Chapter One
THE END
MARCH 4, 1973
DALY CITY, CALIFORNIA
I'm scared. My feet are cold and my stomach cries for food.From the darkness of the garage I strain my ears to pick up theslightest sound of Mother's bed creaking as she rolls over inthe bedroom upstairs. I can also tell by the range of Mother'shacking cough if she's still asleep or about to get up. I prayMother doesn't cough herself awake. I pray I still have moretime. Just a few more minutes before another day in hell begins.I close my eyes as tightly as I can and mumble a quickprayer, even though I know God hates me.
Because I am not worthy enough to be a member of "TheFamily," I lie on top of an old, worn-out army cot without ablanket. I curl up into a tight ball to keep as warm as possible.I use the top of my shirt as a tent to cover my head, imaginingmy exhaled air will somehow keep my face and ears warm. Ibury my hands either between my legs or into my armpits.Whenever I feel brave enough, and only after I'm certain thatMother has passed out, I steal a rag from the top of a dirty pileand wrap it tightly around my feet. I'll do anything to staywarm.
To stay warm is to stay alive.
I'm mentally and physically exhausted. It's been monthssince I've been able to escape through my dreams. As hard asI try, I cannot go back to sleep. I'm too cold. I cannot stop myknees from shaking. I cautiously rub my feet together becauseI somehow feel if I make any quick movements, "TheMother" will hear me. I am not allowed to do anything withoutThe Mother's direct authority. Even though I know shehas returned to sleep in the bottom bunk bed of my brother'sbedroom, I sense that she still has control over me.
The Mother always has.
My mind begins to spin as I fight to remember my past. Iknow that to somehow survive, my answers are in my past.Besides food, heat, and staying alive, learning why Mothertreats me the way she does dominates my life.
My first memories of Mother were caution and fear. As afour-year-old child, I knew by the sound of Mother's voicewhat type of day was in store for me. Whenever Mother waspatient and kind, she was my "Mommy." But wheneverMother became crossed and snapped at everything, "Mommy"transformed into "The Mother"—a cold, evil person capableof unexpected violent attacks. I soon became so scared of settingThe Mother off, I didn't even go to the bathroom withoutfirst asking permission.
As a small child, I also realized that the more she drank, themore my mommy slipped away, and the more The Mother'spersonality took over. One Sunday afternoon before I was fiveyears old, during one of The Mother's drunken attacks, sheaccidentally pulled my arm out of its socket. The moment ithappened, Mother's eyes became as big as silver dollars.Mother knew she had crossed the line. She knew she was outof control. This went far beyond her usual treatment of faceslapping, body punching, or being thrown down the stairs.
But even back then Mother developed a plan to cover hertracks. The next morning, after driving me to the hospital, shecried to the doctor that I had fallen out of my bunk bed duringthe night. Mother went on to say how she had desperatelytried to catch me as I fell, and how she could never forgiveherself for reacting so slowly. The doctor didn't even bat aneye. Back at home, Father, a fireman with medical training,didn't question Mother's strange tale.
Afterward, as Mother cuddled me to her chest, I knew tonever, ever expose the secret. Even then I somehow thoughtthat things would return to the good times I had withMommy. I truly believed that she would somehow wake upfrom her drunken slumber and banish The Mother forever. Asa four-year-old child, rocking in Mother's arms, I thought theworst was over and that Mother would change.
The only thing that had changed was the intensity ofMother's rage and the privacy of my secret relationship withher. By the time I was eight, my name was no longer allowedto be spoken. She had replaced "David" with "The Boy." SoonThe Boy seemed too personal, so she decided to call me "It."Because I was no longer a member of "The Family," I was banishedto live and sleep in the garage. When not sitting on topof my hands at the bottom of the staircase, my function wasto perform slave-like chores. If I did not meet one of Mother'stime requirements for my task, not only was I beaten, but Iwas not allowed to receive any food. More than once Motherrefused to feed me for over a week. Of all of Mother's "games"of control, she enjoyed using food as her ultimate weapon.
The more bizarre things The Mother did to me, the moreshe seemed to know she could get away with any of herGames. When she held my arm over a gas stove, she told horrifiedteachers that I had played with a match and burned myself.And when Mother stabbed me in the chest, she told myfrightened brothers that I had attacked her.
For years I did all that I could do to think ahead, to somehowoutwit her. Before Mother hit me, I would tighten upparts of my body. If Mother didn't feed me, I would stealscraps of food anywhere I could. When she filled my mouthwith pink dish washing soap, I'd hold the liquid in my mouthuntil I could spit it in the garage garbage can when she wasn'tlooking. Defeating The Mother in any way meant the worldto me. Small victories kept me alive.
My only form of escape had been my dreams. As I sat at thebottom of the staircase with my head tilted backward, I sawmyself flying through the air like my hero, Superman. LikeSuperman, I believed I had two identities. My Clark Kent personalitywas the child called "It"—an outcast who ate out ofgarbage cans, was ridiculed, and did not fit in. At times as I laysprawled out on the kitchen floor unable to crawl away, I knewI was Superman. I knew I had an inner strength, a secret identitythat no one else realized. I came to believe if Mother shotme, the bullets would bounce off my chest. No matter what"Game" Mother invented, no matter how badly she attackedme, I was going to win; I was going to live. At times when Icouldn't block out the pain or the loneliness, all I had to dowas close my eyes and fly away.
Just weeks after my twelfth birthday, Mother and Fatherseparated. Superman disappeared. All my inner strength shriveledup. That day I knew Mother was going to kill me—if notthat Saturday, then someday soon. With Father out of theway, nothing could stop The Mother. Even though for yearsFather had at times watched in dismay while he sipped hisevening drink when Mother had me swallow tablespoons ofammonia or shrug his shoulders while she'd beat me senseless,I had always felt safer whenever he was in the house.But after Mother dropped off Father's meager belongings anddrove away, I clasped my hands together as tightly as I couldand whispered, "... and may He deliver me from evil. Amen."
That was almost two months ago, and God never answeredmy prayers. Now, as I continue to shiver in the darkness of thegarage, I know the end is near. I cry for not having the courageor the strength to fight back. I'm too tired. The eight years ofconstant torture have sucked my life force out of me. I claspmy hands together and pray that when The Mother kills me,she will have mercy to kill me quickly.
I begin to feel light-headed. The harder I pray, the more Ifeel myself drift off to sleep. My knees stop quivering. My fingersloosen from digging into my bony knuckles. Before I passout, I say to myself, "God ... if you can hear me, can yousomehow take me away? Please take me. Take me today."
My upper body snaps upright. I can hear the floorboardsstrain upstairs from Mother's weight. Her gagging cough followsa moment later. I can almost visualize her bent over asshe nearly coughs up her lungs from the years of heavy smokingand her destructive lifestyle. God, how I hate her cough.
The darkness of my sleep quickly fades away. A chill fills mybody. I so badly want to remain asleep, forever. The more Iwake from my slumber, the more I curse God for not takingme in my sleep. He never answers my prayers. I so badly wishI were dead. I don't have the energy to live another day in"The House." I can't imagine another day with The Motherand her sinister games. I break down and cry. A waterfall oftears runs down my face. I used to be so strong. I just can'ttake it anymore.
Mother's stumbling brings me back to my dismal reality. Iwipe my runny nose and my tears away. I must never, everexpose a sign of weakness. I take a deep breath and gaze upward.I lock my hands together before retreating inside myshell that will protect me for another day. Why? I sigh. If youare God, what is your reason? I just ... I so badly want to know,Why? Why am I still alive?
Mother staggers out of her bedroom. Move! my brainscreams. Move it! I only have a few seconds before ... I wassupposed to be up an hour ago to begin my chores.
I stand up and fumble through the darkness, trying to findthe light switch to the garage. I trip over one of the legs to thearmy cot. By reflex, I reach out to the floor to soften the impact,but I'm too slow. A moment later the side of my facesmashes against the cold cement. Bright silver dots fill myview. I smack the palms of my hands on the floor. I so badlywant to pass out. I never want to regain consciousness everagain.
I push myself up off the cement as I hear Mother's footstepsleading to the bathroom. After flicking on the light switch, Isnatch the broom before racing up the staircase. If I can finishsweeping the stairs before Mother catches me, she will neverknow I'm behind. I can win. I smile as I tell myself, Come on,man, go! Move it! I seem so out of breath. My mind races atsupersonic speed, but my body responds in slow motion. Myfeet feel like blocks of cement. The tips of my fingers are socold. I don't understand why I'm so slow. I used to be lightningfast.
Without thinking I reach my left hand out to the woodenrail that I use to pull myself up the stairs. I'm going to win, I sayto myself, I'm actually going to make it! I can hear the gurglingsound of the toilet flushing from above. I quicken my pace. Iextend my arm toward the rail. I smile inside. I'm going to beather. A split second later my heart skips a beat as my handmisses the rail and grabs air. My body begins to wobble. Therail! Grab the stupid rail! As hard as I fight to concentrate, myfingers refuse to obey.
My world turns black.
A blinding glare pierces my eyes. My head seems as if it isstuck in a fog. I can make out a figure standing above me infront of a bright white light. "... aht ime is it?"
I try to shake my head clear. For a moment I thought I wasstaring at an angel sent to take me to heaven.
But Mother's sickening cough soon erases my fantasy. "Isaid, `What time is it?'" The sound of her voice nearly makesme pee my pants. Mother uses a soft, evil tone so not to wakeup her precious babies. "Let's see how fast ... you can movethat sorry little behind of yours up here ... now!" Motherdemands with a snap of her fingers. My body shudders as Iplace the broom against the base of the stairs.
"Oh, no!" Mother beams. "Bring your friend with you." I'mnot sure what she means. I spin around, then look back up atMother. "The broom, you moron. Bring it with you."
With every step I take, my mind begins to plot a defensefor whatever Game Mother has in store for the crime of notcompleting my chore on time. I warn myself to stay focused.I know she plans on using the broom as a weapon, eitheragainst my chest or face. Sometimes when we're alone,Mother likes to smash the end of the broom directly behindmy knees. If she has me follow her into the kitchen, I'm dead.I won't be able to walk to school, let alone run. But if Motherkeeps me on the stairs, I know she'll only hit me in my upperbody.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, I automatically assume"the position of address": my body stands perfectly straight,with my head bent down and my hands glued to my sides. Iam not allowed to move a muscle, blink, look at her or evenbreathe without Mother's direct permission.
"Tell me, tell me I'm stupid," Mother whispers as she leansover. I cringe as I imagine her taking a bite from my ear. It'spart of the Game. She's testing me to see if I'll flinch. I darenot look up or back away. My heels hang over the edge of thestair. I pray Mother doesn't push me ... today.
"Go ahead, tell me. Please," Mother begs. The tone of hervoice changes. Mother's voice seems calm, nonthreatening.My mind spins. I don't understand. Did Mother just give mepermission to speak? I have no idea what she expects of me.Either way, I'm trapped. I focus my energy on the front of myshoes. The more I stare, the more my body begins to sway.
Without warning Mother thrusts a finger under my chin,lifting my face to hers. Her rancid breath makes my stomachcoil. I fight not to pass out from her stench. Even though shedoes not allow me to wear my glasses at home, I glance atMother's puffy, reddened face. Her once gleaming hair is nowoily and matted against the sides of her face. "Just how stupiddo you think I am? Tell me, exactly: How stupid am I?"
I sheepishly look up and reply, "Ma'am?"
A raging fire stings the side of my face. "Just who in the hellgave you permission to speak, let alone look!" Mother hisses.
I snap my head back down as I quickly bury the pain inside.My God, I say to myself, I didn't see it coming. What'shappening to me? I'm always able to see her arm swing back before shestrikes me. I cannot figure out why I am so slow. Dammit,David, stay focused! Think!
"When is It going to begin Its chores?" Mother bellows."What is it with you? I bet you think I'm stupid! You thinkyou can get away with whatever you damn well please!Don't you?" Mother shakes her head. "I'm not the one hurtingyou. You are. You choose your actions. You know who—what—youare and what your purpose is in this household.
"If It wants to be fed, then it's simple: It doesexactly as It's told. If It doesn't want to be punished, thenIt stays out of trouble. It knows the rules. I don't treat you any differentfrom anybody else. It simply refuses to obey." Mother stops to takea deep breath. Her chest begins to wheeze. It's time for her fix.I know what's coming next. I wish she'd go ahead and hit me."And what about me?" Her voice rises. "I should be asleep,but no, I have to be here with It. You pathetic piece of filth!You little bastard! You know your function. You're not a person,but ... a thing to do with as I please. Do you understand?Am I making myself clear, or perhaps It needs another lesson?"Mother thunders.
Mother's words echo inside my soul. For years I've heardthe same thing over and over again. For years I've been herhuman robot to do with as she pleases, like some toy that shecan turn on and off whenever she wishes.
I break down inside. My body begins to shake. I can't takeit anymore. Go ahead, I say to myself. Do it! Just kill me! Comeon! Suddenly, my vision sharpens. My insides stop shaking.Rage slowly begins to fill me. I no longer feel ice cold. I shiftmy head from side to side as my eyes creep up Mother's robedbody. The fingers to my right hand tighten around thewooden broom handle. As I slowly let out a deep breath, myeyes stare directly into Mother's. "Leave me alone ... youbitch!" I hiss.
Mother becomes paralyzed. I focus every fiber of my beingon piercing through her silver-framed glasses and reddenedeyes. I will myself to somehow transfer every moment I hadto carry for the last eight years of pain and loneliness intoMother.
Mother's face turns ash white. She knows. Mother knowsexactly what I'm feeling. It's working, I tell myself. Mother triesto break away from my stare. She moves her head slightly tothe left. I match Mother's movement. She can't escape.Mother looks down and away. I tilt my head up and sharpenmy stare. I smile. From the bottom of my soul I feel so warm.Now I'm the one in control.
From the back of my mind I hear a chuckle. For a momentI think it's me laughing at Mother. I lower my eyes and seeMother's crocodile smile. Her putrid breath breaks my concentration.The more Mother smiles, the more my body becomestense. She tilts her head toward the light. Now, I tellmyself, now I can see it coming. Go ahead, give it to me! Come on,do it! Show me what you got! I see the blur a split second beforeI feel her hand collide against my face. A moment later, warmblood seeps from my nose. I let it drip on the black-mattedstairs. I refuse to give Mother the pleasure of watching me cryor reacting in any way whatsoever. I defy her by remainingnumb inside and out.
"Showing a little guts, are you? Well, you're a few years toolate!" Mother sneers. "You don't have what it takes. You neverhave and you never will. You're such a pathetic little worm. Ican kill you anytime I please. Just like that," Mother says witha snap of her fingers. "You are only alive because it pleasesme. You are nothing more than ..."
I block out Mother's words as a cold fear creeps back insidemy soul. I bow my head, resuming the position of address.Dark red blood spatters the toes of my shoes. For a fleetingmoment I felt so alive.
She's in control now.
The more that Mother babbles, the more I nod my head,acknowledging Mother is indeed almighty and God-like forallowing me to live another day in her household. "You don'tknow how lucky you are. When I was your age, you wouldn'tbelieve what I was put through...."
I let out a deep sigh and close my eyes in a vain attempt toblock out the sound of her voice. How I wish she would passout and drop dead. In my mind I fantasize Mother sprawledon the hallway floor. I would give anything to be there as shequivered helplessly on her back before taking her last breath.
Mother's voice changes in pitch. Suddenly my throat feelsas if it is on fire as Mother tightens her grip around my neck.My eyes want to pop out of my head. I did not focus on Mother'sattack before it came. By reflex I wrap my hands aroundMother's fingers. As much as I try, I cannot pry her hands off.The more I struggle, the more Mother tightens her death grip.I try to scream, but only a gurgling sound leaks out. My headslumps forward. As my eyes roll backward, I concentrate onMother's face. Do it! I shout to myself. Come on, do it! You're sobad, you're so tough, come on! Show me, show me what you got!Kill me, you bitch!
Mother's cheeks twitch from her intense hatred. Her nostrilsflare from her rapid breathing. I want Mother to kill me.I begin to feel myself drift away. My hearing seems as if I amin the middle of a long tunnel. My arms fall to my side. Forthe first time in years, my body relaxes. I'm no longer coldinside. I'm no longer frightened. I'm ready to ...
A hard slap makes my head shake from side to side. "Ohno, wake up! Wake up, you miserable piece of trash! I'm notthrough with you yet! I know exactly what you want!"Mother hisses. "So, you think you're so smart? How about ...instead of sending you to your Uncle Dan's this weekend,maybe I should have the boys go instead, so you and I canspend some private time together? Bet you didn't think of thatone, did you?"
I know by the sound of her voice that I am supposed torespond, but I can't.
"Oh, what's the matter? Does the little insect have a sorethroat? Oh well, that's just too bad!" Mother smiles. I can seeher lips moving, but I can barely make out what she's saying.After another quick squeeze, Mother lets go of her hold. Withoutpermission, I rub my neck, gasping for air. Somehow Iknow she's not done with me—not yet. A second later I nearlylose my balance as Mother snatches the broom from besideme. I automatically tighten my upper body. "This," she says,"this is for cheating on your chores. I've told you a hundredtimes that you are to get that miserable butt of yours up andworking before I get up. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
I hesitate, not knowing how or if I should respond.
"I said, is that clear?"
"Yes ... ah, yes, ma'am," I stutter in a hoarse voice.
"Tell me, what is your name?" Mother asks as she tilts herhead upward in a show of supremacy.
"`It,'" I answer in a sheepish tone.
"And what is `Its' function?"
"Ta ... ta ... ta do ... do as you command and stayoutta ... outta trouble."
"And when I say, `Jump'?"
"I ask, `How high?'" I reply without thought.
"Not bad. Not bad at all!" Mother leers. "But I do think Itrequires another lesson. Perhaps this will teach you ... teachIt...."
I can hear a swishing sound. I brace my arms for the impact.My upper body is rock solid, but I have no way of tellingwhich direction the sound is coming from. A jolting thudstrikes the side of my neck. My knees buckle as I turn insidethe doorway and lean against Mother's body. Without thinkingI reach out to Mother. Her eyes shine with pleasure. Sheslaps my hands away. As my feet slip, my head jerks backward.I can feel my throat collapse the same way it did when Motherhad me swallow teaspoons full of ammonia. I fight to swallowa breath of air, but my brain is too slow to respond. My eyeslock on to Mother's. "So, do you still think you can fly?"
I glance down and see Mother's hand in motion. A momentlater I can feel myself floating, my arms flung above my face.Suddenly, a rush of air fills my chest as the back of my headsmashes against the staircase. I reach out, but I can't stop mybody from bouncing backward down the stairs. At the bottomof the staircase, my chest heaves; I want to find a bucket andthrow up. At the door above me, Mother bends over withlaughter. "Look at you! You're a hoot!"
Her face becomes taut. In an ice-cold voice Mother says,"You're not even worth the effort." With a jerk of her handshe flings the broom at me, then slams the door shut. My onlyform of protection is to close my eyes. I don't even bother toturn away or cover my face. I can hear the broom topple downthe stairs before missing me completely.
Alone in the garage I let go and cry like a baby. I don't careif Mother, or anyone else in the world, can hear me. I have nodignity, no self-worth. Rage slowly builds inside my soul. Iclench my hands together and begin taking my frustrationout on the floor. Why, why, why? What in the hell did I ever doto you to make you hate me so much?
With every blow I can feel my strength drain away. Thewhitish-yellow garage light begins to fade as I lose consciousness.Without thinking of Mother catching me, I lie on myside, pull my shirt over my face, bury my hands between mylegs, and close my eyes. Before I pass out, I clasp my handstogether and mutter, "Take me."
"Wake up! Wake up, I tell you!" My eyes flicker open. I'mtrapped in a mental haze as I stand in front of Mother in thekitchen. I have no idea how I got here. And somehow I knowit's almost time for me to run to school. My mind struggles torecall why I keep losing track of time.
"I said, wake up!" Mother barks. She leans over and slapsmy face. I'm fascinated that I can no longer feel the pain."What in the hell is wrong with you?" she asks with someconcern.
Forgetting who I am, I rub my face and reply, "I dunno."Immediately I know I've just committed a double crime ofmoving and speaking without Mother's permission. Before Ican stop myself, I commit another offense by looking rightat her and shaking my head. "I don't understand ... what'shappening to me?"
"You're fine," Mother states. I lean forward to catch whatshe said. I'm not sure, but I think Mother just spoke to me ina soft tone. "Listen. Listen up. Tell 'em ... uhm, tell them thatyou were ..." I strain to pay attention to Mother's instructions,but her words seem mumbled and confusing. Mothersnaps her fingers, indicating a breakthrough for her latestcover story. "If those nosy teachers ask, you tell them that youwere wrestling and you got out of control ... so your brothershad to put you in your place. Do you understand?"
I'm trying to digest Mother's new set of instructions.
"Do you understand?" Mother probes, fighting to keep heranger under control.
"Ah, yes," I chuckle. I cannot believe how easily Mothercan come up with her off-the-wall lies every single day ofschool. I'm also amazed that I no longer care about maskingmy emotions in front of her. "Tell 'em I was wrong. I wasbad."
"And ...?" Mother whines, trying to draw me out further.
"Tell them ... I was ... I was playing, I mean wrestling! Iwas wrestling and ... I got out of control. Yes, I understand,"I stammer.
Mother tilts her head to one side as she inspects her latestdamage. She holds her gaze for a few moments before losingher balance, stumbling toward me. In a jerking motion Iflinch backward. "Shh ... no, it's okay. Relax," Mother calmlysays with an outstretched hand as she keeps her distance, actingas if I were a stray dog. "No one's going to hurt you.Shh ..." Mother circles around me before backing into herkitchen chair. Bending her head down, she stares into space.
My head begins to slump forward when Mother's hackingcough makes me snap upright. "It wasn't always like this, youknow," she whimpers in a scratchy voice. "If you knew ... ifyou only understood. I wish I could somehow make you,make them understand...." Mother stops in mid-sentence tocollect herself. I can feel her eyes scan my body. "Things justgot outta control, that's all. I never meant to ... to live likethis. No one does. I tried, God knows I did—to be the goodwife, the perfect mother. I did everything: den mother this,PTA that, hosting the perfect parties. I really did try.
"You, you're the only one who knows, who really knows.You're the only one I can really talk to," Mother whispers. "Ican't trust them. But you, you're the perfect outlet, the perfectaudience, anytime it damn well pleases me. You don't talk, sono one will hear your pain. You don't have any friends, andyou never go outside, so you know what it's like to be all aloneinside. Hell, besides school, no one knows you. It's as if youwere never ...
"No. You'll never tell anyone ... never!" Mother brags asshe nods her head up and down to reinforce her warning.
Without stealing a glance, I can hear Mother sniffle as shestruggles not to let down her guard. I realize she's only usingme to talk to herself. She always has. When I was younger,Mother would drag me out of bed in the middle of the night,have me stand in front of her as she poured herself glass afterglass and raved on for hours. But now as I stand in front ofher, I'm too numb to understand her ramblings. What in thehell does she want? Can she be totally smashed so early in themorning, or is she still under the effects from last night's stupor?Maybe she's testing my reaction? I hate not knowingwhat Mother expects of me.
"You," she continues, "oh, you were so cute! At partieseveryone loved you! Everyone wanted to take you home. Alwayspolite, always with manners. Wouldn't speak unless spokento. Oh, I remember whenever you couldn't sleep, you'dcrawl up into my lap and sing me Christmas songs, even inthe middle of July. Whenever I felt bad I could always counton you to `croon a tune.'" Mother smiles as she remembersthe past. She can no longer control the tears that stream downher cheeks. I've never seen her like this before. "You had thesweetest voice, David. Why is it you don't sing for me anymore?How come?" Mother stares at me as if I were a ghost.
"I don't ... I dunno." My grogginess vanishes. I realize thisis not one of Mother's sinister Games. I know, deep insideMother, that something is different. She's reaching out. Mother'snever been this emotional about her past. I wish I had aclear head to analyze what she's trying to tell me. I know it'snot the booze talking, but my real mother, the one who's beentrapped inside herself for so many years. "Mommy?"
Mother's head jerks up as she covers her mouth. "Mommy?Oh Lord, David, do you know how long it's been since I'vebeen someone's Mommy? My God!" She closes her eyes to hideher pain. "You were so fragile, so timid. You don't remember,but you were always the slow one. It took you forever to tieyour shoes. I thought I'd go crazy trying to teach you thatdamn square knot for your Cub Scouts badge. But you nevergave up. I'd find you in a corner of the room trying to tieknots. No, that's one thing about you, you never gave up.Hey," Mother asks with a wide smile, "do you remember thatsummer when you were seven or eight years old, and you andI spent forever trying to catch that fish at Memorial Park?"
With perfect clarity I recall how Mommy and I sat at the faredge of a giant fallen log that hung over a small stream. Icouldn't believe she had chosen me—over my youngerbrother Stan, who constantly fought for Mother's attention.As Stan threw a temper tantrum on the beach below us, Ithought Mother would realize her mistake. But Mommy hadpaid no attention to Stan's commotion; she simply tightenedher grip on my belt, in case I slipped, and whispered encouragementinto my ear. After a few minutes of fishing, I deliberatelykept the pink salmon egg bait just above the water. Inever wanted my adventure with my mommy to end. Now,as I shake my head clear of the memory, my voice becomeschoked up. "I, ah, I prayed we'd never catch that fish," I confessedto her.
"Why's that?"
"So ... we could spend more time together ... as motherand son."
"Oh, your brother Stan was red with jealousy, stomping upand down beside the creek, throwing rocks into the water,trying to scare off that fish of yours. My God." Mother tossesher hair back, revealing a rare smile.
I'm not sure if she failed to hear or understand the truemeaning of what I said.
"David?" Mother pleads. "You do remember, don't you?"
"Yes," I cry, shaking my head, "I do. I remember everything.Like the first day of school when the teacher had uscolor a picture of what we did that summer. I drew you andme sitting on that old tree with a happy-face sun shiningabove us. Remember, I gave it to you that day after school?"
Mother turns away from me. She clutches her coffee mug,then puts a finger to her lips. The excitement from her facedrains away. "No!" Mother states in a strict tone, as if ourfishing adventure were a hoax.
"Oh, sure you do—"
"I said no, goddammit!" Mother interrupts. She clamps hereyes shut and covers her ears. "No, no, no! I don't remember.You can't make me! No one can force me to remember thepast if I don't want to. Not you or anybody else. No one tellsme what to do! You got that, mister?"
"Yes, ma'am," I automatically respond.
Mother's face turns beet red as the muscles in her necktighten. Her upper body begins to shake. I'm not sure, but Ithink Mother is having a violent seizure. I want to yell out,but I'm too scared. I stand in front of Mother like a helplessfool. I don't know what to do.
After a few seconds the redness from her face disappears.She lets out a deep sigh. "I just don't know anymore ... if I'mcoming or going. I don't know ... I didn't mean for things tohappen this way; no one did. You can't blame me, I did mybest ..."
The sweetness in her voice fades. I want so badly to run andhug Mommy before she completely slips away, but, like always,I know in a few hours Mother won't remember a single wordof our conversation. I back away from the kitchen table andresume the position of address.
"Oh, Jesus!" Mother snaps. "Now look what you've done!I've got to drive my boys to school! Forget the dishes; you canfinish them after school. And listen up: I don't want to hear apeep from any of those nosy teachers today, so you keep thatcarcass of yours the hell out of trouble! You got me, mister?"Mother raises her voice to her usual evil tone.
"Yes, ma'am," I mutter.
"Then get the hell out of my house! Run!" Mother bellows.
"What about lunch ... ?" I ask.
"Too bad. You took my time, then I take your lousy sandwich.You'll just have to go diggin' for food today. Now getthe hell out of here! Don't make me get the broom! Now run!"
In a flash I race through Mother's house. I can hear herevil laugh as I slam the front door shut before sprinting off toschool.
Continues...
Excerpted from A Man Named Daveby Dave Pelzer Copyright © 2000 by Dave Pelzer. Excerpted by permission.
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