As Father’s grip eased, I could tell he had fallen asleep. Before his fingers could slip away, I kissed his hand. Standing beside his bed, I gently laid Father’s vibrating hand on his chest. Turning toward the door, I saw Steve standing beside Alice. “He’ll be able to rest now. You’ve made him very happy. He told me months ago, when he checked in, that he wanted you to have it.” We both looked down at my right hand, still clutching Father’s badge. “It’s the right thing to do,” he said in a broken voice. “Today was a good day for your father. A very good day.”
“How do you—I mean, I don’t know if he can understand me. If he could just talk—”
“He is talking,” Steve replied, “and you’re learning to listen. It’s hard, but as long as he knows you’re there, beside him, that’s all that matters.”
“He’s not . . . my dad’s not going to . . . to make it?” I cried, choking on the words. Staring at Father, I felt as if a sledgehammer crushed my skull. “He’s going to die,” I whispered to Alice. Instantly, out of humiliation, I gasped, slapping my hand against my mouth. I couldn’t believe I had uttered those words. Up until that exact moment I had still held out for some dramatic turn. In some odd sense, I felt that by saving Father from his life of despair, I would in effect save myself.
Returning to Steve, I stood half frozen. “So, how will I know . . . when it’s time?”
“You still have some time. Someone is always watching over your father. We’ll let you know if there’re any changes.” Steve had returned to his official nurse’s tone. “It’s going to be all right.”
After assurances that Father would be resting for some time, I found myself driving Mr. Turnbough’s whale-sized, oxidized blue Plymouth Fury. With Alice beside me, I slowly cruised through Golden Gate Park on John F. Kennedy Drive. At Rainbow Falls, I stopped “The Blue Humpback” and rolled down the window. I recalled the hundreds of times both Mother and Father had driven Ron, Stan, and me through the park. With our noses pressed against the glass of our beat-up station wagon, we’d stare at the endless rows of freshly planted flowers in brilliant colors. If one of us dared to crack open a window, I’d suck in the distinctive scent of the eucalyptus trees. And if Ron, Stan, and I were lucky, we were able to catch a glimpse of the red-ear turtles basking in the sun as the silver station wagon rolled by Lloyd’s Lake. Back then, as a preschooler, even though I knew Mother and I had our secret, I felt safe when all of us were together as a family. Back then I had prayed that my life could someday be as serene and as beautiful as the park.
Snapping out of my trance, I realized what I had to do. “I have to see her,” I stated without emotion.
“I know,” Mrs. Turnbough answered, nodding her head in agreement.
I was surprised. I had expected her to challenge me. When Mother had called me hours before I joined the air force, it was Alice who had rightly stopped me from seeing her. Whenever I had a question regarding Mother, I had always run it by Mrs. Turnbough first. But now, I realized, Alice was giving me a wide berth, allowing me to make my own decisions.
After taking a final mental snapshot of the cascading water at Rainbow Falls, I shifted the car into drive, eased my foot off the brake, and coasted from Golden Gate Park . . . to Crestline Avenue in Daly City.
CHAPTER
5
SLIP AWAY
I walked hesitantly up the red steps that led to Mother’s house, knowing there was no turning back. For the life of me, I didn’t understand why I still felt drawn to her. By choice, I left Mrs. Turnbough in the Plymouth. Above all, I didn’t want to drag her into my slimy world any more than I already had. At the top of the steps, before I could chicken out, I gave a strong rap on the front door. The moment I did, I saw there was no way for me to control my trembling hand. I hid it behind my back, taking up my military stance. I was thinking about straightening my hair or anything else that would make me more presentable when the front door opened.
A small boy’s eyes ran up my air force fatigues. “Hey, are you a Pelzer, too?” The child turned his head and yelled, “Mom! There’s a Pelzer here to see—”
“My God, Kevin?” The words flew out of my mouth. With perfect clarity I remembered one Saturday, years before, when Kevin was a baby crawling on the floors, dressed in his blue outfit. Back then his shrieks of joy had melted my ice-cold heart. Now, as I studied his features, I was certain Kevin had no idea who I was.
His eyes grew wide. Total shock was etched in his face. “Mom?”
From the back another figure emerged. A taller, freckle-faced teenager shoved Kevin aside, taking an offensive stance—as if to protect his home. He put on his best tough-guy act as he stared me down. As much as Russell tried not to show it, though, I could tell by his fidgety movements that he was nervous, too. “So . . . what do you want?”
In a deliberate tone I replied, “I need to see her. Please?” I added, attempting to defuse my younger brother’s hostile attitude.
“Yeah, right,” Russell nodded, as if I had an appointment.
Extending his arm toward the living room, Russell permitted me to enter but followed behind me like a prison guard escorting me to the warden. Part of me felt that Russell’s disposition was due to Mother’s years of psychotic brainwashing, or maybe jealousy that I had escaped her wrath while he and my other brothers remained behind. I also felt in some odd sense that Russell resented me, perhaps because he might have become my replacement.
With Kevin bouncing in front of me, I scanned the living room. In seven years nothing had changed. Every piece of furniture seemed as if it were glued to the same position, as it had for years even before I was rescued. The only thing that appeared different was how small and dark the room had become, due to the paper-thin, soiled drapes and nicotine-stained walls. An overpowering stench of urine, from what I assumed was Mother’s small herd of dogs and cats over the years, nearly made my eyes water. I let out a cough and shook my head in disgust. This was a woman who when I was a tiny child had hosted elegant parties and prided herself on her home’s grandeur.
Upon stepping into the kitchen and seeing Mother’s silhouette, my entire body locked up—my hands fused to my sides, my chin fastened to my chest, and my eyes staring at the multicolored spots on the floor. A split second passed before I regained my senses. But it was too late. By the sickening sound of her chuckle, Mother had just witnessed my automatic response. Standing a safe distance away, putting my hands behind my back in the at-rest position, I leaned against the countertop to stabilize my dizziness.
Mother was emptying a brown paper bag full of groceries. As she grabbed a loaf of Wonder Bread, she flashed me one of her snake-like smiles, and asked, “So . . . I can assume you’ve at least seen him?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied with no emotion.
“And how is he?” Mother sarcastically probed as she began folding her grocery bags for future use.
Calculating my every word, I asked, “You haven’t seen Dad, have you?”
With the speed of lightning, Mother slapped her hands on her hips and took three steps toward me. Surprisingly, I didn’t back away. I stood my ground. “That’s none of your goddamn business!” she ranted. “Listen to me, you little shit! I’m the one who did you a favor! I didn’t have to phone that—that foster person. I didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“Mrs. Turnbough,” I calmly corrected her.
“Whoever.” Mother returned to the kitchen table and started to cough, emptying her lungs. She acted as if she were under an overwhelming strain. Hearing her agony, Russell slid closer to Mother, as if she might collapse at any second. With a dramatic flair Mother threw up her hands, tilted her head back, and cried, “I’m fine. I’m all right.” Only when Russell moved behind her again did Mother drop her hands. Then in a vindictive tone she hissed, “You of all people, you have no right. No right whatsoever to judge me.” Her face went from bright red to ghost white. “No one knows,” Mother sobbed, “no one knows how hard this is . . . for me!?
??
“Now look what you did!” Russell yelled.
For a moment I stood there confused. Is my direct questioning truly setting her off, I thought to myself, or perhaps my presence is too much for her? This could also be another dramatic performance of hers, trying to shift the focus of sympathy onto Mother and not to the situation at hand. With little to lose I dug further. “I just don’t understand. How is it that Dad’s been in the hospital all this time and you haven’t seen him once?”
I hit pay dirt. “The pain would be too much for me to bear. Don’t you understand? I’ve known him longer . . . than anyone. It’s just, it’s all just too much.”
Outwardly I nodded at Mother, as if I agreed with her statement. But inside I was saying to myself, And the Oscar for best performance—under fake duress—goes to . . . Catherine Roerva Pelzer!
Interrupting my thought, Mother went on to claim, “You have no idea. He was never there for me or his children. If he wasn’t at work, he was with his pals out drinking God knows where.”
Again I nodded, knowing full well that Mother was throwing out whatever excuses she could to justify her lack of common decency and compassion.
“Boys,” Mother announced, “excuse us,” she decreed, with a wave of her hands.
“But, Mom,” Kevin said.
“I said, leave!” she screeched. “Before I really give you something to cry about!” Like magic, the boys scurried from the room.
As Mother rambled on about her anxiety, my head began to throb from the day’s overload. I didn’t know how much longer I could stay in this house. “So,” I interrupted, “what about Father?”
“I told you!” Mother roared.
“No, ma’am,” I said in a soothing tone. I met her gaze, and she knew I wasn’t going to back down. “He’s still your husband. He’s all alone. He’s not doing well—” I caught myself before I lost control. In front of Mother—in her house—I had to maintain total composure. “Dad’s not going to . . . make it. There’s not much time.” I waited for Mother to respond, to wake up and throw on her jacket and race off to see Father. Knowing that I was passing the point of no return, I stepped toward Mother and said, for her ears only, “He’s the father of your children. Don’t end it like this. Please, I beg you. Do the right thing. See him.”
By the strain on Mother’s face, I knew I was getting to her. Ever so slightly she nodded her head in agreement. Behind her faded silver-framed glasses I could see her eyes begin to water. The last time Mother had lowered her guard like this was the day before I was rescued in March 1973, when we had both stood in the same room, while she broke down and began talking about her past. Standing in front of her now, I prayed I didn’t lose her . . . again. My sole objective was for Mother to be with Father. Maybe, somehow, I thought, a few minutes alone might wash away the years of animosity. “Come on,” I softly pleaded, “let’s all go see Dad. Come on.” I smiled as I extended my hand to hers.
“Oh, David,” Mother cried as she stretched out her trembling arm. Without hesitation I took her hand. Mother let out a sigh as I cupped the palm of her hand. “It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be okay,” I told her. Her body began to weave. Mother closed her eyes tightly, as if washing away all the pain she had kept locked in her heart. She let out another, deeper sigh, as if cleansing herself. As I looked at Mother’s face, her color seemed to change. A reddened look began to take over. Before she opened her eyes, I knew what was coming. Suddenly her hand felt ice cold. “Don’t go,” I softly pleaded. “Please, don’t go.”
The same moment I released her hand, Mother jerked it away. Just as years before, I had enough sense to back away from her. By the evil smile I knew The Mother had returned with a vengeance. “Oh, what a manipulating little shit you are! How I bet those foster people of yours are ever so proud! And here you come traipsing into my house, telling me what to do. Who made you the Messiah?” Mother paused to reload, while she struggled to light a cigarette. It took several attempts for her—not only to light it but to take a drag—due to her violent shakes. “You”—she thrust a finger at my face while smoke poured from her mouth—“of all people, have no right. You might be something to the United States Air Force, but you know . . .” Mother hesitated, as if to have me feel the full meaning of her words, “. . . you know what you are. Deep down, you’re nothing. You don’t even deserve to breathe the same air as me or my children. How could you march into my house, as if you owned the place, and tell me what I should or shouldn’t do? How could you, after all I’ve done for you? What gives you the right to come back?”
I tried to maintain an unthreatening stance. As I had years before, I simply shut down and became a cyborg: part man, part machine. Yet her words “after all I’ve done for you” caught me by total surprise.
“Done for me?” I muttered.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” she sneered after taking a long drag. “I didn’t have to release you. No! I let you go. I was done with you. You gave me no pleasure, so you were disposed of.” It took me a few seconds to comprehend what Mother was saying. “You were trash, and like trash I simply tossed you away.” Mother struck the pose of a refined aristocrat and said in a sarcastic voice, “Oh, dear me, how rude. Am I bursting your bubble? And all this time I bet you thought your blessed little saviors at your school were the ones responsible for your dramatic deliverance.” Then in a tone barely audible, Mother whispered, “You don’t know how fortunate you were. I could have ended it all. Just . . . like . . . that,” Mother emphasized with the snap of her fingers. “You know what you are, so if I were you, I’d keep that little trap of yours shut. Don’t push it. You were lucky once, so don’t think I haven’t done anything for you.”
Behind her, Kevin popped his head in from the dining room. Seeing him, Mother assumed the role of the grieving wife. With a fresh stream of tears rolling down her face, Mother tilted her head back as if to ease the intensity of her pain. As if the effort of standing was too much for her, Mother struggled to sit down. In all, I thought it was a fair performance. I also was certain that Ron, Stan, Russell, and Kevin had seen her charades many times before.
“Care?” Mother reached out to Kevin with an exaggerated trembling hand. “Oh, I care about your fath—about him,” Mother corrected herself. “I care. That’s the problem, I care too much.” Mother finished by wiping away her tears.
I deliberately remained stoic. I had already pushed her too far, so I did not want to say anything that might reignite the situation. Still, I had surprised myself by not caving in. I couldn’t believe I had actually penetrated her defenses, let alone stood up and questioned her status as a wife. Either I was exceptionally lucky or Mother was losing her grasp.
Kevin broke the tension. “So, you used to live here?”
Surely, I assumed, Mother must have told him something about me and why I no longer lived with them. She had to justify my going away. As much as she reigned over everything, snippets of the truth must have seeped out. I flashed Kevin a smile, who smiled back. “Yes,” I stated with confidence, “I lived here, but that was a long time ago—”
“Oh no, he didn’t!” Mother retaliated. “Don’t listen to him! He’s . . . he’s a liar. He’s not one of us.” To emphasize her point, Mother raised a finger. “Remember what I told you? About . . . about bad people?”
I locked into Mother’s eyes, thinking to myself, You’re right. You are absolutely right. I am not like you.
Before Mother could continue, Kevin broke in, “So, you wanna see my house?”
An overwhelming sense of curiosity took hold as I passed Mother and followed Kevin into the dining room. I walked around the table before stopping to gaze at the red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Distant memories from childhood began to flood my mind. I looked down at the backyard, where I had spent countless hours sitting on my hands on top of a bed of rocks—as a form of twisted punishment for whatever crime I had committed. I remembered shivering in the chilling fog, scarcely dre
ssed, but too terrified to remove my hands and rub them together for fear of being caught. Feeling myself weaken, I turned from the sight. I remembered the good times, when Ron, Stan, and I were preschoolers and played in the sandbox, and how one summer afternoon Mother had taught us all how to catch a lifeline—just in case, she said. Back then Mother seemed so devoted about every aspect of her children’s well-being. I could still picture Mother, on her hands and knees, wearing her gardening gloves, weeding her flower beds that she had taken so much pride in, and how she used to fill the home with the orchids she had meticulously cared for. Even now I could still see the remnants of what had once been.
“That’s the waterfall Stan built,” Mother pointed out, breaking my trance. I was startled. I was so tired that I hadn’t heard her approaching. “He’s so good with his hands. He keeps everything up and running. He’s such the handyman, you know. And with Ronald serving his country, I don’t know what I’d do. Stan, he’s the man of the house now,” Mother boasted with pride. From behind I could hear Russell let out a sigh of frustration. By the look I stole at Russell, I knew there was a power struggle between him and Stan, who as a baby had suffered a massive fever and was never the same. In the early years Mother had always gone out of her way to shield Stan, by showering him with praise—telling him how brave, strong, and smart he was. But even as a child, Stan became jealous of Ronald, the firstborn, who had Father’s confidence while Father was at work.
Continuing the tour, Kevin led me through the living room, then down the narrow hallway. As I walked down the passage, an odor from years ago filled my senses. I glanced down at the worn carpet and paused in front of the bathroom. Kevin stopped and gave me a puzzled look, asking, “Gotta go?” I stood transfixed at the tiny room, where I had almost died from being locked in the bathroom after Mother’s lethal concoction of ammonia and Clorox. I stared at the far left side of the bathroom floor at the vent—where I had prayed that fresh air would come through before I gagged to death. Turning toward the mirror above the sink, I remembered looking at the fresh pink scars on my chin and my tongue that had skin peeled away from swallowing teaspoons of ammonia. As a child I’d usually steal time to look into the mirror and yell at myself for whatever I did wrong—that had made Mother despise me so much. I had hated everything about myself—how I looked, how I stuttered, everything. Back then I so desperately wanted to somehow transfer myself to the other side of the mirror. But as I grew and became aware of my situation as Mother’s prisoner, I knew I could never rid myself of that person in the mirror. For that reason, I still refused to look at myself in a mirror.