Something About Those Eyes

by Debbie Wheeland

  One cold, winter weekend, Gail and Howard invited all of us to accompany them up to the mountains to Big Bear. Pulling off the side of the road, we were amazed at the sight of steep slopes spilling over with snow.

  “Come on kids,” Howard called. “Help me make an igloo.”

  In no time, the igloo was complete and it was big enough for all of us to fit inside. Howard lit a Coleman stove while Mom fried ground beef, with slices of potatoes. Mom had prepared that meal many times before, but it never tasted so good as when we huddled together trying to stay warm in our homemade igloo. We spent many years hanging out with Mom’s friends. I will always remember the fun times and their dog, but would never miss being referred to as “Bucky beaver.”

  Most of my friends lived in the neighborhood, so I rarely had to venture too far to hang out with kids my age. Roberta lived down the street and took care of her older father, who wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses. He was scary looking, and he reminded me of Mr. Magoo from the cartoon. Roberta always thought she knew everything, just because she was a year older than me. I was almost twelve. Although there was often animosity between Roberta and I, we still hung out together.

  One afternoon Roberta adamantly stated, “Did you know babies drink from their mother’s breast?”

  I looked at my sister, and she looked back at me. Shaking my head, pointing my finger toward her face, I said, “You’re such a liar. Everyone knows babies drink out of a bottle.”

  “No, they don’t, they drink out of their mother’s breasts.”

  “You’re a liar!” I repeated.

  Instantly, Roberta reached over and slapped me in the face. Walking away, crying and holding my stinging cheek, I felt hurt, but mostly anger at myself for being a coward and a crybaby just like my father. I ran all the way home and showed my sister the red mark on my cheek.

  “I hate that Roberta,” Monica said. “I’m going to get her back for you. No one is going to slap my sister and get away it.”

  Without my knowledge, my sister began formulating a plan of revenge.

  All the neighborhood kids talked about Roberta stuffing her bra. Soon after we heard the rumor, we were on the school bus coming home from a field trip. My sister and I noticed toilet paper hanging out of Roberta’s sleeveless blouse and we giggled. Later that day, on our way home from school, Monica and I walked home with Roberta.

  “Roberta, do you stuff your bra?” Monica asked.

  Roberta proudly stated, “Yeah, you want to see?”

  Standing at a distance I watched as Monica peeked at Roberta’s pulled down shirt. “First you fold the toilet paper like this, then you put it in your bra.”

  Suddenly, Monica grabbed ahold of the tissue and yanked it out. Clenching her fist, she punched Roberta right in the mouth. Blood started dripping down her chin. “That’s for slapping my sister. Don’t you ever touch her again!”

  Roberta never hit me again and we remained friends throughout the next couple of years.

  “Monica, you’re the little sister and I should be protecting you,” I said, feeling guilty as we strolled away.

  “Deb, you’re my only sister and I won’t ever let anyone hurt you.”

  A few hours later, Gail and Howard and their new baby, Howie, stopped by our house. After dinner, the baby started crying and Mom motioned for my sister and me to follow her and Gail in the bedroom. “I want you and Monica to see how Gail feeds her baby.”

  Gail lifted her shirt and put the crying baby to her breast. My mom’s words were a blur as she explained to us how milk comes out of the mother’s breasts. I kept replaying Roberta’s words in my head. Talk about having milk on my face. I guess she was right after all.

  A few years later I found out the creepy, ugly little man who was Roberta’s father had molested her. Roberta went on to marry an older man from our neighborhood and had a couple of little girls. She was later killed at the hands of a rapist. I always felt bad for the life that was handed to her.

  Amelia and Mom renewed their friendship shortly after we moved back to the old neighborhood. She had a teenage daughter named Janie and a son Michael. Michael often played with my older brother my sister and me. The four of us spent the next couple of years hanging out at the nearby orange grove, sitting under the tree in our front yard or making crafts at Palmetto Park.

  All of us neighbors borrowed from each other in those days: a roll of toilet paper, an egg, slices of bread, a cup of milk, or whatever else was needed. We didn’t have much but we always shared what we had. Whenever my mom spent the day in bed or was gone, I usually answered the door when someone came borrowing. Some days, and for no apparent reason, Mom would bad mouth people and get angry and go on a yelling rampage, she was filled with a mean streak. It was at those times that us kids all tried to stay out of her way. One afternoon when I relayed to her what Janie had borrowed, she got that mean look on her face and yelled, “I’m tired of that girl sponging off us. Next time she comes over, don’t let her have anything, no matter what it is. Do you understand?”

  Nodding my head, I felt like the Gestapo. I would make my mother proud!

  The doorbell sounded a few days later and Janie showed up while my mother was gone.

  “I need something. It’s really important,” Janie frantically, explained. “It is called Kotex, go look in your bathroom and see if your mom has any…hurry please.”

  I ran into the bathroom, found the box of Kotex, and then the words of my mother came back to me, “Don’t let Janie borrow anything.”

  Carrying the box back into the living room and standing in the doorway, I glared at Janie, and held the sanitary napkins up. “My mother is sick of you borrowing things and she said I’m not allowed to give you anything, anymore.” I promptly slammed the door in her face. I just knew when my mom came home and I told her the story she would be so happy with me!

  “Oh no, Deb. You could have given her that,” Mom said when I told her about the incident later that day.

  I couldn’t do anything right! After that I guess Mom figured out it was time she told my sister and me about menstrual cycles. Boy, was I ashamed of myself when I found out why Janie needed the Kotex so badly.

  10

  Mom’s New Boyfriend and Life Goes On….

  “O Lord you took up my case; you redeemed my life. You have seen, O Lord, the wrong done to me. Uphold my cause!” Lamentations 3:58

  When I began Junior high I desperately wanted to tell my mom about the sexual abuse. I had never told anyone and it was getting harder to keep the secret even though my dad hadn’t touched me for over two years. Many nights I woke up from horrible nightmares and often cried during the day, feeling anxious, ashamed, guilty and worthless.

  Calling us into the room a year after I started seventh grade Mom said, “I need to tell you girls how babies are made.”

  I didn’t have the courage to tell her I already knew what sex was. After all I had learned about it firsthand. That day I walked out of her room, hanging my head in shame and guilt, with my secret still intact, wishing desperately she knew.

  After her first boyfriend, I was getting used to my mom going out, although I still didn’t like it. She and Frank dated for nearly two years, so he had become a more permanent fixture in our lives. Mom rarely drank at home but sometimes she and Frank would have a cold beer while we barbecued, which we did often. They did the majority of their drinking at his house, unseen from our eyes. I wonder if she knew how hard it was for me to have her gone? Later she confided in us that Frank was an alcoholic. “His skin is yellow because he has a bad liver from drinking so much.”

  The thing I liked best about Frank was when he loaded up all six of us in the back of his black pickup truck and drive us down to Ace Liquor where he would purchase booze and buy us kids our favorite candy bars. My choice was always Rocky Road or Mr. Goodbar. All Frank wanted in exchange was to have his
feet rubbed and his back scratched. I didn’t mind, I loved those candy bars. Frank was a kind and decent man. He never abused us, he never called us names, and he never touched us inappropriately. I guess we all must have felt safe with him during the short time he was a part of our household.

  Frank liked to hunt and fish, sometimes he would take Mom fishing with him. Other times he’d go off by himself and bring back his catch. He taught Mom how to cook wild rabbit, pigeons, deer, elk and fish. Frank didn’t live with us, although he and Mom spent many nights sleeping over at one another’s homes. As far as I could tell Mom had no morals but she drilled into my sister and me that we were to remain virgins until we were married. Later she told us she believed it didn’t matter for her because she had been divorced and ex-communicated from the Catholic Church for getting a divorce, something that would always bother her.

  One day Mom told us Frank couldn’t be tied down with so many kids. “Inez, if you only had three kids I would probably marry you, but I can’t handle six.” It wasn’t long after that statement, she and Frank broke up. I would miss our evening runs to the liquor store and I would miss having a father figure around.

  My sister and I were starting to become young women. Our mother was often cold to us, ignoring us by retreating into her bedroom for hours and hours, and then demanding we bring her a glass of water, so she could take her many pills. I’m sure our mother, who was in her early thirties, often felt overwhelmed raising six children alone in the sixties, when most women were shunned for being divorced. Time and time again she’d go to the doctor complaining of lack of sleep or anxiety and he’d write her a prescription for sleeping pills or tranquilizers. “Take as many as you need. It’s hard having six children and no husband.”

  During her dark days Mom never seemed to be pleased or happy. The house wasn’t cleaned well enough, we made too many messes, and there was never enough money. All us kids grew up occasionally spanked by our mother but unfortunately Monica and Steve incurred the brunt of Mom’s wrath and they were frequently beaten. My sister always threw terrible tantrums from the time she was a little girl. Monica was sometimes quiet and nice, sometimes mean and sullen. At times, for no apparent reason, she would shake her head, scream and act like she was out of control while running throughout the house. Mom’s physical abuse to Monica started when she was very young and lasted until she became a teenager. We could hear my mom accuse my sister of having a demon inside of her when she threw her fits. Mom would catch her by her long, wavy, brown hair and swing her around, shake her, slap her face and sometimes beat her black and blue.

  My poor brother Steve often got the same treatment. Did he come at the wrong time in her life? The rest of us would watch terrified, helpless to do anything for our siblings. Did my mom pick on my little brother because he was a product of her affair and she was constantly reminded of the man she couldn’t have?

  I was always trying to find ways to make my mother contended with herself and with me and I didn’t want to be on the receiving end of her vicious attacks she inflicted on my siblings. Doing whatever I could to please her and take on all the responsibilities of a substitute mom I hoped to convince myself if only I said or did the right things in her eyes she would be happy with her life. I spent most of my waking hours when I wasn’t busy trying to figure out how I could do things better.

  Monica wasn’t possessed by a demon, but she carried hidden scars that no one knew about. Mom disclosed years later that she hated herself and she was mean to my sister and brother because they reminded her of what she was like as a child. Our mother never felt loved and accepted by her own mother. On grandma’s deathbed Mom asked her, “Mama did you ever love me?”

  “Of course, I loved you Inez, I’ve always loved you. Where did you get such a silly notion?”

  My mom was over fifty when she finally believed those word­­­­s from her dying mother. She lived a half-century believing she was unloved and unlovable. It is amazing how unspoken words throughout your childhood can affect your whole life!

  With six children, it wasn’t often my mom and I spent time alone with one another and I longed for it. One of the memories that stand out, besides the welfare line, was accompanying Mom to the market to buy groceries. “Come on Debra, let’s go shopping. I’ll let you pick out your favorite cereal.”

  “Can I get Captain Crunch instead of Wheaties or Corn Flakes?”

  “Whatever you want. It’s your treat.”

  Ambling through the aisles, I’d help her toss meat, bread and milk in the cart. Driving home, we would both be starving “Find me that package of bologna and tortillas.”

  Rummaging through the grocery bags, I’d rip open the bologna, stick a piece in the middle of a flour tortilla and roll it up. We’d enjoy our “fast food” together while driving home.

  My mom never had a checking account while we were young. And she would pay all her bills with money orders or cash. Pulling up in front of the local utility company, she’d hand me the invoice and cash. Jumping out of the car, I’d dash inside; pay the bill and race back to the car, ready to head out for the next errand. I felt important and grown up when Mom let me help her. My brothers and sister would be in the back seat of our big, blue Mercury station wagon. Oftentimes when we were all done, we’d take a drive to the vegetable stand, and then go to one of Mom’s favorite picnic spots, such as Fairmount Park.

  We never had the money to go out to eat, so we’d pack a lunch and head to the beach or Lytle Creek for picnics on the weekends. The only time we bought chips was for our weekend excursions. I loved the potato chips that came inside a large hatbox, to this day it is still one of my favorite snacks. Packing our cheap Styrofoam cooler with ice, hot dogs, hamburger, and buns, we could hardly contain our excitement, anticipating our fun outing.

  Because of my love for horses, I looked forward to our weekend adventures. It always guaranteed me seeing horses grazing in the fields. As soon as I’d notice my favorite animal, you could hear me scream, “a horse, there’s a horse, look at the horse! Oh, I wish I had a horse.”

  My siblings would just shake their heads, cover their ears and remark, “there she goes again.”

  When I got older I quit screaming but the ache and excitement in my heart continued every time I saw one of those magnificent creatures. I ached because I wanted one so badly. Just being close to a horse brought me unexplainable joy. Often times Mom would pull over to the side of the road and let me get out and pet the horse that was on the other side of the fence.

  On warm, summer nights after barbecuing hot dogs and hamburgers our mom would make popcorn. She’d dump the warm, puffy white popcorn in a brown grocery bag and pour in creamy melted butter. After sprinkling it with salt and shaking the bag, she’d herd us kids into the family station wagon. “Grab some blankets, we’re going to the drive-in.”

  We loved going to the movies. During intermission, my sister and I always took our brothers to the playground, near the concession stand. “Swing me again, Deb,” Dave would yell. “Monica go down the slide with me,” Rob said. “Will you take me to the bathroom,” asked Steve?

  On blistering, hot summer days, we’d make plans with the neighbors and pack our bologna or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, take blankets and towels and head to Newport Beach where we would spend the whole day.

  Our neighbor, Mrs. LaBree, was my favorite companion on those beach trips even though she was my mothers’ friend. The first time I tasted cool, iced-coffee was when our neighbor pulled out her Tupperware pitcher, and poured the delicious-tasting beverage into a tall, Tupperware tumbler.

  “Here, Debbie, would you like to try a glass?”

  “No thank you, I’m not allowed to drink coffee. My mom says it will stunt your growth.” Secretly, I wanted to taste the cool liquid and was more than willing to have it stunt my growth, I thought my legs were too long and skinny anyways.

  Mom turned to m
e grinning, “Its okay, you can have one glass this time.”

  Mrs. LaBree handed me a glass of chilled iced coffee, I had never tasted anything so good. Our neighbor remained my mom’s friend for a long time. She probably had the most normal family in our neighborhood and I often babysat for her. I always felt comfortable at her house. I can’t remember hearing any drama about her, but who knows what she and my mom talked about when they would sit and drink coffee. On Saturday mornings, I’d help her clean her house and afterwards she’d teach me how to cook different dishes. She taught me how to follow recipes and how to make raisin bread, shepherd’s pie, and other casseroles. I never forgot all she taught me, and to this day I really enjoy a frosty cup of iced coffee.

  Although I was becoming interested in boys and the world outside of my neighborhood, I still did everything I could to please my mother. I continued to feel insecure and worthless and I would stuff my feelings and daydream instead. My mom’s disapproval and verbal abuse no longer damaged me like it once did, or so I thought. There was a huge maple tree in our back yard and I loved climbing on it sitting atop the branches. I could see blocks and blocks away. I’d climb as high as I could and look out past the our street, pretending to be a newscaster, a dog trainer, a jockey or a famous writer. I’d get lost in my thoughts escaping real life. I could be anything I wanted to be. I dreamed about being a wolf, having a life that was simple and free—one that I could control. I fantasized about having my very own horse, which I could ride away in a moment’s notice. At those times, gone was the constant nagging feeling that I was just never good enough, gone were the feelings of being bad, worthless shameful, and guilty.