Dark Night
Short Story
Cathy English
Sometimes a single day that begins like every other suddenly evolves
into a series of events that forever define us. On July 17th, life's
bulldozer rolled into my world and razed my life to the ground making way
for a new foundation.
It was my brother, John's, 18th birthday. He'd just graduated from
high school and was preparing to enter the U.S. Army. I was 11 years old.
I began my day like all the others, waking before 7 AM and immediately
making coffee for my parents. I took both cups into my parents bedroom
where I lay them on their side tables and woke them. I d done this
since I was 8 years old (being a tiny child, I stood on a stool to reach
the stove). After serving my parents their coffee, I continued on with
the things that made up my child's life. This was South Florida and it
rapidly grew hot. Coming from a large, boisterous family of 6 children,
things were nearly always tumultuous. There was little peace to be
found inside the walls of our home. Though everyday living included its
share of laughter, screaming matches, beatings, and constant threats
were a given; I knew nothing else. And so, I cherished being alone in the
cool quiet of the early mornings. Seeking tranquility, I walked the
peaceful 2 blocks to the canal with fishing pole and bread in hand and
high hopes of catching the small bass that were so prevalent there. I
sang every song I knew while feeding and petting the ducks. I was a
familiar face to them.
After a successful morning of fishing and completing my daily chores, I
found a friend to play with and was out of the house until
mid-afternoon. After playing on that blistering, July afternoon, I went home
determined to give my mom a hand with party preparations. I found Mom,
plump and matronly, wearing an apron, working in the kitchen. Food
covered every surface in an array of happy colors. The intermingling smells
made me smile and smile. This was going to be quite the party! Her
Irish cheeks were flushed as she stood watch over a roaring blender.
Something frothy-pink swirled in that blender. When it finally stopped
its overwhelming, whirring roar, I asked her what she was making. She
grinned and answered brightly, Strawberry Daiquiris! I had no idea
what that was. Mixed drinks and cocktails were new in our home, recently
introduced. Whiskey and beer (which she bought 2 cases of weekly) had
always been the beverages of choice. She said, I'm learning how to
make them just right. She then took a deep swallow and declared that
this one was Close, but not quite. On to more experimenting! I left
her to it, the noisy blender a sledgehammer on my ears.
I was excited about this party. Every party we d had in the past had
only been with family and very close friends. This one was different,
set apart from the rest in that my brother's friends and their parents
were coming. My big brother was very special to me, though he was
pretty tough and was many times flat mean to those weaker than he. He was
an enigma and I found him fascinating. And so this occasion, this party
before his leaving to serve in the army and perhaps going off to war in
some strange land made me sad. It was an exciting, yet bittersweet
event.
The guests arrived in their finery that evening. John's girlfriend,
Michelle, arrived with her parents. She was tall and womanly with
frosted hair, a large nose, and giant blue eyes played up with lots of bright
blue makeup. I thought she was beautiful. The tables were laden with
food with a mass of people cheerfully eating, drinking, and visiting.
Every once in a while, the noise of the music and people would reach a
crescendo and I would go into my room and shut the door seeking refuge
from the cacophony of sound. Everyone was bigger than I, and so
whenever I wandered back out I stood on the periphery observing the
festivities. Everything looked well in the house full of happy people, eating
and drinking, talking and laughing over the music.
At some point while in my room, the party noises seemed to grow louder,
more than an easy, happy sound. The laughter had somehow changed. My
interest was piqued. I came out to see . . .
At first, I couldn't make out the reason for all the hysterical
laughter or the rise in energy. There were possibly 30 people milling around
our dining table. I stood in the parlor, apart from everyone. My eyes
fell on Michelle, her blue eyes huge as she stared at what was on our
table. The blaring music and uproarious laughter confused me.
Everything was too bright. In that moment, the area around me seemed to darken
and the sound dulled. It felt as though I stood alone in a dim
cylindrical spotlight as my eyes panned over to the garishly lit table.
There, my mother stood with my aunt. They were holding onto one another,
hilariously laughing while everyone below was smiling and laughing up at
them. My mother was carrying something in her hands (the blender
filled with strawberry daiquiri), drinking from it. As they held onto each
other, they began a slow dance together, both faces split in wide
smiles, spilling into laughter, eyes bright. I didn't understand. I looked
at the smiling adult faces. I felt uneasy, but didn't know why. This
was all just good fun, right? As I looked around my eyes fell on my
brother, who, like I, was standing away from the rest. He stood alone in
his own dim spotlight. He turned and looked me in the eyes, horror
written on his face. I didn't know what was going on! However, I knew
that it was something awful to have placed such a look on his tough guy
face. He understood something that I had somehow not yet grasped. I
could feel his humiliation, but without understanding! I lowered my
eyes, my insides churning, confused, afraid, sick. The sound of insane
laughter followed me as I slowly walked back to my bedroom and sadly
shut the door. They were all laughing at my brother's party while he was
humiliated and horrified!! I remained in my room after that, hiding.
I lay alone on my bed as the music and the ebb and flow of conversation
and laughter filtered in, my brother's face ever before me. I
eventually fell asleep none the wiser as to what had happened, but I was very
afraid.
The next morning entered like most other July, Florida mornings: sunny
and humid. My father went off to work, but Mom had slept in. Around
10 AM I became concerned for my mother. I grabbed up my two younger
siblings and we jumped into Mom's bed. A child who didn't know how to say,
You made me afraid, and who masked her deep fear with a smile that
meant, Please make it all right, cheerfully cried, Wake up, Mom! Man!
You were so funny last night! And Mom then spoke words that still
remain with me: Tell me everything I did yesterday. Every detail. I
was confused. I tried to keep that little girl smile on my face. Oh,
come on! You know! Mom ordered my siblings out of her room, looked at
me in complete seriousness and said, Cathy, tell me everything I did
from when you first woke me until you went to bed. I don't remember any
of it. I lay there on my stomach, propped up on my elbows facing her
in complete shock. The smile fled from my face. Confusion supplanted
it. Fear overwhelmed my heart. I did NOT understand. I unwillingly
gave her a blow-by-blow of the entire day. When I got to the dancing on
the table part, her face blanched. She became agitated. By watching
my mother's candid reaction, I instantly understood that my brother was
right to have been horrified. My mother was horrified. But, how she
could have forgotten it all? How does someone lose a whole day?!
Things were subdued around our house the day after my brother's party.
That event became an elephant in the room that no one has ever spoken
of. Shortly thereafter, my brother entered the army eventually rising
to Sergeant Major and retiring. And I no longer lived in childish
oblivion. The knowledge that had been foisted on me inevitably led to
intermittent deep depressions that occasionally plagued me throughout my
junior high years. No one ever knew. I had always been a sensitive and
observant child and now possessed certain knowledge, but without
understanding the why of the event. There was no one to give me insight.
A little less than two years later, my mother admitted she was an
alcoholic. She'd decided that she would attempt sobriety rather than
suicide. My father, who I depended on and adored, had left on a business
cruise, leaving her behind. He'd told her that she couldn't accompany him
because her drinking had gotten completely out of control and he was
too ashamed to bring her along. (I didn't know this at that time; Mom
told me this privately years later.) With my father unavailable, her
nightmare unfolded before me. I watched helplessly from the sidelines for
days on end as she went through severe withdrawals from pills and
alcohol, shaking, ill, and incoherent. Strangers were in and out of our
home at all hours as my siblings and I wandered dazed, confused, and
nearly forgotten. No one gave me a good answer to alleviate the fear.
Nothing had prepared me for this. I wasn't quite 13 years old.
When my mom finished her withdrawals and began her recovery, home life
became peaceful for the first time in my life. The daily physical
violence that had been a staple in our home vanished. The nightly dinner
table screaming matches abruptly ended. Peace pervaded. However, after
becoming sober, it became apparent that Mom had severe cardiovascular
problems and required open-heart surgery. She experienced serious
health problems for the rest of her life.
Despite Mom's ongoing poor health, home had become a new and wonderful
place! We played together, laughed together, and for the first time in
the history of our family, we took a 2-week holiday away from home. A
fledgling hope for a peaceful future began to grow in my heart. Then
one morning, without warning, before leaving for school (I was a
freshman in high school), my mom sat down and told my sister and me what
forever changed me. On that day, the destruction of all of our lives began
with one simple statement. She said, Today your father is being
served a restraining order. I've filed for divorce. I adored my father!
Her declaration devastated all that was good in my life. For the very
first time in my life, I experienced an all encompassing loathing for
another person and a deep sense of betrayal that has never been
eclipsed. She saw this clearly and questioned me, You hate me, don't you? I
couldn't speak. I decisively nodded my head once down, once up, and
then spun on my heel and left. This event molded me in ways that could
not have otherwise occurred. Although I despised my mother during that
time, her need of my help (she was very ill) and my need to feel
significant eventually brought her back into my good graces. I began to love
and trust her in ways I hadn't before. My father moved out and I cared
for my younger siblings and my ailing mother for nearly two years, all
the while maintaining a 4.0 average and singing in a band. However,
one afternoon after school, when I was 15, I entered an abandoned house.
Mom wasn't there. She'd left no note, never came home, and never
called. Another betrayal . . . I continued to look after my siblings and
maintain the household as I had been doing. When we finally ran out of
food, I notified my father of our situation. He moved in, rescuing us.
However, he moved home with his girlfriend who had a special brand of
dislike for me. She was admittedly jealous of the closeness my father
and I had always enjoyed. She put real effort into making my life a
living hell. My father did not protect me, seeking peace at my expense.
I eventually became discouraged and began making the classic
destructive choices that teenagers who are emotionally abandoned make. However,
that is another story...
Given a choice, I would not change most of my life experiences. The
only things I'm certain I'd change are those times when I hurt or
discouraged others, especially those I'm responsible for or who depend on me.
My painful experiences put me in places that made me want to become
someone I could like and respect. They eventually created an
understanding, patient, and compassionate heart that I wouldn't otherwise possess.
Life's challenges and abuses mold us. We either become insensitive,
jaded, and self-centered, forever victims with a chip on our shoulders OR
we choose to do the hard work and become stronger with sensitivity. We
become balanced.
I've made some poor choices throughout this life and have done things
that I'm ashamed of. There are no good excuses for this. But, life's
painful experiences lead me to ask what seems a most important question:
When it's all said and done, have I become someone of worth to others
despite and because of my experiences? or did I squander this gift of
life, leaving the road behind me a wasteland strewn with pain,
disillusionment, and destruction?
In the end, Mom was my best friend.
Dark Night© COPYRIGHT 2005 Cathy English.
Reproduction prohibited without permission from the author.
03/14/05
