I walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. I quickly understood that I hadn’t been dreaming. Mom’s face was tear-stained and tired. Aunt Marilyn was still crying.
“What happened?” I asked, now shocked to attention.
“Your sister was in a car accident last night. Dad came in and told you but you didn’t want to wake up.”
Immediately, I felt overwhelmed with guilt.
“I came home to get you. He’s still there with her.” Mom looked at the clock. “We have to go back to the hospital. Put on some clothes and let’s go. Hurry!”
“Is she okay?” I asked, now drowning in the news.
Her voice tightened. “We don’t really know. She’s conscious now so that’s a good sign, the doctors say. She and Chris were in the back of a pickup truck of all things, riding home from Magic Mountain. They’d all been drinking. The truck hit some gravel and flipped and they all flew out. There were three other kids in the back with them. Chris is hurt much worse than Tiffany. The doctors say he’ll need a metal plate in his skull and he almost lost his eye.”
At this, she broke down and started whimpering, which made Marilyn cry even harder. I sat at the table in shock. I was supposed to be heading upstairs to change, but I couldn’t make my legs work.
“When they left the house, she was in the cab of the truck. She promised me she wouldn’t get in the back. Frankly, I didn’t even consider the possibility. There were only three of them.” Mom choked back tears, then waved her arm at me irritably.
“Go change! Or go like that. I don’t care.”
I went up and changed into something that didn’t match and we raced to Holy Cross Hospital. It wasn’t the closest hospital to the site of the accident, but the first paramedic on the scene thought the impact had torn up the kids too much to just move them. He’d found most of them unconscious and a few moaning, and had radioed for a medevac helicopter to fly in and rush them to a special trauma center. The chopper landed in the desert nearby, and whisked them away.
Dad stood outside the intensive-care room where Tiffany lay, wrapped in bandages. Blood and guts made me woozy, so I could force myself only as far as the doorway. I could see from a few feet away that she had her eyes closed and that there was a huge bandage around her skull and forehead, padded with gauze and soaked with iodine and blood. Her face was swollen and purple. I couldn’t tell if it was really her.
She was sleeping, dressed in a white hospital gown. Her hands, also wrapped in bandages, lay motionless on top of the blanket.
Mom came up next to Dad and he put his arm around her as she melted into him, crying again. A doctor approached them as they swayed together in the hallway.
“I think she’s going to be okay,” the doctor told them. He was an older man with wavy graying hair and glasses. He was still wearing his scrubs, and a silly little blue hat that rode down on his forehead and tied behind his head. A matching mask dangled loosely from his neck.
His tone was matter-of-fact. “Most of the damage is cosmetic. She’s lost a lot of skin all over her body. We had a plastic surgeon stitch up her forehead and scalp, but the impact with the road and the gravel did a lot of damage, burning and tearing the skin. There’s part of her scalp where her hair will probably not grow back.”
“What about brain damage?” Dad asked in a voice that tried to stifle his emotions.
“We’ll have to see. She was awake at a few points, although not that lucid. It was hard to assess her mental state because her blood alcohol level was so high. In a way, that helped. Because the kids were so drunk, they bounced on impact. They might have been worse off sober. Then again she might not have been in the back of a speeding pickup with an intoxicated driver if she were sober,” the doctor said.
I couldn’t absorb the words he was saying. I’d been at Magic Mountain drinking with Tiffany not too long ago. But that time all she had had was two syrupy wine coolers, and Mom had done the driving. Tiffany had graduated to a whole new level in the year or so that had passed.
After the doctor left us we crept into the room, and my parents took turns whispering soothing words to Tiffany while I hovered as close as I could to the door. We waited endlessly for her to regain consciousness in what became one of the longest days of my life. As the hours ticked by we heard reports of the other passengers in the truck from the doctors and the other parents. Chris had sustained many more injuries. He’d had his arms wrapped around her when they flew out of the truck, so he bore the brunt of the impact. He’d lost many of the brilliant white teeth Tiffany and I had admired together when he smiled.
The driver, the oldest in the group, was beat up the least. He’d been inside wearing a seat belt. Though they were all drunk, Mom blamed him. He’d driven, and he was an adult, so the police would hold him responsible as well.
Chris’s twin brother, John, and Tiffany’s best friend, Laura, had skipped the evening and avoided disaster.
I sat quietly in the corner. My sister, the only child I’d known my entire life, my partner really, looked like a mummy. This was without question the worst thing that had ever happened to our little family.
I flashed back to how pretty she’d looked leaving the house with Chris just the night before, and what a picture-perfect couple they made. I could see them walking down the Spanish tile path, away from the front door, so happy. Too young for a real date, just off to Magic Mountain with friends.
If this nightmare could follow so closely on the heels of that happy moment, the world was a horrible and dangerous place.
Tiffany woke up and began to heal over the next week. I brought her some of her favorite items from her room. Some books and magazines, the pillow off her bed to replace the foam one the hospital gave her. Friends from school stopped by and dropped off flowers or cookies. She didn’t have much of appetite, but at least the gifts made the room seem less sterile.
As a few days passed, Mom’s sorrow eventually ripened into anger. The reality of the disaster as an avoidable occurrence took hold.
“What were you guys thinking? Why did you get into the back of the truck?” Mom asked. We’d all avoided discussing the night of the accident. Tiffany looked so helpless, that pressing for an explanation seemed cruel. But Mom was ready to rip off the Band-Aid. She wouldn’t be satisfied until she had it out with Tiffany.
“Mom, I don’t know. There was no room in the cab,” Tiffany said, eyes fixed on the television overhead in the hospital room.
Mom sat in a chair next to the bed, her anger having pushed her to the edge of her seat. I moved farther back in my chair in the corner, hiding behind my book, not wanting to participate or even listen to this conversation. Distracting Mom with an A on an algebra test was hopeless this time. If I could have left the room to go to the bathroom, I would have, but that would have drawn too much attention.
“But when you left the house, there were three of you. And you all got in front. Look what you’ve done to yourself! You’re going to have scars for the rest of your life! On your face! You could have died. From your own stupidity,” she railed.
“Mom, I have a headache,” Tiffany said, a tear dropping onto her pillow.
Doctor Barnhard entered the room with a big smile, breaking the tension. He had been our pediatrician since birth. He’d brought a doctor’s bag full of banal, reassuring words for Tiffany: she was lucky, all would be well.
After spending time with her he stepped outside the room to talk to my parents. They discussed her case in low voices, forgetting that I was just inside the room and could hear them. Tiffany had fallen back to sleep, in large part because of the pain medication they had her on, which made her pretty loopy. And of course there was her desire not to have any more conversations with Mom.
“Neurologically, she got really lucky; she’s going to be okay. It seems like all the damage is cosmetic.”
I shifted and peered out the door, trying not to be noticed.
Mom hugged Dad. She was once again in tears. I was
n’t sure at this point how she had any left. We were all exhausted from the stress and the long hours at the hospital. Tiffany was now lucid and in one scarred piece. So much of the initial drama had faded, and the soul searching had started.
“I think you should consider finding her some good counseling,” Dr. Barnhard said gently. He was slightly older than my parents, always perfectly groomed with shiny tasseled loafers and a dark tie peeking out of his doctor’s coat. He had a way of giving advice that made most people take him at his word.
“Because of the trauma?” Dad asked.
“Yes, in part. She’s bound to have flashbacks. It was a terrifying experience. What she’ll remember of it. She was very drunk when they brought her in. I would call it pickled. So luckily, most of the worst memories won’t exist. But we don’t know what will crop up. Her clothes were torn off by the impact. It was a very serious accident.”
Mom hiccupped a cry again.
“Beyond that though, you’ve said this isn’t her first run-in with alcohol. She’s relatively young to be acting out this aggressively.”
He looked at Mom now, and must have noticed the expression in her eyes shift from weepy to defensive. I’d seen him cajole her before, and he tried it again.
“You’ve told me many times over the years how much you lock horns with her in particular. I’ve known your kids since they were both born. She’s been a tough nut to crack. I think maybe this is a wake-up call, an opportunity to dig down a little deeper, and make sure you get through to her before this turns into a full-blown problem with alcohol. Or maybe drugs. Perhaps this was an attempt to get your attention.”
Dad shifted his weight to his other foot. I knew he did not believe in therapy. He was a classic tough guy. He thought therapists were expensive charlatans with fools for patients.
As for Mom, she loved to prattle on about her burdens, but she didn’t put a lot of stock in other people’s opinions about how she might modify her behavior to make things better. I knew that the last thing she wanted to hear was how her caustic relationship with Tiffany could have played a role in this disaster.
“Doc,” Mom chimed in. “I’m as furious with her as any parent in their right mind would be. And trust me, I’m going to straighten her out and wring her neck when she recovers. But this is normal teenage stuff.”
Doctor Barnhard was amiable but persistent. “I don’t know about that. It can’t hurt to be thoughtful about this. These are the warning signs parents look back on later and wish they’d paid more attention to.”
“That she got in the car with a drunk driver?” Dad asked.
“And that she got drunk herself,” he corrected. “Maybe you both could use some help with a new approach. I know you are doing everything you can and you’re great parents. But maybe it’s time to ask someone else what to do with a particularly tough child. She’s trying to get your attention. You have to ask yourselves why.”
I thought of the cross Tiffany had carved into her arm, which was now hidden by bandages. I certainly didn’t understand what she was doing. I wanted this situation to be a simple case of bad luck. But it felt more like a death wish.
Having pressed the issue of counseling as far as he could, Dr. Barnhard left and, eventually, it was time for us to go home. We each took a turn saying goodbye to Tiffany, petting her gently, and reassuring her that we’d be back tomorrow.
As we emerged from the hospital into the warm summer evening, tempers began to rise.
“What do you think?” Mom asked Dad.
“I don’t know.” He grimaced. “It’s so hard to know what good counseling would do. I have no idea how much that costs. How long it would take to see any progress. If ever. They’re billing you the whole time. Who knows?”
Dad’s body language said he knew. He unlocked the car and I tumbled into the backseat as my parents took their places in front. Dad rolled down the window and lit a cigarette and took a puff before turning the ignition.
“Maybe it’s what she needs,” Mom ventured.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe that’s what I need,” she added ruefully.
“Maybe.” He shrugged and turned, placing an arm behind her headrest as he backed the Mercedes they’d recently bought out of the parking space.
She didn’t seem to like that response. “Maybe she’s emulating your drinking.”
“Right.” He sounded as if he knew she would bring this up eventually.
“What do you mean, ‘right’?”
“You’re saying this is my fault?” he clarified.
“Well, I don’t drink. Where did she learn it from?” Mom shot at him.
“Knock it off.” Dad kept his eyes on the traffic ahead, his expression grim.
“Where then?” she attacked.
“Maybe you shouldn’t pick on her so much.”
“Pick on her? Yes. That’s exactly what I do. How would you know? You spend all your time at the office. How do you know what I do?’
“I know this is what you do. To her. A lot. Let’s stop this,” Dad said, trying to turn down the temperature.
“No! Not if you are going to blame me now for her problems. This is not my fault. I’ve given my life to these children. Everything!”
“Cut it out. This isn’t helping anything.” No doubt he was about to glance in the rearview mirror at me, so I stared out the window and tried to look like I wasn’t listening.
“So you think we should go for counseling?” Mom challenged, daring him to say yes.
He tried a diversionary tactic. “I’d just like to know what it’s going to cost up front. Or if the insurance will cover it. I don’t think we can afford it, so it’s a moot point.”
Silence.
“The problem is,” he continued more quietly, “they usually decide to become shrinks because they are crazy themselves. They are trying to figure out their own problems. And they aren’t that smart anyway. If they were, they’d be surgeons making the big bucks. It’s easy to trick them. I’ve had so many evaluations and aptitude tests and IQ tests. You can always tell what the right answer is. What they want to hear. So really, it’s pointless,” he said, shutting the door on Dr. Barnhard’s advice.
A few weeks went by before the doctors released Tiffany from the hospital. When she came home, she moved gingerly around the house like a wounded cat. She still had some stitches in her hands and arms. Looking at her skin held together with wiry thread turned my stomach. She lacked energy, but when she smiled and asked if the shirt I had on was actually hers, I knew she was essentially the same.
Tiffany wasn’t home twenty-four hours before she started mixing it up with Mom. They picked at each other and bickered over the small stuff, like rinsing the dishes.
“Your legs still work, you can carry your dishes to the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher rather than letting them pile up,” Mom said.
Tiffany rolled her eyes. “I was doing that. I’m getting to it. I’m tired,” she said.
The pressure would build up periodically and explode, with Mom yelling and insulting Tiffany, who would then look either dejected, or furious like a cornered bull.
They were like two warring drug cartels trying to live in the same town.
“You have no one to blame for this but yourself!” Mom would inevitably conclude.
“I know! I’m ruining my life. You’re ashamed of me,” Tiffany fired back.
“Now you’re going to feel sorry for yourself! Wallowing around in self-pity!”
One issue at the forefront was the hesitation of Tiffany’s Catholic high school to let her return to school. Mom and Dad went in for a conference, and returned visibly stressed.
“Well, that was fun,” Mom said, dropping her purse on the counter.
Tiffany and I were in the kitchen making dinner. I stood in front of the stove, mixing hamburger into a pan filled with Rice-a-Roni. Tiffany, still weak from surgery and so much time lying down, sat at the kitchen table reading Cosmo, which Mom had brought
home for her. Evidently Mom had never read the magazine. She thought it was mainly about beauty and fashion rather than tips on keeping a boyfriend’s sexual interest piqued.
“Brother Bill doesn’t want you back at school. We had to beg, which I of course loved doing,” Mom said, sitting down at the square table next to Tiffany. “He said that drinking alcohol was against school policy and the law at your age. And of course, we said you were not drinking.”
“They’d need your medical records to know if you’d been drinking,” Dad added. “And the police report isn’t public information since you guys are minors. Unless we tell them, they won’t know what happened. Although everyone has heard through the grapevine. All they know for sure though is just that you were in an accident, and that’s why you’re not at school. So they can’t really throw you out of school based on something they suspect but can’t prove happened . . . off school property on a weekend. They need more to go on and we didn’t give them anything.”
“So don’t say a word to anyone. I think we saved you. Again. By lying,” Mom said.
On the last word she pounded her balled-up fists on the table and cocked her head to the right, looking hard into Tiffany’s face. Tiffany had been looking vaguely in Mom’s direction while she spoke. Now her eyes went back to her magazine and she essentially acted as if she didn’t hear Mom any longer.
Clearly in the mood for another fight, Mom pushed harder. “‘Thanks, Mom’? ‘Thanks for going in and lying for me’?”
“Thanks,” Tiffany said as insincerely as she could.
Normally, this would have been Mom’s cue to attack and Tiffany would have immediately taken up arms. The drama would have escalated until Mom pulled out Tiffany’s chair and screamed at her to get out of the room. I could see the scene unfolding and I just kept browning the beef. I was starting to feel like getting involved was fruitless if Tiffany didn’t want to pitch in and do at least some of the appeasing. She never even tried to turn Mom’s mood anymore; she seemed to prefer fanning the flames
Diary of a Stage Mother's Daughter Page 10