Something About Those Eyes

by Debbie Wheeland

  I loved wolves and hoped I would see a real one. Hearing high-pitched howls during the night and the hoots of great-horned owls brought me closer to nature than I had ever experienced before. Our mother was the one who taught us to love and appreciate nature. She showed us butterflies coming out of their cocoons. We watched her dig in the dirt planting her flowers and growing vegetables. She seemed to know the names of every plant, bush, tree and flower. She had an extraordinary green thumb and grew many plants she had placed around the outside and inside of our home. She encouraged us to notice brilliant sunsets and watch endless stars and planets on darkest of nights. She loved the mountains, oceans, waterfalls, rivers, streams, rainbows, thunderstorms and rainy days.

  Early the next morning all the kids and leaders were up early and everyone was hungry. We stood in line for our breakfast. “Monica, look at these small, individual cereal boxes. We can even pour our milk right in the box.”

  “This is really good. I can pick out my favorite kind.”

  Plain old cereal never tasted so good. On Saturday morning one of the leaders made flapjacks; they were even better than my mom’s special silver dollar pancakes. Roasting hotdogs over the open fire and later, making s’mores for the first time was a fun treat.

  One afternoon, my sister and I spied the biggest toad we had ever seen. Sitting on a rock, sunning himself, he stared at us with one dark, sinister eye and the other eye was blood red.

  “Let’s call him Whiskey,” Monica said. “He looks like he’s had too much to drink with that red eye.”

  My sister and I carried that big, fat, ugly toad wherever we went for the next few days. We used Whiskey to scare the other girls who were afraid to touch him. Even Scotty got in the act, until his older sister caught him teasing someone with Whiskey. Regretfully, we had to say goodbye to our amphibian friend.

  The sight of the Grand Canyon was heart stopping. Walking along the rim, we peered across the vast valley of peaks and plateaus. My sister and I had never seen anything more beautiful. We were so thankful to be able to visit one of the great natural wonders of the world.

  Rising early one morning, we watched as orange, gold and crimson spotted the sky, until a blaze of red filled the canyon while the sun slowly rose. Sunsets were just as specular. Stopping along the way we explored unused roads, old graveyards, and small towns. We watched Native Indians put on a show and we talked to tourists as far away as Queens, New York. It was exciting for all of us. I had never been so far from home and had never talked to so many unfamiliar adults. Those were highlights of the trip my sister and I would never forget.

  A band of five of us pre-teens separated from the rest of the clan and we became bosom buddies which included the leader’s son, Scotty. He and I were developing a little crush on each other. One time our group decided to explore a nearby cemetery. People were buried there as early as the l800’s. As soon as we stepped through the enormous, wrought iron gates we were met with a looming, ominous-looking tombstone that stood over twelve-feet high. The sight of it sent chills up and down my spine. “This is scary. I don’t like it here!” I shouted.

  “Come on Deb, we’ll play Hide and Seek, it will be fun.”

  “I don’t want to I’m scared. You guys won’t leave me, will you?”

  “Don’t worry we won’t leave you,” Monica reassured me.

  We started the game and Mona was first. We blindfolded her then twirled her around till she was dizzy then stood her by a tree. She counted to thirty. We ran off. There were plenty of places to hide in the graveyard, but unfortunately Mona found me.

  “Okay it’s your turn to find us,” all the kids yelled.

  “It’s going to be dark soon. You promise you won’t leave? You know how scary this place is for me, especially that creepy headstone.”

  “We will be right here,” Monica promised, with a twinkle in her eye.

  They blindfolded me, spun me around over and over and stood me in front of a tree. “You have to count to one hundred.”

  “One, two… fifty-six… eighty-five…one hundred, ready or not here I come!” I screamed.

  I could hear giggles and whispers, then eerie silence. Reaching behind my head, I untied the knot. Looking up, I realized I was standing in front of that sinister looking headstone.

  “Ahhh, I hate you guys. You know this is scary. Where are you? You make me sick. You promised you wouldn’t leave me!”

  Shadows bounced around and played tricks on my eyes. The sun was beginning to set, making the place look even more eerie. With my arms flaring and my heart beating rapidly, I fearfully let out a blood-curling scream. “Where are you guys?”

  Throwing open the huge iron gates I looked around for my friends and my devious sister.

  Suddenly, I heard roars of laughter and I turned and saw them raising their heads. They had hidden behind an old brick fence on the other side of the immense iron gates.

  “Ha, ha. You should have seen your face when you took off that blindfold,” howled Monica with laugher.

  “You scared me so much I begged you not to leave me and you said you wouldn’t and then you stood me in front of that giant, creepy headstone. You guys make me sick.”

  “We were here all the time,” Monica said still giggling. “You’re so gullible!”

  Later we had a good laugh over it—after my heart rate slowed down.

  Not only were we fortunate to see the Grand Canyon, but we also traveled to Zion National Park in Utah. It was the first time I had ever seen incredible, breathtaking, rushing waterfalls and massive canyon walls ascending heavenward. The scenery was beautiful, with tall cottonwood trees over l00 years old. We saw mossy hanging gardens on the canyon walls and massive rock formations in the distance made us feel small amongst our surroundings.

  Roaring, cascading waterfalls were heard as they crashed upon the rocks below. The cool, sparkling flow of the river showered us with a peaceful serenity, as we breathed in the fresh morning air. There were no worries or cares on the beautiful, green earth that God had created. For the first time, I understood what it was like to have peace in my life, if only for a few moments.

  I loved opening my eyes first thing in the morning when the brilliance of the sun came streaming through my tent. Hearing the sounds of the cooing pigeons and the singing of the birds put a smile on my face. The sweet fragrance of the purple, orange, and yellow wildflowers permeated the forest as I breathed in the crisp, cool dawn air. Unforgettable sights and smells would always stay with me. I couldn’t believe the freedom and joy I felt being out in the wild. Days turned into weeks and, regrettably, our time was over too soon. The trip back was bittersweet. To leave such extraordinary surroundings brought a note of sadness, but on the other hand it was the first time Monica and I had spent so much time away from home and we were anxious to head back and share our fun adventures with our family.

  Sitting cross-legged in the back of the crowded truck, wrapped in blankets, our small group sat as far away as we could from the glaring eyes of our chaperone. All the girls urged me to kiss Scotty. “Kiss him, Debbie, kiss him, you know you want to.”

  I shyly shook my head and they tried a different approach. “Scotty, kiss her, kiss her.”

  He suddenly became nervous and shook his head. I would not get my first kiss until much later. On the rest of the ride home we all sang camp songs until we fell asleep.

  The following weekend my sister and I met with our new group of friends at the orange grove.

  “Try this cigarette,” said Scotty.

  I still had a crush on him and I wanted to please him so I took a puff and coughed like crazy. It left a terrible taste in my mouth. Immediately, guilt began to surround me like a dark cloud. Somehow Scotty’s parents found out what we had been up to and I never saw him again after that.

  Wes had been living with us for a while. He and my mother were smokers, but he
always encouraged us kids not to start the nasty habit. When I arrived home, I marched to my front door, shaking but determined to be honest with Wes about my smoking. “I took a puff from a cigarette today and immediately felt bad. I am so sorry. I will never smoke again,” I said with my head hanging down.

  Immediately, he took me in his arms. “Thanks for being honest with me. It’s okay. I hope you learned your lesson. It is such a bad, bad habit to start.”

  It felt good that he trusted me. After all I needed his love, affirmation, and approval. It was something I never got from my own father.

  My need for Wes’s love overruled what he did to my mom. Wes was charming when he wasn’t drinking, but as soon as he got drunk he turned into an abusive, screaming maniac. Wes never verbally or physically mistreated my siblings or me. Unfortunately, his unwarranted anger was always directed towards our mother. I don’t remember when it began but it lasted the whole time Mom and Wes were together for nearly two years. Often, they would go out drinking, and would come home drunk, then they would usually end up in the bedroom fighting. It wasn’t just normal yelling, he would threaten her and call her names. Then we would hear a thud, then another thud, and then another. As we ran into the room we’d find my mom with her hand over her mouth, tears and blood spilling over her face, sitting on the edge of the bed while Wes stood over her with his large fists clenched yelling obscenities.

  My older brother, who was small at fourteen, only standing about five feet tall, courageously stood up to Wes. “Stop hitting our mom?”

  Mom turned on my brother when he was trying to protect her. “Get out, get out of here all of you. I deserved it, I made him do it, now get out. He wouldn’t hit me if I would just keep my big mouth shut!”

  “You’re right, you B_____h!” Wes yelled, “it is all your fault.”

  Even after that, my brother still tried to intervene and my mom continued to blame herself for the abuse she suffered.

  We had heard my mom and dad fighting and calling each other names, but this was something new to us. It was painful watching our own mother getting beat. Seeing Mom come home drunk was something we hadn’t experienced either. Before she met Wes, we rarely saw our mother drunk. Some nights they’d come home, happy and lovey-dovey, holding hands like two teenagers in love. Everything seemed fine but ultimately the fighting would begin.

  One day Wes took us all to see a rodeo and I invited my girlfriend, Garrisann to go. Afterwards, she was planning on spending the night. Mom and Wes had gone out drinking and they came home fighting. He began to hit her over and over while calling her filthy names.

  I was so embarrassed! “Garrisann, I will walk you home,” I said, grateful it was dark so she couldn’t see my tears. We never talked about what was happening in my home. I only hoped my friend wouldn’t tell other people. It wasn’t long before I stopped inviting her over to spend the night, we usually ended up staying at her house. Did these kinds of things happen in other people’s homes too? I wondered but never asked.

  One time my mom came home with Wes staggering behind her, they were both covered in blood. Mom had a black eye and a swollen lip while Wes sported bruises and deep gashes on his arm.

  “What happened?” We screamed in horror.

  “Wes and I just beat up the Diablo gang,” my Mother proudly slurred!

  Do normal families go through this? What’s normal anyway?

  I was always trying to protect my mom but none of us could protect her from her boyfriend’s rages and violence. Sometimes it felt like we lived in constant fear never knowing how long the calm would last. Mom swore in her drunken stupor that she loved Wes and he loved her. Even when she wasn’t drunk we would overhear her say, I will never love anyone as much as I love Wes.

  During this time, she also did illegal things. One time Mom encouraged my baby brother to take a tiny, black poodle out of the neighbor’s yard. “Steve, go get me that dog. They keep him chained up all day and night, in the heat and in the rain. They don’t deserve to have him.”

  Steve happily obliged. He was the cutest, squiggliest puppy we had ever seen. Mom named him Freemont. Eventually, Wes grew jealous of the dog, accusing Mom of spending more time with Freemont than with him. The little puppy became a source of their constant bickering when they were drunk and Mom was always trying to defend herself against his accusations.

  We were so embarrassed because our mom had stolen someone else’s pet, but we knew how much Mom loved Freemont. We tried to keep him hidden by concealing him in the house and backyard as often as we could. We were afraid for our mom. Do normal moms ever steal their neighbor’s pets? Finally, the owner realized we had his dog and our mom ordered us to take Freemont back, while she hid inside. Luckily for Mom, the neighbor didn’t file charges.

  One gloomy, summer night, Mom and Wes went out. My three younger siblings were already in bed by the time they returned. Mike, Monica and me were up watching TV. In walked Wes and my mom, smiling from ear to ear. He carried a sewing machine, a record player, and an exquisite hand-knit lace tablecloth. My mom followed, bringing in a radio, a small black and white television set, and a few other odds and ends. They didn’t tell us where they came from and we were happy with our new treasures. A few days later one of our neighbors returned from their vacation and realized someone had burglarized their home while they were gone. They were missing a sewing machine, a television set, a radio, and other knick-knacks.

  We were mortified when we realized what Mom and Wes had done. Once again, we had to keep silent to protect our mother. A few days later they went out on their usual weekend jaunt. Within a few hours Wes staggered into the house, alone!

  Looking up from my television program I casually called out, “Where’s Mom?”

  Gazing at me with a glassy look, Wes announced, “She’s dead!”

  13

  Fears

  “For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and a sound mind.” 1 Timothy 1:7

  “What, what, she’s dead, what do you mean, what are you saying,” I yelled hysterically, tears streaming down my face. Running out to the driveway, I found my mom stumbling out of the car.

  She reached out to me slurring her words, “What’s throng, honey?”

  “Wes said you were dead, he said you were dead!”

  Wes, in a drunken rage came running out the front door holding the sewing machine. He threw it in the middle of the street. Dashing back into the house he grabbed the black and white television set and did the same thing. Then it was the radio and knick-knacks. By this time my little brothers were out of bed standing in the doorway rubbing their eyes. They stood there, tears falling down their faces, crying hysterically while watching this madman destroying the very items he my mom proudly carried in the week before. We were all so confused.

  The next-door neighbor flipped on his porch light. “What’s going on here, buddy? What’s all the noise about?” he said, walking out to his lawn, standing near the chain link fence that separated our yards.

  Wes reached over, grabbed the guy by the shirt and hit him right in the mouth. After cussing the guy out, he rubbed his hands together and calmly walked back in the house.

  “I’m so sorry Mom, it’s all my fault. I should never have overreacted about the comment Wes made.” Why was I so stupid?

  Mom, still drunk, tried to reassure me. “Honey its snot your fault.”

  But I was sure I was to blame and I spent the night feeling bad about myself. Afterwards, we could hear Mom and Wes screaming at each other in the bedroom.

  Even after this, I loved Wes and forgave him. When Wes wasn’t drinking, he was a different person and I could overlook his abuse to my mother. He warned me about boys and spent time listening to me. He encouraged me to draw. He told me he was proud of me when I cooked a good meal, cleaned the house, or brought home a good report card. Wes laughed and made jokes
, made fun of people and made all of us laugh. When he couldn’t afford to take us out to eat, he helped Mom in the kitchen and taught her how to prepare ground beef several different ways to stretch the budget.

  I thought I had finally found a daddy who loved me. When Wes and Mom weren’t drinking we had happy family times. He took us on our first real vacation. Our adventure started with a fun-filled day spent at Disneyland—something we had never done while Mom and Dad were married. My sister and I looked adorable in our matching orange and white flower print, frilly tops, and bell-bottoms. The boys all wore matching blue, button-down shirts, light-brown pants, and brand-new tennis shoes. Afterwards, we made plans to drive to Henderson, Nevada to visit our grandmother. We stopped at Hoover Dam, billed as a National Historic Landmark. After taking a tour, we stood on top and looked all the way down. The sound of the roaring water was deafening, but I loved it. I appreciated learning about the history of the dam. We took lots of pictures and there were lots of smiles that weekend. When we returned home, the inevitable drinking and fighting started and Mom ended up with a black eye and several bruises.

  Often on Sunday afternoons, Wes and Mom would load us into the family car and take us to their favorite bar. Their preferred bar was The Schooner. It was shaped like a large ship and inside was the biggest aquarium we kids had ever seen. Country music played in the background.

  Mom would motion to us. “Look girls, see that blue and yellow fish, it’s so pretty. Come over here boys, look at that funny-looking seahorse in there.”

  At first it was exciting. But then I began to notice the dark, dank, atmosphere, the smell of stale beer, and the sound of pool balls clinking together. Besides, I hated hearing the sound of Hank Williams and Willie Nelson. To this day I have an aversion to country music and bars.

  Wes and I shared something in common: we both loved horseback riding. Wes took Mom, Monica, and me to a nearby horse stable several times a year. My favorite horse was Big Red. He was by far the largest horse I had ever seen and I felt like a queen sitting high atop his burly, auburn back. Cool, overcast days in southern California still remind me of those times at Jurupa Hills horse stables.