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 nth 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 slavelike 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. Sometime 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 – halfglazed 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 bega n 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 gained 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 exactly what she was
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doing. Many times when we were younger, Mother told Ron,
Stan and I 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 cur ious 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 selfpity. 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 Tshirt. By the time I reached the kitchen
sink, I leaned over and panted like an old dog.
From the kitchen I could hear Father in the living room,
flipping through his newspaper. I took a painfully deep breath,
hoping that I could shove off and make my way to Dad. But I
breathed too hard, and fell to the floor. After that I realized I had
to take short, choppy breaths. I made my way into the living
room. Sitting on the far end of the couch was my hero. I knew
he would take care of Mother and drive me to the hospital. I
stood before Father, waiting for him to turn his page and see me.
When he did, I stuttered, “Father … Mo … Mo … Mother
stabbed me.”
He didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “Why?” he asked.
“She told me if I didn’t do the dishes on time … she’d kill
me.”
Time stood still. From behind the paper I could hear Father’s
labored breathing. He cleared his throat before saying, “Well …
you ah … you better go back in there and do the dishes.” My
head leaned forward as if to catch his words. I couldn’t believe
what I had just heard. Father must have sensed my confusion
when I saw him snap his paper and heard him raise his voice
saying, “Jesus H. Christ! Does Mother know that you’re here
talking to me? You better go back in there, and do the dishes.
Damn it boy, we don’t need to do anything that might make her
more upset! I don’t need to go through that tonight …” Father
stopped for a second, took a deep breath and lowered his voice,
whispering, “I tell you what; you go back in there and do the
dishes. I won’t even tell her that you told, okay? This will be our
little secret. Just go back in the kitchen and do the dishes. Go on
now, before she catches the both of us. Go!”
I stood before Father in total shock. He didn’t even look at
me. Somehow I felt if he could at least turn a corner flap of the
paper and search into my eyes, he would know; he would feel
my pain, how desperate I was for his help. But, as always, I
knew that Mother controlled him like she controlled everything
that happened in her house. I think Father and I both knew the
code of “the family” – if we don’t acknowledge a problem, it
simply does not exist. As I stood before Father, not knowing
what to do next, I looked down and saw droplets of blood
staining the family’s carpet. I had felt in my heart that he would
scoop me up in his arms and take me away. I even imagined him
ripping off his shirt to expose his true identity, before flying
through the air like Superman.
I turned away. All my respect for Father was gone. The savior
I had imagined for so long was a phony. I felt more angry at him
than I did at Mother. I wished that somehow I could fly away,
but the throbbing pain brought me back to reality.
I washed the dishes as fast as my body would let me. I quickly
learned that moving my forearm resulted in a sharp pain above
my stomach. If I sidestepped from the wash basin to the rise
basin, another pain raced through my body. I could feel what
little strength I had, draining away. As Mother’s time limit
passed, so did my chances of getting fed.
I wanted to just lie down and quit, but the promise I made
years ago kept me going. I wanted to show The Bitch that she
could beat me only if I died, and I was determined not to give in,
even to death. As I washed the dishes, I learned that by standing
on my toes and leaning my upper body towards the counter top,
I could relieve some of the pressure on my lower chest. Instead
of sidestepping every few seconds, I washed a few dishes at a
time, then moved over and rinsed them all together. After drying
the dishes, I dreaded the task of putting them away. The
cupboards were above my head, and I knew reaching for them
would cause great pain. Holding a small plate, I stretched my
legs as far as I could and tried to raise my arms above my head
to put the dish away. I almost made it, but the pain was too
great. I crumbled to the floor.
By now, my shirt was saturated with blood. As I tried to
regain my footing, I felt Father’s strong hands helping me. I
brushed him away. “Give me the dishes,” he said. “I’ll put them
away. You better go downstairs and change that shirt.” I didn’t
say a word as I turned away. I looked at the clock. It had taken
me nearly an hour and a half to complete my chore. My right
hand clamped tightly onto the railing, as I slowly made my way
downstairs. I could actually see the blood seep from my Tshirt
with every step I took.
Mother met me at the bottom of the stairs. As she tore the
shirt from my body, I could see Mother was doing it as gently as
she could, however, she gave me no other comfort. I could see it
was just a matter of business to her. In the past, I had seen her
treat animals with more compassion than she did me.
I was so weak that I accidentally fell against her as she
dressed me in an old, oversized Tshirt. I expected Mother to hit
me, but she allowed me to rest against her for a few seconds.
Then Mother set me at the bottom of the stairs and left. A few
minutes later, Mother returned with a glass of water. I gulped it
down as fast as I could swallow. When I finished, Mother told
me that she couldn’t feed me right away. She said she would
feed me in a few hours when I felt better. Again, her voice was
monotone – completely without emotion.
Stealing a glance, I could see the California twilight being
overtaken by darkness. Mother told me I could play outside with
the boys, on the driveway in front of the garage door. My head
was not clear. It took me a few seconds to understand what she
had said. “Go on, David. Go,” she persisted. With Mother’s
help, I limped out of the garage to the driveway. My brothers
casually looked me over, but they were much more interested in
lighting their Fourthof-July sparklers. As the minutes passed,
Mother became more compassionate towards me. She held me
by the shoulders as we watched my brothers make figure eights
with their sparklers. “Would you like one?” Mother asked. I
nodded yes. She held my hand as she knelt down to light the
sparkler. For a moment, I imagined the scent of the perfume
Mother wore years ago. But she had not used perfume or made
up her face for a long time.
As I played with my brothers, I couldn’t help but think about
Mother and the change in the way she was treating me. “Is she
trying to make up with me?” I wondered. “Are my days living in
the basement finally over? Am I back in the family fold?” For a
few minutes I didn’t care. My brothers seemed to accept my
presence, and I felt a feeling of friendship and warmth with
them that I thought had been buried forever.
Within a few seconds my sparkler fizzled out. I turned
towards the retreating sun. It had been forever since I had
watched a sunset. I closed my eyes, trying to soak up as much
heat as I could. For a few fleeting moments my pain, my hunger
and my miserable way of life disappeared. I felt so warm, so
alive. I opened my eyes, hoping to capture the moment for the
rest of eternity.
Before she went to bed, Mother gave me more water and fed
me some small bites of food. I felt like a disabled animal being
nursed back to health, but I didn’t care.
Downstairs in the garage I laid on my old army cot. I tried not
to think of the pain, but it was impossible to ignore as it crept
throughout my body. Finally exhaustion took over and I drifted
off to sleep. During the night I had several nightmares. I startled
myself, waking up in a cold sweat. Behind me I heard a sound
that scared me. It was Mother. She bent down and applied a cold
wash cloth to my forehead. She told me that I had been running
a fever during the night. I was too tired and weak to respond. All
I could think about was the pain. Later, Mother returned to my
brothers’ downstairs bedroom, which was closer to the garage. I
felt safe knowing she was nearby to watch over me.
Soon I drifted back into darkness, and with the fitful sleep
came a dreadful dream of sheets of red, hot rain. In the dream I
seemed to drench in it. I tried wiping the blood off my body
only to find it quickly covered again. When I awoke the next
morning, I stared at my hands which were crusted with dried
blood. The shirt covering my chest was entirely red. I could feel
the dried blood on parts of my face. I heard the bedroom door
behind me open, and I turned to see Mother walking towards
me. I expected more sympathy like she had given me the night
before, but it was an empty hope. She gave me nothing. In a
cold voice, Mother told me to clean myself up and begin my
chores. As I heard her march up the stairs, I knew nothing had
changed. I was still the bastard of the family.
About three days after the “accident”, I continued to feel
since Father was away at work. I knew she was back to her
normal self. I thought the fever was due to my injury. The slit in
my stomach had opened up more than once since that night.
Quietly, so Mother wouldn’t hear me, I crept to the garage sink.
I picked up the cleanest rag I could find in my heap of rags. I
cracked the water faucet open just enough to let a few drops of
water spill onto the rag. Then I sat down and rolled up my red,
soggy shirt. I touched my wound, flinching from the pain. I took
a deep breath and as gently as possible, pinched the slit. The
pain was so bad I threw my head back against the cold concrete
floor, almost knocking myself out. When I looked at my
stomach again, I saw a yellowishwhite substance begin to ooze
from the red, angry slash. I didn’t know much about such things,
but I knew it was infected. I started to get up to go upstairs and
ask Mother to clean me up. When I was halfstanding, I stopped.
“No!” I told myself. “I don’t need that bitch’s help.” I knew
enough about basic firstaid training to clean a wound, so I felt
confident that I could do it alone. I wanted to be in charge of
myself. I didn’t want to rely on Mother or give her any more
control over me than she already had.
I wet the rag again and brought it down towards my wound. I
hesitated before I touched it. My hands were shaking with fear,
as tears streamed down my face. I felt like a baby and hated it.
Finally I told myself, “You cry, you die. Now, take care of the
wound.” I realized that my injury probably wasn’t
lifethreatening; I brainwashed myself to block out the pain.
I moved quickly before my motivation slipped away. I
snatched another rag, rolled it up and stuffed it into my mouth. I
focused all my attention on the thumb and first finger of my left
hand, as I pinched the skin around my slit. With my other hand I
wiped away the pus. I repeated the process until blood seeped
through, and I was wiping away only blood. Most of the white
stuff was gone. The pain from the pinching and wiping was
more than I could stand. With my teeth clamped tightly on the
rag, my screaming was muffled. I felt as though I was hanging
from a cliff. By the time I finished, a river of tears soaked the
neck of my shirt.
Fearing Mother would catch me not sitting at the bottom of
the stairs, I cleaned up my mess then halfwalked, halfcrawled to
my assigned place at the foot of the staircase. Before I sat on my
hands, I checked my shirt; only small drops of blood escaped
from the wound to the rag bandage. I willed the wound to heal.
Somehow I knew it would. I felt proud of myself. I imagined
myself like a character in a comic book, who overcame great
odds and survived. Soon my head slumped forward and I fell
asleep. In my dream, I flew through the air in vivid colors. I
wore a cape of red … I was Superman.
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