Soul Mosaic

The thing about memories during traumatic moments, very early childhood, or both, is that they are not preserved like a movie. There is no “narrative flow” or complete replay of an event from beginning to end. There are, at best, “flashes” — moments in time, stray images. They may be fully detailed and vivid, including the emotions of the moment. But they are brief. More of a photograph of a second in time, versus a home video of the whole afternoon.

I have a series of these flashes that individually are just that — “photos of a moment in time.” But they are all, with one exception, from around the same time period when I was young. Whether they are related or have any cause-and-effect connection, I have no idea. I can only say that I remember these “flashes in time,” that they are odd, and that they haunt me to this day.

Memory #1 – I don’t want Daddy to come home

I have no memory of anything before or after this moment. But this spot in time, I still recall with total clarity. I had climbed up on the high chair that we kept near the stove. Mom was stirring a pot. I was filled with dread. Supper meant Daddy would be home soon. It was often not fun with him around, not like the daytime home with Mom. I wished it could just stay that way.

I shifted in the chair. Should I tell her what I felt? My stomach tightened. The words were clamped in my mouth behind tightly gritted teeth. I looked at her. Then decided to risk it.

“I don’t want Daddy to come home.”

Mom kept stirring the pot. She didn’t look at me. Was I in trouble?

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The short version…

One of the first things I understood about life on his schedule was to know and follow “his rules.” No debating them. Also, his “view” on things was the right view.

Indoctrination by confusion

It was very clear, right from the beginning — my life was meant to be hidden. And that indoctrination started at a very early age.

I remember this particular time in that scary cellar. I was very young, but still, I felt so guilty…and bad about what Dad was doing with me. And I was so torn up inside about what it would do to my mother if she found out.

But the worst part was that I was caught between them. I did NOT want to hurt MOMMY. But I didn’t want to hurt him, and was afraid he would be upset. So even though I was nervous, and I hated the cellar, I went down there to talk to him.

Using all my brainpower, I worked to find the right words THIS time that would finally make him understand.

“I don’t want to do this anymore.” I expected anger.

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Since my bedroom was right off the kitchen, I got to listen to the recitation of the daily “morning litanies” between my parents.

“Do you have your badge?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have your keys?”

“Yes.”

“Wallet?”

“Yes.”

“Handkerchief?”

“Yes.”

All that was missing from their conversation to make it like the church litanies were a few Amens or Ora pro nobises.

It was the same mind-numbing set of questions every morning, done just before he walked out the door. And woe to her if he got to work and was missing one of these things because she didn’t ask.

On more than one occasion, apparently, he had forgotten his badge. This meant that he had to stand at the guard gate at Pratt & Whitney’s entrance until someone, most likely his hard-assed boss, came and verified he belonged there. Since they did government and military research at the plant in those days, security was not taken lightly. I expect he probably got chewed out, or at least mocked, for forgetting his badge. And since I think it happened a few times, it was probably becoming an actual problem, not just an embarrassment. So somehow, it became my mother’s job every single morning to run down the list before he left the house.

But even before this “festive routine” took place, there was the “battle of the breakfast” litany.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

“I don’t know!”

“Would you like eggs?”

“NO! Yes!”

“How do you want them?”

“I don’t know!”

“I can scramble them. Would you like that?”

“I don’t know! NO!”

“Over easy?” Boiled?”

“Just scramble them!”

“Do you want toast?”

“NO, I don’t want any toast.”

Each of his answers was delivered with an increasing level of anger and meanness. You’d think she was asking if he wanted a pile of dung on his plate.

Why she got up to make him breakfast is beyond me. Years later, I told him one day that I never would have bothered because, based on how he treated her, he didn’t deserve it. But I could say that years later because I was in my 20s, and it was one of those rare days he was in a good mood, pretending to be easy-going.

So he would laugh and agree and shake his head at the idea he could have been so miserable. And he knew he’d been miserable, because one morning he finally just told her not to get up to make him breakfast anymore, because it was better not to be around him in the morning. So even he knew he was out of line.

However, there was one that morning where the “leaving for work litany” actually ended on a protective note, and THAT caught my attention. Especially the reason, which scared me to death.

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