She slept in my bed

My Aunt Rose Ann used to call me Miss Piggy when I was a baby. She used to bring me toys every time she visited until my mom asked her to stop. My mom said that it would make me expect to get a present every time I saw her.

My Aunt Rose Ann was Catholic — converted like my mom — and I used to tell her about all the things that I learned about Jesus at school. I remember whispering to her in the back bedroom so my Bubbie wouldn’t overhear (she did not love Jesus).

Aunt Rose Ann used to take me places — to the bowling alley, the zoo, here and there. She was fun, and I always knew that she loved me a lot.

But Aunt Rose Ann wasn’t perfect. She was very sick. She was schizophrenic. She didn’t work, never married, never had kids of her own. She lived upstairs from my Bubbie, and later moved in with her.

My mom did not keep my aunt’s illness a secret from me, but she didn’t give me many details, either. I know that when my aunt first showed signs of mental illness, she was studying medicine at college. She had a breakdown and wandered outside, naked. Note that naked will always, on some level, equal crazy for me.

But the time I was on the scene, her symptoms were under control. I only remember one time that Aunt Rose Ann had a psychotic episode. Honestly, it was no biggie. She didn’t do anything scary in my presence. Except this: My mom offered her my room while she adjusted to her new meds. I was maybe four years old, and I remember it like it just happened. Fuck, I wanted my room back.

Days passed and my aunt didn’t emerge. She slept in my bed, haunting my room forever more. I cried to my mom, who did nothing. What could she do? She needed to look after her little sister. Finally, at long last, my aunt emerged from my room, adjusted and refreshed. I’m sure that she thanked me. I’m also sure that she had no idea how she had planted those seeds within me. I would never be crazy.

I never let anyone else sleep in my kids’ beds. Ever. Go ahead, call me superstitious.

Mask

The soldiers came on a sunny day with red leaves falling on the grass outside. The soldiers asked for Mrs. Samuel Baylus and mother turned to us, her smile like a mask, and told us to go play outside.

I wanted to stay. “I hope your husband is dead,” I thought in angry not-words. “I hope the soldiers make you cry,” I thought. Then I went outside with Norman, sat down in the tree house, and cried because I knew that daddy would never come home.

I know a monster who lived in Scranton

When my sister, Kim, was about 13, if I remember correctly, she and my mom took a trip to Scranton, Pennsylvania. Now, this was five years before I arrived, a few years before my mom even met my father at the pawn shop where they both eventually worked.

By this point in her life, my mom, a divorcee and mental hospital survivor, was searching for redemption. She arranged the trip to meet with a priest, I think. She was working towards her conversion from Judaism, studying the New Testament and Catholic scriptures, as her story goes.

Scranton isn’t all that far from Baltimore, but for my mom it was a big trip. She was never much of a traveler. I’m not sure why she brought my sister along, and I can only imagine what a 13-year-old Jewish girl from a broken home would think of spending a week in a monastery. That’s another story itching to be told.

In any case, Kim was there when my mom received some kind of bad news. Was my Bubbie sick? My aunt? I can’t remember. Something happened that drove my mom to return to Baltimore, alone. Her friend the priest suggested that she leave my sister there with him while she went to sort out the emergency. At least, that’s how she told the story. So she left her 13-year-old daughter alone in a monastery in the care of a priest.  Today, the thought of doing such a think strikes me as almost comical.

It wasn’t. Something went wrong, of course. I’m hazy on the details, but my sister spent three days by herself at that monastery in Scranton. After my mom came to collect her, she was broken. Now, my mom used to say that Kim was always a difficult child. She struggled even when she was a baby. But whatever happened in Scranton set her on a downward spiral.

My mom never forgave herself. Her guilt ran so deep that she had another child – me – and dedicated nearly the rest of her life to keeping me safe. For my sister, whatever trauma she experienced in the care of the priest became a pivot point in her life. By the time I was born, she was receiving treatment for bipolar disorder. Later, when things began to get really bad, when she first began to have flashbacks and emerge from her room talking like a little girl or an angry truck driver, the first thing that came up in therapy was Scranton. Scranton. I remember overhearing so many horror stories about Scranton that I came to hate the entire state of Pennsylvania.

I have no idea what really happened there. Could the priest have molested my sister? Possibly. Yet I can’t help but wonder if all that really hurt my sister was fear. Fear – a cold, dark, mysterious monster that invaded a troubled girl at a crucial point in her life. Fear can do terrible things.

 

Undertow and ice cream

Note: This is a story about my Aunt Rose Ann, my mom’s younger sister. My mom told me this story many times as I was growing up, and I am still very careful at the beach to this day.

“Don’t go out too deep,” Mother said, putting the thick white sunscreen on my face. “Make sure you can see me, do you understand?” she asked, serious. Her mouth drooped at the edges. “I can’t swim out to come get you, Rose Ann. Stay with your sister and brother.”

“Yes, Mother,” I shouted, running away across the sand. I jumped into the waves to cool off my feet. “Carole! Let’s play!” I called to my sister, who was walking along the edge where the water met the sand.

“Let’s pretend that Norman is a monster coming to get us,” I said, kicking the waves. Norman was ahead of us in the deep water, riding the waves in.

“Okay,” she mumbled, still walking.

The next time Norman rode a wave in, I ran up, jumping the wave. “Aaaahhhh!” I screamed into his face as he got close. I splashed him in the face with water and then ran away. Carole watched from where she was, laughing.

“Hey, watch it, Raggedy Ann!” Norman said, wiping the water out of his eyes. He turned and swam back out past the crashing waves. He didn’t ride the next few.

I walked along the beach away from Carole, jumping the waves as they came. After a while, I turned around. I could still see her. She had bent down to build a sandcastle. Maybe I’ll go help her in a minute, I thought. I liked jumping over the waves, though. As I got farther away from my sister and brother, I passed two girls the same size as me, splashing each other. I joined them, laughing as they splashed me back.

“Let’s play mermaid,” one of them said.

“Yeah!” I said. “Let’s pretend we are beach wrecked and we can’t move until a prince comes and kisses us to give us our human legs,” I said. I like to make up stories to go with games. We all found a spot on the sand and started burying our legs. The sand felt cool and heavy on my legs.

“Come on, girls!” a man called to my new friends. “Time for lunch!”

“Alright, Daddy,” they answered at the same time.

I glanced down the beach. I could see Carole in her red swimsuit, building her sandcastle. I stayed for a few more minutes buried under my mermaid tail, then I jumped up and ran back to the water. I stood in the waves, letting them crash on me. I liked the stinging feeling. After a while, I turned the other way and let the waves crash on my back. Then I looked to find Carole, but she wasn’t there anymore. I started walking to find her. I passed more kids, more parents in chairs on the sand. I didn’t remember passing any of them before, but I wasn’t worried.

As I walked, I made up a song. I liked to do that whenever I was by myself. “Waves, waves, try to get me, waves,” I sang. “You can’t reach me, waves, you’re too slow.” As I sang, I ran away from the waves onto the sand.

I sang and ran farther and farther. I did not see Carole or Norman, or mommy. I started to feel thirsty, so I kept walking. The other kids playing in the water started to sound really loud, so I put my hands over my ears.

Where were they? I wanted some of the juice that Mother packed. I wanted my butter and jelly sandwich, too. Did Mother leave without me? I started to get angry. I ran faster, my hands still on my ears. I could feel my heart pounding hard in my chest. All of a sudden, I got tired of running, so I sat down. I kept my ears covered. I looked but didn’t see Carole on the sand. I didn’t see Norman anywhere in the water. Mother was not sitting on her chair by our colorful blanket. They all left me. I started to cry.

I cried for a while, getting louder.

After a while, a lady with a baby came over by me. She sat down and put her arm around me.

“Are you okay?” she asked. Her eyes looked scared, but she was smiling. She looked nice, nicer than Mother. Her baby was cute. He pulled my hair. “Sorry about that,” she said, taking his hand off my hair.

“Air!” the baby said, reaching for my hair again.

“It’s okay,” I said, wiping my eyes and handing him some of my hair. “I like babies.”

“Okay, then,” the lady said. “Sweetie, where is your mother?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I think she left without me,” I told her, even though I didn’t really think that. Maybe if she believed me, she’d take me home with her. I’d like a baby brother.

The baby brushed my hair on his face, laughing. I liked him, and I tickled his foot.

“She left without you?” the lady said, surprised. “I don’t think so. She must be around here looking for you.”

“No, she never looks for me,” I told her. “She’s always mad at me and she’d probably be glad if I was lost forever.”

“No, young lady, that’s no way to talk about your mother,” the lady told me. Now her mouth turned down at the edges like Mother’s did. “Let’s go look for help,” she said, standing up and lifting the baby into her arms. “Come along.”

I walked with her but a little apart, up the beach to the lifeguard chair. The lady spoke to the lifeguard for a minute, and he stood up and waved some red flags in the air.

“He’s calling the police officer for help,” the lady told me.

A few minutes later an officer walked down from the boardwalk. He looked hot.

“Hi, there, little miss,” he said to me. He was friendly. If I had a dad, I’d want him to be like that.

“Hi,” I answered. I should have said sir, but I didn’t.

“Where is your mother?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. Why did everyone keep asking me the same questions? “She left without me,” I said.

“Don’t be sassy, now,” the lady said. Her little boy was struggling to get down.

“Do you know your name, young lady?” the police officer asked me. Of course I dp. I’m four and a half.

“It’s Rose Ann,” I said loudly. “My mom is named Dora but she likes to be called Dorothy. My sister is Carole Lee and my brother is Norman. My dad was Sam but he died in the war when I was a baby. I never met him.”

“Well, that is too bad, little miss,” the police officer said. He looked sad. The lady made a clucking sound with her tongue and reached over to rub my back. “Listen, Rose Ann,” I’m going to take you back to the police station to wait until we can track down your momma.”

“Okay,” I said. I like adventures a lot and this sounded like a good one. I was excited.

“Wait just a second, alright?” the lady said, and carried her baby over to the ice cream cart nearby. She bought two ice cream cones and handed one to her boy and brought the other one to me.

“Oh, wow!” I said. “Thanks!” Mother hardly ever let me have ice cream. I unwrapped it and started eating.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your dad,” the lady said. She looked very sad.

“It’s okay,” I told her. “I’m used to it.”

The police officer took my hand and started to lead me away. “Thanks, now, Ma’am,” he said to the lady. As we walked away I glanced over my shoulder at her and her baby. I wished I was leaving with them, that they were my family. The lady was super nice, way better than Mother. I bet she would never leave me at the beach.

When we got to the police station, Mother was there with Carole and Norman. She was crying and so was Carole. Norman looked bored. Carole hugged me tight, saying “I’m so glad that you didn’t drown.”

Mother looked at me with her usual gloomy eyes, and said “Why didn’t you stay where I asked you to?” She sounded so angry.

“Ma’am, the undertow is very strong today,” the officer told her. He put a hand on my shoulder. “It could have happened to anyone,” he said. “But you are a very lucky young lady,” he said to me. “Please be careful and stay with your family from now on, alright?” he patted my shoulder. I wished I could stay with him here at the police station. Maybe I could be a police officer in training.

 

 

I can spell crazy

“I can spell crazy,” I said to no one in particular. I was in the car with my mom, my brother-in-law, my nephew, and my niece. We were returning from a visit with my sister at Sheppard Pratt, a relatively spa-like mental institution.

“How?” my nephew asked.

“C-A-R-Z-Y,” I answered, proudly.

“Carzy?” My brother-in-law laughed from the driver’s seat. His booming laughter was contagious, and so an inside joke was born. For years, we all used the word carzy to describe whatever was beyond crazy, things that were hilariously weird.

I remember that drive home well; we made the trip more times than I like to admit. The steadily repeating patterns of light and dark from oncoming highway traffic mimicked the waves of sadness at leaving my sister behind — again. My baby niece slept in her car seat between my nephew and me. I used to sing to her, making up the words as I went along. I imagine that the grownups would have been annoyed at my little girl voice intruding on their thoughts, but I don’t remember anyone ever telling me to be quiet.

I remember those trips to the hospital so clearly: eating cafeteria meals in the fancy dining room among other patients and their families, lounging on wingback chairs in the parlor accompanied by piano music from the corner, running on the immense lawn outside, chasing my nephew. And always my sister, who seemed so happy in spite of her increasing girth and the increasing frequency of her stays. I remember it feeling almost, but never completely, normal.

I remember the cold steel fear of my sister’s craziness rubbing off on me. I remember being afraid of losing her at the same time that I was afraid to know her. I remember wanting desperately to protect my nephew, just a few years younger, from the pain of letting go of his mom after each visit. I remember the sadness that pervaded all of us like a damp winter chill.

So the laughter in the car that night is clear and bright in my memory. It was joyful. Carzy. It was the good beating out the bad. It was sanity speaking up for itself. It was an eight-year-old girl telling anyone willing to listen that she would never, ever be crazy. It was my secret code.

Me: A revision

You might have noticed that I’ve been talking more concretely about my kids lately. This has been a bit of a hard decision. Should I write about them at all? Is it a violation of my family’s privacy? What about using their names? For a while now, I’ve wanted to tell you more about them. I know that I could invent aliases, but it doesn’t feel natural to me to do that. So I’ve been using their names.

After my last post, I received a lot of comments from readers who were clearly confused about who Gabe is. I think I need to back up and tell you about my family.

Geoff and I have been married for almost 13 years. Our daughter, Anna, is seven. Our older son, Gabe, is five, and Nate, our baby, is almost two. They are funny, smart, great kids. I’m going to tell you more about them in future posts. Readers, I am trusting you. Please help me protect my family while I write my stories.

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Gabe’s version


“Let’s eat our cake,” I tell her.

“Okay,” she says. We pretend to eat the dirt we rolled into balls and decorated with acorns and bits of stick. We’re playing castle in the tarp-fort that Daddy made.

“Nate!” I call to my little brother, who is eating the dirt cake for real. “Stop eating the dirt. Just pretend.” I show him how. He pretends for a second, then runs out of the castle over to Daddy. Daddy is chopping wood by the fire.

“Don’t eat my cake!” Anna screams at me. I wasn’t, but I don’t bother telling her. She never listens to me.

“Nate, no!” Mommy yells, so loud that I jump. I run out of the castle. Daddy is holding Nate and screaming. Mommy and Daddy are yelling for us to get into the car.

“Let’s go! We have to go to the hospital!” Mommy tells me. “Nate burned his hand!”

I’m scared. Then I look at Nate. Skin is falling off of his hand. He’s screaming and crying. I start to cry, too.

“Come on, Gabe. We have to get into the car. Go get into your seat,” Daddy says. I hear him, but I can’t move. I’m too scared. Mommy pulls my hand and we go towards the car.

Nate is already buckled in by the time I get into my seat. He’s holding his hand out and crying. “My and urts,” he cries. “Mommy, my and urts!”

“I know it does,” Mommy says, holding his arm tightly. “I’m sorry, Natey-boo,” she says. She sounds sad.

I sneak a look at Nate’s hand. The skin is gray and falling off. He’s screaming.

“I don’t want to look at his hand!” Anna says. “It’s terrible!” She’s almost crying too.

I’m so scared.

We drive super slow by the lake, past our ice cream shop. I had a cotton-candy ice cream cone, but I couldn’t finish it all. Daddy is angry. He’s yelling and saying words that I don’t understand. He goes fast around a car and then honks the horn.

“My and urts!” Nate cries. “It urts!” he says.

“I know, baby boy,” Mommy says. “We are going to the doctor to make it all better.”

I’m not so sure. It looks like it won’t ever be better. I’m so scared. “Mommy,” I ask, “is Nate going to die?”

“No, he’s not, sweetie,” Mommy says. But I’m not sure. Maybe he will. The skin is falling off his hand. Underneath there is red stuff.

“My and urts!” Nate screams. Why won’t he be quiet?

Anna covers her ears. “I don’t want to hear him!” she yells.

Everyone is talking and yelling. I am so scared, so I cover my ears too. I don’t yell. I just stay inside. If Nate dies, I will miss him. Maybe he will go to heaven to be with Mom-Mom. Mom-Mom will take care of him there, and maybe his hand will be all better in heaven. But I will miss him. I don’t want him to die. If he stays alive, I will teach him to be careful by the fire. When we go camping, I will follow him around and keep him safe. I promise. Mom-Mom, please don’t let Nate die. I love him and I like having him for a little brother.

“It urts!” Nate cries. I can still hear him through my hands.

“I know, sweet boy,” Mommy says. “It will be okay.” She turns all the way around and looks at me. She looks worried. “Gabe, we’re almost there. I promise.”

That makes me feel better.

 

On guilt and motherhood in an ambulance

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Before tragedy struck

I want to preface this post with a bold statement: I rarely, if ever, have felt guilty as a mom. In fact, I hardly ever experience guilt. I have recently wondered if that makes me a sociopath. Hopefully not. But as a mom, I try to give my kids all that I have to give — at least I did until recently. I have always tried not to leave myself any room to feel guilty.

This weekend, while we were camping with the kids, Nate, our youngest, fell into the campfire. He burned his hand badly, and I spent most of the night in two ERs getting him treatment. It was a complete accident. Geoff was starting the fire while the kids played in their fort on the other side of our campsite. Midway through setting up the fire, Nate wandered over to Geoff, who was sawing apart a log. Geoff warned Nate to stay back, and Nate turned and started walking away, looking at Geoff over his shoulder. He took a few steps and tripped directly into the fire, which, thank God, was low, tiny. Geoff saw what happened and immediately pulled him out, but the damage was instantaneous. We all jumped into the car and headed to the nearest hospital.

Where was I while this happened? I was reading a book. In my chair. Watching from afar. I’m embarrassed to admit it. I think of my best friends, the ones who are moms, and I know that each one of them would have been following behind their babies wherever they went around the campsite. There was an open fire and I was reading a book. It’s unforgivable.

The attending doctor at the first ER was concerned that Nate should receive care from a pediatric burn unit. He told me that Nate would need to be put under while his wounded hand was cleaned and the damage accessed. So we transferred to another hospital, closer to home, now at 9 p.m.

Nate fell asleep in the ambulance. It was heartbreaking to see his car seat belted into a stretcher. He looked so tiny and helpless. When the EMT covered him with a white hospital blanket, I couldn’t stop myself from crying. What if the fire had been bigger? What if Geoff hadn’t pulled him out so quickly? All the impossibilities came flooding in at once. If the EMT, sitting across from me in the ambulance, noticed me crying, she didn’t say. How could she have known how much I hate white hospital blankets, how they will always only be shrouds to me ever since my mom died? How could she have known that covering my baby with one to keep him warm in the air-conditioning would put me back in that room with my mom who died so suddenly that I couldn’t even make it to the hospital in time to say goodbye? She couldn’t. She meant well, and truthfully, it all turned out fine.

We made it to the second hospital, and a team of burn doctors assured me that Nate’s hand will heal without surgery. They bandaged his hand, sent us home, and all is well today. He’s learning to be a lefty without much complaint. But I still can’t shake this too-close-for-comfort feeling of near-miss, and I can’t let go of the blame. Maybe I shouldn’t.

elleroy was here

 

Losing my religion

When I was a kid, we celebrated all the holidays. Our menorah went next to the Christmas tree, and our Easter dinner often included ham and matzoh. Go ahead, laugh. Just don’t judge me.

Let’s generalize and say that I was formally, publicly, Catholic. I attended Sacred Heart Elementary, where I learned to love Jesus, to recite Our Father and Hail Mary, and where I colored xeroxed copies of the stations of the cross. At home, my mom, my sister, my Bubbie all cursed in Yiddish and ate corned beef. I didn’t question it until much later.

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As a teenager, I abruptly decided to give up Catholicism, and celebrate only Jewish holidays. I felt that the main point of religion was to honor your ancestors, never mind spirituality. I still agree with this to a point, but I have long since realized that I wanted my Bubbie to love her more. I thought that if I were more Jewish, like her, that she would. Did she? Did it work? I don’t know. She was inscrutable.

On Christmas as a kid, my mom would take me to midnight mass. I remember one year seeing a young couple kissing in their pew. That beautiful image has stuck with me all this time, that joyful and spiritual togetherness. Sometimes the memory is sweet, sometimes it breaks my heart. I never talk about it.

My mom taught me that all religions are just different paths to the same God. I agree, but I still grew up feeling confused and slighted for not having one singular religious identity like my friends did. Why did my mom choose to walk two paths at once while raising me, between the Judaism that she grew up with and her chosen Catholicism? If she were still alive, I would ask her. In her absence, I have to guess that those childhood memories are powerful and it was her instinct to share them with me. But what I would like more than anything is to experience that shared faith, that certainty in that which cannot be seen. My mom found her spiritual source in church, but she chose not to force that source on me. I understand why, but I can’t help feeling that that intangible piece of religion, the faith, is lost to me.

I’ve long since made my decision on religion, and Geoff and I basically agree: We’re happy to belong to our synagogue, to send the kids to Sunday school, and to see them developing their singular religious identities. They deserve it. And even though their Grandma does occasionally take them to church, they know they are Jewish. I’m glad to offer that certainty to them. But as for the other piece of it–the faith that I’ve only ever felt in church–how can I ever share that with them?

Present tense: Picnic dinner

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Last night we had a picnic dinner at the botanic garden. It’s something that’s on the weekly schedule but I almost cancelled for clouds that looked heavy with rain.

I’m glad that I didn’t.

Prep work was hard as usual. Imagine kids screaming in the background. The same song playing repeatedly in the kitchen.

The one-year old crayoning on my laptop screen. The five-year old intermittently screaming and eating everything in sight. The seven-year old singing along to that same damn song.

The drive is quiet but for Gabe’s questions and lectures. The kids can’t help hitting each other a few times. We stop to pick up Geoff from the train.

Finally, we reach the garden, cool and surprisingly sunlit. We eat pesto pasta, fruit, and brownies while jumping up from our blanket to chase Nate away from the water.

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We’re all having fun. Looking at us, you’d have no idea the scenes we’ve endured to get here. You’d have no idea of the conversations Geoff and I had earlier this week. You’d only see the result: a happy family. So simple.

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You wouldn’t know that Gabe would momentarily run down a grassy hill and fall on the gravel path below, scraping himself in five places and shattering his happiness. You wouldn’t get to see Nate’s joy at splashing in a fountain, and you wouldn’t have to chase him out of the fountain. You wouldn’t know that Anna and Gabe would have an extensive fight over my water bottle on the way home.

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You’d miss Gabe’s never-ending soliloquy in the car. Once at home, you would miss our bedtime conversation:

Me: It’s quiet time now. I need you to stop talking.

Him: Why?

Me: Well, the first reason is that I’m tired of hearing your voice today.

Him: (Jokingly) What’s the second? The third?

You’d miss me hugging him, laughing.

This is going to be a fun few years. You really should hang around.

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