I stand there. I try to register what or who it is I’m looking at. I’m shrinking away. The combination of the yellow jackets and the vinegar has taken its toll. Standing completely still, I examine the concave curve of my stomach and the bones sticking out against the skin of my hips. My legs are straight lines interrupted by the bump of my knees; nothing about them is shapely. I’m totally flat-chested, and my rib cage is clearly outlined underneath the blue stripes of my tube top. I have to look harder to see what I’ve always seen—I can no longer find the pretty girl that used to greet me as I walked by. In fact, there are shocks of gray in my hair in front and in back, and when I reach up and touch the spot where my skull meets the nape of my neck, I find the raw, soft patches of baldness that I’ve been hiding with what’s left of my hair. I stare at myself and, as usual, keep my mouth closed so the huge gap in my front teeth isn’t visible in the reflection.
I don’t even recognize this girl! She is not me. I’ll have to start ninth grade like this . . . high school. Even if I could go back to Billy Blake’s, there aren’t enough designer clothes in their entire girls’ department to make me fit in. For the first time, I’m seeing what Cookie says she sees when she looks at me: a rag doll.
Cookie returns before Labor Day weekend. Norman, Rosie, and I are sitting in the living room watching television when she walks through the front door as if she’s only been gone an hour. She’s carrying a box of Cap’n Crunch, powdered milk, and a six-pack of beer. She’s still wearing the pair of jeans she walked out in and her hair is still in a ponytail, with half of it red and the newer parts dyed black. Before, Norman would have run to her, given her hugs, and shouted “Mom! Mom!” but today he glances at me with raised eyebrows and then turns his attention back to The Electric Company. Silently, I chalk up a point in my favor: These last two months have put him officially on my side. Norman’s trust in me is the best thing about my relationship with him . . . and the worst thing for my relationship with Cookie.
“Here’s your dinner,” she says. Even with such nonchalance, her presence alters the feeling in the room, establishing a weight I can feel in my chest. She waltzes past the stairwell and into the kitchen, where I hear her set the cereal and beer down, rip a can from its plastic ring, and pop it open. “You look like shit,” she calls from the kitchen. Then she goes into her room and shuts the door. I’m in awe that, just seconds ago, this house felt clean and safe. Her presence has released a pollution that I can feel settling like grit on my skin.
“COME ON KIDS, let’s go!”
The next morning we wake to the sound of Cookie hollering. I hurry Rosie and Norman to dress and shoo them both to the car as Cookie stands with her hands on her hips. “What time of year is it?” she says. “You know the drill.” We realize we’re on our way to get registered for school.
I have no problem finding clothes big enough to camouflage how skinny I am from the administrators—by now, all my clothes are baggy. I pull my hair back into a ponytail that gathers at the bald spot, tucking the gray pieces under the black hair to hide them from the school attendants’ view. Cookie starts the car and sets off toward the back roads.
It only takes five minutes to register me for my first year of high school in Centereach. After the secretary informs us that we arrived late to register and they’ve already given physicals, they tell me to report to the nurse’s office on the first day of school. This I make note to “forget,” or I’ll be faced with questions about my bag-of-bones build. When Cookie and I walk back outside, I put my head down to avoid being seen with her and her car, even though there are no schoolmates around. I have yet to say a word to her since she’s returned to us.
While Cookie walks Norman next door to register him at the middle school, Rosie and I sit in the car. “We won’t be on the same bus anymore, will we?” she says.
“No, but you’re going to love third grade. You’ll learn multiplication and division and how to write Rosie in pretty script letters. Isn’t it exciting?” When her separation anxiety is still visible, I promise her I’ll help her with all of her science projects. “Maybe we’ll even build a volcano out of mud!” I tell her.
“Yeah . . .” she muses, then stops and looks up at me. “You don’t have to pay for mud, do you?”
“No, sweetie. You don’t.” She nods and stares out the window watching for Cookie and Norman. My eyes well with tears. At seven years old, Rosie has come to understand that we’re poor.
We head home and wait a few hours before going school clothes shopping. Once dusk falls, Cookie flags us back into the car and we head out in search of Salvation Army bins. We know it will take a few dives in these Dumpsters to find enough clothes for all three of us, and we’re familiar with Cookie’s shopping spree strategy: First she pulls the passenger side of the car next to the Dumpster opening. Then, with the window open, I climb on the seat and stick my head through the hole to look down into the Dumpster. Once my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness, if I see more clothes than garbage and useless debris, I step on the window ledge and squeeze myself through the sloped metal opening in the bin to get inside. I begin throwing clothes out through the hole and into the car.
Using the car’s dome light to see, the kids and Cookie root through the clothes to pick out the ones we could possibly use. I locate a pair of jeans and a plaid skirt for Rosie.
“Gi!” she cries. “Look, this pink shirt still has the tags on it!”
“It’s brand-new for you to wear on the first day!”
For Norman, I fold a nice pair of corduroys and a couple turtlenecks into a pile, and for myself I dig out a pair of khaki pants that I can make a size smaller by taking them in with a few stitches. Then, once our options are exhausted, I pile all the excess clothes on the floor and climb out, giving myself a leg up as I shimmy out of the bin, back into Cookie’s car.
Throughout the weekend, Cookie shares the details of the life she created at her new boyfriend’s place as though she’s telling us a great fairy tale of which we have no part. “Oh, the meals I cook,” she says. “And you oughtta see how well-behaved his daughter is—you three could take a lesson. She’s only thirteen, lost her mother to cancer last year . . . treats me like I walk on water. Talk about appreciation. Instead, what do I get from you? I get bullshit.” Although I wish someone was taking care of us the way her boyfriend’s thirteen-year-old daughter is being mothered now, I can tell Cookie’s happy because she’s been sober for the entire day. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m actually not afraid of her.
After the weekend together, she announces that she’s going back to her boyfriend’s house. In peace, I begin to rifle through our new wardrobe, sorting the colors to wash in the tub before we start school on Wednesday. As I start my hems and alterations, I flip on the TV, where Ronald Reagan is giving a speech in New Jersey as part of his campaign for the U.S. Presidency:
And most of us have begun to realize that, so long as Carter policies are in effect, the next four years will be as dark as the last four . . . I pledge to you I’ll bring a new message of hope to all of America.
A new message of hope to all of America. That includes my family. It includes me! I need a new message of hope as much as I need a new wardrobe to start the ninth grade. If my next four years are as dark as my last four years, I’ll never make it to seventeen. I hope Reagan, or Carter, or someone, could get me out of this, but I’m not holding my breath.
On the first day of school, it’s clear I’ve made a horrible mistake with my outfit choice. As I walk down the halls, calls from the other students are all that drown out the sound of my baggy denim seams rubbing together: “It’s the Orange Ethiopian!” they yell. I know I have more meat on me than the skeletal starving Ethiopians I see on TV, but did I have to go and highlight myself with a pair of fluorescent orange pants? Nothing like blending in at my new school.
Aside from the orange-denim disaster, the first day in this new school is the same as everywhere I’ve ever
been. I don’t really mind walking from classroom to classroom by myself—in a way, it’s a relief not to have any friends because there’s no one who I have to tell about my family. There are assignments to keep me busy and teachers to listen to. I don’t say much in class because I don’t want any attention directed at me, but I make sure to follow the huddles of students in front of me to each classroom so that I arrive right on time and act alert when class starts. I’ve learned to give straight answers when the teachers call on me, but that doesn’t typically start to happen until the third week of school when the social breakdown between the kids is clear: Teachers take one look at me and go gentle. Leaving the classroom is always the giveaway: If the teacher stands by the door as the class files into the hallway, my trademark is a modest, closed-mouth smile—a well-adjusted, friendly kid.
It’s the free times during the day that make my status as the new girl painfully obvious: lunch and recess, and also gym class, where I use Cherie and Camille’s fake cramps trick, even though I have yet to get my period.
Most kids might complain about their teachers, but mine give me a sense of assurance—wrapping myself in my work and obeying their instructions is the easiest, best way to stay safe. School has always been my escape and solace, a place where an independent kid like me finds stability. Because I keep a low profile, my teachers never really know about my life at home. I’m sure some have detected that things aren’t exactly as they should be, but most of them have used any vulnerabilities they sensed as a reason to encourage me.
ON SEPTEMBER 17, 1980, just a week after school starts, Cherie gives birth to her first child: a baby boy. I’m down the street, greeting Norman and Rosie from the bus, when I hear Cookie’s tires screeching into the driveway and her hoarse voice blaring down the block. “Regina!” she yells. “Your sister had a baby—I’m a grandma!” My first nephew.
“Can I come, Mom? I want to see the baby!” Rosie says. I lace my arm through hers and pull her onto my lap on the porch step.
“I’m not coming back here after,” Cookie says. “You can meet him after Cherie takes the baby home to her in-laws’.”
Cookie stumbles through the front door one afternoon in early November, holding a box of macaroni and cheese and a half-gallon of milk. “What’s going on?” I ask her, meaning, What are you doing here?
“Well, by the looks of it, I’d say I’m a single woman again,” she slurs. “You could thank me for bringing home dinner. I’m in a shitty mood. Stay away from me.” Lacking the care and the energy to carry the food to the kitchen, she plops down on the couch and promptly passes out—her new pair of clogs falling to the floor with a crack. Rosie and Norm burst into giggles as Cookie’s snoring rattles the room. I hush them, stifling my own laughter, and watch her. I thought men liked women who are sweet and attractive, but Cookie’s just swollen and angry.
We eat the macaroni and cheese in the living room while Cookie’s splayed unconscious on the couch. Together we stand to carry our dirty dishes to the kitchen, careful to be quiet. Rosie rises last, balancing her empty glass on her plate, trailing behind Norm and me. I’ve just stepped into the kitchen when Rosie’s glass falls and shatters on the living room floor, inches from Cookie’s ear.
No!
My instinct moves me to her as Cookie jolts from the couch.
This will not be pleasant.
“You stupid little whore!” Cookie shouts, grabbing Rosie’s hair in her fist.
Rosie staggers and drops the plate, which falls and cracks in half. Before I can stop her, Cookie slams Rosie’s body to the floor, inches from the shards of glass. Instantly Rosie wails—first out of total shock at being pummeled, then as the pain shudders through her body.
Instinctively I jump on Cookie’s back, clawing her skin with my fingernails. “You’re not her mother anymore,” I scream in her ear. “Let go of her! LET GO!” My blind rage has filled the room, the entire floor of the house. It’s so fiery and fierce I’m sure the entire street can feel its quake. I fight hard to bring her to the ground—if I can just get her down, Rosie can climb away. Instead, she lies stunned and crying on the floor beneath us. Norm sprints over and pulls Rosie toward the bottom of the stairs away from Cookie. There they both stand, screaming at me. “Stop, Gi, stop!” But my mother will not hurt my baby, who’s finally thriving under my care. And she isn’t going to beat me into submission either, the lunatic! I hardly flinch when Cookie flips me over her back onto the floor, on top of the broken shards of glass.
“You stupid little bitch,” she grunts through her teeth, landing her first kick. “You should’ve never been born, slut! You were my biggest mistake, you stupid little motherfucker.”
She’s barefoot, but all the weight of her body lands in the small of my back, then on my ribs and pelvis and elbows. I roll on my side, trying to get out from under her. Instead she brings her heel down into the side of my waist, then grabs me by my hair and slams my face into the floor. Blood flows out of my nose, and I can feel it seeping from my back from the broken glass. I roll over on my side into a ball—it’s a short opportunity to catch my breath before I use what little energy I have left to stand up and face her one more time. As I turn to rise, her foot slams me full-force in the stomach and sends me flying to the floor again. “You little fucking slut!” she screams, puffing hard and finding another burst of energy to kick me again. I stagger to stand up, about to run at her, when she grips me around the neck and shoves me backward. First I feel my head meet the floor, then my back—my legs and arms had no chance to stretch out and break the fall. I feel the sting of the glass sticking in my head and the blood trickling out of my scalp. But I fight to scramble up fast, knowing that if I stay down, her feet will start kicking blows to my head and ribs.
My will is stronger than hers, but she’s drunk and more than twice my body weight. The force of her arms sends me into the railing, where the kids are standing on the other side. I slide to the floor, stunned. When her leg comes in again, I swing at it to trip her, surprised she stumbled. Then I scramble to my feet and dart past her, out the front door.
She turns around just as I make it to the porch, her voice thundering after me. “Get your ass back in here now! I’m not finished with you yet!”
Somehow I’ve made it across the yard. She can still see me, but so can the neighbors if they choose to open their blinds to the commotion. I slip into the darkness and press myself against the chain-link fence. I hear her voice echo in the cold air. “You get back in here so I can finish what you started. You’re gonna get what you deserve, you little bastard!”
Four months earlier, I would have obeyed her and gone back inside to take the rest of my beating, especially knowing that if she hadn’t exhausted her anger yet, she may take it out on Rosie. But something keeps me from listening this time. She continues to loom a few yards from me. My hair and face are caked with blood, my back stinging from the cuts and aching from the pounding. The only thing keeping me from collapsing is my will not to submit to her again. She yells one more time.
“Get back in this goddamn house!”
I shake my head, pounding from the beating, and whisper:
“No. No!”
Then I turn from her voice and walk as fast as I can toward Middle Country Road.
The cold concrete wall outside Shoes ’N Things feels soothing against my back. Out of the reach of the streetlight, I pull my legs into my chest and rest my head on my knees. I catch my breath from the tears and dig into one of the green garbage bins for a few boxes. I pull them open and line them up between the Dumpster and the building’s back wall to create a bed.
It’s probably been an hour when I open my eyes at the sound of her jalopy rolling down the street. I peek out around the corner and see the car turning in the direction of the bars.
I wish these feelings were new to me—the hurt, anger, rejection from the emotional abuse, and the searing physical pain—but for all of the near-fourteen years of my life, this is the only con
sistent, predictable part of my relationship with Cookie. To me, feeling secure means the opposite of what it means to most kids. Children are supposed to find their greatest safety and comfort in the arms of their mothers. Instead, Cookie’s homecoming is our darkest danger, like the worst storm anyone can imagine. I brace myself and lock down my wits as she enters with a stir. We have no control over what comes next as the tension builds, then it’s as though the skies open up when she comes down on me in a rage. When she’s finished, she goes suddenly . . . leaving the devastation in her wake as the only evidence she’s ever been here at all. We’re always comforted to know she’ll be gone for a while—safe and content, as though it’s safe to step out into the sun after a torrid rain. And we recover fast, using our wits and will to stay together and rebuild our home.
I walk into a quiet house. One of the kids has cleaned up the glass, and they’re both sleeping toe-to-toe on the couch. My heart swells as I kiss their cheeks good night, and whisper in Norman’s ear: “You’re a good big brother.” I rise and stand there watching them . . . then the tears stream down my face. Not for myself but for how powerless we are over what will happen next. After a minute I secure the front and back doors then head to the bathroom to try and soak away my pain.
4
Breaking Pact
November 1980
THE NEXT MORNING is the fifth of November, four days before my fourteenth birthday. I get the kids up and ready for school and put them on the bus. In the house I close the front door, knowing that, sooner or later, I’ll have to attempt to face myself in the full-length mirror.
Because I grew so thin over the summer, the marks from this beating have taken on dimensions I’ve never witnessed. They’re so large and discolored that they cover my entire body like a single mass of blue, black, and red. In some places the marks are so grotesque that it’s as though the barrier of my skin has collapsed and my insides are practically exposed.
Etched in Sand Page 5