Tracking Dirt

Sometimes family isn’t about blood. And sometimes it is.

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She was eleven when she first knew he was not trustworthy. Her mother had married him and was expecting the second brother.

Sitting on the couch, she read a Baby-Sitters Club book. The house was quiet. She still felt jittery in this unfamiliar place. She wished they would spend 100% of the time at the house on the corner lot, instead of a mere 40-50% (at best).

Bang!

She flinched at the door slamming and glanced up. Her stepfather loomed near the front door, staring down at the floor. He quickly looked up at her and snarled, “Did you track dirt into my house? You know to wipe your feet!”

She looked down at her bare feet, clean of any dirt or debris. She tried to remember if she’d been outside recently. Logic said no. She was a good ways into her book and she was pretty sure she’d read it in only one sitting so far. The tracks on the carpet were outlined in shoe treads. Her shoes were neatly placed on the mat next to the front door. She looked back up with a pleasant expression, preparing to relay all these steps that had given her the logical conclusion that she had not tracked dirt into his house.

Her stepfather was now closer, stomping his ways towards her. His expression ferocious. She dropped her book.

“I didn’t.” She whispered, “I take them off when I come in. I don’t wear them on the carpet.” Her voice seemed to be swallowed by the shadows of the room. He stopped just above her and leaned down. She made herself very still and her eyes did not meet his. She would be a good girl. Good girls do not cry or plead. Good girls merely listen.

“You will treat this house with respect. You will not dirty it. Do you understand me??” He hissed. She quickly nodded. Good girls respond to questions without complaint.

The stepfather did not agree with these rules apparently. His hand was suddenly clamped around her wrists. Her breath froze deep in her chest. She was a statue. She was ice. She was far away. Someone listened though.

“Did you get dirt on your hands too??” His hand tightened as he examined her palms. She made no sound. She was above pain. Good girls do not feel pain. “Wash your hands this instant.” The command registered with who listened and the moment the wrists were released, the girl was upstairs and in the bathroom.

Click

She does not remember who locked the bathroom door. She does remember that she is supposed to wash her hands. It is done quickly, barely noting the fact that her hands are already clear of dirt. An angry part of her catalogues that fact away though.

Asshole it murmurs. It can say that word silently, deep in the recesses of the girl’s brain. Things are safe there.

She finishes and carefully opens the door and peeks out. Coast is clear. She darts quickly to her room and closes the door.

Click

Again, there is no memory of locking the door. But it is locked. That is certain.

It is especially certain when the knob is tried mere minutes later and the door does not give way.

“What the hell?!” yells the stepfather from outside. The girl curls up into a small ball on her bed. Perhaps she can stop resembling a person. That might help. “Did you lock my fucking door? This is not your house!” The door is rattled. Girl is a tiny stone. She is a pebble. She is not a person.

The door is rattled again.

Then suddenly it splinters open.

Her breath freezes deep inside again. She unravels herself and lets the bits float up and away. It is a tactic she is good at. She can be seeds on the wind.

He is above her on the bed.

She is dandelion fuzz, granting wishes to all the little children of summer.

Her wrists are clamped again. He thrusts a small rectangular object in her face. Only part of the title registers in her fractured brain. B-A-B-Y-S-I-

“Don’t leave your shit downstairs.”

She is the fizz in a root beer float. The bubbles in a bath. She bobs on the surface with the rubber dolphin and Mermaid Barbie.

“Do you understand me?”

She is the spray of a sprinkler in summer. The droplets making tiny rainbows in the air.

“Hey. Do you understand me?!” The grip on her wrists tightens again. The pain crackles her brain and gives rise to someone. The eyes undeaden and she is no longer a pebble. She stares up at the stepfather.

“Yes.” Her voice is barely a murmur, but it is enough. The wrists are released and he leaves as suddenly as he came in.

The fractured doorframe and her splintered brain the only looming reminder.

And she had been doing so well.

Birthday

This past Monday was my birthday.

No magical number or anything. Just a general “you’re getting older” sort of day. I felt very adult by the fact that I actually scheduled a doctor’s appointment for that day. It was a bit stressful for me and my system, but I don’t really want to discuss that right now.

The main gift from my mother was a simple DVD.

It turned out to be a compilation of all these family video clips from when I was a toddler. From before we moved to Ohio. For some reason I cannot entirely comprehend, I was terrified to watch this DVD. I let it sit.

With the freshly filled script of Ativan, I finally brought myself to watch it the other day.

It was a roller coaster of emotion. As expected, I suppose.

I’m going to list my main observations in a list to sort them out better.

1.) I have not always been shy. Through various clips I am very outspoken and interact joyfully with all relatives and friends of my family. This was surprising to see.

2.) There are multiple Christmas clips (from two or three years’ worth of holidays) and though I don’t recognize the event itself, there are gifts/toys that I recognize. There are gifts that Armes especially exclaims over from deep inside my brain. It gives me a smile and yet deeply wounds me at the same time.

3.) My paternal grandmother is featured prominently in many of these clips. She passed when I was 8. I do not remember her unless I really think about it. I remember how she used to collect the Beanie Baby toys McDonalds had for a time. She wasn’t a fan of fast food, but she collected as many as she could just for me because I loved stuffed animals (and Beanie Babies). I remember that she would use any excuse to send me a package in the mail. I used to even get “First Day of School” packages with little gifts.
It’s hard to remember the funeral. But I do remember that for months afterwards, I talked about how her “ghost” watched me and tried to protect me. Dad tried to logically explain how that wasn’t possible until he’d had enough and told me to “cut it out”. I stopped talking about her altogether. I remember that many years later, when we moved to our new house (his current house) and the basement seemed to be creepy and weird to my friends, I told them I wasn’t afraid because “Grandma watched out for me”. I don’t think I even entirely knew what I meant.
It was shocking to see her face on the screen. And yet…her face is not unfamiliar to me. I can’t explain it well.

4.) My father only briefly appears in two clips.

5.) There are clips at the beginning where my mother seems to be recording “for” my father (because he is deployed with the military at the time) and tries to get me to talk to him. My toddler-literal-mind doesn’t understand though. At one point she asks me to “say bye-bye to Daddy on the camera” and I say “Bye Camera!”.

6.) The first clip to feature my father, (more than halfway through the 80 minute DVD) he is putting together a child’s desk for me. I ask him who broke the desk (it’s laid out in many pieces on the floor). He patiently explains that it isn’t broken, just taken apart and he’s putting it back together. He shows me the instructions with pictures. I study it intently for a good 45 seconds. I cannot place this interaction emotionally in my brain. I don’t know how to feel. I feel like I should know how to feel.

7.) The second clip is my birthday. Dad is icing my cake. Not Mom, as I would have expected. It is another moment I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know how to connect this father on film with the one I know who seems so distant and anti-child.

8.) Though my father is not in the clip, there is a clip of me talking to him on the phone. I am very serious in my discussion (though I can barely understand what toddler-me is saying). I am upset when Mom tells me I have to say goodbye and hangup soon.

9.) I want to watch this again so I can catch more details and try to not be so switchy during the whole thing. But I can’t bring myself yet. Perhaps in another week or two.

Spiraling

The path isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral. You continually come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.

-Barry H. Gillespie

I was doing well. I was. I have a house. I own it 100% outright. I’m doing this adult thing. I even traveled this year.

But life isn’t a straight path. It’s a spiral and half the time, you come right back around to where you were.

And where I am now is not good.

My life is a spiral.

Lies to my mother

It would be beautiful to say that my mother and I have always been close…

But that isn’t the case.

I know that childlike part of me didn’t understand why she couldn’t save me from the trips to the alley. Didn’t understand that she truly had no idea and had so much on her plate striking out as a single mom. That if she had known, obviously it wouldn’t have continued.

But I didn’t tell her.

I wanted my mother to be Super Woman. To read my mind and see all the horror, know all the pain. All the moments I couldn’t speak of. I wanted to see her fury strike out against Him and her love carry me far away from the dirty gravel behind the garage.

I wanted her to see the spell on my mouth. The invisible glue that sealed my lips the moment I thought of saying anything. I wanted her to take one look and gasp in horror. In comprehension.

But my mask was strong. It was impermeable. My box was strong. It held all it needed to. Nothing overflowed. Nothing got past.

It went like this for longer than I care to describe in true numeric fashion. In the child’s mind, it was a lifetime. A lifetime of secrets, of masks, of boxes. A lifetime of playing hide and seek.

Then we moved.

This is a rare picture of me smiling. It was taken in front of the new house. Far from the alley and the garage of horror. Far away.

Super Woman had, in her own unknowing way, come through. I was free.

But the shackles left their scars. Their marks.

And smiles like this were still rare. And blame lasts a lot longer than you’d think.

It wasn’t until well into high school that I tentatively tried to reach out. To turn a rickety relationship into a bond. And it wasn’t easy.

And I will never forget the look on her face when I finally broke the seal on the box and peeled off the mask for a moment. When I found that long buried courage and told her.

And even then, I looked around to make sure demons wouldn’t crawl through the walls and report my words.

(lies lies lies- He said- no one will ever believe)

But all I was confronted with was the expression of my mother as a part of her withered in horror. In remorse. In blame.

And in that moment, I knew without a doubt- that I never truly blamed her at all.

Harp

The first true story I ever wrote was about a harp.

Sure, I’d done semi-serious scribbles all throughout my childhood. Little snippets of thoughts, plans, notes, ideas, dreams.

Little half-chapters of a novel I’d hypothetically like to finish “in the future” (spoiler alert: my middle school writings never became full novels).

In 8th grade I had an English teacher who was also captain of our Power of the Pen club. She was very into short stories and daily journal writings. One day, she had a line of fourteen pictures* taped to the chalkboard, little captions underneath. They were fascinating pictures. She was holding a cheap kids plastic fire hat. Bright red.

“Today, you are going to draw a number from this hat and write a short story based on the picture and caption it goes with.”

I drew number 7. To this day, my lucky number.

It corresponded to a serene picture of a river with a harp sitting peacefully on a bank.

The caption read, “So it’s true, he thought. It’s really true.”

“The Harp”: So it’s true he thought, it’s really true

I was to write a story based on this. The story I wrote isn’t really that important. It was a sort of fantasy genre bit that involved a harp that could teleport you when played. The point is, after I turned in that story things changed.

The teacher kept me after class the next day and asked me to join Power of the Pen. And the writing bug bit me hard. I’ve always been a compulsive scribbler, but now there seemed to be a point.

---

Many years later, at the pinnacle of happiness in a relationship I hadn’t yet realized the negatives of yet, I was merely meandering around a trinket store with Katherine.

Then I saw it.

It was simple, really. Nothing gaudy. Nothing truly crafty like a lot of my jewelry. Basic, stark silver and small.

I loved it immediately. I was brought back to that day. That rush I had completing a story that was the first to be read by others. To be awarded merit and praise.

I needed that necklace.

And in one of the good moments she had so much in the early years, Katherine saw my lust and she bought it for me.

One of the first things she bought me. I have numerous other pieces of jewelry she showered me with. But this necklace has always stuck with me.
She doesn’t actually know the story behind it. I never shared it in detail. When she asked why I was struck by a harp (I play piano) I vaguely explained about how it reminded me of my childhood. It wasn’t important to share.

Last night I dreamed that I did share it with her. And she got it. She really got it.

This morning I wore the necklace. I don’t even know why. I haven’t dreamed about her in months. Almost a year now. But somehow this dream made me violently nostalgic for the past.

I have no clue why. I’m a fucking idiot basically. Why would I want that back again?

And yet, as I worry the necklace like it’s a stone in my pocket, I wish. I hope. I dream.

And I feel the urge to scribble.

*Those familiar with the Mysteries of Harris Burdick get a high five. Those who are curious: go here.

Before

Something amazing happened the other day.

It started badly.

I was speaking with my father about childhood memories.  He was appalled to discover I didn’t have any distinct memories from before we moved to Ohio.

Which is obviously because that’s when the splintering happened.  But my father is in high denial about that stuff.

Suddenly though, I remarked, “Well, I remember when I was playing by an old tree stump and got stung by a bee. And it scared me. I think I ran over to you.”

My dad broke into a smile.

“That was in Boston. You were probably 3 years old. It was one of the only times you ran to me before your mom.”

I stared.

Boston?

That’s before the splinter.

I have absolutely no other memories of Boston. That’s even before we went back to Chicago for a time.

I remembered something from before! And not just a couple months before.  Years before!

I’m holding this memory close as a candle to keep away the creeping darkness.

Photo Credit

Learning to Ride a Bike (Claire scribble)

My parents didn’t teach me to ride a bike without training wheels.

Daddy tried to.

We lived next to a park at the time, and one day after school when we were about 7 or 8, he had this momentarily flash of parenting.  He insisted I get my bike out, he’d take the training wheels off, and then we’d go to the park and he’d teach me how to ride it.

His parenting urge and patience only lasted so long.

The second time I fell down, he heaved a big sigh.

“Maybe you’re just not able to ride a bike right now.  I guess we can try again some other time.”  He stared at me a moment, then turned to walk back to the house.  He didn’t look back.

To be fair, our house was a mere 100 yards or so from the open grassy area of the park where we’d attempted this.

But I still remained on the ground, my knees skinned and bruised, trying not to cry.  Daddy hates when I cry.  Crying makes you worthless.

I pull away from myself as someone steps forward to handle the skinned knees for me.  Mute does not have emotions, so it does not have to worry about the possibility of crying. Mute heaves to it’s feet, pulls the bike firmly upright, and trails after Daddy silently.

We make sure the bike is safely stowed in the garage before entering the house, carefully removing our shoes before stepping on the carpet.  Daddy is nowhere to be seen.  He must be in his room.  We go the opposite direction, to the kitchen and Mute calmly gets a glass of water to drink.

“You need to clean those cuts.” says a cool voice behind us.  Mute is gone and Rika swings around defensively.  Daddy is looking at our knees, a strangely regretful expression on his face. “Come on.” He leads us to the bathroom, where Middi pops out to handle the sting of the alcohol and carefully applies the band-aids herself (Daddy does not like to touch us).

The next afternoon, the training wheels are back on our bike.

He doesn’t offer to teach us again.

______________________________________________________________________________

We don’t have a bike at Mom’s house, so there’s nothing for her to teach us on.  Plus, over there she and Roms are too busy looking after Grey.  He is a feisty toddler.

______________________________________________________________________________

Daddy moves to a big house in a nice neighborhood.  It is down the street from the high school and only a little further from the local middle school I start attending.  I have to walk.  I’ve never walked to school before and at first, it’s a liberating experience.  However, it takes awhile to get there and I don’t like how early I have to get up.

I see other kids riding to school on their bikes and it occurs to me that this mode of transportation would be much faster than walking.  My old bike is in the garage and I pull it out one day after school.

Daddy isn’t home- the new job that caused the move has him working late.

With a bit of help from Rika (she’s surprisingly tool-savvy), I manage to get the training wheels off myself.  I wheel it into the driveway and start attempting to ride it.

It goes horribly.  I am frustrated and puzzled.  It seems so easy for all the other kids at school.  What on earth is wrong with me?

The next day, a contractor arrives to start working on Daddy’s upstairs room.  He has the whole second floor and is converting it into one huge bedroom with a walk-in closet.  We are never to go up there.  Ever.

I watch the contractor and his helpers when I get off school.  I am a bit wary, as they are men, but most are older than even Daddy, and that is a relief.
I’m only truly edgy around one of the helpers who is in his late teens, though I’m not sure why.  When I try to think about it, I hit a brick wall in my head.  Angry whispers tell me to leave well-enough alone.

The lead contractor, Terry, goes out of his way to talk to me, in a uncle/grandfatherly sort of way.  I finally get comfortable enough to stop just sitting silently on the porch or in the living room and go about my business.

Which includes struggling to ride that bike.  I haven’t given up.  I know it has to be accomplished at some point.

Terry comes out to get something out of his truck one afternoon a couple days later and sees me.  He stops and tilts his head at me, calculating something.  I freeze in embarrassment, both for my age (too old to not know how to ride a two-wheeler), and that I’m still not able to smoothly handle it.  He lets out a soft chuckle.

“Well now, no wonder you’re having trouble. Your tires are almost flat.”  He goes to his truck purposefully and pulls out a black box with a wand and hose attached.  He motions to me.  “Come here, I’ll pump ’em up for you.”

I glance down at the white tires of my femininely pink and purple bike.  I study it for a moment, but can’t determine how he’d come to that conclusion.  However, I slide off the seat and bring it over to him.

He fits the wand into a part of the tire and flips a switch on the box.  There is a roaring noise and I jump.  He glances at me.
“It’s okay, just the noise the air pump makes.  Loud, ain’t it?”  He laughs, then looks back at the tire and pulls out the wand, “They aren’t all the way flat, just enough to hinder you.”

“I-I-I know I’m sort of old to be…” I trail off nervously.  He gives me a soft smile.

“I learned late too. Just didn’t have a reason to ride a bike for a long time. Better late than never.”  He fits the wand into the back tire for a brief minute, and then pulls it out and pushes the handles of the bike towards me.  “There ya go.  Should be a lot easier now.  Go ahead.”  He stands and waits, watching.  I hesitate.  I don’t like being watched.  But he had nicely filled the tires and he wasn’t judging me for being in middle school without having learned to ride two-wheeler.

I clamber onto the seat, settle myself for a moment, then push the pedals firmly.

The bike flies smoothly forward, perfectly balanced and I don’t wobble a bit.  A grin slips onto my face as I make multiple loops around the driveway.  Terry cheers.

It’s amazing how a little air in the tires makes all the difference.

Boy with the Purple Socks

“Sometimes you have to lie. But to yourself you must always tell the truth.”
-Ole Golly in “Harriet the Spy” by Louise Fitzhugh
______________________________________________________________________

Today on my drive to work, I saw a young man driving around downtown on a chic, slick moped.  He was dressed in a business suit and I wondered about the wind blowing dirt onto his suit jacket.

He was smiling.

And when I glanced down towards his feet I saw that above his black shiny professional loafers, he wore bright purple socks.

_______________________________________________________________________

I loved “Harriet the Spy” when it first came out.  I loved the idea of being able to hide and watch what everyone else did without them seeing.

Spying seemed like the perfect survival tool.

I started my own notebooks, it was completely goofy I know.  I was jealous of Harriet’s other tools; the vintage binoculars, the rotating flashlight, that yellow rain slicker.

But it was the boy in the purple socks that always had me fascinated.  Who was this boy? Why did he never talk? Why did he wear purple socks? In the movie, it’s never really revealed, although in the book he explains that his mother wanted him to dress in all purple to stand out, but he talked her down to just the socks.

And yet he stands out anyway.  To me at least.

Before I read the book (one of the few book-to-movie renditions where I saw the movie first) I used to theorized all sorts of things about the boy in purple socks.

Sometimes I wondered if he was like me.  He didn’t really want any attention, but he didn’t want to be invisible.  So he compromised.  No talking, but wear purple socks.  I wondered how else he could be like me.

And today I wondered about a businessman who would drive a moped and wear purple socks.  It seemed exactly what the boy would grow up and do.

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