“Child, I don’t even know where to start.” I stammered. Her question as much a surprise to me as her showing up on my doorstep almost twenty years after her momma and I parted ways. It’s an awkward moment, and I need to catch my senses. Lord knows I don’t have much in that area and what I do have is fairly illusive.
Becky didn’t ask what happened between her mom and me; that would have been difficult enough to discuss with this twenty-nine year old apparition from my past. Nor did she query as to what I’d been up to in the years since her mother and I went our separate ways. No, her question was simple and to the point; and boy-oh-boy was I going to have a hard time answering.
“Was I abused as a child?”
I suppose for the sake of clarification I should start from the beginning. You see her mom, Charlene, and I met in eighth grade. Awkward and standoffish with each other at first, by the end of the school year we were inseparable. She was my best friend, I hers.
Charlene and I were like conjoined twins from that summer after eighth grade all through high school. Inseparable. We learned to drive together, smoked our first joint together, spent years talking about sex, imagining what that was all about before actually giving in to our first boyfriends, then trying to out-compete each other in belt notches. I never quite understood the attraction men had for Charlene, but they were certainly drawn to her. To me, she had sort of a horse face, similar to Prince Charles. Actually, that is whom she resembled, except she had long black hair – I mean really long. She could sit on it. She had a big nose, too. Tall – she was 5’8” – had that going for her as well. Oh. And really big tits. Yeah. Guys were really drawn to her.
On a night out together it was guaranteed she’d get hit on five or six times. Occasionally a guy would say hello to me, as he waited in line for a chance to speak to her. It was annoying. Now, I wasn’t the ugly girlfriend by any means. But at 5’1” with short strawberry blonde hair (leaning more towards strawberry), at least five hundred thousand freckles - and that was just my face - with full pouty lips, I seemed to be overlooked more than looked over. And no boobs. Size B with room to spare. My fate in life, although I never understood the big deal with big hooters.
We settled down a bit as we hit our twenties. I got married to Max and had a daughter we named Abby. Charlene found a roommate and got a dog. That’s where the first signs of trouble started. Max and I often took that poor mutt into our care. He was just a scrawny mix of a dog – looked like sheltie and some amount of terrier. His name was Peanut Butter, ‘cause that’s what his color looked like. Oh, he was the sweetest little guy, always happy to see you, waggin’ half his body this way and that way, all around to greet you. Until he’d been around Charlene a couple months.
I noticed the change. He’d become withdrawn and would huddle in the corner. The first time I witnesses Charlene explode and kick him across the room I was utterly speechless.
“What the hell did you do that for?” I hollered at her when I finally overcame the shock.
“I’m just sick of that dog pissing on the floor!” She wailed.
“Well, hell, Charlene, what do you expect? You’ve left him locked up in the house all day. That’s not fair. Damn. Let me take him if you don’t want him, for crissake.”
She settled down, finally confiding in me what was really bothering her. She was having a difficult time with a supervisor at work. Apparently he wasn’t happy with her output on the bank data-entry machine, and she’d been written up for being too slow.
“I do the best I can, but sitting at that machine all day makes my wrist and back sore. I need a job that pays better, too. I barely make enough to cover rent and my car payment let alone food!” She moaned.
I noticed she had on a brand new pair of boots and there were shopping bags on her bed.
“Well, don’t take it out on Peanut.” I warned.
We sort of settled back into the same routine, and from what I could tell she wasn’t mistreating the little dog. At least I didn’t think so. We’d hang out once in a while, go to the bar for a few drinks, shoot some pool. Usually she’d just come over to my house to watch movies and slam tequila shots with me. Max was always amused at our drinking competitions and I begged him the following mornings to never let me do it again.
But witnessing that side of my friend changed our dynamic and we were never really the same. She was harsh with her dog, and he still reserved, but I didn’t see her hit him again for several months.
One night we had a few (one, two, maybe eight) too many to drinks and my dear sweet husband came to the bar and picked us up. I insisted in walking – staggering – Charlene into her house. As she unlocked the door, Peanut came running up and she kicked him hard enough that he bounced off the wall.
I sobered up instantly, and hauled off and punched her in the mouth.
“Fuck!” I roared. Now, that was brilliant, I thought. Fighting violence with violence. “You want something to kick,” I looked down at her lying on the floor, hand on her mouth, “then come fight me. I’m taking your dog, don’t ask for him back. And don’t ever have children if you can’t even take care of a dog!”
Peanut Butter became my dog that night, and I avoided Charlene for over two years. I was furious with her, and did not have it in my heart to forgive her.
Tragedy brought us back together. My beloved husband, best friend, lover, and father of my child was struck and killed on his way home from work riding his motorcycle. My world was torn to shreds, as I tried to sweep up my scattered life and pull the pieces back together. Charlene was at my side within an hour of hearing about Max. She helped me notify family and friends. She arranged the funeral, I was simply too numb. She kept me from going insane with grief and helped with my daughter, who had just turned five.
If it hadn’t been for Charlene, I don’t know how I would have managed the next six months. She was my crutch, my pillar. Peanut didn’t like having her around, but Charlene treated him as she would any other person’s dog – not as hers. My daughter adored her and I asked Charlene to be my roommate while I got my life under control. I’d received insurance settlements and decided to return to college. Charlene worked swing shift, so she could watch Abby in the morning then drop her off at my mom’s until I got out of class. It was a good arrangement and worked well for all of us. For her part of the deal I let her live in my house rent-free.
School was tough, but I was determined to finish up what I’d started before Max and I married. I only had two years to go in order to complete the required courses for my teaching credentials.
It was towards the end of my first year at school that Charlene got pregnant. Unfortunately, the father was a married co-worker and the situation got pretty ugly for her at work, understandably so. According to Charlene the guy had befriended her, bringing her into his confidence about how his wife didn’t understand him…. Oh lordy I couldn’t believe she fell for that crap… and then he swore he’d get a divorce as soon as he could save up the money, blah blah blah. Needless to say, he denied everything, said she was crazy as a loon, he was a happily married man, and had never laid a hand on her.
She was fired.
Charlene went on welfare while I continued my courses. She moaned and groaned throughout her pregnancy, wailing about the unfairness of it all, that HE should have been fired, too. It gave me a headache.
She started to spiral downhill, always feeling sorry for herself. I finally had to have a heart-to-heart with her about what it meant to be a good mommie for her unborn, and it was my turn to help her pull herself together for the big event.
And right on time, it happened nine months later. Little Becky came screaming like a banshee into our little family unit, and that baby didn’t stop screeching for five months. Colicky, squirmy, a very unhappy little babe. Charlene did not take to motherhood well and I started noticing the similar stress signs she’d displayed with Peanut.
I walked into the house one afternoon to find my friend screaming at the top of her lungs into her child’s face.
“Shut up shut up shut up!” She screeched.
“Whoa – Charlene – stop right there!”
“She won’t quit screaming and crying!”
“Well no shit Sherlock! Look at what she has as a model! Damn, Charlene, kids pick up the energy of their parents. You have got to learn to cool off, I’m not going to expose Abby to your behavior and I’m not going to tolerate you screaming into that baby’s face!” I had picked up Becky, who immediately quieted.
I cooed and chattered with the baby while Charlene moaned and groaned about how unfair life was for her. As I listened I puttered through the house picking up the dirty towels, baby bottles, food jars, tennis shoes, and whatever else she had tossed on the floor, chair, or nearest landing spot.
I sympathized. I knew she was having a tough time of it, adapting to motherhood, relinquishing her freedom and all. And she had been my rock – and damn it - I needed to be hers. Usually after I barked at her she settled into moderately good behavior for a while.
When Becky was three months old, Charlene went back to work. Thanks to her data-entry skills and a work program through the welfare system, she was able to start at another bank. She definitely was not happy that her paycheck was considerably less than what she could get on welfare, but I helped convince her to stick with it.
“But I can stay home with the kids and make more money!” She groused.
“Yeah, and you’d be a miserable raging bitch all the time. I’ve taken a vow of peace, I can’t slug you any more to knock sense into you.” We chided with each other periodically about our past altercation. She laughed.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Within a few weeks of having returned to work, she “fell in love”. Within a month of her plunge, she moved in with Jared. He was on ‘disability’ because he’d ‘hurt his back’, but was expecting a ‘large settlement’ from the company.
Uh-huh.
I’d heard this was the third time Jared had ‘hurt’ something and ‘expected a settlement’. And they spent this anticipated money as though it were sitting in the bank, not stored in a Monopoly game.
They had a nice little house Jared inherited from his mother, and so far he’d had enough sense not to mortgage it to the hilt. It was a comfortable three bedroom 1940’s bungalow. One of the nice features was a separate laundry room behind the kitchen. I’d always wanted a laundry room, instead of the washer and dryer in the garage. Who ever came up with that brilliant concept?
After they’d been living together for a few months, I went over for a visit. The wall of ammonia hit me like smelling salts when I walked through the front door. I tried to maintain my composure and keep from gagging. It only got worse as I followed her into the kitchen.
“Come sit and visit in the kitchen. I’ve sort of neglected doing laundry, and need to throw some clothes in the wash so I have something to wear tomorrow.”
‘Neglected doing laundry?’ I wondered. I think I’d call it more a dereliction of duties. I could see into the little laundry room, but not its floor from the stack, and I mean knee deep, of dirty clothes – which also consisted of dirty diapers. Between the ammonia of rancid pee and the moldy smell of damp towels, it was all I could do not to vomit.
I high tailed it out of there after thirty or forty minutes of eye-watering nose-searing fumigation.
It wasn’t solely the laundry. There wasn’t a clean pot, pan, plate, spoon, or fork in that house. Every piece was food crusted and sitting on the counter, stove top, or piled high in the sink. Now, I’m no Mrs. Good Housekeeping myself, but I don’t grow dustbunnies the size of Texas tumbleweeds. Nor do I let the mung grow to swamp-like conditions in my toilet.
I was very concerned about the physical health of Becky as well as the mental health of my friend. I wasn’t sure what to do or whom to ask, but I did what I thought was right. I spoke with Charlene’s parents and siblings. I spoke with our shared physician. I spoke with Children’s Protective Services. No one either wanted to or could do anything.
I took Becky into my home as often as I could. Sometimes that child stayed with me for three, maybe four weeks at a time. I even paid for her childcare out of my own pocket (although I have to admit I got a substantial break on the price since Mrs. Leonard was a close friend of my mom and knew of Becky’s circumstances). Charlene and I remained cordial, but friends go through phases. I still loved her; I just didn’t like her much.
I avoided her home as much as possible. It should have been condemned; it was literally a health hazard.
“Char. When was the last time you washed your freaking dishes?”
“I wash them every day, as I use them.”
“Char. You can’t let the mold and mildew take over the bathroom. Come on, it’s going to make you all sick!”
“I know, I know. I just don’t have time! I work all day and when I get home I’m so tired! I don’t have the energy to do anything around here.”
“What about Jared?”
“He works construction. He’s more tired than I am. Hell, we barely have enough energy to screw any more. It’s slam bam thank you ma’am, and I’m too tired to care!”
Surprisingly, Jared had owned up to his responsibility as a husband and ‘dad’ to Becky and had actually kept a job for over a year.
“Why are you so tired? Maybe your sick because of all this disease you live in.”
“Lay off! You don’t know what it’s like!”
I was tired of harping on her, so I dropped it.
Our situation remained the same over the next few years. I kept Becky with me throughout Christmas, summer, and spring vacations as well as intermittently for weeks at a time. I tried to bring some sense of stability and consistency in Becky’s life, but that was only when she was with me. Charlene was a deplorable mother. When we were all together, it was apparent Becky was neglected. The child didn’t show signs of physical abuse, but the mental abuse was horrid. Her mother never had kind words; they were always harsh and critical. The first words out of that baby’s mouth were “No! No! No!” There was no nurturing, instead Char pushed the child away because she was ‘too tired’, ‘in the middle of something’, or ‘too busy’. The statement that pissed me off the most was “Can’t you see I’m watching tv? Please get out of my way!”
However, I knew I walked a thin line with Char. If I pushed her buttons too far, she could simply exclude me from Becky’s life. I wanted to adopt her, or at least become her foster mother. Once again I spoke with family members and CPS, but to no avail. And Char always laughed and told me I was nuts when I broached the topic of taking in her child, even when I tried to make her understand I was serious.
When Becky was six, Char and Jared split. They’d never married, and she was unceremoniously tossed from the house. Of course, I let her move in with me “until she could get on her feet”. Huge mistake.
Jared wouldn’t let Char in the house to pick up her belongings, so I had to do it.
“I know I’m being an asshole. I just can’t stand the way she treats her kid. I want kids of my own someday and there is no way she will be their mother.”
“Did you ever say anything about the way she treats Becky?” I inquired.
“No, wasn’t my place. Her kid. Hell, most of the time the kid’s with you anyway.” He said.
“Does she know why you made her leave?” I was incredulous of the way he dealt with the problem.
“No, just couldn’t take it any more.” He looked at me, took a long pull on his beer, our eyes locked, he shook his head. “I just couldn’t take no more of her shit.”
I never told Charlene what Jared had said, I was afraid she’d take it out on Becky. I don’t know, maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should of told her exactly what Jared said to me. But I didn’t. Honest to God, the woman thought she was a pretty good mom, to hear her tell it.
Bedtime for the first three weeks was unbearable. Previous to Char moving in, I had a system. Thirty minutes before lights out I would always lay down with the girls (they had different bed times) and read a story of their choice. As they got older sometimes they would read to me, but it was our special ‘quiet’ time. Then I played a cassette tape (that’s what we had then) of peaceful music for them to fall asleep with. Worked like a charm. No fussin’ no fighin’.
Char, on the other hand, would announce, “Becky! Go to bed!”
The child would ignore her mother’s request until Char was in a rage.
“Goddamit I said go to bed! Go now!” She’d bellow.
Of course, Becky would begin to cry, and that made matters worse. Char would yell louder and Becky would cry harder. For two hours. Every single night. It wears on a person.
I didn’t want to interfere with the mother – daughter relationship, but this was not working. Like Jared, I’d had enough.
“Char, just shut up and leave bedtime to me, alright?” My exasperated voice said it all.
I wanted to set an example, and for the next two months bedtime went smooth as silk. Becky and I had no screaming matches, no crying fits, just a peaceful bedtime journey.
“All you have to do is read a story. It’s only twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Isn’t that better than yelling for two hours?”
“Common, I’m too tired. What about me? I just want a little peace and quiet each night, watch a few shows and go to bed. Is that too much to ask? No one seems to care what I want.”
No one could convince Charlene that anything else was more important than her. That, too, wears on a person.
We lived in relative harmony for the next couple years. By this time Becky was eight and in school and Abby was twelve. Teenage years are tough on kids, but I think especially tough on girls. As their bodies begin to change inside, and eventually outside, a special kind of bonding needs to take place between mother and daughter. From thirteen or fourteen to somewhere around eighteen to twenty girls become weremonsters. I knew I was getting close to a time when I needed to devote a lot more energy into my relationship with Abby. Unfortunately, Charlene’s attitude was getting worse, not better. She had truly become a shrew, and it was affecting Abby. Torn though I was, I sat Char down and told her it was time for her to find a new place to live.
She exploded.
“You’ve never been a good friend! You’ve only thought of yourself! I dropped everything for you when Max died! I held you up, and you were never grateful for anything I did for you! You were always so jealous of me because the guys went for me and ignored you – don’t think I wasn’t paying attention. And you are always trying to make Becky love you more than me, and you’re just mad because your little scheme hasn’t worked! She loves me more because I’m her mother!”
‘Wow.’ I thought. I don’t know how, but I remained deadpan through her entire rant, stood up and simply stated. “Out by the end of the month.”
Two months later she hadn’t left. It was amazing how she managed to avoid me the entire time, even when we were in the house together. She’d lock herself in her room until after I’d fixed the girls supper, helped with homework, played a couple games, and got them off to bed. Once I’d settled into my bed for the night, Char would mosey into the kitchen, banging pans and slamming drawers as she made her own dinner, of course leaving all the dirty dishes, pots, and pans for someone else to clean. That someone of course being me.
What she’d done during this time was to go on the hunt. Finally she latched on to some poor guy and before he knew what hit him, she was moved in. I never even knew his name. I heard from a friend that they moved out of state about a year later.
I was heartbroken over Becky. Miserable. I felt guilty and ashamed. I should have figured out how to deal with Char. It was awful having Becky taken from me so quickly. It was as painful as when Max died.
Abby and I developed a great relationship that helped us weather the tough times throughout her teen years. It wasn’t always blissful. The girl got a real sassy mouth for a while.
I got on with my life. I’d been dating Rob for several years, off and on. Abby adored him. He had two children from a previous marriage, and the kids got on well. We finally married, and settled into a typical mundane lifestyle. Work, eat, sleep. Sometimes make love.
We’re happy, Rob and I. We are a good couple, have a lot of friends, and truly enjoy each other’s company.
Peanut lived to about the age of twelve. He was a very happy and chipper dog – he regained his joy, and continued to greet us in his cute waggling manner. I sure miss that dog. I loved how he cuddled up next to me and would rest his muzzle in the crook of my arm, and just look at me with those big brown eyes. I’m sure he was saying over and over “thank you thank you thank you”. I wish I could have done the same for Becky.
I was still haunted by not knowing what happened to my ‘second’ daughter, where she was living, if she was doing well, if any of my influence had rubbed off, or if Char’s bitterness had seeped into her demeanor.
Imagine my surprise when she showed up on my doorstep. I hugged that girl, nay, woman! with everything I had in me.
She is beautiful. A strong looking stunningly beautiful woman. I can see my little Becky in there, but there is only a glimmer left. Her eyes are haunted; she has unresolved issues. She has nightmares and wakes up screaming. She doesn’t remember anything in her past – nothing before around the age of nine. Bits and pieces, glimmers and shadows. She remembers me, though. She remembers that she loves me. She feels terror when she’s alone. I know, she told me. Right before she asked the question.
“Was I abused as a child?”
I’ve told you the story. Now I have to figure out how to tell her.
Oh man! You really sucked me in. Even having the same name as your antagonist, she was so rounded, that it didn't distract me at all. You have quite a talent.
Keep writing,
Char
Diana, you stories suck a person right in. I felt I personally knew these people. I've known a lot of women like Char...maybe that's why this seemed so true to me. Your writing is excellent. Some of the best I've seen.
Wow, Diana -- another excellent story. This was so very well told, and again, I have to agree with Karla, this character was most compelling and endearing. Felt rather more like chatting with an old friend than reading a story.
Stop by my den sometime.
Jean
I met Jerome on a busy city street in Baltimore, Maryland, when he was forty-five years old. On that particular day, I was out and about, enjoying a much-needed day off from work.
I wanted to purchase a sukiyaki sub. I parked my car in an area of
Eight e-books regarding Pathological Narcissism, relationships with abusive
narcissists and psychopaths, and the Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD).
“Child, I don’t even know where to start.” I stammered. Her question as much a surprise to me as her showing up on my doorstep almost twenty years after her momma and I parted ways. It’s an awkward moment, and I need to catch my senses. Lord knows I don’t have much in that area and what I do have is fairly illusive.
