One of the least molesty types my mother ever dated was Roger. He was a manager at the grocery store we frequented. He had a decent place, dressed like a respectable albeit super dorky 40 something divorcee and the only thing that was remotely unusual about him besides liking my mom, was how enamored he was with his pet bunny, Cocoa. Roger had given Cocoa her own room, and when he wasn’t busy working or playing on his softball team, he could be found fawning over Cocoa in all her rabbity glory. Nothing kinky ya perves, he was just a grown man who loved the crap out of his bunny. Seeing as how bunny obsessed was four million times better than Moms usual dating preferences, it was a relief for us kids when Mom and Roger got serious pretty fast. A few short weeks of dating later, they were ready to get a place together, kids, adults and the most baller ass bunny you’ve never seen.
Merging households in an entirely new place and a new town when children are involved is crazy stressful. Now, add in being told that Roger was allergic to cats a few days before the big move and mom had singularly decided the best thing would be to ” get rid” of the two cats we’d had for many years. All of this two days before moving. I remember like it was yesterday, me, sitting Indian style on the playroom floor holding onto Max, my older short-haired tortoiseshell, the kitty I was most bonded too. I was crying so hard I’d caused myself to have an asthma attack, but was still trying to make words come out. Over and over I sobbed “please don’t take him, he’s all I have, please not Max…”. I was bent over a scared kitty trying to shield him from my moms reach. She came into the room, and without saying a word, having already taken our other cat out to the car, she invaded the tiny fortress made of me and tore Max from my arms. I still don’t know where she took our cats and we were not allowed to speak of them again after that day. Seeing Max, my best and at times only friend being carried away, brought on such an amount of heartache, loneliness and despair that it still pains me to remember.
I love you Max.
Also…….
……allergy medication assholes. Allergy. Medication. But no, this was easier.
At the time of the move I was 12 going on 13, making my sister April about 15. April was fortunate as she had friends old enough to drive, whilst I did not. Being moved mid-Summer(so no school), not knowing any one and having no mode of transportation my only means of entainment was the TV. We did not have cable, or DVDs, there was no internet or cell phones, so the only thing available to me were the 10 VHS tapes we already owned. I watched the movie “Dances with Wolves” a total of 29 times that Summer on VHS. Over and over and over I watched, rewound and watched again. Over time I started developing an obsessive crush on one of the Indian characters. I would sit thru the credits pausing repeatedly so that I could research and write down any details that might lead me to my crush. I had his real name, the production company and the filming location down to memory. I would pause the movie on scenes where my Indian love was featured and touch my hairless nethers. I made it my goal in life to find this guy. How? I don’t know. But I’d do whatever it took.
Now it seems like that may have been a giant indicator of the creepy love obsessed stalker I would become in later years. heavy breathing
I WAS able to get out of the house on occasion but not for any fun “kid like” activities. My mom has some issues with trusting ……anyone and everyone. Normally very withholding with her love, she started coming to me to beg, bribe and demand that I hang out with Roger during times she was unavailable. (She worked as a receptionist during the day and his hours tended to be more in the evening. That meant his days were free to do things like play softball or spend hours fawning over Cocoa Bunny.) When I say, she wanted me to “hang out with him” what I mean to say is, she made me pretend to love him like a father and beg to tag along with him every time he left the house and then mercilessly spy on him. I didn’t super love Roger and I certainly didn’t want to spend copious amounts of one on one time with him only so my mother could later grill me on the mundane details of his day. Where we went, who he saw, who he spoke to, what he ate, did he use the phone at all and did I use the bathroom or let him out of my site for any extended period of time. “We went to his lame softball game. He saw other lame softball dorks. He only spoke to me and Cocoa. He ate a burger and split a tomato with the bunny. He did not use the phone and I had to poop twice. Could we please have dinner? I’ve been stalking all day and I’m super hungry and extremely tired.” Stalking is mans work. Just sayen.
Eventually school started up and I was freed from my mom made prison of creeping and my “Dances with Wolves” VHS finally got to cool down. The downside to this being without my constant updates on Rogers every move, mom had become much more volatile, and soon the two of them were fighting all the time. Unlike previous boyfriends, Roger had a calm, almost stoic demeanor. Generally the fights would consist of mom accusing him of talking to his ex-wife (that was her biggest fear) and he would just listen and avoid reacting to her hysteria. Not getting a reaction from Roger was not something mom was equipped to handle, so each time they fought,her head would explode. Every. Single. Time. Very messy. We had to paint the kitchen red to compensate for all the head explosion caused blood stains. Ha.
One Friday afternoon, a few months into their fairy tale romance, Roger was busy working an evening shift and my mother was in a real tizzy over something (or, more realistically, over nothing). She yelled at April and I for no particular reason before turning her attention back on Roger, whom wasn’t there to feel her wrath. After a rather loud red-faced verbal lashing reminding us of what shitty, uncaring children we were, mom left the living room, went to her bedroom and started slamming dresser drawers. Given a moments reprieve we sat together in silence, all to familiar with “the quiet before the storm” scenario. 5 minutes later mom emerged from the bedroom carrying two large binders and, without acknowledging us, she slipped out the backdoor. We could hear something heavy and metal being dragged across the ground and soon after that we smelled smoke. Fearing death by house fire we crept to the living room entryway and peered head over head thru the dining room straining to see thru the back windows. Moms platinum blond hair framed her face, which we saw amidst the smoke and light from the flames. She stood over our large metal trash can, occasionally poking at the mystery kindling with a large stick.
She was smiling, and that made us scared.
Side note:
I never developed any coping mechanisms growing up as I did. But one thing I still do to this day as an adult when I’m scared, stressed or fighting with someone is going to bed and just completely shutting down (like my throat tightens and I literally can not speak.). It’s not effective for problem solving but I can’t seem to turn this trigger reaction off. As a kid “faking a coma” was my only defensive maneuver. Why a coma? Why not a nap? Why so dramatic Sarah? I’m not being dramatic dill weed there’s an awesome explanation coming for this. So, when my mom was at her worst and I was really scared, if she turned her attentions elsewhere for more than 5-10 minutes I would tippy toe into my bedroom, quickly and quietly slip into bed, close my eyes and fain slumber. My thinking was that she was much less likely to beat the crap out of me, threaten me with knives, guns or the orphanage she drove us to, depending on her mood, if I was unconscious. The reason I call it “faking a coma”, and not faking sleep, simply put, was because my mother is loud as fuck when she is having a mental breakdown. No normal slumber could withstand the commotion she made. Tom Hanks is to acting what I am to faking sleep. It’s harder than it sounds dammit! Just imagine, it’s 3 in the afternoon, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, you’re fully dressed and there is a mad woman just outside your door running around smashing things and shouting threats and obscenities. You’re only a kid, you’re scared, shaky, restless and generally starving hungry. For this to even work you need to have steady breathing, keep your eyes shut tight while maintaining a naturally closed look, and sometimes, she would burst in thru the door, so, if you flinch, you’re gonna have a really bad time.
So back to the mysterious can fire. It was still pretty early, but I crept off to bed while her attentions were diverted, and resigned myself to faking a coma until the sun came up. No beatings were had that night so the glass is half full, unfortunately it was half full of warm piss. Saturday morning was rough. No one had actually slept as mom had waited up for Roger until he got home, so the fight started immediately and went on for roughly 10 consecutive hours. Apparently, mom decided that Rogers divorce wasn’t final enough for her and decided to take action. This brings us to the can fire kindling.
Rogers wedding album.
But there were two books you say? Well, she burned her wedding album too. She decided that burning both albums was fair. Roger, shockingly, wasn’t really thrilled that his wedding album was now a smoldering pile of ash which only fed into my mothers paranoia. Mom decided his devastation at losing the album was just proof that he was sleeping with his ex. Sigh. So yeah, they had one Hell of a screaming match. When I got out of bed, Roger was gone, most likely reflecting on what awful thing he may have done in a previous life to end up sharing a home with my crazy bitch of a mother. April and I wondered that every day Roger. Welcome to the club. Mom was at the dining room table, her face red & puffy from a night of crying. She gave me a half-smile and a nod, letting me know it was ok to sit down with her.
Clearly worn out she was being kind of nice to me. Mom talked at length about how shitty Roger was, and that she was sure he had sneaked around with his ex-wife. She went on to tell me how terrible it made her feel that she had taken our cats to live with him, but he had fooled her into thinking he was a nice guy. She also brought up Cocoa, his bunny, asking me if I thought it fair for him to have Cocoa when he was the reason Max was gone. Sniffle from there, the conversation went something like this;
Mom He pays more attention to that fucking rabbit than he does to me. What kind of grown man even has a fucking bunny rabbit. He’s pathetic and weak. That God damned furry piece of shit. It smells like piss. I don’t want it in my house.
Me Ma, he loves you, that’s ridiculous. Since when do you hate Cocoa?
Mom I’ve never liked that thing and I’m sick of looking at it. I wish I could just go to work and come home to a dead fucking rabbit.
Me Jesus mom. The bunny didn’t do anything to you.
Mom Don’t even think of taking “its” side with me! You want to help your mom? Take care of it for me. I can’t do it but you could. You could just kill it when he isn’t here, and make it look natural. He’d probably pay for a God Damned autopsy. It’s sick. He’s sick.
Me You want me to kill it?? Like….put a casserole dish over it till it suffocates or something?
Mom I’d pay you. Just don’t tell me what you do, but I’ll pay you.
Me Mommmmm….nooooooo! I’m not……..I can’t kill a bunny. I’m sorry……
So, yeah. My mom tried to put a hit out on Cocoa, because that is the kind of thing that happens in a normal family, right? RIGHT? Is anyone wondering if I’ve been a bunny hit man this entire time? Like I’m sitting here, shining my 22′ and perusing Care.com for future victims? “Yeah. I’d looooove to watch your bunny for the weekend!!” steeples fingers No, no, no. I didn’t do it. The bunny lived. I’m sure he’s happily resting his long feet in a bunny retirement home as we speak. Ha.
Alright, so after all was said and done when it came to the album fire fight, things were pretty rough. Mom and Roger were like ships passing in the night, with a lot of side eye and door slamming. Fast forward another couple of weeks, Roger was working and mom had sat April and I down in the living room for “a talk”. Never a good thing. deep breath mom said she was pregnant GASP and that her and Roger were splitting up. She started crying and said we couldn’t stay there because she couldn’t afford that house alone. Also we were all going to go and spend the night at her friend Daves house, as he was gone and said it would be alright, so to go pack a bag. I stuffed some dolls and clothes in my little green suitcase and came back out to stroke moms back on her somber walk to the car. I was also crying with the realization that I would no longer be the baby in the family, but my fear was short-lived.
When we arrived at Daves house, a small single family ranch in the country with a decent yard and a large friendly dog, mom said she wouldn’t be surprised if she lost the baby. She also told us she was very stressed, and that being under this level of duress could cause her pregnancy to fail. We were advised to stay in the living room and not to disturb her (no matter what)for the rest of the night, before she disappeared into Daves bedroom.
No TV, and not permitted to leave the living room April and I curled up on the sofa, wondering what our near future living arrangements would be. We hadn’t been fed and we were both tired but neither of us could sleep. About two hours passed while we sat silently listening to mom crying and saying that it hurt. Being only 12 I assumed she was referring to her heartache. She emerged from the room for a moment only to use the bathroom, and when she came out hunched over, she told us that she was bleeding before returning to Daves room. The remainder of the night mom spent panting, crying and yelling things into the night that didn’t make much sense to me at the time. Looking back, and without her admission, I can tell you that mom had an abortion. The pill kind, that you can do from home, which, I have no moral objection to. Honestly I’m relieved that she actually did the right thing, for once, making that potentially the first and last time she ever did. Mom will never admit to the truth, in fact I believe her sickness allows her to sometimes convince herself that her own lies really are the truth. She would say to this day that Roger stressed her out and then she lost the pregnancy as predicted. Only a moron would believe that though. The part that makes me really mad about moms night of pro-choice living? She is super pro-life. I’ve had a bit of hands on experience with abortion myself and my mother made sure to insert herself into the situation and make it so much more traumatic than it already was (pretty fucking traumatic). I almost ended my life because of her contributions, yet when it’s her body, completely different rules applied.
For all you abortion enthusiasts out there, I’ll tell that story someday. Just not today.
Thanks for all the warm memories mom! Don’t call me, I’ll call you….Nevuary first of two thousand and never. At Never-thirty pm. Set your clock.
She hates bunnies. She super hates bunnies. Do not trust this woman!
Pretty polar 