by Ingrid Ricks
I spent the next hour crying. Then the tears stopped, and slowly a new hardness took hold of me. I grabbed my journal and pen and scribbled the words, “I hate Earl” over and over across the pages. I wasn’t sure what was coming next. But as I sat there in the growing darkness, I made two vows to myself: I was never going to let that psycho religious fake rule me again. And this was the last time either he or Mom would ever keep me from being with my dad.
CHAPTER 2
B.E. (BEFORE EARL): FALL 1975
BEFORE EARL SHOWED up at our door, I didn’t think things could get much worse for our family.
Dad was gone all the time, we were flat broke, and the fighting between him and Mom had escalated to the point that my sisters and I often locked ourselves in the bathroom for protection when they started in on each other.
My first real inkling of the troubles in our family started when Mom suddenly yanked us out of school and moved our family to Mississippi during the fall of my third grade year.
“If your dad wants to work out there, then that’s where we’re going,” she announced in a flat, defiant tone one morning after scripture reading. “We’re supposed to be together as a family—not living thousands of miles apart.”
I knew from the Book of Mormon stories and other church lessons that Mom forced on us each morning that Dad was supposed to be at home, watching over us and guiding us with his priesthood powers, not living on the road as a salesman. I also knew how upset this made Mom because she was always accusing him of abandoning us. But the only thought that repeated through my eight-year-old mind was that Dad got to leave all the time and I was stuck at home. And Mom’s announcement made me feel like I’d just won the lottery.
“This is the best day of my life!” I shouted, ignoring the deep frown creasing her face as I did a jig across the living room floor in my nightgown.
Mom arranged for a neighbor to look after our Utah house while we tried out our new life in Mississippi. A few days later, we stuffed our duffle bags and plastic garbage bags full of clothes into the trunk of her rusted brown Buick and were on our way.
I started begging Dad to take me on a road trip the minute we arrived in Walls, an ugly Mississippi border town located about thirty miles from Memphis, Tennessee. And after two relentless months, I finally got my wish.
“Well, Hippie Boy, it’s just you and me this weekend,” he said, chuckling as he watched me crawl into the cab of his brown Dodge pickup. “What do you think about that?”
Dad called me Hippie Boy because my long, often tangled brown hair reminded him of the hitchhikers he picked up during his road trips. But he said it was also because with my spunk and determination, I should have been born a boy. He didn’t have a nickname for any of the other kids and I viewed it as proof that he loved me best.
Everything about Dad attracted me. I thought he was as handsome as a movie star. He wore his strawberry-blonde hair combed back against his head like Elvis, and had warm hazel eyes that were so big I could sometimes catch my reflection in them. When he smiled, his entire face lit up and he had a loud, booming voice that made people listen. I heard Grandma say he had the golden tongue because he could talk his way in or out of anything.
I was proud to be Dad’s daughter. I loved it that he was his own boss, made his own rules, and was working his way to becoming a millionaire―which he said was only a matter of time now. Everything about his life appealed to me, and I wanted it desperately.
As a self-employed salesman, Dad got to come and go as he pleased. He spent his time traveling the country, sleeping in motel rooms, and eating in restaurants. When he came home for visits, he often showed up in a new truck or van he had talked the local dealership into giving him for no money down. And he always dressed nice. When he wasn’t in a suit, he wore jeans, a nice button-down shirt, and real leather cowboy boots.
Mom was the opposite of Dad. She rarely smiled and had a meek, quiet voice that was hard to understand even without her thick Austrian accent. She dressed in frumpy clothes she bought from the church thrift store, and never had the money to buy us new clothes or take us out to eat. Sometimes, when she couldn’t afford groceries, we had to go to the church welfare office for food.
I hated being poor. But what I really hated was Mom’s addiction to religion. She was obsessed with making sure our family all made it to the Celestial Kingdom, which Mormons believed was the highest kingdom in heaven. When we weren’t at school or doing chores, all we ever did with Mom was read scriptures, pray, sing hymns, and go to church.
I couldn’t stand our life. Neither could Dad—which is the main reason he left all the time.
“You want to know something, Ingrid,” he would often say as he packed his bags to leave on another sales trip. “Your mother is a religious fruitcake. And two days is about all I can take of her.”
Dad turned the truck onto the highway and for a few minutes we drove without speaking. I was busy soaking in the clean, vinyl smell of his nearly new truck and enjoying my view from the high front seat. It was the Saturday after Christmas—two weeks before my ninth birthday—and this trip with Dad was the best gift I could have been given.
“I tell you what we’re going to do,” he said after a while, a grin breaking across his face. “Let’s you and me splurge and get a nice motel room. We’ll find a Holiday Inn and really live it up this weekend.”
I was so happy I considered pinching myself to make sure it was real. My plan was falling into place perfectly. I knew we would be staying at a motel somewhere and I had hoped Dad would suggest someplace special like the Holiday Inn. I just needed one more thing for our weekend to be perfect.
I crossed my fingers before I spoke.
“Do you think we could order room service?” I asked, holding my breath.
Dad smiled. “For you, Hippie Boy, I’ll do it. It’s our weekend, isn’t it? First though, we’re going to have a meeting with a new saleswoman I recently hired. She’s really dynamic. You’re going to love her, Ingrid.”
I nodded in agreement. But I was barely listening. My head was swimming with thoughts about the relaxing, luxurious escape that awaited us. I had stayed in a Holiday Inn only once in my life and I knew the rooms were nice. I thought about my eleven-year-old-sister, Connie. Dad had invited her to come on this trip too. But all she cared about was her animals and had stayed behind to hang out with the hamsters she’d gotten for Christmas. She was going to die of envy when I told her about our weekend.
I spent most of the five-hour drive planning our weekend. First, we would have to find a Holiday Inn, which Dad said wouldn’t be a problem because Baton Rouge was a good-sized city. Once there, I was going to request a room on the top floor so that we had the best view and the longest ride in the elevator. The minute we got to our room, I was going to grab the room service menu and remote control, hop on the bed nearest the TV, and pile the pillows behind me. Dad and I would figure out what we wanted to eat, and then he would order while I studied the TV Guide and flipped through the channels.
Our TV at home was an ancient 13-inch black and white box. If we wanted to change channels, we had to walk over to it and turn the knob, and half the time we couldn’t get a decent picture no matter how much we fiddled with the rabbit-ear antenna sitting on top of it. I couldn’t wait to kick back with a remote control and bask in the clear, blue and red glow of the screen.
Connie and our six-year-old sister, Heidi, were probably cleaning the house right now or helping Mom make a hamburger casserole for Sunday dinner. Other than the occasional fifteen-minute breaks Mom allowed, they would work all day. In the morning, after sitting through an hour of scripture reading and prayers at home, they would put on the embarrassing flower-patterned maxi dresses Mom had made for each of us and head to church for another three hours of religion.
I would sleep in and watch some cartoons. When I got hungry, Dad and I would order room service again―probably a stack of pancakes with whipped cream. Both of these were sins in M
om’s eyes. She said Sunday was Heavenly Father’s day, which meant no watching TV, no shopping, and no fun of any kind.
Dad and I arrived in Baton Rouge around 5 p.m. and headed to a local pizza parlor to meet his saleslady. Normally I would have been thrilled at the thought of eating pizza. But I had been counting on room service and was craving a cheeseburger and French fries. Just thinking about the cheeseburger made my stomach growl.
I considered asking Dad if I could skip the pizza and wait for room service. But I didn’t want to sound ungrateful. I swallowed my disappointment and decided I would make up for it by ordering a banana split hot fudge sundae from room service once we settled into our motel room.
The restaurant smelled of cigarettes and pepperoni, and the lights were dim. But Dad immediately spotted his saleslady sitting at a corner table in the back of the room.
He rushed toward her and she popped up out of her seat. They greeted each other with a hug.
“Ingrid, I want you to meet Patricia,” he said proudly, squeezing her arm as he spoke.
“Hi,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling shy.
“Well, it’s so nice to finally meet you,” she said in a soft, smooth voice that carried only a hint of a southern accent. “Your dad has told me a lot about you.”
I felt my cheeks turning red―not from embarrassment, but from joy that Dad had told her about me.
“And this is my son, Ben,” she added, motioning to a black-haired boy sitting next to her.
Ben nodded his head in my direction. He had black curly hair, large brown eyes, and acne that covered his forehead. He looked to be twelve or thirteen and seemed much more mature than the third grade boys in my class.
I turned my attention back to Patricia. She wore a sophisticated navy skirt with a cream colored blouse that spotlighted her pretty blue eyes and wavy, shoulder-length chestnut hair. With her heels on, she was almost as tall as Dad. She was as thin as some of the models I’d seen on magazine covers. In fact, she was pretty enough to be a model if she wanted to be.
We ordered pizza, and Dad and Patricia spent the next hour talking business while I stole glances at Ben. He rarely looked up from his food and didn’t smile the entire time we were there. He seemed to be upset that his mom had made him come to the dinner.
We finished eating just after 6 p.m., which I figured still gave us plenty of time to get settled into our room and enjoy our evening. But as soon as we got into the truck, Dad announced that we were heading to Patricia’s apartment to finish up their sales meeting.
A wave of panic shot through me.
“Do you think we should find our motel room first and check in?” I asked, trying to keep my voice calm. “I just want to make sure the rooms don’t get sold out.”
Dad patted my leg.
“Ingrid, you are something else, you know that? Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time to get checked into our motel and relax. You know it’s important that I finish this sales meeting. It won’t take more than an hour.”
My face started to burn. I wanted to tell him he wasn’t being fair and demand that we get our motel room first. But I didn’t dare say anything more because Dad had a bad temper. I knew if I pushed too hard, he would explode and I would never get to go to the Holiday Inn.
We pulled up to Patricia’s apartment building.
The truck clock read 6:20 p.m.
I took a deep breath and tried to think positive. I knew we were cutting it close, but if we were back in the truck by 7:30, we would still have time to check into our motel, order dessert, kick back on our beds, and enjoy a few shows.
Patricia met us at the door and flashed a big smile at Dad.
“Ben,” she called down a short hallway. “Why don’t you take Ingrid into your room and the two of you can watch TV for awhile?”
“That’s okay,” I managed quickly. “I like listening to my dad’s sales meetings. I do it all the time.”
I didn’t feel comfortable hanging out in some strange boy’s room. Plus I wanted to stick near Dad so I could remind him when it was time to go.
“Ingrid, listen to Patricia,” Dad said sternly. “We’re going to be talking a lot of business and it will be easier this way.”
Patricia walked me to Ben’s bedroom. He was sitting on his twin bed in a cluttered tiny space watching TV. He glanced up at his mom and glared. I could tell he didn’t want me hanging around and was as annoyed as I was about the whole set up.
“It’ll just be for an hour or so,” Patricia said in a voice that sounded like a plea. Then she and Dad headed for the living room and shut the door.
I plopped down on Ben’s bed and stared at the black and white TV sitting on top of his dresser. I didn’t want to watch his stupid TV. It was as small as ours was at home. All I could think about was the time being wasted. Every minute here meant one less minute relaxing with Dad in our motel room.
I felt weird being in Ben’s room. I knew I was invading his space.
“So what do you think they’re talking about in there?” I finally asked, trying to break the ice.
“Who knows,” he replied with a shrug, keeping his eyes glued to the TV. “They’re probably doing whatever it is they always do in there.”
It was clear he didn’t want to talk to me, so I stopped trying to make conversation.
Every couple of minutes, my eyes locked on the clock radio sitting on an end table next to Ben’s bed. I willed it to hit 7:30 so Dad would be done with his meeting and we could get out of here. But when the long hour finally passed, Dad didn’t appear.
“I’m going to go see what’s taking them so long,” I mumbled.
I left the room and paced the hall that connected with the living room, trying to decide if I should knock on the closed door. I knew Dad would get angry if I interrupted his meeting. But I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand it. We were running out of time.
I returned to Ben’s room and waited through another long hour. I kept my eyes glued to the short hallway, begging with my mind for the living room door to open. At 8:40 p.m., I couldn’t take it anymore. I was in the hallway, ready to knock on the living room door and tell Dad we needed to get going when the door opened.
“Well, there you are, Ingrid,” Dad said, pretending to be surprised. “Guess what? Patricia just offered to let us spend the night here. Wasn’t that nice of her?”
He might as well have punched me in the stomach.
His words sucked all of the air out of me and for a minute, I couldn’t speak. When I did find my voice, it was quivering and small.
“But Dad, I thought you said we were going to get a room at the Holiday Inn.”
“I know, but it’s late and it’ll be hard to find a motel room. And this way we save some money.”
“But what about room service?” I pleaded. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was going to break through my chest.
“It’s probably closed by now anyway, and like I said, this saves us a lot of money.”
Dad shot me a look that warned me not to press the issue any further.
I fought back the scream making its way up my throat. A volcano of tears rushed to my eyes, ready to explode. But there was no way I was going to let either Dad or Patricia see me cry. I bit my lip to hold it all in and tried to keep my body from shaking as I followed him into the hall next to her bedroom. Patricia was busy pulling out a pillow and blankets from a nearby closet. She started to apologize for not having a bed for me, but Dad interrupted.
“This is just fine. Isn’t it, Ingrid?”
I stared at the floor and nodded my head.
Patricia spread out a sleeping bag on the floor and then smoothed a blue flannel blanket over it. She handed me the pillow.
“Are you sure you are going to be okay out here?”
I nodded again. Dad gave me a quick squeeze. Then the two of them said goodnight, flipped off the hall light, and disappeared behind her bedroom door.
As soon as they were gone and I wa
s hidden by the darkness, I stopped biting my lip and let the tears come. I was burning with anger, but I was also so crushed I could barely breathe.
I couldn’t believe Dad had done this to me. It was like I didn’t even matter to him.
I thought about him in the bedroom with Patricia. I knew he wasn’t supposed to be in there with her and I knew Mom would freak out if she ever found out about it. But that part didn’t matter near as much as him ditching me.
I could hear Dad and Patricia whispering and laughing―not caring that I was alone on a hard wooden floor in a dark hallway, suffering from what I was sure was a broken heart.
I curled into a ball on the sleeping bag, rocking myself as I thought about all the times I had pleaded for Dad to take me with him. This wasn’t the first time he had broken his promise to me. The summer after first grade, after weeks of begging, Dad agreed to take me on a two-week road trip with him. I had spent hours packing for the trip, rummaging through my drawers in search of the perfect outfits. When it was time to go, I noticed that Dad had a salesman with him, which meant that I had to sit in the back seat of his car and listen to them talk business. I didn’t care, though. I was with Dad and that was all that mattered.
About two hours into our drive, Dad told me he had a special surprise for me.
“So guess what we’re going to do, Ingrid?” he said, turning to talk to me for the first time since we had left. “We’re going to go visit your Uncle Mitchell. Doesn’t that sound like fun? You can visit with your cousins.”
I didn’t want to visit my uncle. I hardly even knew him. On top of that, he had three little boys ages four, two and a baby, and I wasn’t in the mood to hang out with toddlers. But since I didn’t have a choice, I figured I would handle it for a few minutes.
We were somewhere in Idaho when Dad turned the car off the highway and drove down a long, isolated dirt road. At the end of the dusty road was my uncle’s mobile home. I saw him open the screen door and walk toward us.