Soul Mosaic

So many nights, especially in the summer, if it was Dad’s week to work 2nd shift, I loved to stare out of my bedroom window. I knew Mom was asleep on the couch as she watched TV. 

So, I would crawl out of bed, shut the door, and just curl up against my open bedroom window. Even on the hot days, there was usually a cool breeze at night. And often the smell of fresh-cut grass would waft inside.

The shaded living room windows of the house next door glowed a dim yellow. And through the darkness, I could see the various houses that backed up to our yard. A few windows here and there were lit up behind their curtains. But there was one house in particular I always looked for.

It was at the far end of our neighbor’s yard, sitting atop a retaining wall. The house faced the next street over, but I could see its back windows, and in particular, one small window on the second floor. It was probably a kitchen or pantry window, given its size. But the special thing about it was that it was always bathed in a soft purple light. I loved that window and would stare deeply into the peacefulness of that glow.

I think it was a plant light, as I could make out some racks and what looked like trays of plants in the window. It would make sense, then, that the light might glow at the same time every night for them. Whatever it was, I didn’t care. I only know that I would stare into that purple light for a long time, and just get lost in it.

I LOVED its tranquility. Soaking up its calming effect, I wondered who lived there and what they were like. I wondered about the world on the other side of that purple light, and dreamt up all kinds of ideas for what it would be like to live in that house.

On those nights, it was my respite. My moment of peace and escape to another world, far, far from my chaos. Even now, whenever I see one of those purple lights somewhere at night, it stops me in my tracks and floods me with a sense of calm, peace, and serenity.

And then, there were the second-shift nights. Dad’s work schedule was such that one week he worked the day shift and the next week he’d work the second shift. Frankly, I loved those weeks.

If it were summer, we just had to deal with Dad being around until 1:30. That’s when he left for work, and we wouldn’t see him until the next morning.

If it were the school year, he would be asleep when we left for school. We’d say a quick good-bye, and that would be it until the next morning. Basically, during those weeks, we really didn’t see much of him until the weekend because of our school schedule.

And I made sure that unless I was dying, I didn’t stay home sick on the weeks he was on second shift. I only made that mistake once. He would be grumpy as usual when he got up, and then would start asking why you stayed home, and what you were doing to get better. After all, this was the person who, after I’d just finished throwing up, would tell me to go eat so I could get better quicker.

What were some of the nice things about second-shift weeks?

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I’m going to take a moment here to catch my breath. The last few entries have been intense. So it’s time for a Moment of Respite. Just as I would seek out back then.

One of my favorite discoveries was in our bathroom at night. During the day, the bathroom could be moments of fear with Dad and Mom’s fights. But at night, when everyone else was asleep, I would find peace in my own world.

Have you ever had one of those simple green night-lights? They’re nothing special and very inexpensive. You just plug them in and forget them. When the room is dark, they’ll emit a subtle, green glow, just enough to keep you from walking into a wall or stubbing your toe on a door. And I find myself deeply at peace in its presence.

So many times when I was young, especially after those rough days, I would lie awake, unable to sleep. Sometimes I would duck under my blankets with a flashlight to read. Other times, I would conjure up imaginary adventures, dreaming I was off in some faraway land on a heroic journey.

But eventually, when the house grew silent and I knew everyone was asleep, I would pad into the bathroom. Without a sound, I’d shut the door so no one would bother me.

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TRIGGER ALERT – Please be aware that this post discusses violent outbursts.

Dirty-look duels

Supper could go in two directions, and neither was in my favor.

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When Dad came in the house, it was expected that we would be there ready to greet him. Lined up by the door, we were his adoring family, welcoming him back from the day’s battles, I guess. It was a small price to pay, though, if it meant a peaceful evening. But it wasn’t over yet.

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Just like our summer days had their routine when Dad wasn’t around, school days did as well. I’ll talk more about school shortly. But for now, suffice it to say that while the days of the school year had a strict regimen, there was a brief respite period between the end of the school day and when Dad would get home.

The 2:30 bell would ring, and two by two we would exit school in an orderly manner. Then, once clear of the nun’s “jurisdiction,” we’d burst down the street, greedily sucking in the fresh air, literally and figuratively.

It was often the same group of us walking down the hill. My siblings and I, some of our friends from the neighborhood, and usually the two brothers who lived down by the corner of our road.

We were always careful to watch over the younger one. He had Cystic Fibrosis and was fragile, whereas his older brother had a robust loudness that couldn’t be easily contained. But still, he, too, had a gentle soul and worried about his brother.

On one walk home, the younger boy just passed out cold. I still remember the thud of his head against the ground, like a melon against asphalt. While we gathered around him, his brother ran full-speed down to his house, yelling for his Mom. I was grateful for his ability to scream on that day, because she came running up toward us before he’d even gotten all the way home. Fortunately, in spite of the fall, he was okay.

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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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There were two distinct time periods at home. Times without Dad, when I could be “that kid,” and just revel in my activities. And then…there were the “Dad times.”

His work shifts alternated every week. One week, he was on the day shift, which meant mornings and afternoons were calm, but later afternoons and nights could be calm to violent, depending on his mood. The next week, he worked the evening shift, which meant mornings were dicey but afternoons and evenings were placid. And the weekend times were everything and anything.

And when he was around, I was on high alert. Whoever I was when he wasn’t around, that went into hiding. It was replaced by quiet, tense, scanning, always, for signs of trouble.

Was he in a good mood or a bad one?

Had I tried one too many times to “avoid him” and hurt his feelings?

Was I going to get hit…or more to the point…when?

When he was happy and fun, it was great. In fact, his bad moods seemed like such a distant memory that it seemed impossible that he could go back to that. At those good moments, the bad times seemed like they would never return.

But then it didn’t take much to have hope. Any sign of a positive, a day with a better mood, and you grasped at those moments like a drowning person to a life raft, convinced that, “THIS time it will be different.” The mental reality, at least for me, was, “How could he be this good, fun, seemingly kind and generous, then go back to that? No…that part’s over”…until it wasn’t.

And when he was abusive? He was ice cold.

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