Chapter Four: The Beginning

It was the August before the 5th grade. I was on the eve of transferring to a new school. I knew I would face the challenges of succeeding in the more difficult G/T curriculum as well as making new friends. However, my worries soon dissolved in the shadow of more pressing concerns.

I vividly recall it was a humid day, and some of those late-summer thunderclouds were rolling low over the mountains from the west. The rain was violently pelting the ground by early afternoon, and I could tell my parents were having some issues. My father had been spending less and less time at the house. When he was home, I could hear him and my mother arguing through the floors more and more.

That day, during a particularly intense confrontation, I could hear the loud steps of aggressive footsteps. My parents voices penetrated the paper-thin walls and floors of my house, and eventually, my impressionable young mind. My mom began yelling for me to call the police. I ran upstairs, and one of the doors in the hallway looked like it had been knocked off its hinges. My mom emerged from the broken door, and was sure to position herself so that I was between her and my dad. It seemed like I'd interrupted right before their argument reached critical mass. By then they were both too ashamed to continue fighting. I shuddered to think what might have happened, had I not responded to my mom's cries.

I was ignorant of why a married couple would ever fight like that. I was typically confused, wondering whether it was my fault, or what I could do to make it all stop. Through my sobs, I yelled at both of them, chastising their heartbreaking behavior. Couldn't they stop and look at themselves?

They didn't realize how much they were hurting my sister and I. I couldn't be around them, so I bolted out the front door. I'd take the chills from the rain over the chills their arguing gave me any day. I walked around the local neighborhoods for a few hours, uncertain of the short and long term future. Eventually, with little else to do, the prospects of using the bathroom outside for much longer drove me back to the house. In my absence an artificial peace had fallen over things. My parents were able to put their issues temporarily aside for my sister and I, but irreparable damage had been done.

I feel there's strong evidence that this could have been the start of my mom's decline in emotional and mental health. I don't know if it is simply general poor memory of my life before this point, but it seems to me that something in my mom cracked during this time. Perhaps some deeply repressed childhood trauma had emerged from the shock of the situation. I don't think I'll ever know for sure.

It became clear in the weeks that followed that my dad would be moving out of the house. I begged and begged for both parents to reconsider. But according to both of them the separation was something that "had to be done."

As my mother, my sister, and I adjusted to life without my father, my mom very rapidly ascended to new heights of neuroticism and possessiveness. She began calling my dad on his cell during the evening hours, and quite often at that. When my Dad didn't pick up, my mom took matters into her own hands.

She would pack my sister and I into the car, and we'd drive around to the local bars, specifically the ones my dad liked to frequent. My mom didn't even try to disguise what she was doing. She'd say, "Let's go see if dad is at the Bungalow."

We would scan the parking lot for my dad's unmistakable red F-150 with the ladder rack on top. When we found it, my mom would lay her trap. She would send me into whatever bar, and have me ask my dad something innocent like, "We want to know if you're stopping by the house tonight." Although it probably should have been phrased as "Mom wants to know..."

From the moment I walked into these places, I knew I didn't belong. Not only was I well below the required age of twenty one, I was usually the only person there under thirty. It never occurred to me that I was only there to make my dad look like an irresponsible father. To make him feel sorry for going out while his 'wife' and children stayed home.

These kind of stakeouts became a regular occurrence.

Looking back, I get so frustrated thinking about how my mom used me for her own political ends. My dad was a fully grown man, legally separated from my mom. Further, my mom had requested custody of my sister and I, yet she was still trying to pass the burden of remorse onto my dad.

I've since talked to my dad about what happened. He told me when him and my mom first split up, he was heartbroken. I guess he might have turned to bars to be around friends, and numb the pain with some beers. My mom made it clear that she saw his outings as him shedding his familial responsibilities so he could get drunk and test the forty plus singles market. It was probably somewhere between the two, but I can't judge my father either way.

Neither of my parents have ever acquiesced to tell the whole story, but over the years my own detective work has shed some light on the specific details of my parents' break up. From letters and legal documents I learned what caused the fight in question, the one that left more things broken than just a hallway door.

One letter particularly struck me. It was written by my dad, addressed to my mom. Evidently, my mom had taken several hundred dollars of my dad's cash so she could go shopping for herself. He articulated that he had been saving that money, and intended to use it to get my sister and I nice school clothes. I could feel the anger in my fathers words, and I shared every ounce of it. Her betrayal trespassed on material and moral principle. This was the kind of stuff that belonged on a TV, on Jerry Springer, not in my life - past or present.

I guess you could stay this was the start of it, of everything. So God damn it, thanks, mom.