Based on my life and the life of my mother, Frankie.
Susie
A day in November 1971
A Baby, Some Tacos and a Whole Lot of Blood
While floating, I enjoyed the sensation of the sun warming my belly and the ocean cooling my back. The calmness of my mind mirrored the rhythmic movements of the gentle waves in tune with my heartbeat. Underwater sounds fill my ears, putting me at ease and making me carefree. Instantaneously, everything underwent a dramatic transformation. A massive wave came crashing down on me, yanking my small nine-year-old frame to the ocean floor, slamming my head into the unforgiving sand and rocks, violently tossing me like a clothes washer’s spin cycle, and finally propelling me back and spitting me out on shore, where my mother and little brother remained unaware of the mental and physical damage inflicted upon me. Just like the forceful waves, life was on the verge of turning our small family’s lives upside down.
Every morning in our home in Treasure Island, Florida, we would start our day in the same manner. While I walked into the water to float with the waves, Mom would sit on her blanket. I frequently looked back to make sure she was still with me. Her hair, long and dark, flowed in the wind, reaching below her shoulders. The simple pattern housedress usually covered up the swimsuit she wore. While Bobby chased the waves towards the sea, she would smile reassuringly at me. Whenever the waves shifted, he would quickly return to our mom for safety. Repeatedly, he would pursue the waves, never failing to return to safety.
After our swim, we took a walk on the beach and gathered shells to bring back for art projects. Prior to entering the house, Mom would always spray us with a hose to remove the sand. We would shriek and giggle, trying to escape from the stream of water. The commotion and water made lizards dart around in every direction, adding to the excitement.
As Mom made dinner, my brother and I would sit at the kitchen table, sticking our shells onto cardboard with glue. “This is your masterpiece,” Mom would say, holding up our work.
Florida brought out the absolute joy in my mom like I had never seen before. Bob, my new stepdad, got a painting job and told mom she doesn’t have to work anymore. It was everything she had ever dreamed of.
Oversized and fluffy furniture filled our small house. The sofa, chairs, and beds were all adorned with blankets made by stitching together fabric squares. Mom let me sleep on the porch because she said I was a big girl.Nestled in the soft and cozy bed, I felt embraced by warmth and filled with happiness at night. Bobby slept on a bed in the room Mom and Bob shared. “He’s not old enough, like you Susie,” she told me.
The house had three rooms and a bathroom, but it also had a screened in front porch. Bob told Mommy she could stay home with us while he worked his painting job. I’m positive he was around when we lived here, but I don’t have any memory of him until the end. Because of my strong dislike for him, I likely attempted to forget him. When I could.
We had a few joyful months before an eventful, perplexing night when my brother and I were awakened by mom. “Bob lost his job and can’t find any other jobs here,” she said, looking worried, tears running down her face. Hurriedly, she and Bob packed clothes and other items into grocery bags, rushing us to the car.
As our car moved forward, I watched our home vanish through the back window. Is this it? Is this the last time I see our home? I loved this house. We were all happy here. The sadness was so heavy in my chest, it hurt. Later, my brother and I cried upon realizing that our “masterpieces” still hung on the refrigerator in the kitchen. We must have wondered where we were headed, feeling sleepy, still in our pajamas. What was the reason for our rush? Even though Mom tried to sound excited, we could sense her sadness and disappointment when she informed us about our upcoming adventure to a new home. Although unpaid rent was an obvious factor, I believe there were other contributing factors as well. Bob had a violent personality and was probably involved in other criminal activities, causing us to flee the city.
This is how we ended up renting the first floor of a house on Jefferson Street, in Missouri. It was the only thing we could afford after leaving our home in Florida.
Many months later, I awoke to a small hand, as tiny as a doll’s, resting on my nose. It’s dark, but through the front room window, the lighter sky mixes like watercolor with the black darkness. David will want a bottle soon. His warm, tiny body, tucked securely in the arch of my stomach and chest like a baby kangaroo, snug inside its mother’s pouch. He’s four months old now and smiling. I run my hand along the side of his body to soothe him and gently squeeze his little foot. My heart hurts when I think of how much I love him. In my ten years of life, I have loved nothing or anyone so much. His skin is white and smooth. His head, perfectly round with wisps of red hair, smelling of baby lotion and the powder I put on him after his bath last night. Placing a pillow on the side of the bed so he won’t fall off, I jump down from the top of my shared bunk bed to warm up a bottle.
Bobby, my six-year-old little brother, lies sound asleep on his back in the lower bunk bed with the covers pulled tight around him, his round cherub face and hair sticking out. He turns seven in May. His hair is still white blonde and some people think Bob, our stepdad, is his real dad since he has blonde hair also, but Bobby, was already four years old when we met Bob. My hair, formerly blonde, is now turning dark like our parents. It’s confusing having a Bob and Bobby in the same house. I wish mom had named my brother Howard or William after our real dad.
My name is Susan Peggy. It was supposed to be Peggy Sue, after my grandma named Peggy, but mom says she didn’t want me to live with a piece of straw in my mouth, like a country girl.
I tiptoe to the kitchen to avoid waking mom, sleeping in the full size bed next to our bunk bed. Her dark hair, spreading out like a spider’s web, onto a light blanket covering her body. Bob, our stepdad, is sleeping next to Mommy, lying on the blanket, his long arms and legs flung about like my doll I’ve thrown on a bed. My plain doll with a plastic face and limbs, not the fancy dolls that stay in the gift box mom gets me for every birthday and Christmas. She never asks me what I want, she just gets me fancy dolls. I tell her I would rather have roller skates, but mom says the dolls will be worth something when I’m older. The doll I play with doesn’t have any clothes. I’m sure it had clothes once, but they’ve been gone so long I don’t remember what they were.
David’s baby-bed is against the wall to the left of the bunk beds, with coffee cans of water under each leg to capture roaches. Mommy learned this trick in California when I was a baby, she said. The roaches were even worse on the marine base where we lived, so bad at night if she turned on the light hundreds of roaches scatter back inside the walls to safety. David falls asleep in his bed nightly, but I bring him to bed with me when he wakes during the night.
Since bringing David home from the hospital, I have been caring for David and doing other chores to assist mommy, who has become worn out and less playful. She used to make herself laugh when calling me and my brother in for dinner. “We’re having fried cockroaches and turtle soup, kids. Hurry home,” she would yell out the front door.
My eyes would roll up to the sky, and with heat rising to my face from embarrassment, I would turn my bike and race home to make her stop yelling. Upon seeing my face, she would bend over, put her hands on her thighs and laugh. “Susie, stop being so serious.” I can’t remember the last time she laughed like that.
We all sleep in the same room, in the middle of our three-room house, on Jefferson Street. Our shared bedroom has no windows, but we have a picture window in the small living room next to our bedroom. The living room has an aging fake leather sofa, green recliner and a television set in it. Mom placed a doily atop the TV with one of my fancy dolls on it for decoration.
In the kitchen, I put a small amount of water in the metal pan mom leaves on the stove for David’s bottle. I grab a bottle mom prepared before she went to bed, out of the fridge. I turn the knob to light the burner under the pan and place the bottle in it.
It’s still dark outside, but with some light from the window and the burner, I can view the small kitchen. The floor is yellowing under the chrome table and chairs. “It might have been white before you were born,” explained mom, frowning. She has tried everything, she says, to make them white again, but she can’t make the yellow go away. The chairs for the dinette set were all pink plastic once, but now it’s pressed fluff, like cotton between some pink. The chairs must have had a lot of butts wiggling in them, remembering mommy saying, “You kids stop wiggling in your chairs,” when we are antsy to leave the table after dinner.
The water is taking so long to boil in the little pan. “Come on,” I whisper. “If you don’t warm up faster, David will start fussing and wake everyone up.” A thin stream of light reflects off a beer can, and it is then, I notice many cans of Schlitz beer sitting on the kitchen counter and a chill causes a sudden shake of my shoulders. I count 12 empty cans. A pattern I have recognized and fear is about to start again.
Visions of Bob slurring words and mommy being slapped and kicked are swirling in my head when the water boils, returning my attention to the bottle. After squeezing a few drops on my wrist to test the formula, it feels just over warm. The smell is like oatmeal and I scrunch my nose up, glad I don’t have to drink it. I crawl back into bed with David. It’s too dark to observe his face, but I can hear him suck down the formula. He finishes his bottle and I roll over, placing him on my chest to pat his back until he burps. Mom taught me to always put a diaper underneath his mouth in case some formula comes out with the burp. The first time Mommy told me that, I raised an eyebrow, investigating her face for a smile. Her humor is weird to me, sometimes mean, and I hoped this was one of those times she was teasing me. Accustomed to it now, I just wipe off his lips and turn him on his side next to me so we can both sleep more.
Mom is rubbing my back. “Time to wake up Susie.” Her voice is above a whisper to keep from waking up the baby. “It’s cool outside today, honey. You should wear pants and a sweater today.” She gives me a quick peck on the cheek before kneeling down to rouse Bobby. I love it when mom rubs my back. Her face is free of tension in the morning, before the trials of the day wear her down, changing her face to tired.
Yawning and stretching my hands over my head, I behold David and smile. So angelic. So perfect.
Mom lays out my clothes on the bed and an outfit for David before she goes back to helping Bobby dress and putting cereal and juice on the table for breakfast. Placing the pillow between David and the edge of the bed again, I hop down from my bunk to dress, and brush my teeth and hair, before waking up David.
After removing his dirty diaper, sprinkling baby powder in his diaper area and putting a clean diaper on him, I rinse out the old diaper in the toilet, flushing down the dirty bits, then rinsing and squeezing the water out and laying the wet diaper over the bathtub rim to dry, just like mom instructed me. Cleaning diapers is the grossest thing I have ever done. Having my hands in poopy water still makes me gag. It makes me think of peanut butter with chunks of peanuts in it. Nope, not eating that anymore, but I still like the creamy kind.
A commercial came on once for diapers thrown out after each use and I told mom about them. “Disposable diapers are too expensive, Susie. We should keep washing diapers and putting on plastic pants,” noting this strategy was alright for me before and so it should be enough for David.
Yeah, but I didn’t have to wash out my own diapers. I didn’t say that to Mom. She would have given me the eye.
When Mom first came home after delivering David, she was in bed for days. Bob told us she had a difficult delivery, so “leave her alone,” he said sternly. She laid in bed sleeping or moaning in pain. Bob couldn’t take it, so he left. Minding a sick wife, a newborn baby, and two kids was more than he could cope with. His grandmother, who raised him, lived close by, so I assume he went to stay with her, leaving us alone to fend for ourselves.
I never experienced looking after a baby, but mom wasn’t getting up. She was in so much pain; she moaned and cried a lot. David cried hard in his crib. His whole body turned red, like he was on fire. I went over to the small baby-bed and reached in, pulling him out and holding him close. At first, he quit crying. Wow, I thought, that was easy. He just wanted me, and by me, I mean anyone, to pay attention to him. Then he remembered he was hungry and whoa, could that baby scream? I didn’t understand what to do. My chest tightened, my tummy was nauseous as I watched mom and my new baby brother suffering. Mommy woke up enough to tell me how to make a bottle and then showed me how to hold David to feed him.
“Thank you, sweetie. Mommy needs her big girl now.”
She also told me where to find her pain pills, so I brought them to her with a glass of water. Mom has needed me a lot in my brief life. I hold bags for her and play with Bobby to keep him busy, holding him in the car and running to retrieve things she forgot in the kitchen or bath. I blush with pride when mom calls me her big girl.
I tried to hold my baby brother like mom showed me, but I was only nine then and my arms weren’t long enough. Sitting down, I held David’s head between my arm and body, resting his body on my legs while putting the bottle in his mouth. Looking into his eyes, I giggled. “You make funny sounds, little brother.” He was so tiny and helpless. “Don’t worry David, sissy is here,” I whispered. I realized I would do anything to help my mom with the new baby.
A few days later, Mommy recovered and Bob came home, but I kept tending to David. He was my real live baby doll, and I was smitten with him. Born in July, I had him all to myself during the day with school out for summer. If I feed the baby, keep him dry and happy, life in our little house is calm. I feel some control over my life, helping with David and Bobby. Moving all the time, not knowing where we will sleep and changing schools is difficult for me. I’m shy and looking after David keeps me busy, too busy to think about being lonely, not missing friends.
Now, Bobby and I have to go to school during the day, so David goes to a babysitter, Mrs. Smith, who lives two blocks up the street and around the corner. Our neighborhood is a blue collar neighborhood where most of the small houses are owned, well kept, with small green yards. Our house, an exception, is a rental house the owner hasn’t painted or maintained in years. The green lawn died ages before we moved in, leaving only dirt in front and gravel in back for parking. I glimpse dads, like the one across the street, playing with their kids often. They even built an ice igloo in the winter. I observe them often, hopeful of being invited over, too timid to go over on my own. The invitation never comes. I have no doubt that my family was looked down upon, considered to be one of those families that you wouldn’t want your kids to associate with.
This morning, I walk with my brothers two blocks to drop David off at the sitters before walking seven blocks to school. Mrs. Smith lives in a small house like ours but better kept with nicer, comfy looking furniture. She’s always friendly to us and she talks sweetly to David, always happy to see him. Her children are in junior high school, so babysitting is something she can do from home while her kids are in school. David is the only one she takes care of and we collect him after school, so her afternoons are free for her own children.
I walk Bobby to his classroom before moving on to my class. Every day in school we have a schedule of subjects, lunch and gym class. I love the regularity of school. In the gym today, we learned to do the Hokey Pokey. My tummy hurts from laughing as we “turn ourselves around.” Our teacher does it with us. She is so fun. She took us to her farm once to take in her pigs. Pigs are huge, much bigger than they appear in books. At recess, I play with Latisha. Latisha likes the monkey bars best, but I like the swings. I love being able to use my legs to push me higher and higher, blowing my hair behind me on the way up, legs straight out in front, reaching for the sky. Latisha and I can only play together at school because Bob won’t allow her in our house.
“You ever bring a nigger in this house, I’ll kill you both,” he said once and I believe him. He says things like that a lot, calling everyone terrible names, referring to Mom as a “broad.” It makes me angry when he does it.
I never learn to call people names like Bob does but, I have to admit, I call him “white trash” later in life.
After school, we walk to Mrs. Smith’s, collecting David. She asks us about school and tells me about David’s day as she gathers his things for us. He’s in a playpen in her living room. Bobby carries our lunch boxes and David’s bag while I carry the baby. Mrs. Smith holds the door open as we pass through.“See you tomorrow, kids.”
We walked through the front door at home. “Bobby, let the baby chick out of its cage so we can play with it,” Bob and Mom brought the chick home for us one day as a surprise. We love the little chick, but we keep him in a cage when we aren’t here because he poops a lot and Mommy gets upset. The adults told us chicks were free, but they want them back when they’re full grown. I suspect now, they stole the chick, or they plan to let us play with the chick until they’re tired of it and drop it off in the country somewhere. We had a couple of dogs at different times that disappeared, only to be told a friend wanted the dogs on their farm. We asked often, but Mom never had time to take us to visit our animals. At ten, I doubted their stories about a farm, but I couldn’t argue with the adults. I’m confident that either Mom or Bob transported the animals to the countryside, set them free, and drove away. The thought of it makes me shiver in disgust due to its cruelty.
Mom would often become overly excited about animals, people, or events, only to later become disappointed or even depressed about them. Just like a roller coaster, her emotions soared with anticipation and then plummeted when the excitement faded. She remained oblivious to the lifelong pattern of behavior she exhibited. Some family members labeled her as manic, now referred to as bi-polar, despite no official diagnosis. A ten-year rift developed between us later in life because of her behavior.
I lay David down on a blanket next to Bobby while I make us peanut butter and crackers for snacks, using off brand saltines and creamy peanut butter from the cabinet. Mommy doesn’t buy many named brand products. She saves money by buying off brands, like buying four loaves of bread for a dollar and soda,ten cans for a dollar. She is overjoyed by her shopping finesse as she explains it to me. I’m delighted too, when I’m allowed to pick out ten cans of soda.
Bobby and I eat our snack and observe the yellow chick running all around the room. David squeals, laying on his tummy, watching the yellow blur of baby chick running around chirping. Bobby falls over laughing, making the baby squeal even more. We are all entertained waiting for mom to arrive home from her job as a bookkeeper in an office. She always gets home before Bob, who sometimes works as a truck driver and is gone for days at a time. Other times, he works in an auto body shop with his brother-in-law. If he works in town, he goes out drinking with his brother-in-law after work.
Being home without an adult is normal for me. When I was six, I walked home from school to a different home, before Bob lived with us, when it was just Mommy and I and Bobby. Bobby stayed with a babysitter before he started school, so I was all alone till mom got home from work. I’ve been Mommy’s “big girl”, since she left Daddy when I was four. One day, after school, I passed the trash can as I walked towards the back door and thought I would help mommy by burning the trash. My grandpa always burned the trash in his backyard and we would behold the burn together. We lived in the projects with just a sidewalk, a patch of grass and our own trash can. I can scan the left and see many yards with the same size patch of grass and a trash can. Our little sidewalk leads to a long shared sidewalk. I took the trash sack from the kitchen, threw it in the metal can, like Grandpa always did, and using mom’s matches from the drawer next to the stove, I lit the trash on fire. Next to the metal can, I stood smelling smoke and watching flames dance, just like at Grandpa’s, feeling proud of my work, when a police officer walked up and asked me where my mommy was.
“She gets home after work,” I said and showed him where her phone number was in the kitchen after he asked for it. He called her and asked her to come home right away. The police officer was friendly. We sat at the kitchen table and he asked me a lot of questions about mommy and my brother and about where my daddy was. I wasn’t aware of where my daddy was and I told him so. I hadn’t seen Daddy in a long time, but I told the police officer I thought he was in California where we used to live.
Mom came through the back door, out of breath, and asked me to go to my room while she talked with the kind police officer.
Later that night, Mommy sat me down at the kitchen table and explained she didn’t have enough money for me to go to a babysitter. “We can barely afford to buy enough food to eat.” She added she can only afford to send Bobby until he starts school, so she needs me to be her big girl again and stay inside after school. “It’s important that no one knows you’re home alone. “Don’t ever burn the trash without me again, okay? Just come home from school, lock the door and don’t go out or answer the door until I come home.”
She was stern, and I cried. “I’m sorry, Mommy, I just wanted to help.”
Wrapping me in a hug, she assured me I wasn’t in any trouble. “I understand you were only trying to help, and it’s okay, sweetie, I just need you to appreciate we have to be extra careful now. Understand?”
“Yes, Mommy,” I sniffled, understanding I never wanted to be in trouble again.
Today, mom got home from work and told us she was going to make tacos. Tacos are my favorite. A taco shell filled with meat and cheese is perfect. Mommy puts tomato and lettuce on hers, but she lets me eat mine the way I like it.
When mom goes to work, she dresses fancy. She’s wearing black pants, a shirt with no sleeves, and a colorful scarf tied around her neck. Her dark hair is in a bun. She reminds me of Laura from a show she watches. It’s the show where the man, Rob, falls over the ottoman every week. That makes me laugh. He seems pleasant, always talking nice to his wife and never yelling at her, and he makes the funniest faces.
Mom is standing at the stove stirring taco meat. She’s already fried the taco shells using a pan of grease and a taco shaper. Sometimes, she lets me hold the taco shaper. The bubbles surround the tortilla, turning it brown and hard in the grease. All I can think about is the finished taco shells sitting on a plate being filled with seasoned taco meat. I’m supposed to be looking up the state bird in an encyclopedia, but the entire house smells like seasoned hamburger meat. My tummy is rumbling, or is it growling? They both sound funny to me. I can’t wait to eat the tacos. I find and write the state bird of Missouri, the Eastern Bluebird, a bird that sings but becomes anti-social during mating and can attack approaching birds. It appears too small and cute to attack other birds. I’m not sure what mating is but I will ask my teacher tomorrow.
Tires roll across gravel in the driveway behind the kitchen window, and I jump up to put my books and papers away on my bunk bed. Tacos, tacos, tacos. It’s all I can’t think of. Racing back to the kitchen, I sit down at the table.
Sqa-reeeerch, the car door opens. One foot and then the other steps hard onto the gravel. He opens the door, spilling into the kitchen, leaning a little too forward, almost falling. The door clangs shut behind him.
Bob, at the door, is in front of me, across from the kitchen table. Mom is to the left of me, standing at the stove, her back turned to Bob and I.
“Where have you been?” asks mom without turning from the oven. “The kids have been waiting to eat. You should have called.”
“You don’t ask me where I’ve been, bitch!” Bob says, raising his voice and slurring his words. “I go where the fuck I wanna go.”
Mom backs away from the stove, face filled with concern, realizing Bob is drunk. Bob walks in front of her to the stove, grabs the frying pan full of taco meat and throws it toward the wall. The heavy cast iron pan crashes to the floor. Hamburger and red grease ooze down the wall, making a meat and grease waterfall. The walls are crying for us.
No tacos for Susie tonight, I think. Sighing in acceptance, I brace myself for another long night of fighting and yelling.
David cries from our shared bedroom, the volume of his cries building with the tension in the little house. The pan crashing must have startled him. I run to sit by Bobby on the lower bunk-bed to stay out of the way. When Bob is like this, Mom gets hurt and things are broken. If we stay quiet and hidden, we are safe. What am I going to do about David? The sound of his cries is growing louder and more piercing, reaching a high pitch. My heart is pounding out of my chest. If Bob turns his attention to David…
Bob stomps in and out of the room, screaming and cussing at mom. I hear “whore” and “bitch” many times. Mom, crying, says “sorry” a lot, and begs him to sit down and relax so she can bring him a beer.
Bring him a beer? This suggestion sounds absurd to me, but if anything will make him stop moving in anger, a beer might.
The poor little chick, like the baby, doesn’t register how to hide and be invisible. Confused and excited, the little chick runs right under Bob’s foot as he stomps through the room. Bobby and I don’t turn away fast enough. The image, a permanent reminder of this frightful night.
Tears burn our eyes, but we don’t make a sound. David’s cries become louder and louder. It’s hard to breathe, my chest tightens, my head is close to exploding with worry about David getting hurt. When Bob is drunk, he hates noises. I imagine him backhanding David like he does mom. He’s never hit the baby before, but I don’t want tonight to be the first time.
When he stomps into the kitchen to yell at Mommy again, I turn to Bobby and tell him I will be back. I run to David, grab him up off the floor with his blankie, throw open the front door and race out, down the steps and up the street.
A loud bang. Is that Bob, or the door slamming behind me? Choking back a scream, I run harder, not turning back. My mind imagines Bob running behind us, reaching and grabbing, gaining on us. Running up the street, carrying the baby, the sidewalk disappears in front of us. It’s dinner time and our neighbors are sitting around the dinner table together, no one is out to see the terror on my face, or David’s face, red from screaming, now quiet, looking ahead, as if wondering what adventure his sister is taking him on.
Mrs. Smith’s house is just ahead. I made it. I Bang on their door, breathing heavy. David cries again, his cries growing louder and louder. What if they aren’t home? I hadn’t thought of that. Heart racing, I panic. What will I do? Coming here was my only plan, my only thought, when I grabbed David to run.
The door opens. Mr. and Mrs. Smith fill the opening. “What’s wrong Susie?” asks Mrs. Smith, reaching out and grabbing the baby out of my hands. Both adults’ faces are concerned, brows furrowing, lips tightened. Mrs. Smith tries to comfort David. She bounces him up and down, holding him tight. “It’s all right, David. It will be all right, shhhh.” She moves out of the doorway, allowing me to enter.
David will be safe. My thoughts return to what’s happening at home, certain my absence will make Bob angrier.
My breathing is quick and raspy. I can feel my heart pounding for attention. I have to lean over, holding on to my thighs, trying to catch my breath. “My step dad came home,” closing my eyes as if this will slow down my breathing, “he’s drunk and yelling at Mommy.” After taking in a deep breath, “I didn’t want him to hurt David.”
Both adults’ eyes grow wide.
“I have to go back and check on Mommy and Bobby. Can you babysit David for me until I come back?”
“Of course we can, but I don’t think you should go back. Can you call someone to help you?”
Help, of course. That’s what we need. “I can call my Aunt Barbara,” I say as the babysitter leads me to her phone. I sit down in their chair and call my aunt. Niagra 8, 5555 her number. Mommy made me memorize it. Squinting, I find the “N”, then the “I” on the phone dial.
Mom has been upset with her family for a few years, but I heard her talking to Barbara on the phone recently. Barbara and Marie are Mom’s sisters, but she talks to only one sister at a time in the best of times. Hearing her talking to Barbara made me think they were making up. I love all Mommy’s family and I miss them, especially my grandma and my other brother John, who lives with my grandparents.
We used to all meet together at Grandma’s and Grandpa’s house on holidays. All my aunts and cousins would be there. The kids would all play outside together until dinner time. Eight of us, before David and my cousin Tammy were born. The eight of us would run around playing cops and robbers and other pretend character games and at night, catch fireflies in the yard. So fun. Sometimes we would go over to my two aunts’ and uncle’s houses where the kids would play while the grownups visited and drank beer, a piece of our lives I have longed for this past year or more.
My Aunt tells me on the phone she will be right over. Placing the phone back on the receiver, “I have to go,” I say as I run out the door, not waiting or looking back, fearing an answer or being told to stay. We don’t socialize with the Smiths, so they will probably let us work out our own problems, as opposed to getting involved. Mrs. Smith loves David, so I was certain she would babysit him for me for now.
I run the two blocks home, slowing down only when I creep through the front door, hoping no one sees me. Shutting the door behind me, panting, I register mom sitting in a chair from the kitchen in the center of the bedroom. She sits surrounded by her bed, our bunk beds and a baby bed. Her hair appears like she held it in the air and used her can of hair spray on it to make it stand up. It’s a disaster. Her eyes are black holes in the dim lighting and she’s holding a towel to her leg. It’s evident she is crying but no sounds come from her mouth. Bobby stands next to her, watching her, concerned for her. I notice a dark stain growing on the towel. Where’s Bob, I wonder? Stiffening, I listen for his approaching footsteps.
“Where have you been?” Mommy asks me, voice low, eyebrows furrowed.
Her tone confuses me. “I took the baby Mrs. Smith’s. He was crying so loud, I was afraid Bob would hurt him,” I say as fast as I can, hoping it will make her understand and not be angry with me.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Bob wouldn’t hurt the baby,” she says.
How can she be sure, I think? “What happened to your leg?” I ask, looking down at the towel she’s holding.
“Bob threw a glass, and I got in the way. It’s nothing. Grab me another towel, Bobby. Will you, sweetie?” she asks him in a soft voice.
“Frankie, Frankie, where are you?” We all glance towards the kitchen. Aunt Barbara is calling out. She lives about 30 minutes away, but she must have been speeding to get here.
“What have you done, Susie?” Her voice lower, more a growl, emphasizing and saying each word. I have never heard or seen her like this before. Her brows are still knitted, her eyes are now thin and her lips are pressed shut so firmly that no blood can pass through. My body tenses up. I’m more afraid of her than I am of Bob right now. I don’t recognize this person in front of me.
Aunt Barbara and Uncle Buddy rush into the bedroom. Seeing mom with the bloody towel, they run to her, pulling the towel back. I move out of their way. Blood squirts straight out of Mommy’s leg. Bobby is still standing next to her, eyes large, holding the towel she asked him to retrieve. Barbara takes the clean towel and wraps it around Mommy’s leg. Bobby moves over next to me. Mom isn’t happy, but she allows Barbara to wrap her leg.
Barbara, the older sister, takes charge. I can see the worry on her face, and now I am more worried about mommy. The blood squirting from her leg unsettles Buddy. He barely missed getting into the bloodstream. His face is white, but he stands ready to assist with whatever Barbara needs.
“Come on,” Barbara says to mom. “We have to take you to see a doctor.”
“I’m not going to any hospital!” Mommy says. “I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t be foolish Frankie, that’s not a normal cut. You’ve nicked your artery. We’re going, and you are not arguing. Kids, we’re all taking your mommy to the hospital where they can stitch her up.”
She argues, telling Barbara we can stay home alone.
“We’re not leaving these kids alone, Frankie. They’re too young, and what if Bob comes back?”
Numb and shaken up from the way Mommy talked to me, I stand still asking myself why was she so cross with me? I had to save David. Couldn’t she comprehend that? I now understand in that moment, my mother hated me. She hated me for exposing her truth to her family, our babysitter, and in her mind, the world. She would have to inspect herself in the mirror as she was. A woman living with a man who drinks too much loses his temper and beats her. She had worked very hard to keep this part of her life hidden.
“Susie, grab your mom’s purse and get in the car,” says Barbara. I shake off my thoughts and do as Barbara says.
I grab the purse and hold Bobby’s hand, following Barbara and Mommy to the car. Buddy walks ahead, opening the back door for us. Barbara loads Mommy in the back seat and helps lift me and Bobby up next to her. Bobby is so small his legs barely reach the end of the seat. Buddy’s truck is taller than our sedan. All we view is the seat back in front of us, the handle to roll down the window and the glow of the streetlights coming in through the windows. Staring forward, we’re not sure what happens next. We’ve seen fights and tears many times, but the hospital is new. I reach over and put Bobby’s hand in mine.
In the car, mommy and Barbara fight about Bob. “He’s a good man, Barbara. He didn’t mean to hit me with the glass. It was a terrible accident.”
Geez, when was he a good man? I know he tries for a while to drink less but, is that what Mommy means as a good man?
“Frankie, He’s a drunk, and you shouldn’t allow him around your children.”
At the hospital, uncle Buddy leads me and Bobby to the waiting room while mom gets checked in. A nurse comes out with a wheelchair and takes her through some double doors. Barbara follows. I notice white surrounding us as the hospital doors make a whoosh sound in, and swoosh, sound back.
“Will my mommy be okay?” I ask my uncle.
Buddy peers down at me with kind, friendly eyes. “Sure she will, honey. The doctor will put a bandaid on her leg and then we can take her home.” The three of us are sitting next to one another in a row of white chairs in a stark, colorless waiting room, sitting against a wall across the room from the whooshing, swooshing doors they took Mommy through. An older man sits across from us and a dad with his three kids in the row behind an older adult man. The kids are begging for candy from the vending machine. I remember we didn’t eat our tacos and my stomach rumbles, but I am too mousey to ask uncle Buddy for anything.
A police officer arrives, talks to a nurse who points at the double doors. Whoosh, Swoosh go the doors again. A while later, the officer exits the double doors and leaves. I wonder to myself if the babysitter phoned the police. My Aunt comes out followed by a nurse pushing Mommy in a wheelchair. Mom’s hair is neater and the black under her eyes is gone.
Buddy loads us kids in the back seat of his truck again, and we drive to the entrance doors where Mom and Barbara are waiting. After loading Mom into the back seat next to me, we head home. At home, Barbara and Buddy help Mom into bed before they clean up taco meat settled on the floor of the kitchen. They wipe up blood and sweep away the glass in the bedroom and remove our beloved baby chick. Aunt Barbara uses our phone in the kitchen to talk to the babysitter, who said David is asleep and can stay until morning. Since the kitchen is next to the bedroom, we hear can hear everything.
Bobby and I stand next to the bed, watching Mom. Bobby chews on his right thumbnail.
“Get your pj’s on kids,” says Barbara. We do as asked and climb into our beds. Barbara brings Mom a pill and a glass of water. “Are you sure you won’t stay with us tonight?”
“He won’t come back tonight,” Mom says. “He’ll stay with his grandmother. She lives close by and he’s stayed there before.”
“Hmmm, leave him, Frankie. He could have killed you. Think about your kids. I can’t believe you didn’t press charges against him when the officer asked you what happened.” Barbara’s voice got louder, scolding Mom, as she pointed out why the hospital staff had called the police. “It’s their policy to intervene when domestic abuse is suspected,” she clarifies.
Barbara told Mom to leave Bob? Yes! I have hated him since the first black eye he gave mommy when they had just started dating. We were poor before Bob, but we were happy. At least, my seven-year-old self thought so. But I know Mom won’t leave him. I’ve told her how I feel before and she tells me not to be so hard on him. “He was here when no one else was.”
In time, I comprehend that is what Mom genuinely believes. Angry at her family and friends for a perceived offense, she stomped off, cut ties, and moved on. Bob entered the scene at this point, and for her, he was the only one there when no one else was around. She prohibited them from being there, which is why they were absent.
“We can talk tomorrow, Barbara. You’ll scare them.” Mom says, looking in our direction.
Barbara says goodnight to Bobby and me as she walks through the kitchen doorway and out the back door. Buddy, who was in the kitchen, follows her out to the car. I can hear mumbling before car doors slam. The car starts and tires run over gravel as they back out and drive toward home.
I’m sorry my aunt and uncle leave, but I’m relieved the night is over. Barbara need not worry about Bob coming back tonight. He often drinks to excess, creates chaos, and then departs in a rage. He’ll be away for a few days.
The house is quiet, the only sounds, Mom sobbing into her pillow.
Eyes open, I lay on my back in my top bunk bed, staring at the ceiling, seeing the poor baby chick under Bob’s foot. It’s life ending over and over in my head. I squeeze my eyes closed tight and shake my head, trying to make the memory stop. I worry about Mom’s leg. What did it mean, nicking an artery? Was she going to be okay? I overheard Barbara telling Buddy that mommy could have died. Would Bob kill her someday? Could he kill all of us? Remembering this night will transplant me back to this house, reliving the nightmare for the rest of my life.
Three important realizations occur to me for the first time.
Aunt Barbara said things about Bob I also believed. I discovered I was not alone. Barbara thought Bob was a drunk and unsafe around children.
Also, I witnessed my mother being human. She talked to me in anger when all I wanted to do was to save David from harm. It disappointed me and removed my illusion of her as the perfect, smart, beautiful super hero I always romanticized her to be. I am now capable of being both curious and critical.
Finally, it’s clear that Bob won’t cease his dangerous actions and my mom might not be our savior. Despite being small and Bob being large, I cannot stay invisible any longer. I won’t just stand by while the people I care about to suffer.
Tonight, forever stamped into my brain, drives me to envision a life different from the life my mother has created. I renounce a life of poverty with a drunk who hurts me and my family. Now, I am determined to find a better way to live. I don’t know how to achieve it, I just know I want it more than anything.
I’m wondering about my mom’s journey and how it can inspire me to create a better life for myself. How did her choices lead her to Bob and this way of living? What steps should I take to pursue a different direction? My journey to a better life began with this night. A life that I’ve created for myself without the help of a man to tear it all apart.