Don't Call Me Mother

by Linda Joy Myers

  For decades, Wheatland and Vera appeared in my dreams—train tracks bisecting golden wheat fields; the dank, scary basement; Vera’s glittering eyes. If I were to go back to Kansas, if I were to see the town again, if I saw Vera’s children, perhaps then I could put the past behind me, I thought. I had confronted other bad memories by going back to the places where the traumatic events had happened. I visited the house on Park Street in Enid, hoping to get rid of the ache in my gut as I revisited the years; I visited the town over and over again until it no longer hurt to walk the streets and see the places where I lived as a child. I got to the place in my healing where being there barely raised a reaction in me at all. It was just a small, run-down town with too many churches and hypocritical people. It had been fifty years, after all—but then again, there is no statute of limitations on trauma. It lasts as long as it lasts. When I was in Enid, though, everything began to feel like just an old story—with no more sound or fury.

  By now I was sure Vera was dead, so I thought maybe I could face further investigation. I focused my research project on Vera’s family history as I sought out details for my memoir. First, I wanted to know where the house was located in 1950—if the geography of my memory was correct. Did any of the family still live in Wheatland? The Internet didn’t yet have the searching capabilities that it does now, so I used the old-fashioned method of finding information: I contacted a research librarian. “Yes,” she said, “here’s the address of that family in Wheatland in 1950.” I asked for the location, and saw that there was in fact a train track not far from there—so my memories of a train whistling by were accurate. What a relief! Then the long-distance operator gave me a phone number for Ernest, the nicest kid in the bunch.

  Now that I had his number, I didn’t know what to do with it. When I’d last seen him, Ernest had been a grinning six-year-old with his two front teeth missing. A year older than I, he was probably a grandfather by now. When I thought of going to Newton again, I still froze at the idea. What good could come of it? What would they say to me? Maybe they’d still be mean! The fear and the memories kept me in their grip, but as I continued to write my story, the ice began to thaw. I had written my way past the roadblock of the terrified little girl that I had been, moved her into adolescence, made her grow up, and figured out the larger story to tell in the memoir that would become Don’t Call Me Mother.

  As it turned out, I didn’t call him. Instead, I followed my own advice: I wrote my way to a greater freedom of thought, memory, and feeling by getting the story down, by wrestling it to the page word by word. I strengthened my voice, my will, and my confidence that I was okay. Finally, I was okay as a person. Finally, I had a right to be who I was.

  Three years after I found Ernest’s phone number, I decided to combine a trip to Kansas with attending my high school reunion in Oklahoma. It was June, and I longed to see the ripe wheat waving in the fields, golden against the azure sky. I created a sentimental trip plan: fly to Kansas City, rent a car, and either follow the route through southern Kansas that Gram and I used to take when we went to Iowa each summer, or go across the state to Newton. I was eager to set my eyes on the waves of golden wheat—provided that it had not yet been cut. I tracked the harvest season online, hoping that my timing would be just right. There was something about the wheat and the landscape that had a power to comfort me better than words ever could. I had never forgotten standing in the wheat fields, surrounded by the aroma of earth and the nutty smell of grain, being caressed by the wind—but did I remember everything correctly? Could it possibly have been as beautiful as the images in my mind?

  Most people enhance and change their memories based on emotion and need, and trauma can affect how intense our memories are. What if I had tweaked all my memories of Vera and her family? What if my memoir was inaccurate—what if I’d made up my story? Would I get my courage up to call Ernest? Even as I landed in Kansas City on a warm summer day near the June solstice, I had no idea what I would do.

  The warm, moist heat of the Great Plains swept over my body as I exited my plane and entered the Kansas City airport. I kept repeating to myself, “You don’t have to call him; you can decide later.” The map indicated where I would have to turn off the turnpike to either go south or go on to Wheatland. I pointed the car west and opened the windows, inhaling the sweet smell of earth. This was home, this wide sky and huge landscape. The sky was edged with blue and hazed over in pink-gold. As I approached the haze, I saw that combines were biting off the wheat, leaving only stubble and empty fields. The wheat was being cut—I wouldn’t get to see it swaying against the sky! Tears pricked my eyes, but I drove on—just a little over the speed limit—and soon there were fields of wheat still swaying in the breeze. A golden blanket of delicate fronds stretched all the way to the horizon, dusted by pink mist that rose from the fields. It felt like some kind of heaven, and my heart soared.

  Finally, I reached the point on the map where I had to make a decision. I pulled over the car and took out my cell phone. I paused, heart pounding. It was silly to be so frightened; after all, what could anyone do to me? When I thought of backing down, a new courage arose. I really had to do this—I had to confront the dragons and terrors of the past so I could go on. I would survive it, whatever it would be, and my intuition told me it would bring me freedom—I just couldn’t know in what way, or what it might cost.

  I punched the buttons, and a man answered; I asked for Ernest. “Yes, this is Ernest,” he said. I swallowed and went on, “I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Linda Joy Myers, and I lived with you, your mother, Vera, and your father, Charlie, when I was five years old. We are related—Blanche is your great-aunt, and my grandmother Lulu was your father’s cousin. Your father’s father was Blanche’s brother.”

  I gave him all the family names and held my breath. He breezily said, “I don’t remember you, Linda Joy, but yes, I’ve heard those names. Come on by!”

  Cheery and brave, I drove into Wheatland. When I was five, I’d departed in a sick, crumpled heap—but in some ways, I’d never left—the nightmares and fears had followed me all my life. I wanted it to stop. Would this encounter help?

  In somewhat of a surreal daze, I found Ernest’s home on a nice cul-de-sac street in the new part of town. A tall man in his fifties and his wife greeted me, smiling. I looked at Ernest carefully, trying to find the little boy in the man. “Welcome, Linda Joy. I began to remember who you are. I called my brother Bruce, and he’s coming over!”

  I broke into a sweat, though the evening had turned cool. As we entered the pleasant, spacious house, I had a moment of panic about Bruce. I wasn’t sure what to do with myself—he was the bacon-and-eggs boy—but before I could worry too much, a red-mustached, thin man wearing a straw farmer’s hat and a big smile came knocking on the door. He looked and sounded like a grandfather from Petticoat Junction: “Linda Joy, it sure is good to see you again. I have thought of you a lot over the years.” He beamed at me, nodding in a friendly way. Where was that twelve-year-old boy I had known? This old man smiled benignly at me, reaching for me with his blue eyes, and introduced me to his wife, Sharon.

  I felt like I was in a dream as we all sat down in the L-shaped living room, nicely furnished in a typical bland but comfortable Midwestern style. I kept narrating this bizarre reality—no longer a dream—to myself: I’m in Ernest’s house. There’s Bruce, an old man who seems harmless. These are Vera’s children.

  We chatted about children—theirs and mine—and my mother, and Gram, and the Iowa relatives. I asked about Aunt Pearl, their grandmother, who had been so kind to me, and I found out when Vera and Charlie had died. We had so much in common—Charlie and Gram were first cousins, and all their relatives were my relatives. Bruce kept looking at me and smiling. He leaned over, elbows on his skinny knees. “Sure is good to see you, Linda Joy. I’ve thought about you a whole lot.”

  What had he been thinking? I was stunned that he remembered me at all. Ernest’s wife talked
about Vera: “She loved kids. We always had other kids living with us.” They were smiling and nodding at what I suppose were happy memories, but I shivered in the summer heat. Why did she take in children? Did she treat them like she did me? Were there other lost, unhealed souls out there? Doubt crept in… was I wrong about Vera?

  Bruce’s wife said, “They had this funny story they’d tell about you. It was about breakfast—you didn’t like eggs…” I knew what was coming. Sharon went on, “They thought you were spoiled because you asked for breakfast cereal…” The roll on her stomach jiggled as she laughed. “But all they had were eggs, and you were, well, a little spoiled. Special, living alone there with your gram.”

  Aha—the bacon-and-eggs story! Family lore handed down these fifty years. “Yes, I remember that very well,” I said. “I put it in my memoir.”

  After a slight pause, Bruce took up the story. He shook his head. “I’m afraid we really teased you, Linda Joy. We pounded your head with our fists… bacon and eggs, bacon and eggs, you got to eat your bacon and eggs.” He chuckled in his aw-shucks way. “I guess we weren’t very nice to you, were we?”

  It’s a very strange moment when a fifty-year-old nightmare starts talking directly to you—especially when he’s now a harmless, sheepish, apologetic old man. I stared at Bruce, the sting from all those memories wafting on the summer Kansas breeze, lifting away from my heart.

  Bruce leaned toward me again, and again said wistfully, “Linda Joy, it sure is good to see you. I’ve thought about you so many times.”

  I was struck by his sincere blue eyes, the way he kept reaching toward me. Did he feel guilty? An upswelling of feeling came upon me. It was a long time ago, and I could see that he needed something from me. What I did next came naturally and without thought. I put my arms around him and said, “I forgive you, Bruce. It’s all right.”

  He smiled and sat down, and I floated back to my seat. It was unreal, yet here I was, forgiving Bruce. It would have been unimaginable before, but now it was a feather on my heart, as natural as the plains wind. He kept smiling, and everyone went on talking.

  We all kept talking about the old house—the rabbits in the backyard (yes, there were rabbits!), the baseball games, fishing on the river (yes, we did all that!). Somewhere in that long string of memories, someone brought up the strict obedience that had been required of children back then. It seemed like an opening for some kind of truth, so I mentioned “the punishments”—as vague a term as I could find. I didn’t say that Vera hit us, or use the word “abuse,” or say she was mean. Ernest quietly said, “Oh, the punishments,” as he sipped his beer.

  Bruce was the historian; he remembered Blanche, Gram, Mother, and what happened so long ago. “Mom took us to visit Lulu—she was there with you and your mother. Those two… they sure didn’t get along. Whew!” He shook his head, and I nodded in agreement about their legendary battles. “Then your mother left, and Lulu was alone with you. Mom was worried because your father didn’t pay child support, so she and your Gram got a lawyer and made your father pay.”

  Bingo. Finally, I had the key to why Gram and Daddy had always fought so much about money, and it was given to me by Bruce! He went on, “And then Mom wanted to help, so she suggested you come to live with us—you were alone there with your Gram, and there were kids here to play with.”

  My memories were accurate. On that liquid green summer night in Kansas, my past finally knitted seamlessly into the present.

  Dusk fell on the trees outside the picture window; I gathered my things to go, but, in true Midwestern style, Ernest and his wife insisted that I stay the night. They settled me upstairs in a guest room, and, for the first time in fifty years, I spent the night near Vera’s children and felt safe. The past began to slip further away.

  The next morning, Ernest greeted me briefly and then left. Ernest’s wife took me on a tour of the house, saying what a wonderful, kind, and loving person Vera was, how great she had been with children. She led me down the stairs to the finished basement, where family photos were hanging along the wall. There she was: Vera, a middle-aged woman smiling into the camera, and next to her Charlie, looking like an older, male version of Blanche. I looked dispassionately at their photos, trying to find that mean woman I’d remembered, but this woman looked harmless enough, and her daughter-in-law was doing her best to convince me that Vera had been a nice person. My stomach shivered again, and I wanted to get out of that basement. Maybe I had exaggerated her cruelty. Doubt surfaced again.

  That morning, Sharon drove me to the house—the famous house of my memories. She told me more about Vera and the family, that maybe Betsy hadn’t killed herself. She added, “Cindy and I don’t agree on Vera; she likes to see only the positive, but over the years Vera and I didn’t always see eye to eye. She could be very demanding of her way. There were moments, I tell you, with Vera.” Ah—my memories might not be so far off after all. My clenched jaw relaxed.

  Suddenly, there it was—the white, two-story house on the corner with the large green yard, the tree-lined street, the porch, all just as I’d remembered. As we turned the corner, my mind’s eye went to the upstairs room that was mine, and traveled down the stairs into the basement, and I could see that it was all so long ago. I wasn’t afraid. All the memories gathered, swirled, and finally rested in my mind, like fallen leaves from the sycamore trees lining the brick street.

  I could say that the visit was uneventful, and that would be correct in a sense. I said goodbye to everyone but Ernest, who never appeared again that day. Bruce and his blue eyes kept looking at me, through me, as if in supplication. “Write us,” he said. “Stay in touch.” A sense of peace descended on me as I drove away down innocent streets where children played, where no one knew me, where no one had any idea of the truth of my life. I worried a little: What if my presence had triggered something for Ernest, a bad memory he’d tried to forget? His voice had trembled as he repeated my phrase “the punishments.” Vera’s children had been beaten, too; they were all abused kids. No wonder they had taken it out on me.

  Wheatland suddenly turned into an ordinary place. I drove to the train station where—my heart squeezed with fear and loss—I had put my mother on the train when I was five, but today it was merely a historical relic in a town where in pioneer times the train had been a way to get the cows up to Chicago. I drove by beautiful, uncut wheat fields, spread out under the sky. I was light, the burden of time and memory released from my body. I lifted my head, proud that I had given this gift to the little five-year-old inside me. I knew for sure that her memories were real, but they had finally receded into the past, where they belonged. At the edge of town, I got out of the car and threw myself down on the dark earth, the crisp wheat waving above me. I lay down against the golden wheat, finally free.

  Truth, Secrets, Denial: After the Memoir

  I’ve come to realize that my choice of what to include and what to leave out of my memoir was woven from the same cloth as my history—secrets, silence, and confusion. When I went to live with my grandmother and we began the summer visits to her mother, Blanche, my great-grandmother, I felt for the first time the warm weaving of a bunch of good-humored people called “family.” I claimed my apron-wearing, plaid-shirt great-aunts and uncles as “real” aunts and uncles—my real family. Blanche was eighty and my great-aunts, uncles, and grandmother were all in their fifties and sixties. Nestled among them, I believed that I’d finally come home—beside the impressive Mississippi River, the rich Iowa cornfields waving golden and rich around us.

  On those summer visits, home base was at Aunt Edith’s and Uncle Willard’s, at the mink farm. Their son, Billy, in his late twenties, had always lived with them. Because I didn’t have a father, the “men’s world” of Billy, Willard, and my great-uncles fascinated me. I loved watching them work with their hands, I was drawn to the physicality of deep-throated men who had to shave, who were so different from the women I was constantly surrounded by. Their strong muscles and f
ix-it skills enthralled me. Day after day, I happily trotted after Billy and his father to the basement, where they mixed the mink feed, worked on carpentry tasks, or built stuff they needed for the mink. They also fixed cars and even were building an airplane!

  My first summer there, I happened to be in the basement alone with Billy. When he began to caress my legs, I froze in place, caught between not wanting him to touch me like that and feeling afraid to make him mad. Fairly quickly, I sidled away, wondering if he’d brushed against me by accident. He kept smiling and chatting as if nothing had happened. I knew a little about men and roving hands, having been molested at Vera’s when I was five, but that was only once, and Billy seemed so nice, always making jokes and playing with me when the other adults were busy. I decided he wouldn’t do it again, so the next time I found myself alone with him, I stood farther away and kept on alert, but it happened again. Now I know that I, like many sexual abuse victims, had become conditioned to freeze when unsure what to do, though I always moved away. My time with Billy and Uncle Willard was precious to me, starving as I was for a father, and Billy was careful not to touch me when anyone else was around. I knew that if I told on him, I’d lose everything: I’d get in trouble with Gram, and no one would believe me; no one would be on my side. People are always saying that children lie and make up stories.