Allison: “He said something about the child support worker telling him.”
Me: “But, how would she know? They sent that form like back in October or November, saying that you were turning eighteen, and wanting proof if you were still in school, but nobody has said anything to me since.”
Allison: “Maybe the principal told them.”
I don’t think the school principal told Frank about Allison moving out. I believe Allison told him when he called. She probably just wanted to see what he would say. Or, hear what he might offer.
We talked, ate, and scrounged up more things for Allison to take back with her to her apartment. Mixing bowls, more clothes from her dresser, a photo album book I made for her before we moved to Wyoming, a couple of books to read. “I get so bored,” she explained.
“Mom, have you done your taxes yet? Kaleb had his taxes done, and the guy said I could have gotten $2,000.00 back if I was an independent.”
“Next year, we’ll see how this year has gone, dear. But this year’s taxes are covering last year, and in 2011 you lived in my house the entire year. You didn’t even turn eighteen until December, so you are obviously my dependent.”
Finally, I took the plunge into the great chasm of questions-I-want-to-ask-but-am-not-sure-I-should. “So, are you doing okay?”
“It’s all right, but . . . I would come back, but my pride gets in the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just don’t want anybody saying I failed.”
I think that is every human being’s greatest fear. None of us wants to feel like we have failed, so we constantly make up excuses—or avoid talking about it. It’s hard to admit when you’ve done the wrong thing; it’s hard to swallow your pride. I was renewed by this tiny ray of hope. Allison had provided a slit of sunlight to peek through the clouds of my dark and dreary winter, and I secretly rejoiced.
I wanted to hug Allison, the way I have been doing since she was a toddler, and had just admitted to breaking something or hurting someone. But, I knew that would make her start crying—and I wanted to treat her like the adult she was asking to be. Rather than a hug, I told her no one would think less of her if she came back home. “No one even really knows you left, dear, since I haven’t been able to talk about it.”
The physical distance between us also allowed me to maintain the emotional distance to say what else I needed to say. “You know, if you come back home, though, it’s going to be until you graduate. It won’t be a ‘thanks for letting me come home for a week—I’m going again’ kind of thing. You’ll also need to get a part-time job, even though I’ll still drive you around and pick you up whenever you need, like it always has been. I don’t have the money to keep buying you all of your stuff, and you need to get a job if you want to be ready to leave the right way the next time.
“But lots of people move back home, sweetie, and it’s not because they’ve failed. Lots of people go home after college, or after a divorce.”
As I drove Allison back to her apartment (she had been at the house for three hours), she asked if I would help her bring things in. “That way you can see the place, too.”
Wow. Allison was feeling like she could trust me enough to cross another huge boundary.
It was a small apartment. It was in the basement, and it was dark. The living room had a couch, a flat screen television set on a stand, and a floor lamp that arched at about six feet. The kitchen had a refrigerator, a counter, an electric stove, and a sink full of dishes waiting to be washed. No furniture. When I opened the freezer to put in the two bags of frozen treats Allison requested from my freezer, I noticed the lone ice tray—and two bottles of alcohol.
“Those are Kaleb’s brother’s,” Allison quickly explained.
I just smiled, shrugged and walked back to the living room.
We walked past the bathroom, but I could not see inside. Kaleb was in there, with the door closed. “I don’t know if he has any pants on,” Allison explained.
The last room was the bedroom Allison shared with Kaleb. A box spring and mattress, with rose-colored sheets, sat on the floor. I saw Allison’s clothes hamper just inside the tiny closet, but could not see the complete width or depth of the closet. On the wall immediately to my left, there was another flat screen television. This one appeared to be larger than the one in the living room, and had video game controllers attached. They had no cable, so Allison could only watch movies. On the wall, I saw the framed picture of Allison, Tommy, and me I gave her the weekend before. There was no room for a dresser in the room.
One more closed door in the apartment—Allison explained it was the bedroom of the man who worked out of state during the week.
I was sad to see how Allison was choosing to live, but it was her choice.
Five minutes after I left, Allison sent a text. “Forgot the shampoo.”
“I can swing it by tomorrow?” I offered when I got to a stoplight halfway back home.
“Yes,” was Allison’s quick reply.
Part of me wondered if I was still enabling her. She came to my house, did her laundry, ate some food, took some more food home with her, and now wanted me to continue supplying her with hygiene products.
If she was at college, what would I be sending in care packages? How often would I be sending care packages? Or, what would I be buying if she lived at home while taking college classes in town?
There are no easy answers.
When I found out I was pregnant with Allison, I immediately bought the book What to Expect When You’re Expecting.
I loved the book so much, I bought the next book in the series as well: What to Expect the First Year.
I remember my mom always consulting her Doctor Spock book when I was a child.
I never found a surviving-the-teenage-years, or parenting-a-young-adult book that helped.
Allison called at 6:30 p.m. February 29th. “Mom, I have a question to ask you,” she began, drawing out the sentence. “Kaleb is suddenly telling me I can’t have any contact with other guys, I can’t text them, and he has the right to check my phone whenever he wants to.”
Whether this was true or not, Allison knew controlling behavior from men was my trigger. Either way, my daughter was reaching out to me for help again.
“Where are you right now?”
“I’m at the pizza place with Katie.”
It took Allison a while to form the sentence, “Can I come back home?” but she eventually asked. For the sake of our forward-going relationship, I needed her to ask, as opposed to me offering.
“Well, you understand that if you come home, it’s until at least graduation. No more of this ‘I’m moving out’ just to move back a few weeks later, right? And, you will have to follow my rules, like come home when I tell you to come home.”
Allison agreed to everything.
Did she agree too quickly, though? I mean, was she just saying whatever she felt she needed to in order to come back home for the short-term? At the moment, it didn’t matter. Allison’s safety was more important.
It was hard to prepare for bed, worrying about Allison, but I wouldn’t be good to anyone if I didn’t get a good night’s sleep. I hoped she would at least call me if Kaleb tried something stupid, like hitting her.
My dad was a violent man. Because of that, I made a vow in high school: “A man only gets to hit me once,” I remember saying to my two best girlfriends. “‘Gets to,’ meaning I’m gone after he does.”
Frank punched a hole in the wall in the kitchen, directly to the right of my head, when we were arguing about my going back to work. Allison had come home from the daycare woman’s house with a horrible looking nose. All I could figure was the woman repeatedly used a wet washcloth to aggressively wipe Allison’s runny nose, not a gentle tissue.
When Frank got home tha
t evening, and saw Allison’s nose, he told me we were never going back to that woman’s house again. He told me I would have to quit my job the next morning, and stay home with eighteen-month old Allison until she was ready for school.
Frank punched a hole in the wall when I told him I didn’t want to quit my job.
In my mind, I defended his actions. He was angry at the incompetence of the daycare provider, upset because Allison looked so terrible. He hadn’t been aiming his fist at me.
When Frank violently pushed me across the living room on the Monday of Labor Day weekend in 1997, I realized his verbal abuse had escalated to physical abuse. He had already used his one time.
Although Allison asked to come home on February 20th, she wouldn’t make it until the five o’clock news started on February 22nd. Allison was home—with more bags of clothes and stuff than I remembered her taking. I guess because I saw it leave in dribs and drabs over a month’s time, the return of everything in one movement made it seem like a lot.
Or, perhaps it was the fact she and Katie dropped the bags in the middle of the living room floor.
Apparently, Allison didn’t tell Kaleb she was leaving. He tried calling her cell phone about five-thirty, but she wouldn’t answer it. “He’s going to yell at me,” she explained.
By ignoring his calls, she reduced the conversation to a texted one. Allison essentially “broke up” with Kaleb with a text message.
After making it clear she had moved back home, Allison wouldn’t even read or send her own text messages. She asked Katie, who was sitting on my living room couch next to Allison, to do it.
“What did he say now?” Allison kept asking Katie. “Well, tell him . . .”
I was disappointed by the lack of maturity Allison displayed, but was pleased to have her back home.
Finally, Kaleb asked to speak face-to-face with Allison. She agreed, and he drove over to meet Allison.
After Kaleb and Katie both left, Tommy, Allison, and I headed to church, as it was Ash Wednesday. While in church, though, Kaleb apparently tapped into his vein-of-anger, and sent Allison a number of angry text messages. Part of me wanted to tell Allison to put her phone away, especially after noticing some of the looks she was receiving from other people in church who saw her texting, but the other part was grateful to just have her in the pew next to me, so I let her be.
Part of my elementary school education was a Wednesday church service in the middle of the day, the school’s policy of going to church with your family on Sundays.
On Wednesdays, we were instructed how to properly behave in church. Sit straight, eyes forward, hands in your lap. Stand on cue, kneel on cue, never stand on the furniture—kneelers included. When entering and exiting the church, your hands should be held palms together, fingers pointing towards Heaven, thumbs crossed to anchor your hands together. No talking. No exiting the service during church. Whisper to your teacher if absolutely necessary. No exceptions.
On Monday mornings, attendance-taking included Sunday morning church and Sunday school attendance.
February 23rd, Allison didn’t miss a beat. “Can I hang out with Brad Donovan after conferences?” she asked via text message at 11:48 a.m.
Having no idea who Brad Donovan was, I simply reminded myself Allison was home—and was asking for my permission to hang out with someone after school, just the way I liked it. “Sounds good,” I sent back, “if you have no homework.”
Allison replied with a “None,” right away.
How can you already know about homework, Allison, when the day is only half way through?
I always took the children along to conferences. I felt it was important for the teacher to get the one-on-one time with the child, explaining whatever was right or wrong in the classroom, or with their work, in front of me. That way, it didn’t become a “but she hates me!” or, “he doesn’t understand what I said,” when I got home. Allison was in a hurry, though. Rather than taking turns, going from one of her teachers to one of Tommy’s teachers, and back again, Allison wanted me to go to all of her teachers first, so she could take off with Brad. She took off, in fact, while Tommy and I were talking with one of his teachers. Allison came up behind me, whispered in my ear that she was leaving, and was gone before I could turn my head to say, “Wait.”
Allison returned home shortly before the ten o’clock news started. She walked in, carrying a plastic bag with something she quickly hid in her laundry hamper under some dirty clothes, grabbed the bucket we use whenever someone feels like they are going to vomit, and headed off to bed.
Naturally, I peeked in the bag hidden in the laundry basket. Inside, I saw two cans of a new fruit-flavored malt beverage drink popular with kids, nicknamed “Knock-out in a Can,” because it was a twenty-four-ounce can—twelve percent of which was alcohol. One can was empty, the other unopened.
I dumped the contents of the unopened can into the sink, and placed both cans into the recycling bin.
I quit my heavy social drinking after hearing about the night Ben drove me all over the city. I still don’t remember it.
A few years later, while Frank was away at basic training, I got a call from George, Ben’s best friend. George wanted to “hang out,” using Allison’s words.
George bought me a bottle of my favorite wine. We sat in his basement, where Ben, George, and I had always hung out together. We shot a few games of pool, then sat on the couch because I was feeling a little too drunk.
After I threw up in his basement bathroom, George suggested I lie down.
George raped me that night.
I didn’t want that kind of stuff happening to Allison.
When I got to the high school at three on February 24th, I sent both Tommy and Allison the usual text to let them know.
“I’m not at school,” Allison sent right back.
“Oh?” I was proud of myself for the self-control not to tear into Allison, either through text or calling.
“I’m at Katie’s, working on math and helping her with Econ.”
Right. Since you’re doing so well in either of those classes yourself, Allison. And, how did you manage to leave school without my permission?
Allison sent me a heads-up text message at 5:25 p.m: “Heading home.”
Ten minutes later, another text. “I wasn’t going to do my homework at home. So I figured it was worth going to Katie’s since I did it. Obviously not in your eyes.”
I hadn’t said anything. I didn’t understand why Allison was viciously attacking.
She was home by seven, but not for long. “Can I hang out with Kyle for a bit? He gets off work at nine.”
“I suppose.”
Tommy was at a school dance that ended at midnight.
“What time should I be home, then? The dance is over at midnight. I could be home by 12:30 a.m.? Or, one?”
“Or, you could be home in time for you to come with me to pick Tommy up at midnight.”
“Sure, I could do that.”
She sent Kyle a text, then began getting ready.
Thirty minutes later, Allison was annoyed. Kyle apparently sent a text back, saying he was too tired after all.
Not to be foiled in her plans, Allison asked, “Can I spend the night at Katie’s? Since I can’t spend the night tomorrow night, because I’m babysitting, this would work out better anyway.”
Seeing no reason to argue, I agreed. Allison had her overnight bag packed, and was out the door in thirty minutes’ time.
Growing up in my house, talking back to parents was forbidden. Their word was law.
Questioning a parent’s decision was considered talking back.
Punishment was doled out with paddles to the buttocks. The tools utilized for such paddles were: my father’s extra-large hand, complete with solid gold pinky ring on right hand, my f
ather’s leather belt, or—on rare occasion—my mother’s leather-soled thin summer sandal.
I decided when I had children, I would parent with logic rather than non-negotiable law.
Sunday morning it snowed while I was in church. It snowed so much I got stuck in the driveway while trying to put the car back into the garage.
When Allison finally woke up, and made her way upstairs sometime around noon, I was already starting to think about what to make for dinner.
“Mackenzie called. Can I go snowmobiling with him, Mom?”
Rather than get into an argument with Allison, I thought about the peace and quiet a few hours of snowmobiling would bring me. “Sure.”
Mackenzie pulled into the driveway about 2:30 p.m.
Allison sent a text about seven: “Well considering I’m snowed in, I don’t think there will be school tomorrow.”
“Snowed in where?”
“At Mackenzie’s. The city doesn’t plow outside town lines.”
“So? Ride a snowmobile home.”
“With my purse? That would ruin the leather and everything inside.”
Even through a text message, I could hear Allison’s signature whine. “You got there—” was all I sent in reply.
“Yeah, before it began snowing for hours. I will come home tonight, it just might take a while.”
The front doorbell rang at 12:36 a.m. Mackenzie was finally dropping off Allison. She apparently tried sending text messages to Tommy, hoping he would unlock the door and let her in without me knowing, but Tommy was asleep. Her angry mother got to open the door instead.
When I began speaking, Allison cut me off with some loud, angry excuse about how they had to wait for Mackenzie’s brother to return home to . . .
I stopped listening and went back to bed. Allison’s laundry-list of excuses bored me.
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