It hurt like hell. It was a month after my eleventh birthday and I was mustering up the strength to say my good-bye. My mom’s window of opportunity to leave my dad for good, when my aunt and uncle went through their divorce earlier that year. My grandmother owned the house and needed someone to rent out the bottom half while she lived in her upstairs apartment.
It is September 1982. My whole world would now get turned upside down once again. My mother left my dad the first go around in 1978 but she decided to go back to him. Guess there was an understanding he would sell our motel and the family would move back to the United States. My mom grew weary of living the quiet life in Canada.
Part of me missed the excitement from the first time of living in Chicago in 1978. I got to experience playing with friends in the summer. I went to a Cubs game, went to a zoo, saw all sorts of things I never experienced in Canada. The part I hated was attending a Catholic school. It caused me more trauma on top of the trauma inflicted by my mom and brother.
Still, she promised things would be so much fun. It would be like 1978 but without the private school crap. Of course, that too would end up being a lie a long with everything else she “promised.” She convinced me at this point my dad was a horrible person, he didn’t care, blah, blah, blah…
“It’s time,” my mother mother abruptly announced.
I sat on the edge of the cold, cement porch floor. I ignored her as I petted my kitten’s head.
“Did you hear me?” she snapped.
“Yes!” I shouted back.
She huffed and disappeared back inside the house. I could see the reflection of the crisp morning sky glistening through the window. I picked up the kitty and walked out to the back area of our motel. I took in the fresh air one last time.
I thought about what I had done a few weeks earlier. I felt like a traitor to my father. My mother enlisted me in an effort to find where my father hid the checkbook. Several times a week, I would watch my father open the desk drawer and bury the checkbook behind mounds of paperwork. How my mother could not find it on her own, I haven’t a clue.
When I was certain where the hiding place was I told my mother. She congratulated me for doing such a great job. I felt disgusted with myself. She manipulated me believing my father was keeping us hostage and he was abusive towards her. Found out years later, he hid the checkbook because my mother had an uncontrollable spending habit. Saw it first hand once we moved to Chicago. I discovered she also took fourteen thousand dollars out of the bank account. She left him with nothing.
The last few weeks prior to our move, was gut wrenching. On one hand, I was excited about all the fun things awaiting us in Chicago, just like when I turned seven in 1978. On the other hand, I felt tremendous sadness having to leave my father behind. My father never hurt me in any way, shape or form. He was very stern, not much on talking about emotions, but he always expressed it through actions. I was torn and knew my entire life would change forever.
I walked to my rusty swing set. It was just a few years earlier I attempted to hang myself from it. The same cold depression still had a hold of me, except I kept it masked. No one knew of my inner turmoil. I looked out at the grassy plain beyond the motel, dotted with birch woods and thick underbrush. I struggled with the idea I would never see this place again. This was my home from nine months old until now. My concentration broke by the sound of my mother’s voice.
“Cass, get in here now, we’re leaving,” my mother said with coldness and disdain.
The dust swirled as I dragged my feet back to the porch. I held my kitten, not wanting to let him go. My mother watched me with an impatient look. I fought back tears as I kissed the kitten’s head. I quickly put the cat down and stormed past my mother, stomping up the stairs into our house. My father stood by the picture window, staring out, not saying a word.
My mother bustled in behind me, saying, “Try to go to the bathroom, and make sure you have everything.”
I glanced over at my dad, and felt ashamed for betraying him.
I surveyed my bedroom, seeing many of my playthings would be left behind. I could only take the bare necessities. I was allowed two boxes of my things, since there was limited space in my brother’s car.
“Mom wants you to go say good-bye to dad,” my brother said, peering through the doorway of my bedroom. I took a deep breathe and let out a sigh. I followed him through the kitchen and in the dining room where my father still stood. He had not moved from his spot from the window.
My mother gave my father a half hug. My brother stretched out his hand to our dad. I could see the look of dread on my dad’s face. He didn’t speak a word. My brother left while my mom nudged me towards my dad. We both stood staring at each other in an awkward stance. Both of us were so alike in not knowing what to say. We both knew this was wrong and neither of us could stop it.
As I wrapped my arms around his waist, he wrapped his around my neck and gently squeezed. I pulled away before I lost my composure. I ran to the front door, down the stairs and jumped into my brother’s car.
“What’s your problem?” my brother asking sarcastically.
“Nothing,” I retorted, wiping my tears.
My mother settled herself into the passenger seat.
“Do you have everything?” she turned to me asking sharply.
“Tough shit if she doesn’t. We’re not going back in there,” my brother said as he started the car.
We begin to drive off. I turned and saw my dad looking out the front room window. The expression on his face broke my heart. As we turned on the highway, I tried to keep my father in my view. My eyes lost sight of him, but his face was clearly seared in my mind.
My tears kept falling. Life will never be the same.