| I was walking back from school to the block where I lived. Not going home, but to the neighbor's house where I had been staying for the past week. Mom and dad were in Chicago in search of my mother's birth mom. She had been given up in 1941 from a young woman who made a mistake. Details were to be found out later. This day would change the rest of my childhood, and life. I remember turning the corner of our nice, tree lined, upper class street. The houses perfectly manicured, shuttered windows, little tombs of faux perfection. But overall it was a good day. Sunny, warm, light breeze... a typical LA winter. As I made my way toward my temporary home, I noticed my father's car near our house. They were home! I was thrilled.
As I approached, I could see my mother's head was down, face in hands. They were just stopped there, car parked in the middle of the street. An uneasy feeling came over me, but at 9 it is hard to distinguish the what and where of emotions. Something wasn't right.
At the car, the feelings were confirmed. Dad rolled down the window. He explained that they would give us all the details of their trip later, go to the neighbor's, he would come by later. Don't worry, everything is ok. But you could see it was not.
That night would be the first of many that I would see my mother in a semi unconscious state.
The day before they went to find Lois (birth mother), my grandmother (adoptive mother)disowned my mother, made her feelings about the situation quite clear. She would have none of this.
It was later explained that their time in Chicago was spent like this: Heading into a rather sketchy area of Chicago, they now had the address and the nerve. At that time, in the seventies, it was, apparently, quite popular to rob people in this manner... While driving down the street at night you turn off your headlights, and head straight towards the oncoming car. When they swerve and pull over, you go in and rob them. The lights went out, they swerved, and anticlimactically they kept going. I mention this only because it was a detail that intrigued me quite a bit. They arrived at a tall east coast tenement. Dilapidated, generic. They made their way up 20 flights (elevator broken), through feces, vomit and garbage. Upon reaching the apartment, mom hesitated then knocked on the door. It opened slightly, chain still on the inside, and a woman gruffly asked who is it. Mom saw a figure and a hint of red hair hiding behind the door. When she explained that it was her daughter, Lois started screaming for her to get out of there, and that if she tried to come in she would kill her with a meat cleaver. Mom tried to get in, but the door was slammed and that was the end of the encounter with the birth mother.
And it was the end of my mother as I knew her up to that point.
When I came home from the neighbors it was very apparent that my mom had been drinking. She stayed in her room while my father explained the situation, then we were allowed to go in one by one and see her. She was lying on her bed, tears in her eyes, staring off. I told her how sorry I was. That she didn't deserve this. At 9 it is sometimes hard to find the right thing to say. That one thing that will take it all away.
I guess that is true of any age.
The drinking continued. She stayed in her room mostly, but as the hours went on the feeling in the house began to change. When she did come out there was a tension and anger that was palpable and I think we all knew to stay the hell away. Of course then came the fight between Mom and Dad. Dad trying to keep her at bay, Mom pushing like a football player against a blocking shield.
When the parents began to fight I was sent to listen outside of wherever they were, then report back to my two older sisters. Dutifully I did just that. Mom was screaming that there was no way Dad could understand this pain. She pushed and pushed until finally he left the room. A while later I noticed that the lights were out in her room, so I thought I would go peek in and see if she was ok.
When I walked to the door I could see her lying in bed, her nightgown pulled up close to her waist and no underwear. Her foot was shaking violently and she began moaning incoherantly and rolling back and forth. I didn't know what was happening, but I knew something was very, very wrong. I stood there in shock, just watching. I began to cry and ran to my father screaming that mom is dying.
He tried calming me down, and explained to me that she was ok, but she had been through a lot. It was going to take time for her to get over this.
26 years and counting. I don't think you can ever truly heal from that kind of rejection. That was the start of the end. |
