The Source of All Things

by Tracy Ross

  From there, things got better. In late April, after weeks of training with the school track team, I broke the school record in the mile with a time of 6:05. I also finished second place in the Portland Trail Blazers creative writing contest. These accomplishments kept Nick and Lori, my parents, and Claudia Vincent happy. But in my room, I dreamed of the day I would go back to Twin Falls.

  Mostly I wanted to be with Reed, and on a more permanent basis. When I left for Oregon, he’d promised me he’d write. I dreamed about his red hair and yellow-green eyes—everything that made him different from the world to which I was exiled. I wrote him letters, some inspired by Mary’s experiences, which exaggerated the “badness” of my new life. In one letter, I hung out with skate punks in downtown Portland, and in the next I went to see INXS at the Rose Garden. Determined to return to Twin Falls looking hungry and strong, I stopped eating junk food, ran every day, and spent most of my nights in my bedroom doing leg lifts, stomach crunches, and push-ups.

  And I became thinner, stronger, and more focused on what I wanted, which was to leave Oregon and return to Idaho a different kid. I missed my parents and the freedom they gave me. In the short time that I’d been reunited with my mom, I’d gotten used to doing whatever I wanted, wherever and whenever. I knew that when I went home, both parents would feel too guilty to try too hard to control me. Even if they did, some part of me knew how easy it would be to manipulate them. I was the victim, and that carried certain privileges.

  It’s sad that none of my therapists, or the Health and Welfare Department, or Claudia Vincent ever taught me the language I needed to both express my love for my parents and establish post-abuse boundaries. I can see my own mixed messages in a letter I wrote to my parents on March 24, 1986. I was fifteen years old.

  Dear Mom & Pop!

  So how’s life going Sonny & Cher? Er, I mean Romeo & Juliet? No. I mean, um, oh ya, Mom & Dad! There! I got it! Yay! Life here is groovey, but I’m still kind of lonely. I mean, I’m close to Lori but not like you guys. She and Nick don’t hug me or play around like a “real” family does. And I want, so badly, to be tucked in. Oh, well. Only 3 more months to go, and besides, what’s life w/o sacrifices. And who wants to be a spoiled brat anyway. At least I know that when I come home every hug will be 100% better, longer, sweeter than if we’d not been separated. Now we have a 4 way hug too … I can’t wait!

  The letter’s main body is filled with reports about going to Portland and seeing my friend, Erin, all scrolled in loopy g’s and j’s with curly tails. But by the third page, after complaining because Lori wouldn’t let me go to a Romantics concert at the Starry Night, I reverted to treating them like the parents I so desperately needed.

  That’s cool that you’re doing all that stuff (going to Bible study at the Catholic Church; attending individual counseling) Mom. I’m proud of you. You really need this and I’m glad you’re finally getting the chance to do it. Keep it up! And what about you dad? Any special activities? … If you even mention “the group” (referring to the sex-offenders meetings he had to go to) I’ll kill you! I feel so bad that they put you through that shit. But keep going. Let my hugs be an inspiration. [smiley face] Remember your infamous Pee-wee Herman laugh? I can’t wait to hear it. You’re so good at it. Three cheers for Dad. Yay! Yay! Yay! and Mom, Yay! Yay! Yay!

  Judging from the closing paragraph of my letter, by the time I’d spent two months at Nick and Lori’s house, my feelings for my mom had softened, and I had chosen a deliberate amnesia regarding Dad. When I read this now, I see—it was my invitation to my own downfall.

  Don’t feel fat, Mom. You needed to gain a few. I’ll bet you look so vibrant and healthy! You better eat too, Dad. When I get home you better have a B-E-L-L-Y! I love you both and think you’re the best parents alive! Seriously!

  Slugs and quiches. Yours truly.

  Your only daughter,

  Tracy

  Three months after I wrote the letter, Dad called, saying he wanted to talk to Lori. She went into her study and closed the door. I lay low in the guest room, doodling on a pad of construction paper. A little while later, Lori came to the guest room and got me.

  “Your dad’s on the phone,” she said. “He wants to talk to you. Go into my study. You’ll want some privacy.”

  Fear stabbed my gut. I looked at my aunt, who smiled. Her face appeared softer than normal and more encouraging. I went into her office, where I sat down in her leather armchair.

  My dad was taking long, rattly breaths, which he exhaled into the receiver.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Tracy? It’s Dad. How’re ya doin’, sis?”

  “Good, Dad. I guess.”

  I wondered what this was going to be about. I’d been caught smoking at the freshman prom a week earlier, when Lori came to pick me up. She’d hated my date, a kid I now remember as slightly albino, in a baby blue tuxedo with ruffles down the front. She’d called my parents the next morning, saying I didn’t appreciate what people did for me.

  “Well, I wanted to talk to you,” said my dad. “You know, before your mother and I come to Oregon.”

  Silence.

  “Trace? You there?”

  “Yeah, Dad. I’m here.”

  “Okay,” he said. “No crying, okay?” He was crying. I would not cry.

  Another long silence, as long as a minute. I stared at the arrangement of family pictures—Lori and Nick at the beach, Lori and Nick at their wedding, Lori holding the babies—on my aunt’s desk, saying nothing. If my dad had something important to tell me, I wanted to give him all the time he needed. When, after several more seconds, he said nothing, I said, “I’m here, Dad. I’m still listening,” even though he didn’t ask me.

  “Oh, Tracy … Okay. I want you to know, before I … before we, your mother and I, come out there and get you … before we all three come home and live under the same roof … that I did something to you. I did. And I’m sorry for that. So sorry you can’t imagine it. I did something and you caught me and you ran away. How could I do something so bad to someone I love so much? How could I have done that?”

  When he finished talking, another long silence followed. I sat with it because I wasn’t sure what to say. It appeared he was asking me a question, looking to me for answers I couldn’t give. I held the phone away from my ear, muffling the sobs that were coming out of the receiver. But something inside me said Don’t hang up. Here is something important. So I stayed on the line and waited.

  But Dad was done talking. He went on snorting and gagging, trying to catch his breath. I sat with my feet tucked under me, like a bird perched on a branch.

  “Trace? You there?” Dad asked.

  “I am, Dad. I guess I’ll see you in a week.”

  I wish I could say that the phone call was the end of my troubles. But family traditions die hard. The first place Mom and Dad took me, even before the trip home, was to the mall. Mom wanted to show me how sorry she was by buying me a few things that would make me feel pretty. Desperate to go home looking as hip as possible, I was happy to concede—and use her charge card. We went to the closest Lerners, and I picked out a few shirts, a white cotton prairie dress, and a pair of white boots with fringe on the back. Mom said I looked so cute now, on account of my running, that I should pick out a new swimsuit. I chose a white nylon one-piece with a deep, V-shaped neckline and a seductive, to-the-belly-button black zipper.

  “I don’t know, Mom,” I shouted from the dressing room.

  “Come on out!” she shouted back.

  I peeked through the slats and saw both of my parents standing together. It seemed strangely okay. I hadn’t known how I’d feel when we finally reunited, but at least for now, on a shopping spree, their togetherness made me happy.

  But not so happy I’d come out of the dressing room in a bathing suit in front of my dad. I cracked the door just wide enough to poke my face out.

  “Mom? Come here! I need you!” I shouted.

  When she got to me, I l
owered my voice so my dad wouldn’t hear me. “Are you sure I should come out like this, in my swimsuit, in front of Dad?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” she said. “What’s he going to do? You look so cute. Let him see you. He’s proud of all the hard work you’ve done too.”

  12

  New Roles, New Rules

  Age fifteen, wide-eyed and cardiovascularly inflated from so much long-distance running, I returned to Twin Falls ready to prove that no one could break the girl with the dirty-minded father.

  On the trip across Oregon, skirting first the Columbia and then the Snake rivers, I sat in the backseat of my parents’ Toyota Camry planning my reintroduction. Once I was home and settled, I’d cruise the mall wearing my belts draped low around my hips. I’d seek out only the most alternative kids, ones I’d heard about through letters from Erin Cecil and Angie Nichols. If my old friends wanted to hang out with the slimmer and more sophisticated me, they’d have to get in line behind Reed, the Antichrists, and the foreign-exchange students.

  These things occupied my thoughts as my parents and I pulled into our driveway on June 17, 1986. Already the heat was rising off the sidewalks. My dad had been home through the first yawning of spring and had mowed the grass into a perfect chlorophyll crewcut. Through obsessive pruning and watering, he’d even coaxed a few leggy tulips out of the sun-cooked earth.

  But behind the flowers loomed the windows Dad had kept covered so he could unhook my bra strap. I saw them and felt my heart drop to my flip-flops. Though he’d apologized on the phone at my Aunt Lori’s, it had sounded halfhearted. As much as I dreamed of the day when my family would be packing the camper for our next trip into the Sawtooths, I also knew our troubles were far from over.

  Now I was climbing the steps to the home ground of my sorrow. It wasn’t the birthplace of my abuse—that had been Redfish Lake. Had I known the rules set forth for my father by the Health and Welfare Department, I might have felt a little calmer going home. But no one had taken the time to explain how my dad would keep himself from molesting me now that we’d be living together under the same roof. No one thought to show me the court document that made it illegal for my dad to even talk with me about the abuse while unsupervised.

  ORDER

  Good cause existing, IT IS HEREBY ORDERED that the Order dated August 27, 1985, be amended in the following ways:

  1. That the no contact order between Donnie Lee and Tracy Ross will be changed to no unsupervised contact. That the order be further amended to allow Mr. Lee to live in the same home as Tracy Ross and her mother, Doris Lee.

  2. That Tracy Ross return to the state of Idaho and live with her mother and stepfather, and not leave the state of Idaho without further order of the Court.

  3. That until authorized by Mr. Lee’s therapist and the Department of Health and Welfare, Mr. and Mrs. Lee will assure that the below listed restrictions are followed:

  a. Both Mr. Lee and Tracy will be clothed whenever moving about the house.

  b. Mr. Lee and Tracy will not spend any time together without another family member or adult present.

  c. Mr. Lee will not discuss the molest [sic] with Tracy other than in the company of the therapist.

  d. Mr. and Mrs. Lee shall continue in counseling and follow the recommendation of their counselor to insure the safety and well being of Tracy. Tracy Ross will participate in counseling as recommended by the therapist.

  e. That all other previous orders remain in effect until changed.

  Looking back on the court order, which I found in a pile of papers at my parents’ house twenty-five years later, it’s hard to find any protective measures in it. Even then, I doubted that my dad had been “cured.” It didn’t make sense; even I knew how hard it was to give up on a crush who didn’t return my advances. My dad had gotten a lot of physical satisfaction out of me. Why would he stop if no one was right there, every second, preventing him from abusing me?

  Dad and I unloaded my belongings and carried them into the house. We hauled my clothes, books, and a dozen shopping bags from the back of the Camry and up the front steps. I paused at the door, thinking of Dad’s suicide threat, my attempt to run away, and my mom’s interrogation sessions. Dad must have seen the fear in my face, because he shot me a look so warm and reassuring I followed him inside.

  Stepping into the dark, air-conditioned living room, I smelled recently shampooed carpets and surfaces polished with Endust. My parents had gone all out to welcome me home. Trying not to get my hopes up, I hurried down the hallway and into my room.

  Mom stood at the doorway, holding her arms like Vanna White. “Like it?” she said. “We worked on it for a week.”

  My eyes popped. The whole room had been redecorated. A fluffy blue comforter replaced my white, ruffled bedspread. Dad showed me the illustration of the “Bearly Ballet” (with dancing teddy bears) that he’d hung on the wall over my dresser. And Mom pointed out a new stereo, cued up for my listening pleasure.

  I took it in, smiling like a little kid on her birthday. But my heart didn’t stop pounding until I’d scanned the frame around my bedroom door and saw that the lock I’d installed when Dad moved out was still in place and ready to be bolted.

  It took no time at all for Dad and me to realize that our relationship was forever altered. That meant the good parts too, like the moments we’d shared fishing for trout or hiking through the South Hills under the showering aspens. In the weeks following my homecoming, we tried to reestablish a new order, but with no one to show us how to deal with our emotions, our tempers—heightened by the tension we still felt in each other’s presence—flared into bonfires. The vibes he sent me when we were alone made me feel like my safety with him was merely temporary. I could feel it when it was just the two of us together. I’d stand in the light streaming through the sliding-glass window, and his eyes would affix themselves to a certain part of my body. The gaze lasering through my nightgown made my muscles tense.

  Maybe I’d say I wanted to go to the Potholes, a favorite natural swimming spot above Shoshone Falls, with Reed, or to a party in the desert. My dad’s “No,” or any criticism of me, would set me off in a rage that was disproportionate to the immediate circumstances.

  “What makes you think you can order me around?” I’d shout. “You’re the reason our whole family hates each other. I didn’t do anything to cause this. And I don’t have to do anything you tell me!” Both of my parents cowered at the thought of what I could do now that the Health and Welfare Department had identified them as high risk. They knew that one phone call from me could send my dad to prison. Maybe that’s what kept Dad from breaking my jaw when I used my fingernails to claw at his cheeks.

  His temper blazed, too, when he couldn’t stand my shrieking any longer. He’d grab my wrists and shove me against the wall. We’d stand chest to chest, and I’d see something in his eyes: the self-hatred he felt over what he was capable of doing, and the despair for what could not be undone. When he realized he was actually physically shaking me, he’d let go. Then, with indescribable tenderness, he’d wipe the sweat from my forehead.

  The July days that summer were too hot to venture outside except to go swimming. But by the time I came home from Oregon, I was addicted to running. When my drive to run became too strong, I started sprinting into the night. Mom and Dad would be sitting in front of the television, watching the ten o’clock news and spitting watermelon seeds into a Tupperware bowl, when I’d shout, “See ya later!” and slip out the door in my silk running shorts. But the routes I chose could take up to two hours, and Dad didn’t like my running alone. Breaking the first rule of the Health and Welfare Department—no unsupervised contact—he started jumping on his Honda 750 motorcycle and riding alongside me in the dark.

  Dad looked more peaceful during those runs than at any other time of the day. I never felt obligated to talk to him, and I doubted he could put words to the way he felt about me. We passed the miles in silence, except for the few times he’d call o
ut my split time, or shout, “Good job, sis! Keep it up.”

  We ran while the rest of the world lay sleeping, and we found some comfort in it. I like to think of him sitting on that bike with the wind blowing through his sideburns. I knew he was suffering, even though he never said so. As badly as he’d abused me, we shared something no one could take away. I’d hated the way he harmed me, and never wanted to go through it again, but still I knew instinctively how badly my dad was struggling. I hoped one day he’d ask about my struggle too.

  Junior varsity cross-country. Sophomore class vice president. As hard as I tried to be Twin Falls’ version of Nancy Spungen, I was a fresh-faced kid with too much ambition. By October of 1986 I’d been elected to the student council, run hard and steadily on the cross-country team, and been chosen to represent Twin Falls High School at the Hugh O’Brien Youth Ambassador Conference in Boise. I joined the declamation team, which traveled around the state with the debate team but specialized in public speaking, so I could get out of the house and party with my friends. We rode in big, luxury buses with deep, plush seats and air conditioning. My specialty was Dramatic Interpretation, for which I wrote intense, tear-jerking monologues about girls who’d been abused by their fathers. During my first year, I won nearly every competition I entered.