Redemption (7 page)

Apples in Alhambra

o keep the family together, Dad agreed to all of Mom’s requests. He told her she was the one woman who could drive him out of his mind. She alone could bring out the best—or the beast—in him. If he was going to change, she was the only person he’d do it for. She made a list of her demands. At the top of the list, he had to drink less. Second, she wanted to move back home—to the slow, gentle countryside where she’d grown up. Also, she hoped he’d respect her more. He told her he wasn’t fooling around this time. He’d really try. He desperately wanted another chance to make it work with my mother.

It’s hard to imagine why my mother would want to go back home after the abuse she endured as a child. But her parents, especially her mother, were the only support system she had. Debbie didn’t have anyone to help her but her family. And at that point in her life, she was still pretending that her childhood abuse had never happened. While she wasn’t close to her dad, she knew he would protect her from anyone who might harm her—anyone except him. In this case the known—which was living the country life—was better than the unknown.

This move was supposed to be the answer to our problems, as if we could magically erase our worries with new walls, a new yard, and new neighbors. I wasn’t skeptical then. I was all for it. This move felt different and exciting. Everyone walked around smiling for a while. Daddy came back from St. Louis more often to help us get the Kansas City house ready for sale. In the end, it sat on the market so long that we sold it to the real estate company at a loss. We just wanted to get to Alhambra before the new school year began.

Our parents told us Alhambra would finally be the end of packing boxes, wrapping dishes, and loading up the bananamobile. We were going to stay put for a nice long while. I’d never had the chance to get comfortable in my classrooms, so I was thrilled. As soon as I’d settle in with teachers and classmates, it was time to uproot and start over again. I was on my fifth move, and I was only eight.

We all needed to slow down. The country sounded like the perfect place to take a break and make things right. It was our new adventure—together. We bought a one-story brick house with an attic in Alhambra, Illinois, just forty-five minutes from St. Louis and ten minutes from Grandpa and Grandma Paulson’s farm. Aunt Deanna was sixteen and still lived with them, and so did Uncle Derek. We heard so many promises; we really hoped Mom and Dad would get along better this time.

We had a red brick raised ranch with a big picture window to the right of the front door. Mom had a large kitchen with sparkly golden wallpaper. We had an attic I could use as my bedroom and a finished basement where I could hang out with my dad. We got a dog named Barron that I loved. We even got our own cats—my Bandit was black with a white stripe, and Buttercup was Christy’s orange tabby. Animals were truly gifts to us. Christy and I had all kinds of room outside to play with them. This house sat on three acres of dreamlike property. I loved to be outdoors, especially there, where we had a stream and real apple trees. Our new yard was a treasure trove; it was my own private play world.

It didn’t occur to me to be nervous about the wilderness—our Wild West. I didn’t yet realize that I was a suburban girl who enjoyed neighborhood streets and big schools filled with different types of kids. At that time, I just knew the country was different. I saw trucks and tractors everywhere in Alhambra, way more than I’d seen in Creve Coeur, Missouri (where I was born), Cedar Rapids, Manchester, or Kansas City. The fields were big and sprawling, and not just near the interstate roadways. People actually farmed here. Some had barns instead of garages. They lived on vast properties, and you couldn’t just walk to your neighbor’s house to play. Mom was right; it all seemed so slow and gentle.

The day we arrived at our house with all of our stuff, Daddy walked me outside to the fruit trees. Apples dangled from every branch. He plucked one off and gave it to me. He’d read my mind, and I smiled. The move, the house, the yard—it was all surreal, like the magical village on
The Smurfs
. I mean, we had snacks right there in the front yard, and all we had to do was look up.

“We can grow whatever we want now,” Daddy said. “And anytime you want an apple, we’ll just go and get you one.” I couldn’t pick apples by myself. They were out of my reach. While I waited for my parents to move furniture and boxes, I sat under that tree for an hour eating my piece of fruit. I still remember the way it tasted, kind of tart.

Later that day, out in the front lawn, I told Daddy, “Promise me I can stay here until I go to college. Promise me we’ll never leave.”

His cutoff jean shorts were dusty, and he was tired but happy. He said, “I promise.” Then he held me, and everything was great.

My father and I started becoming even closer then. He worked out in the yard all the time. He came home earlier from work, and he hung around the house more. So I’d help him whenever I could. We cut the sprawling fields of grass together. He put me in his lap on the tractor, and I’d get to drive. I helped him in the garage with his tools when he needed to fix stuff. This was special bonding time for us. I felt grounded, like I belonged in the world, and like I had a real home.

We had Barron, a little beagle-collie mix, for only about a week. I adored him. One summer morning, Christy and I were waiting at the bus stop in front of our house. We squealed happily when Barron ran through the front yard to tell us good-bye before we left for school. He was so excited to see us. But our house sat up on a hill—one of those steep, fast inclines that thrill-seeking drivers raced over so their stomachs lurched up into their throats. That morning, a young guy about twenty-four years old crashed into my cheerful, innocent dog. In an instant, Barron was killed—his body spread all over the road. I couldn’t even find his tail. Christy and I screamed and cried. The driver stopped his car and tried to apologize. Mom had been at the bus stop with us, and she was as shocked as we were. She told us to stay back.

Dad hadn’t gone to work yet, so he heard the commotion and came running out of the house. He told us to look the other way while he found a trash bag. The bus came, and he made us get on it. We were still crying, but it was probably better for us to get out of the way. Daddy and the young dog killer cleaned up the mess and buried Barron in the yard.

Later that night, Daddy told us, “These things happen.”

Mom tried to comfort us, too. “We know you’re hurt right now, but you will feel better soon.”

I know they felt bad for us. Mom took us to the pound a few months later, and we picked out two dogs, nice-looking mutts, one for each of us. I chose Prince, and Christy got Benji. We were both overjoyed. I fell madly in love with Prince, and he was my constant companion while I tried to find my way in Alhambra.

I don’t remember playing with Christy that much after we got to Alhambra. She definitely didn’t hang out with me and Dad. She always went off to do her own thing or went on errands with Mom. She liked to play outside with Buttercup, the cat, and catch bugs. She captured lightning bugs, caterpillars, and ladybugs and housed them in jars. She liked to take care of her “pets” in her room. Sometimes she accidentally killed the little creatures, and other times, she set them free. She was quirky and sweet. We were just different people with individual interests.

When we did put our heads together, we could cause some trouble. That winter, we were waiting for the school bus while it snowed outside. We dared each other to lick the black metal mailbox. We stuck our tongues out, and they froze to the metal at exactly the same moment. All of a sudden, the winter weather wasn’t so beautiful, and the idea wasn’t so brilliant. Together, we were in a painful, frozen jail, hanging by our tongues. We screamed our earmuffs off, and without full use of our tongues, we sounded like howling beagles. Mom ran out when she heard us. She was kind of mad, but she was also laughing. She knew how to set us free—she brought out a bowl of warm water. We went off to school as usual. We were thankful that no one on the bus had seen what happened. Being the new girl—again—was hard enough without more embarrassment on top of it.

Around that same time, Christy and I went sledding for the first time by ourselves. There was a six-foot ditch way out in front of the house, and Mom finally decided we were old enough to go sledding alone. We could start at the top of the hill and get a short ride. She put me in charge. We were bundled up with hats, mittens, scarves, and layers of thermal underwear topped off with red snowsuits. We couldn’t even bend our arms. We wore snow boots—actually they were more like moon boots. Mine were blue with rainbows, and Christy’s were lilac. We loved them and begged to wear them. We didn’t care that we could hardly walk. Our sled was orange plastic and had room for two people. It was huge and difficult for me to drag through the snow. It had a black brake in the center column, like the Ferrari of sleds. I could not wait to take it down that ditch for its maiden voyage with Christy. I felt old and wise as I trekked out into the snow—just my sister and me. The walk was hard, though. Snow swirled around our bodies and every step was stiff because of all our clothing. As I dragged the sled, the wind would catch it every so often, and I’d have to hang on for dear life. I kept that thing on the ground with pure might. I loved the rush of air that hit my face as I headed toward that ditch. Christy, however, was not high on snow like I was. Along the walk, she started to cry. She wanted to go home. She was cold. She was tired. She was hungry.
What a baby
, I thought. She was big enough to brave the elements.

If she didn’t want to, I’d just have to make her.

Her whining meant nothing to me. That moment was
my
moment, and my baby sister was not going to ruin it. I told her to just come on, and I would pull her in the sled so she wouldn’t have to walk. She climbed into it, but then I couldn’t get the thing to budge. I wasn’t the superwoman I thought I was, so I had to tell her to get out.

She didn’t want to get out. She just sat there and cried.

I got frustrated and lost my temper. To get her to move, I kicked her. She carried her little body, heavy with tears and gear and snow, away from the sled. She just wouldn’t stop crying. Her screechy, sniffly sounds were awful. Still, I somehow got her to walk to that ditch. We arrived, and the moment wasn’t as glorious as I’d hoped. I sat in front of the sled to steer while Christy moaned in the back. Her job was to operate the brake. I got a thrill when I whooshed down the hill. I wanted more.

I talked her into another run. Or maybe I threatened her into it; I don’t remember. I do know we managed to go down that hill a second time, but we hit a bump as big as a tree trunk. Christy flew up in the air, landed hard on her tailbone, and hurt herself. She really revved up and cried, so I gave up at that point. I wasn’t mad anymore, and I gently took her home. It turned out she had a bad bruise on her tailbone, and Mom said it might’ve been cracked.

My mom wasn’t happy with me. Even worse, I wasn’t happy with me. Christy got hurt on my watch, and even if she was going to be okay, I felt terrible. I thought maybe my kick had caused that bruise on her butt. Or maybe I was evil for making her go sledding against her will in the first place. I didn’t want to be bad again. I vowed right then that I would never physically hurt her, and I would always protect her whenever possible. I never raised my hand to her again.

I even tried to get between her and Dad as much as I could. I could smell their fights brewing like I could smell a storm coming. I seemed to be the only one who could settle them. If Mom got involved, the fight just got worse. Eventually—and early on—Dad and Christy just stopped talking to each other except when they absolutely had to. If he wanted something from her, he would ask me to ask her. If she needed to ask him about things, I would do her bidding. I got tired of playing their carrier pigeon, but I did it. It was better than listening to them fight, and it was much better than watching her get hurt.

After the move to Alhambra, my parents had a brief honeymoon where they got along great. But the peace lasted only a few months. Things took a turn when Dad started drinking beer again at night. Soon afterward, he started coming home late from work more and more often. His moods were difficult to predict. Sometimes he was happy, but he could also be dark.

Mom and Dad stopped speaking so nicely to each other. The volume went up in the house. She nagged him about leaving his stuff around the rooms, and he told her she needed to keep things cleaner. They went their separate ways after dinner. My parents could be watching the same television show, but she’d be upstairs while Dad stayed downstairs. Following their lead, Christy headed upstairs while I gravitated to the basement.

On the nights he didn’t show up for supper, we’d eat in front of the TV on trays. That’s when Mom would really get mad. She’d beg him to stop drinking and to get help.

“You’re tearing this family apart; just look at your daughters,” she’d yell at him from down the hallway.