Can't Forgive Page 2

  My dad called Joan in an effort to offload some of his anxiety; his pacing was doing nothing but wearing out the already dilapidated rust-colored carpet. The apartment was eerily quiet, absent of the laughing, bickering, and the constant movement of two kids bouncing around.

  My dad was crawling out of his skin. He knew he wouldn’t be able to last until Monday. Once Joan arrived, he convinced her to take a ride over to Mary and Dick’s house, just to “look,” he told her. Knowing she wasn’t going to persuade him otherwise, she agreed to go along.

  They made the short drive over to Mary’s neighborhood. Except for Cat Stevens playing softly on the eight-track player in my dad’s 1970 two-door, burgundy T-Bird, the car ride was silent. He drove slowly up the tree-lined street until he saw Ron and me playing in the front yard. He parked the car out of our sight, straining his neck and body to get a better view of us. He was overcome with a mixed bag of emotions: relief, after seeing firsthand that we were safe and sound; anger, that Sharon had sunk this low; fear, afraid of what the court would do; and helplessness, because he was told to do nothing.

  So he sat and waited—and waited and watched—until the sun set and we finally went inside.

  Monday came quickly, and it was time for Sharon to leave for work. She worked as a phlebotomist at a nearby hospital and leaves early in the morning, leaving Ron and me at her apartment with the housekeeper.

  It wasn’t too long before we heard the doorbell buzzing, in one long, incessant buzz. The sound startled all of us. We jumped up and ran to the door to see the buzzer culprit. The housekeeper pried open the apartment door, keeping us behind her firm grip. She locked eyes with my dad, who was banging on the outside door to be let inside. He needed to get past the main entrance to get to the second floor, where we are; he was so close.

  * * *

  The faint sounds of my father’s voice yelling, “Give me my kids back!” reverberate in the hall and in my mind.

  The housekeeper is an overweight African American woman who always wears white pantsuits. She smells like a mixture of cotton candy and BBQ and wears bright red lipstick, which always looks uneven.

  Ron and I muscle out from behind her, but she manages to hold us in her clutches at the top of the stairs as we watch my dad peer in through the glass door, which separates us.

  She shouts back, “I’m not going to let you in. Get out of here, or I’m calling the police!”

  My father quickly retorts, “Go right ahead!” He slams the court order against the door for her to see.

  “You better leave immediately. You are not supposed to be here!” she screams as her nails dig into my chest.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” Ron and I yell out in unison.

  Ron somehow wrestles himself away from her tight hold and runs downstairs to let my father into the building. My dad throws his arms around my brother and squeezes him tight, holding his firstborn’s face protectively in his hands and asks, “Are you okay?” He then motions for him to get inside the car, where Joan waits with open arms. Realizing my father isn’t leaving quietly, the housekeeper quickly pushed me back inside and tells me to hide until she comes for me.

  “Don’t move a muscle,” she orders.

  She slams the apartment door shut and locks it behind us. Ron, unable to contain his excitement, stands beside the Thunderbird with Joan, while my dad storms the building.

  I hear the housekeeper on the phone. She must be talking with my mom, because she is frantically repeating what is happening.

  “Ma’am, you need to get home now. I am really scared. Can you hear him yelling? If you don’t get here now, I am going to call the police and let them handle him!”

  I hear pounding at the door, and my dad yelling, “Give me my daughter now!”

  I don’t know what she is doing or where she is in the apartment, but it has nothing to do with letting my father in, as his yelling booms on and on.

  “I demand you open this door and give me my daughter!”

  And then his screams abruptly stop. There is a deafening silence.

  They left me, I think as I twist Dolly’s hair around my tiny fingers, still trying not to move a muscle.

  I can’t hear anything anymore, except some muffled sounds coming from outside the bedroom, where I am waiting. It’s so dark. A tiny shaft of light comes in through the slats of the closet door, where I am hiding.

  I peek through to see if I can see anyone. Nobody is there—only my mom’s kitty cat, sprawled out on the bed, without a care in the world.

  I sit quietly, and stoically, not making a move, not uttering a sound. I am behaving like a good girl—obedient and compliant—unwittingly cooperating with my own abduction.

  My mom is dating a police officer; he always refers to himself as “Officer Mike,” so that’s what we call him, too. My mom must have called him to come “handle my dad.”

  When Officer Mike arrives and tries to defuse the situation, he saunters up to my dad, with a stench of arrogance.

  “Sir, you need to leave the premises right now, or I’ll arrest you for trespassing.”

  When my dad flashes the court order giving him immediate custody of us, there is nothing Officer Mike can do except to oblige. He tells the housekeeper to step aside and help collect all our personal items.

  Next I hear the frantic screams of my mom, who is now home.

  “Put those clothes, those toys, down! Fred, you have no right to come into my home! Mike, I want you to arrest him right now!”

  “Sharon, I have a court order and I can’t interfere with the judge’s ruling. Look, it says it right here. He can take the kids home.”

  And then my dad is standing right in front of me. He finds me huddled on the floor of the closet in Sharon’s bedroom. I am crying, scared, and clinging to Dolly.

  “I was a good girl, daddy. I waited right here, like I was told. I didn’t move a muscle, daddy.”

  He picks me up and holds me in his arms, so tightly—a hug that I don’t think I ever felt again, until the day we would bury my brother nineteen years later.

  “I’m here now, Kimmy. It’s all going to be all right. Shh, it’s okay now.”

  Pushing my tangled hair, damp from my tears, back behind my ears, my dad strokes my face until a slight smile appeared. He softly kisses my forehead.

  “It’s okay, sweetie, we’re going home now,” he whispers in my ear.

  “Daddy, look! Dolly has a new dress. Do you like it?”

  He smiles and nods as he scoops me up, carrying me out of the apartment, passing Sharon, the housekeeper, and Officer Mike, my mom yelling “adult words” as the door slams behind us.

  * * *

  That day, my father rode in like a knight in shining armor. That day he became my hero for the rest of my life.

  My dad sought and won sole custody of us. Sharon agreed to the terms without much of a fight. She agreed to “let” my dad have us, if he agreed to pay her some arbitrary dollar amount, which would help pay down some of her bills.

  I guess that was all Ron and I were worth to her—just some outstanding debt.

  I never knew why Sharon took us. Maybe she was motivated by anger, or perhaps she just simply wanted to fuck with my dad, who was a far better parent, and she couldn’t stand to let him win.

  I would like to think she wanted us all to herself, and would do whatever it took to keep us together as a family. But that is the fantasy world I keep her in, to protect myself from the pain of her leaving.

  No matter what her motives were, I’ll never forget hearing my own mother tell me I was unloved and unwanted. Too bad she attached those feelings to the wrong parent.

  I have very few memories of her after that experience, and those I have are painful. I can recall only one birthday party that Sharon came to, in 1977.

  * * *

  Since my birthday is in the middle of winter, it seems fitting to have my party at an ice-skating rink. I am turning six years old, and I am more excited about the cake than anyth
ing else. I picked a Barbie doll cake, and it is the prettiest thing I have ever seen. The blond Barbie, whose entire “dress” is the actual cake, is mine to keep after we eat all around her.

  I am wearing a beautiful pink-and-gray sparkly wool dress, with my new patent leather black shoes and white tights. After my friends and I skate for a bit, it’s time to eat! The party is held in a big multipurpose room, lined with booths along the walls, with two long tables in the middle, where all my friends sit eating pizza and drinking soda. The cake is perfectly placed in the middle of the table, like a trophy. I am at the head of the table, with my brother right next to me.

  I feel so much like a princess today, especially since I just got my ears pierced a few days earlier as a birthday present from my dad and Joan. I notice my mom sitting in the corner booth with a friend. I leap from my seat and skip over to her to show her my new outfit and to point out my new earrings.

  “Mommy, Mommy, look!” I flash my gold-studded earrings, and an even bigger smile.

  In front of all my friends, she declares very loudly, “You know, Kimmy, I am not sure what you are thinking. Don’t you know your ears are going to fall off, because you got them pierced before you became a teenager? I can’t believe your father would let you do that, knowing your ears will fall off!”

  Totally startled by her words, I run away crying, straight into my father’s arms.

  * * *

  We had very intermittent visits and conversations over the next few years. I initiated calls and asked to see her; she would always hesitate, agree to a plan, and then, like clockwork, cancel. Sometimes, when I was feeling lonely, I prank called her, pretending I was from a survey company:

  “Hello, ma’am, I am calling from the Blackstone Survey group. Can I ask you a few questions today?”

  “Uh, sure, but I only have a few minutes. I have to go to work.”

  “Oh, where is it that you work?”

  “I work at a hospital. How can I help you?”

  “Okay, well, we are taking a survey about toothpaste. Children’s toothpaste, to be specific.

  Do you have kids, ma’am?”

  “Oh, no, I don’t.”

  “Uh, okay. Well, all my questions pertain to kids, so I guess I will try another time.”

  “No, don’t bother.”

  I usually suffered through these situations alone because Ron never wanted to know anything about my shenanigans or my random conversations with her. He never really said it out loud, but I knew he was still very angry at her for leaving us. He just shut himself off completely. He used to tell me that he wanted to keep her in his mind as a loving mother and was afraid that if he got too close to her again, then the disappointment would taint his image of her. I never understood that, which is why I suppose I endured the most direct blows from her.

  I kept thinking something had to change. I would somehow make my mommy love me. I would figure out a way to make her finally love me and want me.

  One summer when I was about eleven, I thought I succeeded. My dad registered Ron and me for a six-week “adventure” at a sleep-away wilderness camp in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan: Pine River Camp on Mackinac Island. At first, Ron and I weren’t happy at all—taken away from our friends for most of the summer, sleeping in cabins in sleeping bags, taking showers in the lake because there is no running water, cooking over an open fire because there is no electricity, and doing “wilderness stuff,” like hiking, kayaking, archery, sailing, and learning to survive outdoors. Ew.

  Really, Dad? This is what you think summer vacation is? Sheesh.

  Shortly before the first day of camp, I heard from Sharon. I was totally shocked when, after all this time, my mother offered to take me to lunch.

  * * *

  “I’ve been meaning to call you, anyway. There is something I want to discuss with you. Just us girls, okay?”

  She didn’t include Ron for lunch, which confuses me, saying it’s better this time if it’s only the two of us.

  Completely blinded with excitement, I agree.

  Ron has baseball practice, so he can’t come anyway, but I still don’t have the heart to tell him he isn’t invited. He mumbles something under his breath when I come bouncing into the family room, telling him about my lunch plans. He won’t look at me.

  I call my dad at work to make sure he knows where I am going and with whom. My dad is so supportive; he never speaks ill of her and always encourages me to reach out when I am feeling the desire to do so. He never rolls his eyes at my requests, and never says, “I told you so” when she doesn’t respond the way I had hoped. He just lets me talk or cry, and tells me that he is proud of me for being so mature and so strong. It always ends in a hug and a kiss, and the words, “I love you, pumpkin.”

  My mom pulls up about an hour later. Ron leaves the house minutes before she gets there. He doesn’t say much to me as he strolls past, except, “Have fun.” I don’t think he really means it.

  I feel bad for him, and I hate seeing him upset. I hope he isn’t mad at me, because I hate that too.

  I plant myself on the front steps of our two-story house, nestled in Buffalo Grove, a northwest suburb of Chicago, in anticipation of her arrival. We live at the end of a cul-de-sac, so I can see if she is coming before she actually turns onto our street. As soon as I see her brown Camaro, I run down to the driveway to meet her. She gets out of the car, gives me a slight hug, and then pushes me back to scrutinize my outfit.

  “Kimmy, what are you wearing? Those shorts are way too short for you. You look like a slut.” I look down at my shorts. They are my brother’s hand–me-down jeans, cut off at the legs to make shorts. I am wearing a white tank top and Keds. I think I look cute.

  Ignoring her comment, I jump inside the car, wiping gum wrappers off the front seat. Her car smells of Wrigley’s Spearmint gum, cigarette smoke, and her perfume, musk. Oddly, it smells kinda nice to me.

  It’s a ten-minute drive to our lunch spot. We don’t talk that much. I am pretty shy, but inside I am bursting. My mother keeps staring at me, but I wish she would pay attention to the road. She doesn’t have much to say, but when she does, she comments on how beautiful I am becoming and how much I look like her. I relish those moments. I don’t get to see her that often, so the fact that she thought I looked like her made me feel so good inside. I smile and proudly reply, “Thank you!” I am not sure I even resemble her too much, other than the fact that we both have red hair, but I’m so happy to hear the words that my mom thinks I am beautiful. They nurture my heart.

  Over a mustard-covered hot dog at a nearby restaurant, my mom begins to tell me a secret that I keep with me for the entire six weeks that Ron and I are at camp.

  “Mommies and daughters belong together,” she informs me.

  She continues, “When you return from camp, I am going to take you home with me. I have always loved you more than your brother. It’ll be fun, just us two girls.” She explains to me that Ronny is a problem child and she is going to suggest to my dad that he needs to be in a boarding school. She keeps repeating that she wants me to live with her full time, and she will let my father “deal with Ronny.”

  As she pulls up to my house, she reminds me not to say anything to anyone until I get back from camp. Of course I agree to the terms: I don’t want to give her any reason not to love me. (I learned later in my life that she had suggested splitting Ron and me up when we were little kids and my father vehemently opposed the idea.)

  I leave our lunch so excited that we got to spend an entire hour together. I’m on an emotional high, but I have an awful feeling in my stomach that I’ve done something wrong. I can’t tell anyone we had a good lunch, because I’m a terrible liar and I’m afraid I’d spill the beans. Yet I’m confused about what to do. I feel so torn.

  Do I leave my father, my hero, who fought for me when my mother didn’t want me? How do I leave Ron behind, knowing that she didn’t want him? What will happen if she convinces my dad to send him to boarding school?
Will I ever see him again? How will my dad manage without his kids? Do I break the Three Musketeers’ pact we have?

  But what about the “secret” my mother told me—that mommies and daughters are supposed to be together? She trusts me with this information. How can I disappoint my mommy? She wants me! She finally wants me! How can I walk away from a chance to have a full-time mother? I don’t want to disappoint this woman whom I have desperately wanted to love me for years. Will this be my only chance to make her love me?

  * * *

  I go to camp thinking that being sequestered on an island with a bunch of pimply strangers from across the country—with no TV, no makeup, no Atari, no friends, none of the luxuries of home—sounded horrible. But after a few weeks, I realize that I am having a ball! While my friends back home are climbing the walls of boredom, I am climbing trees and zip-lining across the island. I am learning how to whittle wood, read a compass, start a campfire, survive on an island by eating particular berries and plants, or by catching and cooking a snake. I learn how to shoot a rifle, tie a slipknot, save myself if I ever capsize in a boat or canoe and, most importantly, to embrace nature. I witness the extraordinary beauty of the Northern Lights, watch my brother “fall in love” for the first time (as I develop my first crush on Counselor Dan), and peed more times than I care to count in the lake and the outhouse, which has a moon and star carved in the door.

  It is the most incredible experience of my young life. I am learning so much about myself, the outdoors, friendships, and about simplicity. I just wish that when I go to sleep each night, that those are the only thoughts to lull me to sleep rather than the panic that overcomes me. I fear that in just a few short weeks, I could rip my family apart.

  The intense emotions that I keep tucked away, along with the lack of sleep and the layers of filth that covered my body and clothes, finally get the best of me. When I step out of the car into our driveway, and back into the comfort of my room and the safety of my dad’s arms, I break down in tears and tell him everything.