“When?”
“I’m home now/tonight—or tomorrow after 1:30 p.m.”
“Tomorrow. Katie can’t leave tonight.”
Once again, you’re both willing to honor Katie’s parents’ rules, which happen to align with so many of my own rules, but you won’t honor mine. Wow. That speaks volumes, Allison.
“Okay—or call the house phone tonight. You can decide what works best for you.”
“All right. When I finish my homework, I’ll call.”
Homework? Allison is doing her homework before ten o’clock at night? I would really like to meet Katie’s parents!
Or maybe I don’t. What kind of garbage have you been telling them about me this past week? Katie’s parents must think I’m absolutely horrible.
Allison called the house at 9:15 p.m. We talked for nearly a half hour, discussing the issues bothering each of us.
1) Allison: “I just don’t like the way you expect me to be home at 9:30 p.m. It makes me feel like I’m five years old.”
Me: “I’m sorry, dear, but it’s just my having grown up in Chicago. I can’t go to bed until I’ve made sure all of the doors are locked. If you are out, I can’t go to bed. If I can’t go to bed, I don’t get enough sleep, and then it makes me tired and crabby the whole next day—which becomes a vicious cycle for the week. It’s different when you are babysitting, because I know you are somewhere safe, doing a job. But, when you are just ‘out,’ I worry about you getting into a car accident, or so many other things that could go wrong.”
Allison: “Mom, we live in a small town.”
Me: “I understand that, dear. But I didn’t grow up in a small town, and I didn’t have a nice, safe childhood.”
2) Allison: “I wish you would stop treating me like a child. I’m eighteen now. My friends get so much more freedom than you give me.”
Me: “Well, if you were to help out more around the house, rather than lie around on the couch all of the time and watch TV, I might be able to think of you as an adult.”
Allison: “But I do help out.”
Me: “Once a month isn’t enough, though. I’m talking about doing something every single day. Every day, I’m cooking, washing clothes, washing dishes, or cleaning the house. I get frustrated when you’re just lounging on the couch, or running out with your friends. If you helped out, and did something every single day, I’d see you more as an adult.”
By the time we hung up, we had agreed Allison would come home with me after school the next day.
Allison sent me a text message at 11:11 a.m.: “Can I hang out with Katie a bit after school? Then she’ll drop me off at the house with my stuff. It’ll be easier than transferring it in the school parking lot.”
I felt wedged between a rock and a hard place again. If I said no, I feared Allison would take it as a sign that I’m forever inflexible, and would never come home. But if I said yes, I feared becoming a push-over. I had to decide which was more important.
At 4:43 p.m., Allison began the next round of negotiations: “Can Katie come over for dinner?”
Katie stayed until the ten o’clock news began.
I remember being alone most of the time during my senior year of high school. My sister was in her senior year of college in South Dakota. My dad was in the nursing home, and my mom was working three jobs and spending time at the nursing home with my dad when she got done with work on the weekends.
All I wanted, at that age, was to have someone in the apartment I could talk to, and eat meals with.
Now I own my own home. I still sadly find myself eating too many meals alone, and/or in silence.
January 24th, another flimsy Allison excuse for hanging out with Katie all night: “Doing homework. Helping Katie with chem.”
Right. Have you ever even taken chemistry, Allison? I know you took biology in tenth grade, and forensic science the first part of this year or the latter part of last year, but chemistry? I don’t think you’re telling me the truth, dear.
Allison came home at 11:30 p.m., on a school night. She had been drinking, based on the glass of chocolate milk and bowl of scrambled eggs she consumed before heading off to bed.
January 25th, my friend Lindsey sent a text message about Allison’s apparent new boyfriend, based on information Allison posted on her social networking site. “She says she’s in a relationship—with a boy from town. His name is Kaleb Strong. He will be twenty-one in April. He works at the mall in town.” Lindsey also had information about his family, and described his profile picture.
So the June wedding to Carl in Wyoming is off?
January 26th, Allison was a hung-over, angry bear. She got home at 1:20 a.m., and woke her brother with a text message asking to be let in. I thought about letting her sleep in, and miss the day of school as punishment, but realized going to school with only five hours of sleep—and a hangover—would be a better punishment. I woke Allison up at seven to get ready for school, after I took the house key out of her purse.
The first time Allison ignored my curfew this week, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I hoped her coming in at 11:30 p.m. was an honest mistake. I’m not so old I don’t remember what having fun with your friends, and forgetting about the time is like at eighteen. But two nights in a row, and two hours later this time than the last time, I saw the blatant disregard behind the behavior.
I couldn’t help but chuckle when she collapsed in the middle of drying her hair. Rather than stand up in the bathroom, Allison was blow drying her hair from a sitting position on the living room floor. One minute she was sitting upright, the next minute she was lying on her left side, blow dryer in her left hand, and brush in her right. I wanted to ask her how that was working for her, a la Dr. Phil McGraw, but chose to just chuckle to myself.
As the kids got out of the car at the high school, I gave my usual, “Love you! Have a good day! I’ll be back to pick you up at . . .” cheer.
Allison responded with a grumbled, “Whatever, Mom. Shut up already,” before slamming the car door.
Later in the day, I sent Allison a heart-felt text message: “You are always going to be my daughter. You are always going to be in my heart. If you ignore boundaries, like curfew, ‘because I’m eighteen,’ then we (Tommy and I) have the right to refuse to get out of bed and open the door for you, etc.”
January 27th, the kids and I drove to my mother’s for a weekend’s change of scenery. The next morning, Allison met Katie at a wedding dress shop. Katie was getting a new prom dress. Thirty minutes after dropping her off, Allison called me. “I found the perfect dress,” she began. “It’s the exact one I want!”
“You have a dress, Allison. I’m not buying you another one.”
“It’s only four hundred dollars, Mom.”
After sputtering in the direction of the phone, I said, “No.”
“But Mom . . .”
“No, dear. There’s no way I’m paying for another expensive prom dress.”
“But it’s . . .”
Honestly, there was nothing Allison could say to secure her that particular dress—but she wouldn’t let go of the idea.
“Honey, there’s no way I can buy it.”
Hearing those words, Allison hung up.
And then she sent me a text message: “With 20% off it’s $360.00, and all you have to pay is $120.00 today.”
All I have to pay. Today. Excuse me, dear, but why don’t you get a job and pay for it yourself?
Four hours later, the child who had no visible means of income sent me a text message: “Got two piercings. Giving you a heads-up.”
Three hours after receiving the text, I got to see the two new facial piercings—and the three bags of new clothes. “How did you get this stuff?”
“Oh, Benjamin gave me some money. When he found out I was going
to the mall, and had no money, he gave me fifty dollars.”
“Excuse me? He just gave you fifty dollars?”
“Yeah. He got like five hundred for . . . (I couldn’t hear), so he gave it to me!” Allison cheerily explained.
I had flashbacks to her explanation of Gregory’s dad giving her twenty-five dollars when she was running away. My head started to spin, and I started to get nauseous by the thoughts swirling around in my brain. But, I said nothing.
Allison and I apparently have a different moral code about what’s right and what’s wrong, but she’s always going to be my daughter.
I stole a candy bar from the corner store when I was thirteen years old. I didn’t have any money, and was really, really hungry for that candy bar.
Shortly after that, we talked about the Ten Commandments at school. Number 7 in the Lutheran faith is “Thou Shalt Not Steal.”
I felt terrible about the candy bar. I hadn’t been starving. I just wanted the candy bar. I was afraid I would be banished to Hell for stealing one dumb candy bar.
Fear is what keeps me from thinking about stealing, to this day.
We returned home January 29th about five. Allison hurriedly helped unload the car and trunk, then immediately ran out the front door. “Katie’s here,” she yelled over her shoulder before shutting the front door.
Tommy stayed up playing his new video game long after I went to bed. At midnight, I remember him talking to me about losing track of the time. “Is she home yet?” I asked, rising up through the layers of sleep.
“No. Which one of us is going to let her in?” Tommy asked.
“Oh, go to bed, dear. She’s not your responsibility. Thank you, but I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Tonight, she’s going to find her angry mother on the other side of the door.”
“Okay. Should I leave the living room light on?”
“No. Go ahead and turn it off, dear.”
The doorbell rang at 12:20 a.m. I climbed out of bed, walked to the living room, and saw Allison huddled up between the front door and the screen door. (Our front door was half window.)
“I can’t find my key,” Allison said from her side of the door.
I just stood on my side, with my arms crossed.
“C’mon, Mom. My fingers are freezing.”
I noticed the shaking of her arms. I noticed the hands tucked into the sweatshirt sleeves. I noticed the wetness of her eyes. I noticed the tone of impatience in her voice. “What time is curfew?” I asked in my steeliest voice.
Allison broke eye-contact, looking down towards her feet, before getting a new surge of adrenalin. “Are you serious? Let me in, please.”
“Why should I?” I asked rhetorically, while unlocking the dead-bolt.
“I can just move out,” Allison threw at me, with spite.
“This isn’t a hotel, where you can just come and go as you please,” I bit back at Allison while unlocking and opening the door.
She came in, moved quickly past me, and headed downstairs.
I returned to bed. Five minutes later, Allison quietly came back upstairs, and brushed her teeth.
Thirteen hours later, Allison sent a text message from school: “Can I hang out with Katie today? She needs help on her taxes.”
Sure. You, who have no job, and have never filed an income tax return, are going to be able to help Katie with her taxes. If you are going to insist on lying to me, Allison, please come up with more realistic lies. Otherwise, you’re really only adding insult to injury, by suggesting I’m stupid enough to believe your lame lies.
“When?” was all I sent back.
“After school.”
“Be home by 9:30 p.m.—and understand that I’m not going to wash your clothes if all you are doing is sleeping here.”
“Okay,” she sent back twenty minutes later.
It was really hard for me to accept this treatment from Allison. Part of me understood my role in creating her, though. For more years than I can remember, my mother had been preaching the message that I will have to clean up whatever messes Allison makes. “All you need is for her to get pregnant,” my mother would say. Or, “You can’t have her doing that!” There were even emails about how high school students are able to leave high school with as much as two year’s worth of college credits under their belts. These were the tapes that ran over and over in my head. I was responsible for whatever Allison or Tommy did. I was responsible for providing them with food, shelter, and an education. I did not need to have my own friendships, or a new relationship with a man who might give Allison and Tommy the male support for which they yearned. I was supposed to take care of everything, no matter what.
I’m tired, Mom.
I’m tired, Allison.
I’m broke, Frank. Where’s my court-ordered child support? I’ve had two jobs for more years than you’ve had one, and I still can’t make enough to make the ends meet.
I’m weak, God. I need a support system to help hold me up. A few girlfriends would be nice. A man who loves me for who I am would be amazing. An intervention for Allison, to straighten her out before it’s too late would be awesome. Hard to watch, but, I’m afraid, getting to the point of being necessary. Tommy tells me she’s having sex with boys—in my house, while I’m even home. Apparently, Allison brags to Tommy about her various exploits. And now there is the issue of magically appearing money. Is she getting paid for pictures of herself again? Or, is she getting paid for performing sexual acts? I don’t know that I want to know, so much as I want it stopped for Allison’s sake.
15. February—On the Move
My alarm woke me at 5:30 a.m. February 1st. Did Allison come home? I don’t remember getting up and letting her in . . .
I checked the living room for her jacket, the front door rug for her shoes, the outside steps for footprints, and finally her bedroom.
I had gotten so used to her coming home in the middle of the night and spending unscheduled numbers of nights with Katie, I didn’t recognize real moving out at first.
Just before 10:00 a.m., Allison sent me a text message. “I need nine dollars for choir shirt for tomorrow,” was all it said. No “good morning,” no “I love you,” no “sorry if I worried you last night.” All she wanted was money.
I couldn’t respond. I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, her choosing not to come home screamed, “I am an adult, and I don’t need you anymore.” I didn’t want to give her any more money. She could get money from people for clothes and facial piercings—let them pay for her choir t-shirt as well.
On the other hand, this was a school uniform requirement. Every spring, the choir director had a different t-shirt design for each choir to wear for the Pop Concert. The year before, Allison got the t-shirt, but wasn’t able to sing in the concert because the police had taken her to juvy. I was afraid my refusal to pay for the t-shirt this year would be an excuse for Allison to not participate in the choir concert. If she didn’t participate, she could fail the class. If she failed the class, she might drop out of school. I didn’t want to push my luck. And, it was only nine dollars.
Finally, at 11:41 a.m., I sent a reply. “School uniform requirement—I will pay it.”
I expected a thank you text, but received nothing. Fifteen minutes later, I sent Allison another text. “Who do I make the check out to?”
Two minutes after four o’clock, Allison sent a text asking, “Can I stop by a little later? My phone is dying.”
Allison rang the front door bell at 4:50 p.m. I smiled, unlocked the door, opened it, and watched Katie follow Allison in.
I followed Allison to her room, where she opened dresser drawers to pull out clean clothes for her suitcase. “Did you bring Katie as a buffer, then, so we can’t talk?”
“We can talk, Mom.”
“No, we can’t,
dear.”
“Whatever.”
I walked out to the kitchen to wait. From there, I watched Katie walk into Allison’s room. I watched Allison sort through the bags she left beside the kitchen table three nights earlier. I watched Allison place clean clothes into the suitcase. When Allison came to the kitchen, though, and opened the refrigerator with her back to me, I lost my patience.
“You can’t come in here and just raid for food if you’re not staying,” I said in a calm, but frustrated tone of voice.
“Whatever,” was Allison’s response as she slammed the refrigerator door. “I’ll get some food somewhere else.”
“You could eat here, dear, if you stayed to talk to me—but you brought Katie as a buffer, so we can’t talk.” I didn’t care anymore if Katie heard me. She needed to know how upset the game made me.
“We did talk, Mom, at the therapist’s that day.”
“But, we’re not having the conversation she said we need to be having at this point. The conversation where we talk about how this works. You still haven’t provided me with the information about where you are staying, so I can get hold of you if I need to. That’s how you would make this a mature moving out.”
“Oh, so now you’re calling me immature? Whatever. I can’t stand living here anymore, Mom.”
“So let’s talk about it.”
“I don’t want to be yelled at, Mom.”
“Am I yelling? No. I’m talking, dear.”
“No you’re not. You’re yelling at me.”
I wanted to ask Katie if it sounded like I was yelling, but she was too busy looking down at the floor, putting on her boots, and opening up the front door for Allison.
Just like that, Allison was gone again, after only five minutes at home.
Tarnished Dreams Page 12