A Child Called It Read online

  That day at school I prayed for the world to end. As I fidgeted in the classroom, I knew Mother was lying on the couch, watching television and getting more drunk by the hour, while thinking of something hideous to do to me when I arrived at her house after school. Running to the house from school that afternoon, my feet felt as though they were encased in blocks of cement. With every step I prayed that Mother’s friend had not called her, or had somehow mistaken me for another kid. Above me the skies were blue, and I could feel the sun’s rays warm my back. As I approached Mother’s house, I looked up towards the sun, wondering if I would ever see it again. I carefully cracked the front door open before slipping inside, and tiptoed down the stairs to the garage. I expected Mother to fly down the stairs and beat me on the cement floor any second. She didn’t come. After changing into my work clothes, I crept upstairs to the kitchen and began washing Mother’s lunch dishes. Not knowing where she might be, my ears became radar antennae, seeking out her exact location. As I washed the dishes, my back became tense with fear. My hands shook, and I couldn’t concentrate on my chores. Finally, I heard Mother come out of her bedroom and walk down the hall towards the kitchen. For a fleeting moment I looked out the window. I could hear the laughter and screams of the children playing. For a moment I closed my eyes and imagined I was one of them. I felt warm inside. I smiled.

  My heart skipped a beat when I felt Mother breathing down my neck. Startled, I dropped a dish, but before it could hit the floor I snatched it out of the air. “You’re a quick little shit, aren’t you?” she sneered. “You can run fast and find time to beg for food. Well . . . we’ll just see how fast you really are.” Expecting Mother to bash me, I tensed my body, waiting for her to strike. When it didn’t happen, I thought she would leave and return to her TV show, but that didn’t happen either. Mother remained inches behind me, watching my every move. I could see her reflection in the kitchen window. Mother saw it too, and smiled back. I nearly peed my pants.

  When I finished the dishes, I began cleaning the bathroom. Mother sat on the toilet as I scoured the bathtub. While I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the tile floor, she calmly and quietly stood behind me. I expected her to come around and kick me in the face, but she didn’t. As I continued my chores, my anxiety grew. I knew Mother was going to beat me, but I didn’t know how, when or where. It seemed to take forever for me to finish the bathroom. By the time I did, my legs and arms were shaking with anticipation. I could not concentrate on anything but her. Whenever I found the courage to look up at Mother, she smiled and said, “Faster young man. You’ll have to move much faster than that.”

  By dinner time, I was exhausted with fear. I almost fell asleep as I waited for Mother to summon me to clear the table and wash the evening dishes. Standing alone downstairs in the garage, my insides became unglued. I so badly wanted to run upstairs and go to the bathroom, but I knew without Mother’s permission to move, I was a prisoner. “Maybe that is what she has planned for me,” I told myself. “Maybe she wants me to drink my own pee.” At first the thought was too crude to imagine, but I knew I had to be prepared to deal with anything Mother might throw at me. The more I tried to focus on my options of what she might do to me, the more my inner strength drained away. Then an idea flashed in my brain: I knew why Mother had followed every step I took. She wanted to maintain a constant pressure on me, by leaving me unsure of when or where she would strike. Before I could think of a way to defeat her, Mother bellowed me upstairs. In the kitchen she told me that only the speed of light would save me, so I had better wash the dishes in record time. “Of course,” she sneered, “there’s no need to tell you that you’re going without dinner tonight, but not to worry, I have a cure for your hunger.”

  After finishing the evening chores, Mother ordered me to wait downstairs. I stood with my back against the hard wall, wondering what plans she had for me. I had no idea. I broke out in a cold sweat that seemed to seep through to my bones. I became so tired I fell asleep while standing. When I felt my head roll forward, I snapped it upright, waking myself. No matter how hard I tried to stay awake, I couldn’t control my head that bobbed up and down like a piece of cork in water. While in my trance-like state, I could feel the strain lift my soul away from my body, as if I too were floating. I felt as light as a feather until my head rolled forward again, jolting me awake. I knew better than to fall into a deep slumber. To get caught could be deadly, so I escaped by staring through the molded garage window, listening to the sounds of the cars driving by and watching the red flashes of planes flying overhead. From the bottom of my heart I wished that I could fly away.

  Hours later after Ron and Stan went to bed, Mother ordered me to return upstairs. I dreaded every step. I knew the time had come. She had drained me emotionally and physically. I didn’t know what she had planned. I simply wished Mother would beat me and get it over with.

  As I opened the door, a calmness filled my soul. The house was dark except for a single light in the kitchen. I could see Mother sitting by the breakfast table. I stood completely still. She smiled, and I could tell by her slumped shoulders that the booze had her in a deep-six. In a strange way, I knew she wasn’t going to beat me. My thoughts became cloudy, but my trance broke when Mother got up and strolled over to the kitchen sink. She knelt down, opened the sink cabinet and removed a bottle of ammonia. I didn’t understand. She got a tablespoon and poured some ammonia into it. My brain was too rattled to think. As much as I wanted to, I could not get my numbed brain into gear.

  With the spoon in her hand, Mother began to creep towards me. As some of the ammonia sloshed from the spoon, spilling onto the floor, I backed away from Mother until my head struck the counter top by the stove. I almost laughed inside. “That’s a ll? That’s it? All she’s going to do is have me swallow some of this?” I said to myself.

  I wasn’t afraid. I was too tired. All I could think was, “Come on, let’s go. Let’s get it over with.” As Mother bent down, she again told me that only speed would save me. I tried to understand her puzzle, but my mind was too cloudy.

  Without hesitation I opened my mouth, and Mother rammed the cold spoon deep into my throat. Again I told myself this was all too easy, but a moment later I couldn’t breathe. My throat seized. I stood wobbling in front of Mother, feeling as if my eyes were going to pop out of my skull. I fell on the floor, on my hands and knees. “Bubble!” my brain screamed. I pounded the kitchen floor with all my strength, trying to swallow, and trying to concentrate on the bubble of air stuck in my esophagus. Instantly I became terrified. Tears of panic streamed down my cheeks. After a few seconds, I could feel the force of my pounding fists weaken. My fingernails scraped the floor. My eyes became fixed on the floor. The colors seemed to run together. I began to feel myself drift away. I knew I was going to die.

  I came to my senses, and felt Mother slapping me on the back. The force of her blows made me burp, and I was able to breathe again. As I forced huge gulps of air back into my lungs, Mother returned to her glass of booze. She took a long drink, gazed down at me and blew a mist of air in my direction. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mother said, finishing her glass before dismissing me downstairs to my cot.

  The next evening was a repeat performance, but this time in front of Father. She boasted to him, “This will teach The Boy to quit stealing food!” I knew she was only doing it for her sick, perverted pleasure. Father stood lifeless as Mother fed me another dose of ammonia. But this time, I fought back. She had to pry my mouth open, and by thrashing my head from side to side, I was able to make her spill most of the cleaner onto the floor. But not enough. Again I clenched my fingers together, beating the floor. I looked up at Father, trying to call out to him. My thoughts were clear, but no sound escaped from my mouth. He simply stood above me, showing no emotion, as I pounded my hands by his feet. As if she were kneeling to pet one of her dogs, Mother again slapped me on the back a few times before I blacked out.

  The next morning while cleaning th
e bathroom, I looked in the mirror to inspect my burning tongue. Layers of flesh were scraped away, while remaining parts were red and raw. I stood, staring into the sink, feeling how lucky I was to be alive.

  Although Mother never made me swallow ammonia again, she did make me drink spoonfuls of Clorox a few times. But Mother’s favorite game seemed to be dishwashing soap. From the bottle she would squeeze the cheap, pink liquid down my throat and command that I stand in the garage. My mouth became so dry, I sneaked away to the garage faucet and filled my stomach full of water. Soon I discovered my dreadful mistake, and diarrhea took hold. I cried out to Mother upstairs, begging her to let me use the toilet upstairs. She refused. I stood downstairs, afraid to move, as clumps of the watery matter fell through my underwear and down my pant legs, onto the floor.

  I felt so degraded; I cried like a baby. I had no self-respect of any kind. I needed to go to the bathroom again, but I was too afraid to move. Finally, as my insides twisted and turned, I gathered the last of my dignity. I waddled to the garage sink, grabbed a five-gallon bucket and squatted to relieve myself. I closed my eyes trying to think of a way to clean myself and my clothes when suddenly, the garage door opened behind me. I turned my head to see Father, looking on dispassionately, as his son “mooned” him and as the brown seepage spilled into the bucket. I felt lower than a dog.

  Mother didn’t always win. Once, during a week when I was not allowed to attend school, she squeezed the soap into my mouth and told me to clean the kitchen. She didn’t know it, but I refused to swallow the soap. As the minutes passed, my mouth became filled with a combination of soap and saliva. I would not allow myself to swallow. When I finished the kitchen chores, I raced downstairs to empty the trash. I smiled from ear to ear, as I closed the door behind me and spit out the mouthful of pink soap. At the trash cans by the garage door, I reached into one of the cans and plucked out a used paper towel, and wiped out the inside of my mouth ensuring that I removed every drop of soap. After I finished, I felt as though I had won the Olympic Marathon. I was so proud for beating Mother at her own game.

  Even though Mother caught me in most of my attempts to feed myself, she couldn’t catch me all the time. After months of being confined for hours at a time in the garage, my courage took over and I stole bits of frozen food from the garage freezer. I was fully aware that I could pay for my crime at any time, so I ate every morsel as if it were my last meal.

  In the darkness of the garage I closed my eyes, dreaming I was a king dressed in the finest robes, eating the best food mankind had to offer. As I held a piece of frozen pumpkin pie crust or a bit of a taco shell, I was the king, and like a king on his throne, I gazed down on my food and smiled.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The

  Accident

  The summer of 1971 set the tone for the remainder of the time that I lived with Mother.

  I had not yet reached my 11th birthday, but for the most part, I knew what forms of punishment to expect. To exceed one of Mother’s time limits on any of my multiple chores, meant no food. If I looked at her or one of her sons without her permission, I received a slap in the face. If I was caught stealing food, I knew Mother would either repeat an old form of punishment or dream up something new and hideous. Most of the time Mother seemed to know exactly what she was doing, and I could anticipate what she might do next. However, I always kept my guard up and tensed my entire body if I thought she might come my way.

  As June turned to early July, my morale dwindled. Food was little more than a fantasy. I rarely received even leftover breakfast, no matter how hard I worked, and I was never fed lunch. As for dinner, I averaged about one evening meal every three days.

  One particular July day began like any other mundane day, in my now slave-like existence. I had not eaten in three days. Because school was out for the summer, my options for finding food vanished. As always during dinner, I sat at the bottom of the stairs with my buttocks on top of my hands, listening to the sounds of “the family” eating. Mother now demanded that I sit on my hands with my head thrust backward, in a “prisoner of war” position. I let my head fall forward, half dreaming that I was one of them—a member of “the family.” I must have fallen asleep because I was suddenly awakened by Mother’s snarling voice, “Get up here! Move your ass!” she yelled.

  At the first syllable of her order I snapped my head level, stood up and sprinted up the stairs. I prayed that tonight I would get something, anything, to soothe my hunger.

  I had begun clearing the dishes from the dining room table at a feverish pace, when Mother called me into the kitchen. I bowed my head as she began to babble her time limits to me. “You have 20 minutes! One minute, one second more, and you go hungry again! Is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” she snapped.

  Obeying her command, I slowly raised my head. As my head came up, I saw Russell rocking back and forth on Mother’s left leg. The harsh tone of Mother’s voice didn’t seem to bother him. He simply stared at me through a set of cold eyes. Even though Russell was only four or five years old at the time, he had become Mother’s “Little Nazi,” watching my every move, making sure I didn’t steal any food. Sometimes he would make up tales for Mother so he could watch me receive punishment. It really wasn’t Russell’s fault. I knew Mother had brainwashed him, but I had begun to turn cold towards him and hate him just the same.

  “Do you hear me?” Mother yelled. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” As I looked at her, Mother snatched a carving knife from the counter top and screamed, “If you don’t finish on time, I’m going to kill you!”

  Her words had no effect on me. She had said the same thing over and over again for almost a week now. Even Russell wasn’t fazed by her threat. He kept rocking on Mother’s leg as if he were riding a stick pony. She apparently wasn’t pleased with her renewed tactic because she continued to badger on and on as the clock ticked away, eating up my time limit. I wished she would just shut up and let me work. I was desperate to meet her time limits. I wanted so much to have something to eat. I dreaded going to sleep another night.

  Something looked wrong. Very wrong! I strained to focus my eyes on Mother. She had begun to wave the knife in her right hand. Again, I was not overly frightened. She had done this before too. “Eyes,” I told myself. “Look at her eyes.” I did, and they seemed normal for her— half-glazed over. But my instincts told me there was something wrong. I didn’t think she was going to hit me, but my body began to tense anyway. As I became more tense, I saw what was wrong. Partly because of Russell’s rocking motion, and partly because of the motion of her arm and hand with the knife, Mother’s whole body began to weave back and forth. For a moment I thought she was going to fall.

  She tried to regain her balance, snapping at Russell to let go of her leg, while she continued to scream at me. By then, her upper body looked like a rocking chair that was out of control. Forgetting about her useless threats, I imagined that the old drunk was going to fall flat on her face. I focused all of my attention on Mother’s face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a blurred object fly from her hand. A sharp pain erupted from just above my stomach. I tried to remain standing, but my legs gave out, and my world turned black.

  As I regained consciousness, I felt a warm sensation flowing from my chest. It took me a few seconds to realize where I was. I sat propped up on the toilet. I turned towards Russell who began chanting, “David’s going to die. The Boy’s going to die.” I moved my eyes towards my stomach. On her knees, Mother was hastily applying a thick wad of gauze to a place on my stomach where dark red blood pumped out. I tried to say something. I knew it was an accident. I wanted Mother to know that I forgave her, but I felt too faint to speak. My head slumped forward again and again, as I tried to hold it up. I lost track of time as I returned to darkness.

  When I woke up, Mother was still on her knees wrapping a cloth around my lower chest. She knew exa
ctly what she was doing. Many times when we were younger, Mother told Ron, Stan and me how she had intended to become a nurse, until she met Father. Whenever she was confronted with an accident around the home, she was in complete control. I never doubted her nursing abilities for a second. I simply waited for her to load me in the car and take me to the hospital. I felt sure that she would. It was just a matter of time. I felt a curious sense of relief. I knew in my heart it was over. This whole charade of living like a slave had come to an end. Even Mother could not lie about this one. I felt the accident had set me free.

  It took Mother nearly half an hour to dress my wound. There was no remorse in her eyes. I thought that, at the very least, she would try to comfort me with her soothing voice. Looking at me with no emotion, Mother stood up, washed her hands and told me I now had 30 minutes to finish the dishes. I shook my head, trying to understand what she had said. After a few seconds, Mother’s message sunk in. Just as in the arm incident a few years ago, Mother was not going to acknowledge what had happened.

  I had no time for self-pity. The clock was running. I stood up, wobbled for a few seconds, then made my way to the kitchen. With every step, pain ripped through my ribs and blood seeped through my ragged T-shirt. By the time I reached the kitchen sink, I leaned over and panted like an old dog.