by Kim Goldman
“Okay, thank you for your time. Good-bye.”
This would be the last time I would ever speak to Yale Galanter.
I was at the end of the road. He had placed every roadblock he could in my way to try and steer me off course. And he failed.
Yale didn’t overpower me, as I suspect he thought he could. He didn’t intimidate me, as I am sure he has others. He didn’t charm me, so I would soften in my position. He didn’t do anything, except prove to me that I am not the one who is afraid anymore.
It’s like that old game of “Chicken” that people used to play on deserted highways late at night. I think of one of my favorite movies, Grease. Two cars race toward one another—driver’s foot to the gas pedal—and the one who swerves away is the “loser.” The “winner” was willing to plow grille-first into the other motorist.
That’s what I went through with Yale. We each were cruising forward, both ready to hit the other with all we were worth.
Yale threw everything he could conceive of into my path: feigned concern for me, empathy for my family, fear of my being alone, unchaperoned, in a room with the killer.
None of it scared me. I was ready to ram into his headlights. There was no hesitation on my end.
I was going to win this game of “Chicken.” Recklessness would see me through.
However, he had one trick up his sleeve.
If I were Supergirl, this was my Kryptonite, my one fatal weakness. He wanted me to lie. He wanted me to deny the truth.
That was a game changer. That made me swerve. I had to take my foot off the gas pedal—whether I liked it or not.
Asking me to deny the truth robs me of my voice and strips me of my credibility and integrity. I have worked too long, too hard, and have come too far to give it all up to participate in their life of cover-ups—all to protect a killer from being held accountable for his actions. I will never agree to anything that protects or shields him from reality. And I would never be an accomplice to such deceit.
I know the door is shut. But what I saw through the peephole was enough. I saw myself as powerful, brave, and honest about what I wanted and needed for my healing. Despite the lectures and the hours of trying to convince those closest to me that I would be all right, it was all worth it. I pushed through my fear, all the anxiety and the what-ifs, and I survived, as I always do.
“His perception of reality and actual reality are two totally different things,” Yale had said to me about the killer.
That’s an interesting comment from an attorney willing to enable that very thing to occur—using me and my proposed visit as pawns in his client’s twisted mind games.
I know Yale will deny this conversation ever happened.
But confidentially—’uman to ’uuman—it did.
CHAPTER NINE
“We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey.”
—Kenji Miyazawa
* * *
I am always thinking. I can’t stop. I don’t know that I want to, but I want to make sure that I’m not spinning my wheels. Being this introspective lends itself to a lot of internal conversations about where I’m headed, what I’m doing, and what I think my ultimate purpose in this world really is. My life so far has been exhausting, motivating, inspiring, painful, and full of love, heartache, triumph, and tenacity. It is my journey to have.
For me, part of the experience is applying the lessons I have learned, day after day, which helps me become the woman I want to be. Writing this book has helped me sweep clean the musty places in my head and also free up some additional space in my heart, which may have been a little calloused.
One of the things I have learned over time is acceptance—of my family, my situation, and especially my role as a single parent.
Being a single parent is hard. We don’t get to check out when we’re too tired to help with homework, or make lunches, or play another game. We don’t have anyone to help us make the big decisions in our lives or in the lives of our children. We don’t have someone to share in the simple joy of daily life with our children.
I think it’s been harder for me to deal with the absence of my ex than it has been for Sam, and not for reasons that one would think. My ex left (at my request) when Sam was barely two years old, so he doesn’t know a life when we all lived together as a family. I share stories, show pictures, and paint an image filled with love, so that Sam knows he came from that background. I follow my father’s example of not saying anything negative about my ex to my son.
When Sam asks me why his dad and I weren’t married anymore, I am purposefully vague. I am reticent, partly because it’s too hard for him to understand but also because it has no bearing on what his relationship is with his father. Like any parent, I try to make my son’s home life as positive and peaceful as possible—at least the parts I can control.
Truth be told, I carry a lot of guilt as it relates to my child. Mostly, it stems from not creating the family environment that I so desperately want for him and feel he deserves; that torments me. I am troubled by the sometimes uncanny resemblance to my own childhood.
I was about Sam’s age (six or seven) when I had an epiphany about my mother. I saw her for what she was, and for what she wasn’t giving me. I am not entirely sure I understood it, but I knew the difference between a parent who showed up in my life, and one who didn’t. I wonder how much of that Sam carries within him.
It’s bizarre to watch the playback of my own childhood happen in my own home. I watch Sam, and struggle with how much I should interfere.
* * *
Sam is ten years old now, and one of the hardest things for me to do in those years has been to put on a brave face, so that Sam isn’t swayed by my feelings and moods. It isn’t fair to him to have to endure the aftermath of my divorce, which is what I most respect about my dad.
He let me work my feelings out on my own, let me experience all of it, only extending a hug, never an “I told you so.” Having that as my example growing up, I now strive to give Sam the same privilege, as history repeats itself in my house.
I know my Dad gets it, so he is the only one with whom I share these feelings. Recently I asked how he dealt with all that emotion, as he watched his kids being hurt over and over by their mother. He confided that he had great friends who listened and took the brunt of it, so we could be unaffected. That is one aspect that I am lucky to recreate: My “inner circle” of friends have been the best buffers, the best listeners, the best champions for my cause, and the best huggers. Thanks to them, my son is a little more protected.
* * *
Speaking of protection, my son would love for me to get married again, so this new husband and father “can help us in the house and do things for us, play with me and be a family.”
Hearing my son talk about introducing a “new dad” to his friends stings a little way down deep, because he’s asking for the same things I asked for as a little girl and still want as an adult.
We both have a desire to be part of something bigger than just us.
He wants a family. He wants the entire package.
He talks a lot about “getting” another baby and constantly tells me that I am not trying hard enough to “get a husband.”
“Mommy, just walk up to someone tomorrow and say, ‘Hey there.’”
Sam winks his eye and gives me the hubba-hubba look.
Not able to contain my laughter, I ask him, “And then what do I do?”
He continues to tell me the secret to landing a man. “You go have dinner and then ask if he’ll marry you. And then I can have a brother or a sister. I’d be fine with either one.”
Doing this on my own, I am stretched to the gills, but I liken it to that wonderful pain that you get after a hard workout. It’s sore and achy, but you know in the end it’s going to pay off big-time, so you stay at it and work through it. Secretly you can’t wait to get back in there and push a little harder next time.
That’s my feeling with my son. I
am his confidante, his disciplinarian, his nurse, his handyman, his playmate, his homework buddy, his chef, his laundress, his friend, his father, and his mother.
I squeeze and contort myself into various roles throughout the day, moving faster than the speed of sound to keep up with him, his moods, and his needs.
I overcompensate, much like my dad did, so that the obvious missing part is less obvious. That’s where the ache always comes.
My dear friend Lisa, her husband, Siri, and their two boys have been a second family for us. Sam and the kids, Logan and Landon, are great friends. We’ve spent a lot of time together watching our boys grow up. It’s been a joy.
Siri had a special connection with Sam from early on, because he, too, was raised without a father. Now, as a grown man and father, he can look back and see the impact that experience had on his life.
After my ex moved back to Chicago, Siri and some of my other friends’ husbands started to look out for me: helping around the house if I needed it, offering to move things if they were too heavy, and roughhousing with Sam. And eventually, I expect they will probably show him how to shave. I tried to reject all that basic “man stuff,” because I needed to prove that I was fine on my own.
Over the years, I have loosened my controlling grip, but I’ve always maintained that I’m fine on my own and “handling it.”
But one Sunday afternoon, when Sam was about nine, reality came and smacked me right in the noggin.
Siri offered to take the boys on a hike on a local trail so that Lisa and I could do a little shopping and have girl time, without the incessant wrangling of three kids.
We jump at the chance to be free from responsibility for a few hours! We lather up the kids with sunscreen, arm them with water and throw them in the backseat, and bid them farewell.
“Be careful!” Lisa and I yell in unison as they drive away for their afternoon adventure.
After a few hours, we decide to part ways so that we can head home and get the house together and dinner ready for when the boys return from their hike.
I hate being in my house when Sam’s not there. It’s too quiet. When he’s there, I can hear him singing and making up songs, or when he busts a move to the latest hit from Maroon 5, or when he spontaneously breaks out into a beat box mix, or when he’s playing Lego Star Wars and assumes the roles of all the characters. That is what makes the house feel like a home. I really miss him when he’s not around.
But from the time he was born, it’s always been really important for me to establish our independence from each other. I strongly encourage him to go have experiences separate from me, and me from him.
I want him to develop his own style and grace unique to him. So when the opportunity comes to go on an adventure, especially a “boy trip,” I practically push him out the door. He always goes willingly and always comes back with a giant smile on his face.
When the van pulls up to the house, Sam hops out of the car yelling good-bye, throwing knuckles to Uncle Siri. When I turn toward Siri to say thank you, he asks me to wait a second because he wants to talk to me.
“Kim, when is the last time Sam saw his dad?”
“A few years. Why?”
“Well, we were in the car talking about stuff and he mentioned that it had been a long time. And the boys were telling him the stuff that dads and sons do together, and he had this really sad look on his face. So I just wanted to tell you that if you ever want me to take him and do guy stuff together, I am happy to do it. I love that kid and I know it’s hard for you being a single mom, and I want to help where I can.”
I was in tears by the end of his sweet declaration. He struck such a nerve with me, but I didn’t want him to know that in that moment. I hug him, thanking him for his kindness and his sensitivity toward Sam.
After I went back into my home, though, I find myself totally defensive. I take Siri’s comment as an attack on my mothering. It isn’t anywhere close to that, but I have to resist the urge to argue with Siri that I was more than capable of providing everything to my son.
As the thoughts tumble about in my brain, I realize I am kidding myself.
Yeah, I can take Sam hiking. I can teach him how to throw a football. I can show him how to use a power saw. I can be an incredible mother and woman, but there are things I know I can’t do for him that a strong male role model can.
Having to accept that I can’t give my son everything he needs is humbling for me, but accepting that I need that help ultimately will give him all that he deserves.
I realize I have to have the strength and the courage to accept my limitations.
I have to keep repeating: “I am a better mom for knowing I need help. I am a great mom for getting it.”
I really need to get that motto tattooed somewhere on my body to serve as a reminder.
* * *
It makes sense that I soon I wander into a dingy old tattoo parlor on Hollywood Boulevard one Saturday night with my dear friend Christine.
We just finished a decadent meal at a trendy sushi place when we decided to stroll around a bit before heading home for the night. Little did I know that a major moment in my life was about to be shared with a perfect stranger with spiky blond hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a brilliant smile.
We enter an unknown “ink” bar, where the lights flicker and loud punk music blares in the background. We walk casually toward the back of the parlor, passing rows of “leather products” that would make the kinkiest of people blush.
We manage to make it to the back counter, where Zero, the tattoo artist, greets us. He has a kindness to him, which puts both of us at ease.
He quickly says, “Which one of you is gettin’ a tat?”
Christine points to me.
I gasp.
I briefly mentioned at dinner that I had always wanted to get a tattoo, but just couldn’t decide what. It was important to me to have something meaningful and private. I just assumed something would strike me when the time was right.
I first became interested in the notion of a tattoo when I saw my brother Ron’s ankh. He had his done the year before he was brutally murdered and he wore it proudly, like an army medal. My father was not at all pleased with my brother’s decision, but obviously had no choice but to accept what he had done. I guess in the back of my head my hesitation was directly connected to not wanting to see that same look of disapproval from my father.
Yet here I stood, the hairs on the back of my neck at full alert and my stomach in knots. I found myself suddenly seriously contemplating marking up my body for the rest of my life.
I flip through books of pictures, and manage to flirt with the tattoo artist, as Christine tries to convince me to “just do it.”
I always assumed that I would get an ankh, in memory of my brother, and then try to add something to make it more “Kim-like.” But now, I struggle with wanting to do something to recognize my love and devotion for my brother, but desperately wanting something that was just about me. We discuss the different words and images that I felt best describes me: strength, honor, laughter, sadness, life, motherhood, dedication, passion, advocacy, determination…and then there it was.
I welled up as I came across the Japanese symbol for “courage”—I couldn’t take my eyes off that beautiful image. It strikes such a chord in me, and next thing I know I am exchanging money and being motioned to the chair.
As Christine begins to document the event with the camera on my phone, Zero starts to show me the tools, assuring that everything is sterilized. It’s only when the machine starts to “hum” that my heart begins to race. I can feel my cheeks flush, and I start to get a little dizzy; I try taking deep breaths to calm myself down.
I lean over the chair, all the while cracking jokes so that nobody would know that I am panicking inside.
I look up at the wall right in front of me and see a wall full of posters with pictures of hundreds of different styles of tattoos. It is completely overwhelming. My pulse quickens; my breat
h hastens; my mind is racing.
Seconds later, when my eyes focus more clearly, the only image in my direct line of vision is an ankh. An immediate sense of peace comes over me, and the rest is history.
The reason I share this story is a simple one. It might not seem that momentous, to get a tattoo, but for me it was a life-altering moment.
The reality of what I had done set in the following morning, when my son asks me, “What is that black spot, Mommy?”
“It’s a tattoo.”
He asks what the picture is and what it means.
“It means courage.”
I explain to him, with such a sense of pride, what that word means. It reminds me of my brother when he talked about his ankh.
I realize in that moment that getting that tattoo was the first decision I had made for myself that affected only me—not my son, not my family, not my friends.
My tattoo means more than just courage to me; it means liberation, empowerment, and independence.
It is something that defines me, not as Ron’s sister, not as Fred’s daughter, not as Sam’s mom; just as Kim, the woman.
Getting that tattoo was proof that I am finally comfortable in my own skin.
* * *
I find a ridiculous comfort in sharing my “Sam-isms” on Facebook for others to read and gush over.
Recently it dawned on me that the reaction I receive from telling stories about Sam satisfies some of the loneliness and isolation I feel as a single parent.
As much as my friends love and adore my kid, I worry that it can appear a “bit much” to always be gushing over my kid when they have their own gushing stories to share.
My dad is Sam’s second-biggest fan, and he’ll never tire of my stories, but to post a quick update about my kid’s musings brings me solace when I am having an off day.
It is also through Facebook that I often receive unsolicited, and sometimes unexpected, correspondence.
Recently I accepted an e-mail from a young woman who claimed she was Justin and Sydney Simpson’s friend. She went on and on about the “kids” and how much they are struggling, and how much they miss their mother.