smiled as we kept walking down the trail. It was getting dark soon, and we would be making our way back home. We had pumpkins to carve and bedtime stories to read, and I knew that none of this would be real for much longer. Time was running out.
I was being careful not to look up into the sky until I was sure it was completely dark out. I had to make sure I wished on the very first star I saw, so I wouldn't forget. If I only had one chance, I wanted to be sure I got it right. I looked up at my mom, hoping beyond hope that beyond some miracle my wish would come true. I squeezed her hand even tighter, not ready to let go.
I was attending a private Baptist school at the time, saying my prayers the way the teachers said I was supposed to do, every single night. But God didn't seem to be hearing me. I told myself he probably had a lot to do and that maybe he didn't have time to listen to one little girl, or maybe he just hadn't gotten around to me yet. With all those people around the world whispering in his ear at the same time, it was probably tough to take care of everyone. A few weeks before, when we had visited my grandparents in Pennsylvania, my grandfather told me about wishing on a star. He said if I wished on the very first star I saw in the night sky and said the rhyme, that I just might get my wish. He had been talking about a birthday present he was planning to get me, but I had much bigger wishes on my mind for such a little person. I was a little skeptical about the whole thing, because I had also figured out the year before that Santa stored most of my presents in my grandparents' coat closet, which left me questioning a whole lot of things, but I wanted to make sure I covered all my bases. I knew more more than just the leaves on the trees were beginning to change.
The darkness from the moonlit sky was upon us as we finally approached the little, white minivan to go home. She said I could ride in the front seat, since it was just the two of us. It was finally dark enough. I let go of her hand and ran ahead to the passenger side and waited for her to walk up and unlock it. While I waited for her to catch up to me, I looked up into the sky, just in time to catch the very first star of the night. I closed my eyes tightly and said my wish under my breath, for no one else to hear it. Before we got in, I ran around to her side to give her a hug. She told me she loved me and kissed me on the forehead. For once, I couldn't smell it on her breath.
We rode home from the bike trail, the heat on full blast, and my head leaning against the window watching the sky and trees pass by. A heavy heart coupled with the kind of optimism that only a child's heart ever truly knows. I told myself it would all be okay. I told myself she wasn't going to change back. I told myself that she was going to stay just the way she was that very night. If I thought I could get away with a second, or backup wish, I probably would have stopped dawn from ever coming.
That was the last wish I ever made. It was also the same year I stopped believing in God. I'm sure a lot of people think five years-old is young for someone to stop believing in God, or wishes, but we all do what we have to. If there was a god, I guessed he had other plans, but try explaining that to a five year-old. It wasn't fair that all my friends had the kinds of moms I always hoped mine would become, and that I only got her for a little while. It's difficult to justify believing in God when he doesn't show up when you need him. All I wanted was for my mom to stay my mom. I wanted to wake her up and show her everything she stood to lose, but the whiskey was tough competition. Sometimes the pain is stronger than the love that you feel, a lesson I learned to relate to. It's the reason I chose to forgive her in my heart, but the very same reason I could never forget.
That marked the beginning of the end of my childhood. My mother was gone before the snow touched the ground the following winter. I watched her drive out of my life as the first few flakes tumbled from the sky. Elizabeth and Will were asleep in their rooms, completely unaware of how different our lives would be in the morning when they woke up. Meanwhile, I spent the night perched on the windowsill of the upstairs hallway, staring down the road, tears flooding my eyes, hoping I would see headlights coming back, but knowing I probably wouldn't. My warm breath fogging up the cold glass, I just couldn't bring myself to move. Going back to bed would be an admission that she was really gone. I needed to make time stand still in my mind, just long enough that I could process it.
It was hard to look at the Christmas decorations the next day, which were still sitting in their respective boxes next to the tree, where they remained until after New Year's. It sure didn't take my dad long to get over the loss. We wound up spending the holidays at his girlfriend's house that year, not even a full two weeks after mom was gone. Mom had accused dad of cheating for years. I guess she wasn't making it up like he claimed after all.
“She just didn't want to be a mother anymore.” He told anyone who asked about mom.
As if it wasn't embarrassing enough when our friends from school asked questions. But to have my father announcing to the world that my own mother didn't even want me was almost more than I could take sometimes. Small towns leave little room to hide your face or your business. It felt like Tennessee got smaller and smaller every day. That was the same year my dad stopped taking the medication to treat his Bipolar Disorder. I guess with my mom gone, he figured most of his problems were solved. He would go through long periods of moodiness, followed by short-lived euphoria. Sometimes he could be a wonderful father. Other times he could be nothing short of cruel and controlling. When my sister, Elizabeth, was nine, she was playing with a can of spray-paint in our unfinished basement and accidentally sprayed a couple of small spots onto the glass door that led from the basement to the backyard. Being nine, she was afraid to admit it. When dad found it, he demanded to know who had done it. When no one confessed, he told us he was going to punish the three of us until the guilty child came forward. Every hour he would beat each of us and then re-ask if anyone was ready to speak up. He tore up our homework, broke toys, and even ripped some pages out of one of my school textbooks. This went on for six, agonizing, hours straight. He did the same time once when he claimed someone had been messing with his shaving cream. He made us eat soap a few times for various infractions. We had the misfortune of having a full-grown willow tree in our front yard, which he eventually incorporated into our punishments. He would make us go outside to pick a switch when he deemed it was necessary.
By the time he met Kathleen, my father had mellowed out a little. When they were dating, I assumed it was because he didn't want her to see him for who he really was. It seemed like she was good for him, and us, for a little while. I figured out pretty quickly he wasn't as likely to hit us or go into one of his irrational, paranoid episodes when she was around. I was still afraid to step out of line in any way, but Kathleen didn't seem like the type to tolerate full-on child abuse, which kept us all a little safer for awhile. He still had his moments, but never an
ything like what we had previously experienced in our Tennessee house of horrors.
During my sophomore year of high school, when I was fifteen, a high school guidance counselor called him at work to tell him she suspected that I had an eating disorder. I was suffering with some anxiety at the time, with going to a larger school in a bigger city. I had a hard time eating at school in such a crowded place and was having a hard time making friends at first. I did have a little trouble with body image at the time as well. I had always been very weight conscious. At lunch everyday, I would sit and write in my notebook and keep to myself. I had lost quite a bit of weight since the beginning of the year and, Ms. Marshall, well-meaning as she was, had taken it upon herself to contact dad and express her concern. I would have begged her not to, if I had only known what she was going to do.
He was waiting for me in the living-room as soon as I walked through the front door that day. I could tell something was off right away by the look on his face and tone in his voice. My palms went clammy and my heart started racing instantly. I tried to take slow, deep breaths, to keep myself from trembling as he spoke. The first thing he told me to do was to put my backpack down by the front door. As much as I didn't particularly like Kathleen, I really wished she was home right then. I ran through my mind, trying to figure out what, if anything, I had done recently. He told me to come sit on the couch in front of him, as he sat in the office chair next to the computer. I walked over slowly, seating myself on the very edge of the cushion and placing my hands on my knees, wringing them at times. He had a very icy tone in his voice.
“Are you trying to embarrass me with these games you're playing at school?” He asked me.
I just looked at him, confused. I started to tell him that I didn't know what he meant, but he just cut me off.
“I got a call from your school today. Ms. Marshall said you refuse to eat anything. She seems to think there's a problem in the home.” His jaw was fixed and his face was turning a bright shade of red.
“I didn't refuse to eat, dad. I'm just not that hungry at school most of the time,” I answered him nervously.
I was shaking at that point. It had been awhile since I had seen him like this and, in my mind, there was no way of knowing what he might do. He was boiling so much I could feel it. He rolled over closer to where I was with the office chair on the hard-wood floor. I was shaking when he leaned into my face and began shouting at the top of his voice.
“YOU'RE NOT GOING TO HUMILIATE ME LIKE THAT EVER AGAIN, YOUNG LADY!”
He looked me right in the eyes as I started to cry. “IF YOU WANT TO START PLAYING GAMES THEN I'M GOING TO BE VERY RIGID WITH YOU! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!”
Almost too afraid to move, I just nodded my head, quickly. My eyes were blurry with tears, but I couldn't move a muscle. He just stared at me for several moments afterward, until he finally told me to get up and follow him. He stood up and walked into the kitchen. I trailed in directly behind him. He pointed to a chair at the kitchen table and motioned for me to take a seat. I sat down and started wiping the tears from my eyes. I wanted to stop them from coming, scared I would just make him even angrier, but they were flowing uncontrollably. I started hyperventilating, just like I had when I was a little kid and he would scream at me. There I was fifteen, and I still felt the same level of helplessness taking over my body. My breathing felt labored, but I did my best to slow it down. Dad came around the counter with a plate that had three hamburgers on it and slammed it down in front of me. I looked up at him, unsure of what he was doing.
“You're going to clean this plate before you go to your room. Then you're going to go upstairs for the rest of the night. I don't want to hear a word out of your mouth, except to let me know you're done eating.” He said harshly. “Maybe next time you'll think a little harder before you walk your ass into that school and make a fool out of me after everything I've done for you.”
I struggled to eat the entire plate. I never liked to eat very much meat, so trying to eat three, thick burgers made me sick to my stomach. I felt like there wasn't room after the first two, but I was more terrified not to eat them than I was of throwing up. He watched me the entire time, crying and trying to clean my plate as quickly as I could, so I could go hide upstairs. When I was finally finished, I felt like I might vomit. I tried hard to maintain what was left of my composure, so I would be allowed to go bury myself in my bed. I looked over to where he was sitting silently. His tone was different now, much more flat. Without more than a sentence, he sent me to my room for the duration of the day, where I was more than happy to stay.
He never said another word about the incident. I became very detached after it happened and tried hard to block it out of my mind. I became a vegetarian not long after. That was the last punishment of its kind that my dad ever inflicted upon me again. I always sort of wondered if maybe he had seen himself for the monster that he was.