Every time I teach a class about Argument (Aristotelian Argument), I work my way around to the questions, “What is Truth?” and “Who gets to define what is True for you, versus what is True for me?”
The kids had a two-hour late start Monday, February 27th, but I did not. Rather than ride the school bus, they both accepted a ride from me at the normal time.
Shortly after ten, but before the high school day started, the school nurse called. Allison got her period and wanted to run home to change clothes. Between the sound of Allison’s crying, and the memories of those same embarrassing moments in my own life, I agreed to leave work to pick her up, run her home, and then take her back to school. Before I even reached the car in the parking lot, though, Allison had sent me a text: “Can we stop at the store on the way and buy some Midol?”
“I’m not going to keep doing this, Allison,” I told Allison in my calmest voice once we are in the car together. “You can’t treat me like your mother one day, and ignore me as your mother another day. Today, you want me to drop everything, and risk getting in trouble at work, because you want to go home and change your pants—but last night, when you were deciding not to come home until well after curfew, you were acting like an independent adult who gets to call the shots. It doesn’t work that way. You can’t have it both ways.”
“Well you know,” Allison’s voice sharpened with every word, “if you’re going to shut the door like that, it will be permanent.”
“Excuse me?”
“If you’re not going to help me out anymore, then you’re shutting the door.”
“No, you are choosing to shut the door. I’m just saying I won’t be taken advantage of. I don’t play that kind of game.”
“Then you’re going to miss out.”
I began using the “missing out” phrase to describe Frank’s choice when the children were old enough to start asking tough questions. In my efforts to help them adjust to his disinterest in playing the role of a dad, I would tell them it was their father who was missing out on getting to know them. Was Allison really trying to use that same phrase against me? Although hurt by her suggestion, I didn’t let it show. Instead, I matter-of-factly said, “You’re right. I will be missing out. But so will you.”
Allison got out of the car at the school, and walked in. It was approximately 11:30 a.m.
Another text message from Allison at 12:54 p.m. “Just bled through my second pair of pants.”
When I read the text about thirty minutes later, I sent back an offer. “Wow. Can I grab some from home for you? Have a meeting at 2:00 p.m.”
“No point,” began Allison’s response at 1:37 p.m. “Class gets over at two, then choir.”
So, it’s okay to have bloody pants in choir? Or, are you and Katie going to cut out of school before choir?
When I got out of the meeting, there was another text message from Allison waiting in my phone. “I’m going to get a ride from Katie,” read the message she sent at 2:58 p.m.
I headed home, since Allison no longer had a house key.
I was surprised when Allison sent another text message at 3:22 p.m, rather than ringing the front door bell. “Going to pop by the store and buy Midol with my babysitting money.”
Okay, but what about the pants you supposedly bled through after lunch? Was it a lie, just to get out of school early?
16. March—Boys, Booze, B.S.
Allison came home for five minutes after school on March 2nd. She was spending the weekend with Katie, but needed to “pop home to grab something,” her text said.
The something was a pair of high-heeled boots, and the cable to connect her digital camera to a computer. “I’m making a Friend Album with Katie,” she explained.
Shortly after six, Allison was dropped off by a boy in a white car.
Thirty minutes later, she was picked up by another boy in a pick-up truck. Were either of those boys Aaron, the boy Allison had been talking about the night before?
“Check out this text, Mom. Lacey, Aaron’s ex-girlfriend, said . . .”
I didn’t pay much attention to the conversation at the time, but I remember the message Aaron supposedly forwarded to Allison. The author of the original text called Allison a slut two or three times in as many sentences. “She’s just mad because she thinks Aaron broke up with her because of me, but they broke up like two days ago!”
Yes, Allison, two days is plenty of time for a girl to get over a boy breaking up with her.
I’d reached the point of exhaustion with Allison. I felt like the answer to every question I asked was another story, every concern I expressed was a fight-starter, every text message Allison sent was dripping with drama, and/or a means to gain more attention.
The similarities to Frank were still enough to startle me, though.
Near the end of January, Allison broke another cell phone. Rather than pay to replace her phone like I had all the other times (Tommy knows how many phones I’ve bought Allison over the years; I’ve chosen to forget), I told Allison I wouldn’t call in the claim until she gave me the fifty-dollar deductible. I was surprised by the text message Allison sent at 11:06 p.m. on March 3rd. She had the money.
How? You babysat last weekend, but spent the money during the week, didn’t you? Who gave you fifty dollars—and what did you give them in return?
Another text message a minute later: “I want you to meet Aaron sometime soon. I think you’ll like him.”
Does my liking these boys really matter to you? Or is this just something you’re saying for their benefit?
During the spring of 2012, I developed a variety of nicknames for Allison’s revolving-door boys. Although the nicknames sound mean, I referred to them as: the-boy-of-the-week, the flavor-of-the-month, and the-five-minute-men. It was emotionally hard for me because, unlike Allison, I make lifetime friends. No sooner would I learn a boy’s name, and capture a detail or two about him from Allison, so I could make conversation if I ever met him, then he’d be gone. I never knew who ended it, I just remember Allison being excited about some new boy one day—to be replaced by another new boy the next day.
Tommy tried explaining my frustration to Allison in July 2013, the first time I realized Allison was trying to drive a wedge between Tommy and me. “Allison said, ‘You and Mom never liked any of the boys I ever brought home,’” Tommy reported. “I told her that wasn’t true. I told her how you never got a chance to like them because they didn’t last more than five minutes.”
March 5th. Allison was standing in front of the bathroom mirror getting ready for school when I stepped into the bathroom doorway and said, “You have exactly twelve weeks of school left. If you can make it the twelve weeks, and pass these last classes, you will earn yourself a high school diploma—something your father has never done. That diploma will make you less like him and more like me.”
“Dad called the other day. He said he’s going to be moving to Florida this summer. And he’s kicking out Brenda, because she won’t get a job. Isn’t that funny, though! I never thought Dad would be kicking out anyone.”
Why do you focus so much on him, Allison?
I saw a re-run of a Dr. Phil episode about deadbeat dads in June 2013, and jotted down one comment I felt especially connected to. According to my note, Dr. Phil told the absentee father, “If your daughters have an unhealthy relationship with you, they will be vulnerable, looking for acceptance from men.”
How long does the searching-behavior last?
I started a load of laundry instead of cooking dinner for an empty house the evening of March 6th, and needed more clothes to complete the load. I spotted Allison’s weekend bag, still zipped shut, and wondered what dirty clothes were still inside. Rather than clothes, I found a quart bottle of alcohol, strewn among the q-tips, nail polish, and mouthwash still in the bag.
I
grabbed the bottle of alcohol, zipped the suitcase back up, and headed directly to the kitchen sink. The bottle had ten to fourteen ounces of liquid still inside. I noticed what a pretty color it was as it headed towards the drain.
Allison was home ten minutes later, and spent the evening downstairs.
About nine-thirty she came upstairs, talking about how a male friend of hers “figured out what my therapist couldn’t even figure out. He’s taking Psychology this semester, and says I’m addicted to sex because I’m trying to replace the love and attention I haven’t gotten from my dad.”
“It’s not that your therapist missed it, dear. She was trying out different theories when you first started seeing her, and you just chose to latch onto the Sex Addict label, instead of the Victim of Incest one. I’ve known all the way along what the situation is, but you needed to figure it out for yourself.
“You’re so willing to go with guys who give you attention, because that’s what you’ve always wanted from your dad. Rather than hold out for the long-term, loving relationship you should be focusing on, you’re willing to just give guys sex, because then they pay attention to you.
“Why do you think I’ve been single so long? I’m holding out for that special, long-term loving relationship. I could have had plenty of guys myself, if I was willing to just have sex with them. I want a real relationship, with a guy who loves me for who I am, not what I do for him.”
But, it’s lonely, Allison. And waiting is hard.
Allison sent me a text message at 9:15 p.m. March 7th. I hadn’t seen her since I dropped her off at school. “What time do you want me home?”
“The regular time.”
“Okay, so I’ll leave in ten minutes.”
“Can you pick up milk on the way? I have five dollars to pay back—the gallon is like $3.85.”
“Sure,” Allison replied.
It might seem odd to people, but I had never asked either of the children to run an errand like this for me before. My mom had me walk the mile or more to the store all of the time when I was growing up, and I hated it. As a parent, I felt it was my responsibility to run the household, but I had grown tired of Allison’s come-and-go-as-I-please attitude. If she wanted to act like an adult, then she could pick up some of the adult responsibilities as well.
Thirty minutes later, Allison sent a text saying, “On my way home.”
Five minutes later, Allison sent another. “Aaron is going to come in and meet you for a minute, so be decent.”
“Now?!” The ten o’clock news had started.
“Yeah? Just for a minute.”
“Now?!” I repeated. You just don’t get it Allison. I don’t want to talk to anyone at my front door after the ten o’clock news starts.
“Yeah.”
Hoping repetition would get through to Allison, I sent “Now?!” once more.
“I’ll explain why when he leaves,” Allison sent back.
I had no choice. Allison didn’t care I was already in my pajamas—I had to meet Aaron.
Aaron stood in the entryway of the house for a minute, said “Hi,” and seemed as uncomfortable as I was when I stood to shake his hand.
“He shaved off his beard, Mom, so he doesn’t look like a thirty-year-old guy,” was Allison’s explanation.
Then Allison said, “Okay, you can leave now.” Aaron said “Bye,” and Allison shut the front door.
“He’s really only twenty-two,” Allison explained before going downstairs to bed.
Why did you joke about his looking like a thirty-year-old guy, Allison? Is he, in fact, thirty years old?
Two days later, Allison decided to go grocery shopping with me. Kind of like giving birth, I forgot how miserable trips to the store could be with Allison—until we were there. Comments that began as “Buy me this,” and “I want that,” turned into whines of “but you bought Tommy . . . , why can’t I have . . . ?”
The check-out lane was no better. Allison stood in front of the cart, cell phone in hand, sending out text messages rather than unloading the shopping cart with me. When I asked her to move out of the way, she loudly groaned, rolled her eyes in the direction of the young man bagging the groceries, and walked four steps closer to him.
When we left the store, Allison ran ahead to the car. I helped the bag-boy load the bags into the trunk, because Allison was “too cold.”
Home was no different. Allison walked straight into the house, leaving me to carry the bags in from the garage alone. She waited in the kitchen, though, to claim the items she had thrown into the cart.
March 14th, Allison updated me on her plans for the future.
“So Carl and I were talking on the phone last night, and he’s planning on driving here for my graduation. That way, he can meet the family, and you, of course, and then he can take me back to Wyoming with him.
“I’m still going to wait to get married until next summer, because I haven’t had time to plan anything—although I still have all of the phone numbers and everything.”
“Wow,” was all I could say at first. “So, you and Aaron aren’t—”
“Oh, no. He’s nice and all, but he’s not much different from Daniel. He still lives at home, and isn’t really planning on moving out and getting his own place for a while . . . He’s still listening to everything his ex, Melinda, is saying about me.
“And Carl is done with that court stuff, by the way. They couldn’t provide enough evidence, so they had to drop the charges.”
How comforting. The rape charges against Carl were dismissed, for lack of evidence, just like the pornography charges against Allison were dismissed. Tommy pointed out how dismissing the charges was different from finding Carl innocent, but Allison didn’t care to discuss the matter any further. She changed the subject.
Two nights later, as I brushed my teeth, Allison said she was going to “take a nap,” because her friend John was coming over later.
“Later? What do you mean later, Allison? It’s bedtime.”
“But John doesn’t get off work until like midnight, Mom. We’re just going to sit outside and talk.”
I tried putting my foot down, but Allison consistently ignored me. She woke me up as she tripped up the stairs at 12:45 a.m., and I asked, “What’s going on?” from my bed.
She giggled, then said, “I fell going up the stairs. Sorry!”
I heard her unlock the front door, and head out.
At 2:16 a.m., I woke up because I heard voices. Half asleep, I had forgotten about the earlier conversation. I thought one of the children had left their radio on. But it wasn’t music I heard, it was talking.
Then I remembered Allison telling me about John coming over. Were they downstairs in her room? How could I hear them talking? I couldn’t hear actual words. I heard the rise and fall of two different mumbling voices.
I climbed out of bed, quietly walked down the hall, and paused at the top of the stairs. If they were downstairs, I expected the talking to get louder—or to see a light on—but there was nothing. It was only when I started walking towards the front door that I noticed the hood of Allison’s sweatshirt through the front door window. Allison and John were sitting on the front steps, next to each other, talking.
I went to the kitchen, turned on the light over the sink, poured myself a glass of water, drank it, turned off the light, and walked back towards the living room. Since there was no acknowledgment of my presence from outside, and I was only wearing a nightshirt, I decided not to bother Allison. I went to the bathroom, and headed back to bed.
I was awake again at 4:45 a.m. Were Allison and John still sitting outside talking? I hadn’t heard her come back in.
I retraced my steps from earlier, stopping at the top of the stairs first, then checking the front door—but no one was there, and the driveway was empty.
/> On March 18th, the kids and I were watching a movie together in the living room when Allison got a call at 7:45 p.m. “Matt wants to come over and hang out.”
Five minutes later, another phone call. “Great,” Allison groaned. “Now Aaron wants to come over. But Matt’s already on his way.
“I asked Matt to come over,” Allison explained, “because when I asked Aaron what he was doing, he said he didn’t want to come all the way into town. But now that Matt’s on his way, Aaron says he’s changed his mind.”
“Hi, Matt,” Allison cooed into her cell phone. “You can really only stay for like twenty minutes, because I have to work on my math homework . . .” was all I heard before she ducked into the bathroom.
I was horrified by what my daughter was doing. Who ever taught her to play games like that? When she came out of the bathroom, I sternly told Allison I was not going to become her excuse for any kind of game playing. “There’s no way you can tell people your mom won’t let you go out because you have too much homework, because everybody already knows you don’t listen to your mom anyway.”
I noticed the quick smile flash across Allison’s face.
“So, don’t be making me part of your excuses. You didn’t even ask me if it was okay if anyone came over, so don’t be telling them I said they have to leave. I won’t be lying for you, because when I see these boys sometime around town, I won’t remember what you’ve even told who.”
Allison went outside to wait for Matt, the smile still on her face.
Matt was only over for about twenty minutes. They came in the house, headed downstairs to Allison’s room, and came back up twenty minutes later. Allison walked Matt to his car, then came back in.
Aaron arrived about fifteen minutes later.
Tarnished Dreams Page 15