by Dave Pelzer
“Damn straight you will!” Patsy blared as she brushed past me. “Just fix it. Besides, what am I supposed to do? When you’re home, you spend more time with Stephen than me.”
“Hang on for a moment.” I tried to stop her by grabbing her arm. But by the flash in her eyes, I knew I had pushed too far.
“Get your hand off of me, Mister Child Abuse Prevention Advocate.” Dazed by her statement, I dropped my hand. “Got your attention, didn’t I?” Patsy said. “Just fix it and get over it.”
After Patsy stormed out of the house, I removed a piece of paper that I kept behind my checkbook. I scribbled the new bill next to the other bills that had mounted over the past several years. At least, I sighed to myself, I had my job at juvenile hall. It had started as a way to earn extra money, but had become necessary for survival. With my forehead resting on my hands, I began to shudder. All I could do was pray there weren’t any more of my credit cards floating around.
It took me nearly a month to get over our latest crisis. As much as Patsy continued to say she was sorry, I brushed her off. After years of hearing the same thing over and over again, I had grown numb to anything that she did that was unrelated to Stephen. All I could do was pray every time I opened a piece phone that I did not discover another catastrophe. My concern became more intense as rumors began to circulate that the air force might initiate cutbacks in my field. Fearful of the outside world and limited prospects, I worried about not being able to take care of my family.
Finally I got over my resentment. After dropping off Stephen at Dottie Mae’s house for the weekend, I took Patsy out on a rare dinner date. As we ate, I held Patsy’s hand and apologized for acting like a child. “I know it’s not easy, and I don’t wanna come off like some hard ass . . . but I just get scared. I know what it’s like to go hungry, to be without, and I can’t”—I stopped, shaking my head—“I won’t allow that to happen to you and Stephen. I know you used some of that money to buy me some pants.”
“You never do anything for yourself. I was gonna surprise you,” Patsy said.
“Well,” I laughed, “I was surprised. I also know by the credit card statement that you didn’t buy a lot for yourself. I’m sorry. I feel like an ass that I can’t do more for you. That’s the reason why I work so hard. Someday, if we’re lucky, we’ll be able to do things. It’s just, as of now, there’s a lot of changes, and I don’t know how it’s gonna affect us. So, we gotta use our heads, watch our spending, and at the same time save for our future, our son’s future. That’s all.”
“You just take everything so seriously,” Patsy whispered with affection. “You worry too much. You need to pull back . . . just a bit.”
“Yeah, I know. You’re right,” I confessed. “But let me say this: since the credit card thing, you’ve eased up. It’s like you’re a different person—the Patsy I knew when I first met you. That’s why it tears me up. When you hang around those half-wit neighbors who bitch and moan, all they do is bring you down. You’re better than that. Look at you: you don’t need them messing with your head. You live a good life, and you’re one hell of a mother.” I paused, aching to say the one thing that would make Patsy believe in herself once and for all. “I just want you to be happy. With me, without me, it doesn’t matter. You don’t need Stephen, your family, those ‘friends’—anybody to make you happy. All you need is this!” I said, pointing at Patsy’s heart. “I know what a great person you are; all you have to do is make it happen.”
With tears trickling down her cheeks, she nodded. “Thanks, David, for believing in me. Trust me, I won’t let you down. Trust me.”
The next evening after returning home, minutes before midnight due to working the swing shift at juvenile hall, I found the house completely dark and Patsy missing. After searching every room, I began to fear the worst. I phoned one of her friends, who answered with music exploding in the background. After I asked for Patsy more than a dozen times, an inebriated voice screamed back that she wasn’t there, before dropping the phone. Covering all bases, I was about to telephone Dottie Mae when I heard Patsy fumbling at the back door. Rushing to meet her, I was knocked into the wall when she fell on top of me. “ ’Unny, I’m ’ome,” she slurred. “Like you said, gotta be me. But don’t worry, I’m happy. This is me, and jou,”—Patsy jabbed her finger at my chest—“jou gotta love me for who I am. . . .” Suddenly her head rolled back. She opened her eyes wide a split second before she threw up on me.
Hours later, after stripping off Patsy’s soiled and booze-soaked clothes, and assuring her she had nothing left in her to vomit, she allowed me to put her to bed. With Patsy taken care of, I cleaned the bathroom, threw our clothes in the washer, and showered off and got dressed to work the morning shift at juvenile hall.
As I drove from the air force base to the city of Marysville, I chuckled to myself. I knew Patsy had dropped by her friend’s place and obviously had one too many. It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t mean to. Yet as the sun began to appear in my rearview mirror, a wave of rage engulfed me. The only reason I was killing myself was to pay her bills, and, to top it off, here I was trying to earn the trust and respect of these teenagers at “the hall” who had been through hell, so they could get on with their lives and be responsible rather than live their lives as helpless victims. All the while Patsy would spend the day in bed sleeping off another stupor. “Godammit!” I screamed, pounding the steering wheel. “How could I be so stupid?” Every single time I swallowed my pride, thinking I was too hard on her, and reached out with all my heart, something always happened. “Stupid, stupid, stupid! You’re never gonna learn, Pelzer. She’s never, ever going to fuckin’ change, and you’re an idiot for taking her shit!”
I fought to clear my head as I parked the Toyota at the juvenile hall parking lot. I didn’t have time to think about Patsy, or analyze the situation I would face when I returned home, or even how exhausted I had now become. As I went up the walkway, all I knew was that it was the beginning of the end. Patsy would never again have my trust.
In August 1990, Saddam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait shifted my priorities. Whatever marital problems I was facing paled beside the prospect of fighting an actual war. For over a week every air crew at the base loaded jets with every conceivable piece of support equipment. We received countless briefings, varying from chemical warfare defense to our task of refueling the Stealth fighters. Knowing full well that the KC-135 aircraft had no defensive capabilities and since the Boeing jet was a “force multiplier”—meaning the various fighter aircraft could not fly to their targets without our plane’s fuel—the Boeing tanker had the makings of a prime target. And because it was a flying gas station in the sky, if we took a single hit from enemy aircraft, my crew and I would be vaporized from the explosion. As the days passed, and as the base waited for our orders to deploy, worrying about Patsy, the checkbook, or whatever credit cards she might have acquired was the last thing on my mind. I had to set aside my mixed emotions about my marriage and focus on doing my part and coming home alive.
After endless delays and a series of last-minute standdowns, I received official notification that our squadron would deploy the next morning at three o’clock. I spent the night before with Patsy ensuring that she had everything she might possibly desire while I was away and knew what to do “just in case.” I knew Patsy would be fine.
But my heart went out for Stephen. As I lay beside him on his bed, he clutched his red Sony Jr. Walkman I had just given him that day. Before drifting off to sleep, he whispered, “Daddy, where you gotta go?”
“I just have to fly off for a while,” I softly said into his ear.
“You gonna bring me back something?”
“Yeah, but only if you take care of your mom.” I then caught myself repeating what my father had said to Ron, my oldest brother, years ago before he left for work. “You be the man of the house for me. Can you do that?”
Stephen rolled over and fell asleep on my chest. As I stroked his spiky blon
d hair and kissed his forehead, I declared to myself that everything was going to be fine. They won’t shoot us down, Stephen. If they do, we won’t blow up. I’ll use my parachute. Once on the ground, I’ll evade. They’ll never take me prisoner. If they do, I’ll escape. If I can’t escape, I’ll be fine. I’ll come back. No matter what happens, I’ll come back. I’ll come back for you!
In the midst of all the apprehension and wild sense of adventure, I felt an overwhelming calmness as I held my son. In an odd sense, it was the same feeling I had experienced as a child when I was ordered to sit on top of my hands in Mother’s basement. Summoning all my willpower, I would tell myself that no matter what happened between Mother and me, I would survive. She could beat me, or do as she pleased, but God willing, I would somehow prevail. Now as the night slowly passed, I readied myself for another test. Hours later, I deployed for Operation Desert Shield on Stephen’s fourth birthday.
* * *
The first few weeks in Saudi Arabia were like constantly walking on eggs. We weren’t sure what to expect and when or if we were going to do anything. Whenever I spoke to Patsy on the phone, she seemed distraught, as if I somehow knew when I would be coming home.
By mid-January 1991, as the air force generals briefed us on the probable losses during the initial phase of the air campaign, the possibility of losing every third person opened my eyes. This was no longer a test of adulthood. My main concern was not to screw up on my part of the mission. As it turned out, though, after the first couple of weeks, the coalition maintained air superiority over Iraq, and the missions became routine.
Because we reported for a night flight in the afternoon and returned in the early morning hours, I found it nearly impossible to get any sleep. As I lay on my army cot, my thoughts always turned to Stephen. I became paranoid over things beyond my control. What if he choked on food when Patsy wasn’t looking? Or if he didn’t look both ways before crossing the street and got hit by a car? What would I do? At times I was so consumed by nightmares, I’d awake with my body soaked with sweat. Finally one evening after another anxiety attack, I strolled outside to marvel at the stars. In the stillness of the night, in the middle of the war, as a cool breeze blew from the desert, I somehow found serenity. What I still needed to understand was that there were so many things beyond my control. I needed to let go. After that morning, and on others to follow, I never slept as soundly as I did when I served in the gulf war.
I returned from Saudi Arabia in March 1991. I stepped off the plane, Patsy ran up to meet me. In the middle of a swirling rain shower, I held her like never before. “It’s okay,” I said. Patsy gave me a puzzled look. “Everything’s gonna be fine. I am so sorry; I truly am, for everything. All the petty bullshit I’ve put you through. Worrying about things that don’t mean a hill of beans. No matter what happens, I know we’re gonna be all right.” I then sprinted and scooped up Stephen, who was wearing his little brown flight jacket. I crushed him to me until he cried out that he couldn’t breathe. As my family and I walked through the sea of people waving flags and cheering, a surge of pride swelled within me. Not only had everyone from the base returned alive, without a scratch, I had everything anyone could ask for. I promised myself that I would do whatever it took to make things right between Patsy and me. After enduring all we had, I knew nothing could tear us apart.
After I came home, things that had seemed so critical months before were now insignificant. I continued to sleep soundly, and I no longer continually pushed myself to the limit as I had in the past. For a few weeks I felt like I was walking on a cloud. Patsy and I were closer than ever. And, for the first time, I could see changes in her attitude. She was upbeat and self-reliant; she faced her situations by herself, head on, without interference from her mother. One day while driving to nearby Sacramento, I reached over to take her hand. “I’m so proud of you, Patsy. I know it’s not easy being married to me, putting up with all that you do, but you have really come a long way. You should be proud of yourself. You’ve made it, you truly have. No one can boss you around anymore, turn their nose down at you, ’cause you’re better than that; you always have been. Maybe the war in the gulf was the best thing . . . for the both of us.”
The euphoric honeymoon ended when I officially received transfer orders to Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska. On a late evening in May, I was overwhelmed with sadness as I drove off from Beale Air Force Base—my home and surrogate family for over eight years. There were no good-bye parties or squadron ceremonies, since others, too, were quietly scattered to other bases. In the process of base closings and personal cutbacks, I was among the lucky ones. At least for now, I had a job.
A day later, while resting at Grandmother’s home in Utah, I received a frantic call from Mother. Taking the phone, I wondered how she knew I was in the area, since I had no intention of visiting her. But as I listened to the sound of Mother’s pleading voice, something in her tone compelled me to go see her. The next morning, after I became reaccustomed to the odor of her house, Mother and I initially chatted as we had before. Mother complained about her ailments, and this time I knew it was no longer a performance. I could not help but notice how her hands constantly shook. Even when she placed one hand on top of the other, she could not hide her tremors. Only after taking a gulp of what I guessed was vodka did Mother’s shuddering ease. She went on to complain about how hard it was for her to walk and how at times she thought her feet would tear apart from the searing pain. After listening for more than an hour, I realized, even with Kevin still living with her, how desperately lonely Mother had become.
After a few moments of silence, I took a tremendous risk. “You know,” I lightly said, “I’m involved . . . with helping kids and others who’ve . . . had problems.”
“Yes,” Mother replied with a nod. “Well . . . your grandmother . . . she ought to get a kick out of that.”
We both suddenly broke out in a burst of laughter.
For a fleeting second the sound of Mother being happy brought me back in time. By her brightened eyes, she seemed to feel it as well. But I knew it was nothing more than a passing moment. I would never receive an acknowledgment of what had happened between us, let alone a sincere apology. And, after all I had been through, I felt I did need it. Yet the child within me felt a tremendous urge to wrap my mother in my arms and absorb every ounce of her anguish. In that moment I would have given my right arm to hear the sound of “Mommy’s” laugh.
In my trance, my fingers grazed the edge of Mother’s once prized oak hutch. I caught my breath as my gaze became fixated on her assortment of towering red Christmas candles. I snapped my head around toward Mother. Then, looking back at the candles, I wiped off the accumulated dust from their bases. As long as I could remember, the one thing Mother had been adamant about was her treasured Christmas decorations. She always put up the decorations the day after Thanksgiving and put her ornaments away immediately after New Year’s. Why, I asked myself—as I now discovered the sprayed-on snowflakes still in that window in the middle of May—would Mother not tidy up the one element of her life that had meant so much to her?
This went far beyond being lazy, I thought. If Mother hadn’t taken care of Christmas decorations with summer approaching, when would she? Unless . . . Oh, my God! I said to myself. Mother knew . . . she somehow knew her time was limited.
Her hands were again shaking, and by habit Mother covered one with the other. But as her hands twitched with more intensity, she struggled to take another drink. Peering deep into her eyes, I stated, “Don’t quit. Don’t try to stop drinking.”
Mother’s face lit up. “You . . . you understand?”
I nodded. As I stood in front of Mother, my eyes scanned her every feature, in the vain hope of finding the person I had worshiped as a tiny child—the person I had so longed to love me. Yet, as I closed my eyes, I could not give Mother the humanity I gave to total strangers. With all the compassion I could muster, I swallowed hard before saying, “Go in peace.”
>
As if she did not hear me, she lifted her head.
Feeling weak, I swallowed before repeating myself in a quavering tone. “I wish you no pain . . . Only for you to go—to go in peace.”
“Yes, well, that’s nice . . .” Mother said in her old condescending tone.
“No!” I lashed out, pointing my finger in her face. Raising my voice, I could feel my legs shudder. “Don’t you even . . . don’t you spoil it. Not after all you’ve done. This is not one of your little games that you can manipulate. You have . . . no one, nothing left. Just stop it! For once put away your bullshit and do what’s right, for God’s sake!” I pleaded, on the verge of tears. “I swear to you, with all of my honor, I wish you no pain, no suffering, I only wish you peace.” I paused as my chest seemed to heave. Calming myself, I said in a controlled voice. “That’s all I can . . . that’s the best I can do.”
Mother’s eyes tried to bore right through me. After a few moments, her intensity softened. I slowly shook my head back and forth. Without saying the words, I mouthed, “I can’t. I can’t do that.”
With a nod Mother showed that she understood. Perhaps she had thought that by calling me during her emotional state, I would rush over and anoint her with forgiveness. To my own dismay, and after a lifetime of constantly proving my worthiness to others, I did not—I could not—forgive Mother.
As I walked down the stairs to the door Mother shouted from her chair. “David?”
“Yes, Ma’am?”
“I want you to know . . .” She stopped as if to collect herself. “I, uh, I’m proud of you. You turned out fine. I am proud of you, David Pelzer.”
I turned, looked up the staircase, and uttered a quick prayer before closing the door behind me.
Mother died of a heart attack in her sleep in January 1992.