by Kim Goldman
My dad looks shocked, but before he can react, I stand before him and Ron—all ninety pounds of me—take a deep breath, and reassure the two of them that I am not going to leave my family.
“I would never leave you all alone, daddy. And I would never let Ron be sent off to boarding school, because we are the Three Musketeers and we will always be together.”
Smiling, my dad strokes my face. “Phew!” he says, sighing with relief.
I feel good—I just saved the family.
Now I need to break the news to my mom. I choose the phone in the kitchen, so that Ron and my dad can be near me when I call her.
The phone is on a wall over a built-in desk where I usually sit during calls with my friends. I climb up onto the desk, pick up the receiver, and punch in the numbers for my mother’s house. I don’t realize that I am twisting and tugging at the phone cord until my dad snaps at me.
“Hi, Mom, it’s me. Um, I just got home from camp and I thought I would call and say hello…Yes, I had fun. It was so much fun. We already signed up for camp next year. Ron is going to be a counselor and I made new friends, and we’re all going back together…Yeah, I thought about what you told me before we left.”
I can feel my throat tighten a bit, and my eyes fill up with tears. My dad rubs my leg to comfort me.
“Mommy, I don’t want to leave Ron and my dad. I like it here. I like my school and I…Well, but I—I love you too, yes…”
She is arguing with me that I can make new friends and can visit my dad and Ron whenever I wanted. I start to sob uncontrollably, after hearing the disappointment in her voice. Barely able to get my sentence out, I tell her I am sorry to hurt her feelings.
“Yes, I know daughters should live with their moms, but I love them, too, and I don’t want…”
She interrupts me. “You stop your crying right now. I will not have this discussion with you crying like a baby. Try talking to me when you can do it without the tears, maybe when you’re nineteen!” And with that, she slams down the phone.
I guess Sharon never forgave me for that decision, because I didn’t hear from her again—until the night of my fateful car accident three years later.
* * *
When I look back at my childhood, parts of it seem almost nonexistent. I have no memories of the four of us living together under one roof, and no pictures of us as a family. There are a few of Sharon and me, or Sharon and Ron, a handful with my dad, but mostly just photographs of Ron and me as babies, which are now featured prominently around my house. My dad shares very little with me about his marriage and subsequent divorce. He has little memory of me as a baby. With my brother gone, I have no one to fill in the blanks for me. Maybe I really was dropped off by the stork, like Ron used to tell me.
I spent many years trying to have a relationship with my mom, whom I now affectionately call Sharon; years and years of yearning for her approval, and seeking some indication that she would want me back in her life, but I never had the courage to ask her why she left. I guess I never really wanted to know the real answer. I just worked really hard at being someone I thought she would be proud to call her daughter. I made that my responsibility, my challenge, my job. I took it upon myself to prove to her that I was worthy of her love, acceptance, and mothering.
Sadly, what I ended up proving to myself is that ultimately I wasn’t.
Why wouldn’t my own mother hug or kiss me? Why wouldn’t she ever say nice things to me, protect me, teach me, and nurture me? What did I do to send her away? How could she leave behind an innocent child, who maybe on her worst day pooped her pants? I was her flesh and blood; a naïve, trusting, open child, not yet hardened or jaded by life’s teachings.
All I ever wanted was to be loved by her. Why would she deny me that?
What kind of woman tells her six-year-old daughter that her ears will fall off because she got them pierced for a birthday present?
What kind of woman tells her daughter that she loves her more than her brother, because he is a problem child and belongs in military school?
What kind of woman, when stealing her kids from her ex-husband, would tell them, “I am taking you, because your daddy doesn’t want you and he doesn’t love you”?
What kind of woman for thirty-plus years chooses day in and day out to completely abandon the two innocent lives that she brought into this world?
This kind of woman, I’m afraid, is my mother.
But then I made a shift in thinking:
I wondered what kind of woman I was, to want this type of person in my life. Why did I seek out such negative validation? My mother had made it very clear to me where she stood and what her capabilities were, and continue to be to this day. Why then should I continue to torture myself day after day, begging for love that clearly isn’t mine to receive?
I have spent a lot of money in therapy in the past few years, trying to unravel the mess she left for me. I am pissed that at forty-something years old, I am still dealing with the aftermath of her rejection, still trying to recover from what she did to me growing up: the blatant disregard for my existence and the constant reminder that I wasn’t of value to her.
It didn’t really occur to me until I grew a little older, when I started to see patterns in relationships I was trying to build, just how much of an impact she had had on me, despite her not being part of my life. All of the same insecurities kept showing up, no matter how much I tried to put the kibosh on them; they were a strong force that I needed to deal with.
Yet I constantly searched for validation from other people and always needed their approval and acceptance. I don’t think I ever consciously realized I was making these mistakes. It never dawned on me that my failed relationships, and even the few successful ones, were connected to my deep-rooted feelings of abandonment by my mother.
If I’m honest, the choices I made and the people I sought out or allowed to remain in my life came straight out of the textbook on abandonment.
I thought I had worked through most of those issues; only later did I grasp how much more I still had to do. The first time that I realized I had unresolved anger toward my mother happened in 1999, when I was in Chicago visiting one of my oldest and best friends, Erika.
* * *
We have been friends since we were six years old, and consider each other family. Erika and I stayed close for years, even after I moved to California in 1987.
Despite living in California since the mid-80s, I still considered Chicago my home. I spent the first fifteen years of my life there; my values, my ethical and moral compass, all stem from a traditional Midwestern belief system. It’s kind of “old school” in that people actually talk to each other, care for one another. It has a small-town mentality, family first, neighborly.
Nobody can understand what I mean until they have lived or traveled to the Midwest or back to the East Coast. It’s a different way of life. People are different; lifestyles are different. It’s slower, kinder, more family centric.
So when Erika asked me to be at the birth of her first and only daughter, Natalie, I hopped on the plane immediately. It is life changing to be part of that incredible experience. In a matter of seconds, I became “Auntie Kim” to this beautiful little person, my first “niece.”
When Natalie was about six months old, I traveled back to Chicago on a whim. I had just broken up with someone I was dating and needed a change of pace, so I took an extended weekend over the Memorial Day holiday to get some respite from my life.
One night, while Erika and I were sipping on Pinot Grigio and watching ER, I volunteered to change Natalie’s diaper. Yes, I volunteered to wipe the baby’s butt! I scooped her up and walked up a flight of stairs to the second floor, into her nursery. It was the sweetest room: stars and moons all over the yellow walls, with a white crib and a rocking chair.
* * *
I carefully lay her down on the changing table and am immediately taken in by her grey blue eyes. It is as if she’s calling out for me. She
’s grabbing at her toes, trying to shove them in her mouth, and I help her a few times, because it makes her giggle. She has this incredible look of calm on her face: totally trusting, loving, unassuming, needing.
My God, my own mother left this.
Left me, like this.
Trusting, loving, unassuming, needing.
* * *
The moment puts things into perspective for me. For so many years I thought I had done something to push my mother away; that I didn’t warrant her love.
For years I blamed myself. I couldn’t understand the decision that she made, the choices, and, quite frankly, the cowardice that she displayed by walking away from two innocent children. Logically, I knew it wasn’t me, but emotionally I thought I was damaged goods.
Yet I kept trying. In 1992, when I was 20 and living in Santa Barbara and attending City College, I decided to call Sharon one afternoon. A few days earlier, I had reached out to my maternal grandparents and asked them for her phone number. My grandparents were ecstatic that I was going to call her; they hated the fact that we didn’t talk and have blamed my father for most of my life for the lack of relationship my brother and I had with our mother.
For all of my life, Sharon had been sharing a different version of the truth with her family about why we didn’t speak and why we didn’t see each other. My grandparents, my aunts, my uncles, and my cousins all believed that it was Ron’s and my choice to not have a relationship with the woman who gave birth to us. They thought it was the evil doings of the man who single-handedly raised us that caused the separation. Sharon depicted herself as the brokenhearted victim, who, no matter what she did, couldn’t penetrate the hold my father has over us. My grandparents never wanted to hear the truth. They didn’t want to know about the years of rejection that their daughter had inflicted upon me; they just wanted their daughter to be happy.
But for the sake of this call, I didn’t argue with them, as I had done in the past. I figured it was easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission.
* * *
I grab a piece of paper with her phone number and position myself at the kitchen table. The windows are open, and a warm breeze from the ocean is blowing the curtains from side to side. The normal hustle and bustle of my building serves as a comfort. I rehearse in my head what I’m going to say.
I pick up the phone and start to dial before I lose the nerve that took me three days to build up. I’m expecting to leave a message, because it’s the middle of the day. I’m totally flustered when she answers.
“Uh, hi, Sharon, it’s Kim.”
There is a long pause on the other end of the line.
“Umm, I’m calling because I have a few things I need and want to say. I hope that’s okay.”
My voice is cracking, but I swear to myself I’m not going to cry.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I wanted to tell you that I forgive you. I forgive you for the choices you’ve made that have impacted my life. And I’m going to forgive myself, too, because I need to move forward, and start treating myself with more respect. So I just wanted to let you know that I’m letting go of the anger, and that I forgive you.”
Wow, I did it. She didn’t interrupt me. I pour through what I needed to say. My heart is pounding as I wait for her response.
“Well, Kim, I appreciate your phone call. It’s been a long time. So, okay, I think we’re good here. Thank you for taking the time, and I’m sure the next time we talk, it will probably be when someone dies. So good luck to you.”
The line goes silent.
What the fuck? Good luck to me?
I open the door to a future relationship with my mother and all she has to say is, “Good luck to you”? Doesn’t even ask for a phone number or address?
It’s a shocking turn of events. I must confess, I didn’t see it coming.
How did I end up here again?
I’m crushed. I didn’t know what I was expecting. I feel my heart shattering into a million pieces—when your heart and your head collide, it’s chaos.
But then I realize:
How can I forgive someone who doesn’t have any remorse?
It’s a question I will ask myself about many other people, at many other times, throughout my life.
I swear, though, Sharon is a fortune-teller.
Because, exactly as she predicted, the next time we would talk is the night I find out my brother is killed, three years later.
CHAPTER TWO
“Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart.”
—Kahlil Gibran
* * *
Remember back when you were just a pipsqueak in junior high and everything was the most dramatic experience ever, and every day you thought the sky was falling? It was a time when your parents just didn’t understand you, when doors slammed shut and everything became whether or not your crush said hi to you in the hall, or if you got picked first for dodgeball.
It was all about firsts: The first crush. The first kiss. The first pimple. The first “boy-girl” party. The first period. The first heartbreak.
Junior high was a make-or-break time for most of us, the precursor for who we would become in high school and college. It was a time when most of us were trying desperately to stand out (but not too much) in a sea of hundreds of other prepubescent kids struggling to make their own voice be heard, even if that voice was “cracking.”
It was a time of freedom, hope, exploration, and independence. But for me, all of that changed in a matter of minutes on December 20, 1985, just six days before my fourteenth birthday.
It was the first of many vacations that we would take with our soon-to-be stepmom, Patti, and her three kids, Lauren, Michael, and Brian. (Joan and my father had long since separated.) My father began dating Patti a few months earlier, when they decided to take us all to Ft. Lauderdale. Patti had a condo there, where she stayed, with my dad, Ron, and I in a hotel nearby. I went ahead a day earlier with Patti and her kids, and my brother came with my father the following morning.
December 20 was the second day of our two-week stay in the sunny vacation spot known for its beaches and beautiful weather. We were on our way home from a chaotic dinner, as one can only imagine with five kids ranging in age from five to seventeen. My dad and Patti, in the newlywed stage of their young love affair, appropriately decided to spend some alone time together. They dropped off Patti’s kids with the nanny at their condo and then Ron and me back to our hotel. We were just a block or two from our destination when all hell broke loose.
We are heading north on Sunrise Avenue in our rented station wagon. This car isn’t super fancy, but it is the best we can find to fit our brood. It is the epitome of the 1980s: white, with red velour seats, and fully loaded with an eight-track tape deck built into the faux-wood dashboard—the only thing missing is wood paneling on the side. When all of us travel together, Ron and I sit (or, more accurately, lie down) in the back, our feet touching the trunk door and our heads slightly bent to the side to accommodate our size, while Patti’s kids nestle in the middle section. But on this night, Ron and I move up a row and sit directly behind my dad and Patti, who are huddled close together in the front seat.
The dashboard clock flashed 9:20 p.m.
We’re talking, laughing, and planning the next day’s events, when all of a sudden I hear Patti yell, “Fred, watch out!”
The next thing I can remember is looking down at my hands, which are soaking wet. All I feel is warmth. Then, out of nowhere, Ron, now almost seventeen, appears on my side of the car. He throws the door open, pulls me out and drags me to the street curb, where the sounds of Patti screaming and crying are so loud that I can’t hear my own thoughts.
Ron carefully lays me down on the asphalt, next to Patti. Then there is a deafening silence that to this day, I can’t explain. It is as if I am shut off from the world for a minute as I sit peacefully in a state of pitch-black bliss.
But the pounding of my heart bri
ngs me right back to a state of terror. For a split second, I can see the faint shadow of my brother, Ron, running around in a panic, crying and yelling.
“Dad, hurry up, something is wrong with Kim! Help her! Something is wrong.”
And then, within seconds, it goes pitch black again…but it isn’t blissful this time. The sounds of cars whizzing by, doors opening and closing, people rushing around, and Patti’s questions—“Am I dying? Fred, help me. Am I dying?”—are becoming louder and more hurried.
I can hear my dad crying and yelling, “Help us, over here.”
I am so confused. I don’t understand what is happening. There is so much commotion going on, but in my head, it is all going so slow. It suddenly occurs to me that I can’t speak. My mouth feels tight, swollen, ripped open. I think my braces are stuck to the insides of my mouth. When I move my lips, I think I tear my skin.
I feel something in my throat, like pebbles or something sharp that is preventing me from swallowing, and now I feel my heart racing so fast. I keep thinking I am going so suffocate. My clothes and body are soaking wet.
Am I drenched in blood?
Oh, my God, I am sitting in a pool of blood. I am dying. Is this what it feels like?
My dad is next to me now, his hands holding mine, as he repeats, “Kimmy, honey, it’s me. Are you okay? It’s your daddy. You’re okay.”
I know he is trying to calm me down, but his voice is shaking. “Daddy, I am bleeding. Am I bleeding to death? Am I dying? Daddy, what’s happening?”
* * *
I am not sure he answered because the only sounds I can hear is my brother crying, my dad crying, Patti yelling for help, and my own fears and confusion. I keep thinking I am dying, and I wonder—why isn’t anyone telling me that I am not dying?
The paramedics arrive and begin working on Patti and me fairly quickly. They keep asking me to relax my head and I keep shaking my head no.
I am going to choke. I have something in my throat, glass or something. I can’t swallow.
They ask if anything is broken. “I have no idea,” I whisper.