Redemption (6 page)

The First Cracks

truly believed we had an idyllic life in Manchester. We were happy, and I felt secure. I barely noticed the tiny cracks starting to show in the foundation of my family.

The first small break came when a police officer delivered my father to the front door. My father was boyish and happy even though he had just wrapped his car around a tree on a road we called Dead Man’s Curve. He made a joke out of the crash.

He said, “A banana tree jumped right out in front of me. Good thing my car was there to save me.”

I laughed because there weren’t any banana trees on Dead Man’s Curve. There weren’t any banana trees in Missouri. My mother wasn’t smiling as the tow truck pulled up with Dad’s smashed Buick.

“My God, Tom, you should be dead,” she said. Mom examined Dad and then the car. She was in disbelief at the wreckage. He should not have been able to walk away from that accident, but his body was so loose from the alcohol that he slithered right out of the car. He didn’t even remember what had happened.

“He
should
be dead,” said the police officer at our doorstep. “His blood alcohol level is so high that it would kill most people.” My father laughed harder. Drunk driving laws weren’t enforced back then, and the officer only issued my father a citation since no one was hurt. While he wasn’t likely to get in legal trouble, he was definitely in Deborah trouble.

After the officer left, my parents fought the rest of the night. Daddy said he had to drink—he was out with the guys from work.

In a slurred voice, he explained, “This is the only way I can get promotions. I have to play the game.”

I heard the whole thing, and I took his side; I didn’t know any better. I thought Mom was nagging Dad because that’s what he told me she was doing. She didn’t say anything to me about the fight, but he would go on and on. “Tiger, it’s not a big deal,” he’d say, sitting on his chair. “Everything is going to be fine. Come here.”

He came home two nights later with a brand new car—the bananamobile. He said he chose that big yellow station wagon with wood panels because it was a banana tree that destroyed his old Buick. “Look at this car, it will be perfect for towing the boat,” he said with pride. Christy and I were excited. We ran to the car, exploring it inside and out. He was my superhero.

When we drove down Dead Man’s Curve, Mom would shudder while Christy and I made a game out of guessing which one was the dreaded banana tree. It wasn’t hard to figure out; it was the tree that looked like a Buick had been wrapped around it.

After the accident it seemed as if Mom began nagging Dad about his drinking more often. Every night, gauging the time he came home was like a litmus test. Would he be on time? Would he smell like alcohol? Some nights he passed inspection; some nights he didn’t.

Dad and I began to bond more. On the nights he failed the test, Mom would barely speak to him. But I did. He would change out of his suit, and we would hang out together in his chair watching TV, hopefully eating popcorn. He would ask about my day and then tell me about his. I became closer to him and more distant from my mother.

My mother gave our dog, Max, away to her grandmother. I could not stand my great-grandma. She yelled at me and smelled like cigarettes. I did like her husband, George, probably because he had the same name as my favorite bus driver. He was my step-great-grandfather and not blood related. I didn’t know what that meant, but I thought it was weird that I was supposed to call him by his first name. I hated the thought of Max going to live with them, and I didn’t understand. I blamed Mom for giving him away, but I thought it was my fault.

I didn’t want to use the bathroom at night because I had to walk past my parents’ room. I was scared of waking them up and getting yelled at, so I peed in the air conditioning vent in my room. Mom smelled the urine and blamed it on Max. First, she banned him from my room. But she still smelled the pee. I didn’t fess up; I was too scared I’d get in trouble. I also didn’t want them to know I was terrified of waking them up. I don’t remember why I didn’t want to disturb them in the night.

All I understood at the time was that I begged her not to give the dog away—Max meant the world to me. But she got rid of him anyway. Sometimes, I was starting to see Mom as mean.

Twenty years later, I found out the truth. Mom wasn’t mad about the air conditioning vents no matter who peed in them. She gave Max away because my dad would come home drunk, trip over my excited dog, and then kick Max. Mom felt awful when she heard the dog yelping in the hallway, and she wanted the dog to be safe. Meanwhile, there I was, almost eight years old, secretly hating her for taking my dog away.

Photo Album

n my photo album, I see pictures of a smiling, awkward, blond kid who laughed all the time.

In one photo, I am busy doing my favorite thing: waterskiing. Short and skinny and young. I am wearing my red life jacket. My white skis are held together with a huge black band so my legs will stay together. You can see that I was soaking up the rays of sun and smiling genuinely about it. My heart was happy. I remember how proud and exhilarated I was when I could finally stay up on those skis for ten whole minutes before falling down.

I learned how to water-ski when I was four. My parents bought matching life vests for the whole family—red with black toggles to close. Suiting up in that vest was one of the highlights of the summer. So was shopping for skis. We tried on so many pairs that the salespeople would try to hide their aggravation.

We loved going on trips in Dad’s yellow bananamobile. Mom bought travel games that Christy and I played in the backseat. Sometimes we’d yell and scream and fuss at each other—the best fun was when we were cutting up.

We’d get threats from the front seat. Dad would warn, “Don’t you make me pull over this car.” But he was all talk on vacation.

We knew a fun vacation week was starting when the tarp came off Old Red. Our boat had red stripes, and it was just big enough for four people. Mom and Dad would keep us quiet in the car by telling us to watch Old Red. The boat dangled from the hitch on the back of the bananamobile, and they said it would fall off if we looked away. We caught on to that scam quickly. They also pulled “the quiet game” to see who could be silent for the longest. One of us would break after barely two minutes. Then we’d move on to the license plate game, seeing who could spot the most tags from the most states. When all else failed, Mom took out a piece of paper, and we played hangman or squares. She made dots, and we got points for connecting them.

Every year, we vacationed at Table Rock Lake in the Ozark Mountains, at a resort called Lone Pine. They had a pool, lots of fishing, a sandy lakeside, and tons of games. As I got older, I played shuffle-board and badminton.

Then there was the waterskiing. We’d get most excited when Old Red went in. We’d swish around in the boat asking to put on our skis, but we weren’t allowed to until we had a thick, gooey layer of zinc oxide smeared on our noses. Mom and Dad had matching white beaks. We’d laugh at other people’s white noses because we’d forget about our own. Dad manned the steering wheel of Old Red wearing his aviator sunglasses and a huge smile. We drank grape soda on vacation, and Dad drank beer.

When we first learned how to water-ski, Mom skied behind us. Both parents would check to make sure our life jackets were secure before Mom slipped into the water, and Dad lowered us into her arms. She would guide us to the rope and ski behind us until we were ready to stand on our own. When we fell, Dad would circle back to get us, and Mom would be right there in half a second.

We couldn’t be on vacation all year long, though. Daily life continued to crumble—very slowly at first. There was another big, bad moment. I wish I could forget it. Mom had made a huge spaghetti dinner, and Dad was late again. We waited more than an hour for him to show up. Finally, we ate without him. She put all of the food away and started cleaning the house while Christy and I went into the living room to watch TV.

When Dad arrived home, purple-faced from gin martinis, he told Mom, “I want my dinner.”

She wasn’t looking for a fight with him. When he was drunk, she never won. If she told him later what he’d said or done, he wouldn’t remember it; he wouldn’t even believe that anything had happened.

Mom replied to him, “Go get it yourself.” She told him where to find the French bread and pasta and sauce. Then she continued to run the sweeper. Christy and I had bad feelings in our stomachs. We pretended like we didn’t know what was going on at first. We stayed fixated on the television.

That’s when he pulled out the handle of the vacuum cleaner and bent it like a boomerang. Then he took out the bread, noodles, and sauce from the refrigerator. He heaved the food across the kitchen, hitting the tile backsplash behind the faucet. The glass dishes broke the tiles, and bits of our dinner splattered all over the room.

Next, he went for the ceramic fruit bowl on the kitchen table. He hurled it into the wall. My mom called Grandma Lannert, who at that time lived twenty minutes away.

“Mae,” she said, “Tom’s come home angry because I won’t put dinner on the table. He’s gone crazy, and I’m bringing the girls over.” My grandmother talked him down on the phone. Meanwhile, Mom gathered me and Christy together, and we stayed at Grandma Lannert’s for a few days. I didn’t like what had happened. I was confused. How could the daddy I loved so much act so crazy? Maybe he was just having a bad day. Maybe, like Dad said, Mom had done something to make him behave that way.

I knew he’d been wrong. But it was over, I hoped. I just wanted Mom to stop talking about it and move on. I missed Daddy terribly. I was so lonesome for him that I became angry at Mom for taking him away.

Dad came to visit us at Grandma’s. His mission was clear—he was there to sweet-talk Mom into coming home. Grandma convinced Dad to slow down on the drinking, and she talked Mom into giving him another chance.

When we did go back, we were making some real changes. We packed up the bananamobile and moved to Kansas City, Kansas.

We were going to start all over—fresh.

Kansas City

ife in Kansas started out great. We reconnected as a family and put the pain aside. We bought a beautiful two-story house that was so big we needed to buy more furniture. I picked out a cool Holly Hobbie bedroom set, and Christy wanted Mickey Mouse. We each had our own walk-in closet.

Shortly after moving, I outgrew my banana-seat bike. I was seven years old when Mom took me shopping for a new one. I begged her for a big, shiny ten-speed, but Mom thought it might be too grown-up for me. She said we’d have to ask Dad. That evening, he said yes, and I jumped up and down like it was Christmas.

Dad couldn’t assemble it fast enough. When it was finally ready, I took it for its maiden voyage down our suburban street. The wind rushed through my hair as I pedaled and shifted gears. I was clueless about the gears, but I thought I could figure them out. Instead, I lost control and veered into the grass. The only problem was a large boulder five feet from my front tire. I tried not to panic; I simply slammed my feet backward to brake. But the brakes weren’t on the pedals; they were on the handlebars.

I yelled, “Shit.” Dad used that word when he was frustrated, and this seemed like an appropriate time for me to say it, too. I crashed headfirst into the huge rock. Mom and Dad ran down the street toward me. I wanted badly to cry, but I didn’t because I had a big-girl bike, and big girls don’t cry.

“Oh my God, are you okay? Maybe the bike is too much.” Mom checked me from head to toe.

I lifted my chin and said, “I’m fine. I love my bike. Please let me keep it!”

Dad just laughed and rubbed my head. “Way to go, Crash.”

I was afraid that Crash would be my new nickname, but luckily it wasn’t. We walked the bike home, and Dad put the chain back on. We ended up putting that chain back on several times that summer. That summer was easy; it was magical.

Things were so good that I almost didn’t notice when Dad started coming home late again in the fall. He wasn’t around as much for me. Meanwhile, I had to quietly accept that Mom and Christy spent hours together cooking or doing crafts, and I didn’t want to do those activities. So I went off on my own, playing in the backyard or riding my bike. I looked for other kids on the block to play games with or race.

If Dad was home, I would hang out with him. On the weekends, I liked to watch football or
Dr. Who
with Daddy. It seemed like—more and more—we were going separate ways. Mom and Christy hung out together. Dad and I went into the basement.

Looking back, Christy and I probably had the most functional relationship in our family. Sure, I was jealous of her because Mom gave her so much attention. Sure, we loved and hated each other in the routine business of being sisters. But at least we always knew where we stood. With Christy, there was no long story, and nothing got too complicated like it did with Mom and Dad. She was just Christy. When we fought, it was usually over one thing: she said I bossed her around. And I did. Mom often put me in charge. I considered Christy my little baby as much as Mom did, and that got on Christy’s nerves. Ever since I can remember, I saw myself as being a mom one day. I practiced on Christy.

I was the oldest, just like Mom had been the oldest growing up. Mom had to watch her brothers and sisters, and she expected me to do the same from an early age. I had to make sure everything was okay—meaning Christy wasn’t upset or getting herself into trouble. If something happened—a broken toy or a screaming match—I’d get in trouble because I was supposed to be keeping an eye on things. By age eight, I had even more responsibility for taking care of her and keeping her safe. I liked doing what Momma told me to do. I liked being the obedient daughter both of my parents could count on. But I didn’t like getting in trouble. If something happened on my watch—even if I had nothing to do with it—Mom would yell at me for it. She didn’t yell at Christy.

If I ever felt bad for not being Mom’s favorite, Christy felt worse for not being Dad’s. He’d yell at her like she was the devil. By the time I was eight and Christy was six, he’d smack her—sometimes in the back of the head at the dinner table. He never put his hands on me. He was cold and withdrawn toward her. For example, if she went down the stairs too slowly, he might say something like, “I should just push you down.”

She didn’t get to sit on his lap every night like I did, either. When he made popcorn, I got a bigger bowl. I think he treated her that way because she was the youngest, just like he had been the youngest. He would say he always got his older brother in trouble for everything. He saw Christy as being manipulative and sneaky. Maybe he saw Christy as himself. All I know is that when he talked to her, there was a tinge in his voice that wasn’t there when he spoke to me. She didn’t get the loving father treatment I got; she didn’t have a nickname. The only times he made her really happy were when he shared his popcorn. She soaked up any leftover bits of affection she could get from him.

There was another side of my dad that I did not like—he could be a total bigot. He would use racial slurs, downgrading people of different races and creeds. Mom was the opposite. She taught me to accept people for who they were, not what they were. My best friend in Kansas City was Jewish, and Dad didn’t want me to play with her. He told me to find a new friend. So I did, and she was black. He almost had a heart attack. He forbade me to play with my new friend, but Mom stepped in. “Stacey will be friends with anyone she chooses, and you will accept it,” she declared. She put her hand on her hip to reinforce her point. He was once again in Deborah trouble, and he knew when to back down. He wouldn’t win this one. Deep down, even he knew he was wrong.

He tried to get in the last word, saying, “I’ll be damned if those two girls walk through my front door.”

But Mom told him, “They will as long as I am living here, and if you don’t like it, you can leave.”

I decided then and there that as much as I loved my father, I would not let a person’s race or religion affect how I saw them. I didn’t tell him that; I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t say anything when he told me not to date anyone outside of my race. I just didn’t buy into his prejudiced philosophies. It was the first time I knew—most definitely—that he was wrong about something. This was one of the only issues my mom and I could agree on.

Otherwise, I thought she was constantly nagging Dad. He told me he came home late because he didn’t want to listen to her badgering him about this or that. She was on his case constantly; I heard it most nights. I took his side because he spent more time with me. He sat down and cuddled with me. Also, he simply said that he was right, and Mom was wrong. I believed him with all my heart.

Christy didn’t take his side like I did. He yelled at her more often, even when Mom told him to stop. I didn’t understand why he got so irritated with her. He was never like that with me.

He’d snap at Christy at the dinner table and tell her to stop acting up when she asked for the salt or laughed at something on TV. He’d be so cross about it, Mom would say, “Why don’t you yell at Stacey? Why is Stacey your favorite?”

He’d answer in a gruff voice: “Because Christy always starts it, and she isn’t innocent like everyone thinks she is.”

I felt funny when they had these conversations. I didn’t want Christy to feel bad. I didn’t like when he yelled at her. But at age eight, my thought process was not very complicated. I was—in spite of everything else—his Tiger. And everyone in the family knew it.

———

We were supposed to get a fresh start in Kansas City, but after less than a year, my dad moved out. Christy and I thought it was because his job assignment there had ended. We believed he went back to St. Louis to work. He lived five hours away from us. I was in the second grade, and I didn’t know what was happening when we put our house on the market. I assumed we were going back to St. Louis to be with Daddy, but I found out twenty years later that my mom had spent $250 of her own money to file for divorce. The alcoholic rages had become too unpredictable for her. She didn’t know if she’d see Good Tom or Bad Tom on any given night—and Bad Tom had become just too frightening for her.

Daddy visited some weekends, and I looked forward to seeing him all week long. I was mad at Mom because I felt like something was fishy, and it was all her fault. She had become so distant that it was easy to blame her. During the week, she spent a lot of time alone in her room. She was tired, or she was talking on the phone. Christy and I were alone more often. We’d play by ourselves or run around outside with kids in the neighborhood.

My heart was shattered without Daddy. He loved me the most, and I felt lonely without him around. One weekend visit, he brought me a dinosaur book. He’d sit down and read it to me every time we saw each other. I carried that book with me everywhere I went. Christy and I had no idea our parents were separated at that time. Sometimes when Daddy was home with us, we would all walk as a family to the neighborhood pizza place and then to the ice cream parlor. It was fun; things didn’t seem that bad.

Around that time Grandma Paulson and Aunt Deanna came to visit for two weeks. Aunt Deanna was Mom’s youngest sister, and she was only eight years older than me. I didn’t know at the time that Grandma was there to help Mom make a tough decision—I found out much later. I just knew that Mom, Grandma, Christy, Deanna, and I went to the pool a lot. Aunt Deanna flirted with the boys. My mother said that Grandma Paulson gave her advice. She wanted Mom to give Dad another chance.

“That’s all I’m asking you to do, Debbie,” Grandma Paulson said. “I would want him to do the same thing for you.” She reminded my mom that families should stay together—that every household needs a man.

Shortly after they left, my mom took a short trip with my dad. I don’t know where they went, and I don’t remember whom we stayed with. I do know that when they returned, Mom and Dad were a team again. As soon as we sold the house, we would pack up the bananamobile again.