CHAPTER
10
THE SOURCE
By the summer of 1987, just weeks prior to Stephen’s first birthday, I took time off from the service and made our family’s first long-range trip. Our destination: Salt Lake City, Utah. Since Patsy was complaining of being cooped up in the house, and, surprisingly to me, got along well with Grandmother, we decided to take the journey. I carefully explained to Patsy that Grandmother could be pleasant on the phone and yet once in person could be controlling and spiteful, but Patsy didn’t care. She thought I was being paranoid. Once there, I knew Grandmother would drive Patsy and me crazy, but since becoming married and having Stephen, Grandmother had treated me like never before. On the phone she savored all updates of Stephen. In the back of my mind, though, I was extremely leery because of my last visit with her.
Secretly, I had another reason for traveling to Salt Lake City. For years I had had so many questions, and now I felt I was ready. With each day as Stephen grew before my eyes, I could not imagine how a person, let alone a mother, could concoct ways to dehumanize and torture their own child. As much as I craved closure to my past for myself, now as a father I felt I owed it to Stephen.
With Patsy and Stephen at Grandmother’s house on a warm late morning, I drove the Toyota to Mother’s and stopped a few houses away. Before getting out of the car, I stopped to collect myself. I checked my watch to make sure I wasn’t late. I ensured every hair on my head was in place so to make a good impression. For the hundredth time that morning, I asked myself if I really wanted to go through with this. Part of me felt it was a hopeless quest. I knew Mother would never come out and tell me why she did all she did to me. After the countless ways Mother had made me suffer and the river of booze she had consumed over the years, she probably had no memory of it all. But, I thought, if I could walk out of there with even some information, maybe that would be enough to make me feel cleansed. As a matter of closure, if I could enter Mother’s house without cowering down to her and display myself as the fair-minded, independent, responsible person that I strive to be, then by the time I left, I’d know in my heart I was no longer looked upon as a child called “It.” After the years of self-doubt, I was beginning to feel I didn’t need to prove myself to Mother anymore. Of all my tests, perhaps seeing Mother was the ultimate one for me.
Walking up to the house, I noticed how worn and lifeless the grass had become and how overgrown and unkempt the bushes were. Among the well-groomed houses on the street, Mother’s gloomy, rundown home stood out. “And years ago,” I said to myself, “her home was the Camelot of the block.” After knocking on the door, I caught a whiff of a rancid odor. When the door opened, I almost fell over from the smell. Before I could turn my head away, Mother flashed a smile. “Yes . . . well, right on time. Come in.” Confused, I thought Mother was acting as if my seeing her was an everyday occurrence. Before I could offer a greeting, Mother spun around and made her way up a small flight of stairs. As I followed a few steps behind, a overwhelming stench began to flood my senses. Covering my mouth, I guessed that part of the smell came from the stairs, which were worn to the point there was nothing left but the bare wood. Whatever covering that remained was on the edges, but was layered in what I assumed was cat and dog hairs. The walls gave off an eerie glow from the dark yellow-brown stain from, it seemed, Mother’s constant smoking.
After my youngest brother, Kevin, who by now I guessed to be sixteen, proudly showed off his bedroom, I returned to the living room to sit next to Mother. Kevin seemed to hover nervously as Mother and I strained to make small talk. After a few attempts, my mouth became dry. All I could do was nod my head as Mother made an occasional remark. An icy tension began to fill the room. For some odd reason, I was not afraid or even slightly intimidated by her. If anything, I could not help but stare at her. Since Father’s funeral seven years ago, Mother had not only gained a great deal of weight, but her face now seemed pudgy and leathery. Her crimson features reminded me of Father’s when I had found him at a bar across the street from the bus station in San Francisco during a visit before I joined the air force. Mother’s fingers were swollen and twitched every few seconds. I fidgeted in my chair while trying to think of something to say. But Mother’s appearance said it all. Her years of vindictiveness had left her a broken and lonely person. Whatever domination Mother once waved over others like a sword, allowing her to hurt anyone whenever she pleased, had now vanished.
Growing bored, Kevin barged out of the room, down the stairs, and from the house. Before the front door closed, Mother’s head snapped upright. As if making sure the coast was clear, she murmured, “I want you to know, it was an accident.”
Realizing I was alone with Mother for the first time since that day in March before I was rescued—over fourteen years ago—made me feel weak. I couldn’t believe I was actually sitting four feet away from someone who had tried to kill me. Mother’s statement flew over my head. “I’m sorry,” I apologized, “accident?”
Mother heaved as if she were already impatient with me. Raising her voice, she stated, “I want you to know it was an accident!” She nodded as if I should understand her coded message. All I could do was nod back. An eerie silence followed. Raising my eyebrows, I tried to get Mother to explain, but she simply grinned. Suddenly it hit me. Years ago, one summer when I was a child, during one of Mother’s rages, she had snatched a knife and threatened to kill me. Back then I had known by her drunken condition and her flailing arms that Mother’s threat was beyond the norm. Sitting in front of Mother now, I could visualize the terror in her eyes as the knife slipped from her grasp before stabbing me. I knew somehow, even back then, Mother had never meant to kill me. I had always felt it was one of her “games” that went too far.
Collecting myself, I leaned over in the chair. “Yes,” I exclaimed, “an accident! I knew, I always knew you didn’t mean . . . to kill me.” As the words sputtered from my mouth, I could visualize the figure of a small child unconscious on the spotted kitchen floor, with blood oozing from his chest, while Mother stood above him, wiping her hands as if nothing had happened. Back then I had believed the stabbing would jolt Mother out of her vindictive madness and make her see how insane she had become. My injury would transform the evil Mother into the beautiful, loving Mommy I had prayed for. Only then could “the family” somehow reunite, like a fairy-tale ending.
Now, sitting with Mother in her dingy living room, I wondered why I was still drawn to her. Whenever I thought of Mother, I found myself constantly trying to prove that I was not the disobedient monster child that deserved to be disciplined, as Mother had drilled into my head for so many years, but that I was a human being of some self-worth. Because of my lack of self-esteem, even in foster care, I had always tried to uncover what I could do to prove myself to Mother, trying to accomplish something so phenomenal that the slate from my childhood would be wiped clean. As an adult I fully realized I was a fairly competent, independent person. I had not only gone from an almost animalistic child to a functional, married adult, an elite air crew member with the air force, but I was also the father to an incredible boy whom without a passing thought I showered with true love. I knew I had a long way to go, certainly when it came to issues of trust. The shame from my past still made me question myself. Especially in front of Mother, part of me felt that I had been the source of wrongdoing, that I was a failure. Only a wave of Mother’s magical wand of acceptance would make my self-worth flourish.
Easing back into the chair, though, I realized I was not wrong. I had not made Mother do those things to me. I hadn’t forced, let alone provoked her to stab me. And now, after sixteen years since the accident, Mother still could not bring herself to apologize for nearly killing me then, or for any other abuse she had inflicted on me during all those years. Mother’s statement made her look as if she were the victim of the situation.
The booze had not erased Mother’s memory—she knew exactly what she had done. She did not display any remorse,
unless Mother’s bringing it up was her feeble way of seeking forgiveness. If that was the case, did Mother actually bear some form of guilt? Was her statement revealing a shred of affection? Did she care? If I could just strip through the layers of vengeance . . .
With true sincerity, I gently probed, “What happened?” But before Mother could respond, I found myself spilling over with a list of questions. “Why me? I mean, what was it that I did to make you hate me?”
“Well . . .” Mother cleared her throat as she raised her head. “You have to understand, ‘It’ was bad, David.” Mother’s impassive explanation hung in the air. Shaking my head, I acted as if I had not heard her. I deliberately wanted Mother to repeat herself so she knew exactly what she had just stated. With a strained exhalation, Mother restated her justification, placing a further emphasis on “It” and “David,” as if they were two separate entities. Still I was too dazed to respond. Mother’s further elaboration only confused me more. “David, ‘It’ was always trying to steal food. ‘It’ deserved to be punished. The other boys had their share of chores, too, and I would have fed ‘It’ once ‘It’ was done with the chores . . . but . . . ‘It’ was always stealing food.” Mother again gestured with a nod of her head, as if I should agree with her. “When you think about it, it’s really not that difficult to understand, David.”
For years I had believed if I ever confronted Mother as an adult, she would finally have to grasp the magnitude of the problem. I never meant to be vengeful. Part of me became concerned that the moment Mother realized the depth of her actions, she’d have a heart attack. But now Mother was carefully rationalizing her actions, guarding every word, making her treatment of “It” seem like nothing more than a parent disciplining a disobedient child; brutalizing “It” had not only been justified, but necessary.
“But why me? Was I really that bad? What did I do that was so wrong?”
“Oh, please,” Mother said. “You may not remember, but you were always getting into everything. You could never keep that yap of yours shut. From one end of the house to the other I could always hear you wailing, more than Ron and Stan. You may not remember, but you were a handful.”
Mother’s testimony made me recall when I was four and how scared I was to speak. When my two brothers and I played in our bedroom, if I became too excited, Ron would cover my mouth so my voice didn’t carry. Later on I was controlled to the point that I had to stand in front of Mother, with my chin resting on my chest, waiting for her to give me permission to speak so I could then ask her if I could go to the bathroom. More than once, with Mother towering over me, she’d contemplate aloud, “Well, I don’t know what you want from me.” Even then I felt trapped. Before I could ask her for approval, she would snap her fingers as a warning, as if I were a pet that required to be broken in. With my knees locked and my body weaving, sometimes I’d urinate on myself, which only sent Mother into a further rage. Had that been Mother’s way of disciplining me initially? Maybe I was too much for her to handle. Mother could have as easily picked on either Ron or Stan; it didn’t really matter. Maybe Mother singled me out for something as simple as the irritating sound of my voice.
All I could do was think of Stephen. As I did, the outline of a child sprawled out on Mother’s kitchen floor in a pool of blood suddenly became my son. Seeing my reaction, Mother’s eyes flashed with pleasure. Once again I allowed her to feed off my emotions.
With my hands slid under my legs, I wanted to jump up and scream into Mother’s repulsive face, “You twisted, sick bitch! I was a toy for you to play with! A slave at your command! You humiliated me, took away my name, and tortured me to the brink of death, because . . . because my voice was too loud?”
Breathing heavily, I continued to rage to myself, Do you realize what I can do to you now, at this very moment? I could wrap my hands around that swollen neck of yours and squeeze the life out of you. Or make you suffer slowly, ever so slowly. I wouldn’t kill you right away, but I’d strip away the very essence of your being. I could do it. I actually could.” I’d kidnap Mother, take her to some dingy hotel, lock her in a room, and deprive her of all the things that sustained normal life—food, water, light, heat, sleep, contact with others; I’d make her life hell. Afterward, I could tell the police that . . . I just flipped out . . . from some sort of post-traumatic stress from my treatment as a child. For once I could throw everything away and . . . become like her.
A freezing sensation crept up my spine. Oh, my God! I warned myself. With my wrist beginning to tremble, I wondered, Am I insane? Or were my thoughts normal considering what I’d been put through? Suddenly the light dawned on me: it was the chain, the chain linking me to my mother—a person who for whatever reason had become possessed with so much rage that over time the emotion grew into a cancer, passing itself on from one generation to the next . . . leading to my son in a single beat of my heart; I could become the person I despised the most.
Closing my eyes, I erased the thought of revenge and flushed away any feelings of hatred that I held against Mother. I could not believe the intensity of my rage. Taking a slow, deep breath, I cleared my head before raising my face and staring into Mother’s eyes. For my own peace of mind I told myself, “I’m never gonna be like you!”
How different Mother looked to me now. To me as a child, in some ways Mommy was a princess, reminding me of Snow White. Her bright smile, her kind voice, and the way Mommy’s hair smelled when she had wrapped me in her arms when I was a preschooler. I had watched Mommy glow as she laughed, as Ron, Stan, and I vied for her attention. And now, with Mother hunched over and her hips molded to her chair, her past had caught up with her, like Father’s had years ago. Her life these days consisted of what she viewed from a television set. Her form of control was now a piece of plastic used to change channels to her world. Whatever light had kept her soul lit had been extinguished. Mother had become her own prisoner. Whatever harm I had just wished upon her moments ago could not compare to her self-created prison.
Mother’s change of tone brought me out of my trance. “You may not think it by looking at me, but you and I are very much from the same piece of cloth.”
I shook my head. “Excuse me?”
Mother seemed to make an effort to control her sniffling. “You think life is so easy, well . . .” she huffed, “before I was pregnant with Ron . . . I had a miscarriage.” She stopped abruptly, as if for effect. Not knowing if she was sincere or again trying to feed off a tragedy, I wasn’t sure how to react. Suddenly her face turned dark red. “You think this entire planet revolves around you! David, David, David! That’s all I’ve heard about for years was David this, David that, ‘feed the boy,’ ‘don’t punish the boy,’ every day since the day you were born!” Building up steam, Mother pointed a finger at me. “And let me tell you something else: it was those teachers, those teachers at school, butting into my affairs! It’s no one else’s damn business! What happens in someone’s house should stay in that person’s house! But I tell you what: I taught that—that hippie teacher of yours, Ms. Moss, a thing or two when I had her little behind removed from the school. She was out of there so fast, you’d thought it made your head spin.
“You don’t remember,” Mother went on, “but when you were six, maybe seven, you were playing with matches one day and . . . you burned your arm. If I told you once,” she said, “I told you a thousand times. Anyway, one day you showed up with a few marks on your arm. And that Moss teacher of yours had the audacity to accuse me of . . . well, we both know what happened, don’t we?”
“Quite well,” I said to myself. Mother’s recollection was off by two years. I was eight when Mother held my arm over the kitchen stove. When she sent me off to school the next day, she claimed “the boy” had played with a match. Even back then, early on, everyone knew the reality of my situation. Somehow Mother must have believed she could not only hide the secret, but dispose of anyone who challenged her authority.
“And that principal of yours, Pete Hans
on, calling me every single day! It got to the point every time the phone rang, well, I just knew who it was. I dreaded picking it up. If it wasn’t one thing it was another, saying that boy of yours did this or that. How the boy got into a fight, pulled somebody’s hair, stole food, clothes, or whatever it could get its hands on. Every day. Well, it just got to the point that it drives a person to drink. It wasn’t me that was after you, it was those damn teachers! Always digging, always putting their noses in other people’s business. It was them!” Mother stated as if her life depended upon it.
“You think you’re the only one with troubles!” Mother continued. “You have no idea what it’s like. It’s not easy raising four boys all alone, barely scraping by, having a husband just pick up and walk out on you. Believe me, I could tell you things about your father!”
“Don’t!” I coldly interjected. Lowering my voice, I said, “He was your husband, and you couldn’t even step into the hospital once, just once, or have the decency to mail him a card. Of all the things—”
“Well!” Mother said. “I’m not all that cold-hearted. He wanted me to . . . to take him back before he even checked into Kaiser Hospital. We even had lunch. He practically begged me.”
“You love it, don’t you?” I blurted before thinking. I was so close to the edge, just a single breath away from opening up and really telling Mother off, but I kept myself in check. The last thing I wanted was to get sucked into one of Mother’s games. “His name was Stephen!” I shook my head. “You must have known he was reaching out to you. You knew he was sick and you made him beg?”