My world had been turned upside down yet it was still somehow the same. I still lived in the same house with the same brother and sisters and went to the same school everyday but my mom wasn’t there when I got home from school and I didn’t have my dad’s arms to jump into when he got home from work anymore. I felt hollow and nauseated. I felt like a zombie. Of course I couldn’t have told you how I felt back then. I didn’t have the capacity to describe those new emotions yet. I went on about the business of being almost nine years old and finished out the school year. I bade goodbye to my wonderful teacher and began my summer ritual of long days at the swim club.
My oldest sister who was 29 years old at the time had moved back into the house with her husband and young son to take care of those of us that were still kids and begin the daunting process of dealing with my parent’s estate, such as it was. We were not well off by any means. My mother was a homemaker as were most women at the time. My father was an accountant and made a modest salary that stretched to take care of their combined family of nine children. I thought we were rich because we lived in a big house on a hill. It never occurred to me that it was because there were eleven people in my family or that the house was situated two lots away from a train station.
It seemed that the plan was to spend the summer I was to turn nine years old in the house whilst prepping it for sale then divide the minor children between two of my adult sisters who were both just beginning their own married lives. My brother and I were to go live with my oldest sister’s family and my 16 and 19 year old sisters were to go live with my 24 year old sister and her husband. I thought this was a really crappy plan. I began to hate God’s guts. If I had the opportunity to beat the crap out of him at that point in time, I would have given it a shot. I couldn’t believe that he had the gall to take my parents from me and now I was going to lose my home too. It was just mean. We were raised Catholic and went to church every week and on holy days. I was a good kid overall. I was lead to believe that God was a merciful God. Yet, I wasn’t really getting that vibe. I was getting the God completely sucks and lets really horrible things happen to me vibe. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just stay where we were. I didn’t understand why we had to be split up. I didn’t like it one bit.
I relished the last summer in my home. I’d sleep late then head to the swim club as soon as I possibly could after waking. It was my last summer at the swim club and I wanted it to last forever. I had also begun to privately wonder if my father had really died. I never got to see him after he was swept off to the hospital that night except maybe wave to him through the hospital room window while we craned our necks to see him from outside the building. I reasoned that maybe it was just too much for him to take care of all of us by himself any longer and he just went away. I used to search the faces of the men at the swim club looking for him. I knew for sure that my mother was dead because my father had told me so and he wouldn’t lie to me about a thing like that, but my uncle had delivered the news about my father. Maybe he was in on the rouse. I never told this to anyone for fear they would think I was nuts, but I entertained the possibility for a long while.
As is bound to happen, the long summer days grew shorter and we were to be sent on a trip while my oldest sister wrapped up the packing of the old house. I loved that house and I didn’t want to leave it. I didn’t want to be separated from my sisters. I didn’t want to go live with my oldest sister and her family. There were twenty years between us and she had moved out and away when I was barely a year old. I hardly knew her. I had only “met” her a few times at holidays and on her infrequent visits home. I felt like I was moving into a stranger’s house and I lobbied hard to not have to go with her, but I lobbied for naught. My fate was decided without me and there was nothing I could do about it. I felt powerless and sad and just plain screwed.
My oldest sister who was 29 years old at the time had moved back into the house with her husband and young son to take care of those of us that were still kids and begin the daunting process of dealing with my parent’s estate, such as it was. We were not well off by any means. My mother was a homemaker as were most women at the time. My father was an accountant and made a modest salary that stretched to take care of their combined family of nine children. I thought we were rich because we lived in a big house on a hill. It never occurred to me that it was because there were eleven people in my family or that the house was situated two lots away from a train station.
It seemed that the plan was to spend the summer I was to turn nine years old in the house whilst prepping it for sale then divide the minor children between two of my adult sisters who were both just beginning their own married lives. My brother and I were to go live with my oldest sister’s family and my 16 and 19 year old sisters were to go live with my 24 year old sister and her husband. I thought this was a really crappy plan. I began to hate God’s guts. If I had the opportunity to beat the crap out of him at that point in time, I would have given it a shot. I couldn’t believe that he had the gall to take my parents from me and now I was going to lose my home too. It was just mean. We were raised Catholic and went to church every week and on holy days. I was a good kid overall. I was lead to believe that God was a merciful God. Yet, I wasn’t really getting that vibe. I was getting the God completely sucks and lets really horrible things happen to me vibe. I didn’t understand why we couldn’t just stay where we were. I didn’t understand why we had to be split up. I didn’t like it one bit.
I relished the last summer in my home. I’d sleep late then head to the swim club as soon as I possibly could after waking. It was my last summer at the swim club and I wanted it to last forever. I had also begun to privately wonder if my father had really died. I never got to see him after he was swept off to the hospital that night except maybe wave to him through the hospital room window while we craned our necks to see him from outside the building. I reasoned that maybe it was just too much for him to take care of all of us by himself any longer and he just went away. I used to search the faces of the men at the swim club looking for him. I knew for sure that my mother was dead because my father had told me so and he wouldn’t lie to me about a thing like that, but my uncle had delivered the news about my father. Maybe he was in on the rouse. I never told this to anyone for fear they would think I was nuts, but I entertained the possibility for a long while.
As is bound to happen, the long summer days grew shorter and we were to be sent on a trip while my oldest sister wrapped up the packing of the old house. I loved that house and I didn’t want to leave it. I didn’t want to be separated from my sisters. I didn’t want to go live with my oldest sister and her family. There were twenty years between us and she had moved out and away when I was barely a year old. I hardly knew her. I had only “met” her a few times at holidays and on her infrequent visits home. I felt like I was moving into a stranger’s house and I lobbied hard to not have to go with her, but I lobbied for naught. My fate was decided without me and there was nothing I could do about it. I felt powerless and sad and just plain screwed.
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