Everyone told me to write it down. "Write down the story because it will help you heal," they said. It was a few months after everything and I sat with my blue pleather journal on the bottom bunk. My older cousin, Catherine, sat on the top writing in her own journal about her friends, the Perkins twins. She was swallowed up in friendship, Calculous homework, and show choir partly because she was a senior in high school and that's what seniors do, but also partly because it was her way of dealing with the broken little girl lying on the bottom bunk underneath her and her 4 other orphan cousins now living in her home, consuming her parents' time and energy. We joked and laughed together, but then Catherine would take her car keys and find solace outside the home. I resented her because she could leave.
I stared at the blank lined journal page. I didn't know where to start.
3/29/2001
I don't want to write this, but they say by writing things down it helps you feel better.
I wrote a few paragraphs about moving to Texas and I was overwhelmed.
Texas was so much fun. My friends and I had so much fun on the weekends, it was great...
(to be continued)
(or...until I'm ready)
And then there were a few entries like this:
4/2/2001
I feel horrible. Nothing happened today, I guess I just feel horrible. I haven't cried once except at the viewing. I mean, I've teared up, but I've quickly hidden it. I don't have time to cry.
4/3/2001
Alright, I'm ok today
4/4/2001
I feel trapped. I have all these theories and ideas and philosophies on life, yet I can't share all of them.
4/5/2001
(Scrap of yellow lined paper taped to the page with a drawing of a map)
This map is a map I drew in Texas. My friend Brittany was having a party and some of my guy friends didn't know where her house was. So I drew this map. I'm not exactly sure why I like this map so much. I guess it just reminds me how much fun lunch was.
4/7/2001
I miss my mom and dad, but I'm also glad I didn't die. I was not anywhere close to being ready. A few years ago one of my old Bishops was killed in a plane accident when he was 38 years old. My mom said it would be weird to die at such a young age. She said it would be weird to be taken away when you think you're not ready. My mom was 34.
And then I tried again.
5/14/2001
I'm going to try and finish the story. So Jessica told me to have a safe trip. Everyone says that, right? But this time it really stuck with me...
And then I scribbled paragraph after paragraph all while sitting at my parents' grave. Although the setting only added to the trauma of recounting the experience, my 15-year-old self felt that it was poetic to write a tragedy at the feet of the dead.
But I couldn't finish. The entry ended with the following promise:
(Continued later)
The pen sucked out my raw emotions and spilled them before me so that I could see them in all their crude splendor. The words bled from my memories and oozed onto the page. But I felt nothing. I wasn't sad, I wasn't happy. There was an ache pulsating deep inside, too complicated to surface. I didn't stop writing because I was trying to avoid pain. I stopped writing because I couldn't feel pain. Everyone told me that writing would make me feel better, but I didn't want to feel better. I wanted the deep ache to fester and rot inside me until it boiled over and ripped open my skin with shrieks and screams. And if my hemorrhaging soul began to coagulate and scab, I planned to rip it open again, and leech the ache, never allowing it to mend. I set down the pen and resolved to finish the story the day I had lived longer without them. The day I would allow myself to heal.
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My first memory is very clear. I threw a shoe at my mom. She wouldn't let me wear the beautiful white slip to bed like I normally did. I loved that slip because it was silky and fluffy and fluttered out like a flower when I twirled. I felt beautiful when I wore that slip. But instead, my mom dressed me in my turquoise, fuzzy sleepers, the ones with a hole where my big toe poked through. The day before my mom had learned that earlier in the week a toddler from my church was dressed in a nightgown and placed in her crib. In the middle of the night the toddler tried to climb out of the crib and the sleeve of her nightgown became caught on the side pole. The toddler twisted and twisted in an effort to free herself from the crib. Her parents found her the next morning, but it was too late. My mom was determined that I would not be wearing my fluffy slip to bed that night. I screamed and wailed while she dressed me, and when I was finally free, I threw a shoe at her.
That was a bad idea because my dad was right there and he gave me a little spanking which set me off even more. Now that I was unconsolable, my parents couldn't put me in the same room as my baby sister because, of course, I'd wake her. So they put me on the living room couch and went to bed. But of course I didn't go to bed because the Christmas lights were glowing on our Christmas tree and I had to pretend that I was tiger climbing jungle trees (the furniture). And of course I had to leap from one tree to another, because that's what tigers do. And of course I misjudged how far I would need to jump in order to clear the gap from the ugly green couch to the ripped green computer chair. My parents bounded from their room to find a wailing toddler gushing blood from above her left eyebrow. I sat on my dad's lap in the ER waiting room while two older women fawned over me. I clung to my mom in the ER exam room while the nurses cleaned the wound with disinfecting wipes. And I screamed when they took my "dada" away and strapped me to a bed while the doctor stitched up the laceration.
That's the first memory I have of my parents. I have other early memories like the time I grabbed my little toy broom to help my mom sweep out the water which was pouring into the apartment via a broken pipe, or the time that I laid under the big tree in the front yard with my dad while he pointed out shapes in the clouds.
When I was a little older and we had moved into our cute little starter home, my mom would dance to West Side Story's "I like to be in America" with me and my sister, Kirsten, and she would play the evil bad guy in my elaborate musical productions. My mom would sit on my bed and we'd talk about friends, and dreams, and she'd rock me and sing to me when I felt sad. My mom helped me start "The Friendship Club," and taught me how to make a profit in my candy business. And she helped Kirsten and me memorize all the words to "My Mama Done Told Me..."
My dad would use his watch to reflect a little ball of light across the ceiling and he would interact with it as if it were a living creature which caused me and all my siblings to giggle until we fell to the floor. We would stand behind the computer while we watched him play the Apple Game, Maelstrom, and King's Quest and give him advice on how to win. He learned to French braid mine and Kirsten's hair because my mom started taking morning classes which left him in charge of getting us ready for school.
But not all the memories were happy. One Saturday afternoon I walked in from the backyard and heard someone crying. I opened the door and found my dad, a grown man, lying on his bed sobbing uncontrollably. Startled I gasped, "Daddy!" He asked if I would give him a hug because he was "feeling sad." I realized that this was part of the "depression" everyone talked about. He was beside himself with unexplainable grief. My dad composed a letter to his director at Hewlett Packard apologizing for poor performance and revealed that he had been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. It was difficult for him to disclose the situation since depression was still considered taboo in 1993. His director returned the letter stating that he was sympathetic to my dad's situation and would be flexible during this difficult time, however, the director noted that he had not noticed poor performance from my dad and, in fact, was discussing a promotion opportunity for him with other managers.
My dad kept both letters and I found them years later thrown in a pile of papers. At one point things became so bad that we drove the 6 hours to Utah so he could check himself into a mental health hospital. He and my mom were worried he would do something he would regret. In the end he was able to stabilize his condition with appropriate medication and counseling. Years later he learned that the usage of Accutane, an acne treatment medication, was linked to causing severe depression and believes his usage of Accutane in high school was the culprit of his depression.
When I was eight years old, a few years after my dad's depression became manageable, my parent's started noticing that I had become unusually weepy, withdrawn, and despondent. I was then diagnosed with seasonal affective disorder and my parents were terrified that I would suffer the same depression as my dad. Then my mom had her fourth baby, my brother Andre, and she sunk into deep postpartum depression which never fully disappeared. And then, my younger brother, Clint, at nine-years-old began expressing thoughts of suicide. By parents were again terrified that another child would have to suffer from the deep sadness that came with depression. My dad had a fabulous job which made a comfortable living, my mom was beautiful, intelligent, made dinner every night, but dang, the mental health thing that haunted our family was exhausting and downright overwhelming for all of us. Despite all of this, my parents were responsible, reliable, hard working, emotionally intelligent individuals who were doing their best to raise responsible, reliable, hard working, emotionally intelligent children. They weren't perfect, but they were determined.
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My dad graduated from Brigham Young University with a bachelor's degree in Computer Science. He landed a full time position at Hewlett Packard in 1989 which was a very reputable company those days. He moved his little family to Boise, ID and we lived their for 8 years and then HP offered my dad the opportunity to attend grad school to earn a Master's degree in Computer Science. We moved to Texas where my dad attended Texas A&M. After living in a cramped three bedroom apartment for 18 months, my family of six, two adults and four kids, headed back to Boise. We stayed in Boise for another 18 months and my parents planned on settling there, but my dad started picking up on rumors that the laser printer business in Boise's HP division was slowing and when HP offered my dad a promotion in Richardson, Texas, my mom and dad decided to take it.
My friends complained, "But you just got back to Boise! Now you're moving back to Texas!" But I was excited to return. I hadn't really settled back into Boise this second time and I was excited to go back to Texas and start all over. My social mishaps were a lot less noticeable in Texas for some reason. So we loaded up the truck and headed back. My parents promised we would never move again.
For some strange reason beyond my explanation, I instantly gained friends when I moved back to Texas. I'm an awkward person. That's just the way I am and I've accepted it and come to terms with it and made peace with this fact. But I somehow fooled all my church friends into thinking I was cool. Or maybe they just liked me for me. But I know it partly had a lot to do with the fact that I was Mormon, and they were Mormon, and the Mormon teenagers in McKinney, Texas stuck together. Especially the freshman class, of which I was apart. I got invited to parties, and game nights, and girls kept telling me that lots of different boys liked me because I was the "new" girl. I ate lunch with a bunch of boys every A day! This was nuts, for me. I hardly had friends before, let alone BOY friends. I was pretty much in social heaven. I was still weird, but no one seemed to mind.
Up to that point my best friend had been my mom. I spent hours laying next to her on my parent's water bed (yeah, they had one of those) while listening to her read Judy Blume books. She gave me advice about friendship and love. We would go shopping together and always pick up warm cookies while at the mall.
I loved to hear her talk to other people. I would sit silently near by, resting my head on my fists while my mom extracted stories from everyone she met. She was fascinated by people. What was their childhood like? What did they think about religion? Did they like to create? Could she see their creations? As the least judgmental person I knew, everyone was more than happy to divulge everything about themselves to her. My mother had a knack for seeing beauty and people were surprised to learn that they, themselves, were the beauty she saw.
I watched her argue with her computer screen as she desperately tried to find words to express the deepest of portion of her essence. Behind cheeky and sometimes irreverent humor, her deep philosophical teasings would push their way through her black and white text gushing polychromatic paragraphs of the deepest human expression. A red, velvet chaise lounge sitting in the squalor of a dirty and unkept mobile home, and a grand race through the Louvre where patrons dash past masterpieces in search of treasure. These stories embodied her passion for life.
I asked her why she spent so much time writing. She twirled the computer chair around to face me and threw her bare feet up against a stool to stop herself. She leaned back and smiled, "I'm not sure. Maybe I write because I want to create something exquisite, something that will improve existence. Or maybe I write because perhaps my example will inspire my kids to write something exquisite, something that will improve existence."
I idolized her, but as I grew older I became aggravated by her. My mom didn't care about fashion or popularity. She did whatever she wanted and wasn't afraid to point out injustice. But I was in middle school. I wanted a mom who bought me stacks of Abercrombie sweaters and Doc Marten boots, a mom who funded expensive vacations and strings of silver anklets. I wanted her to make friends with the Joneses. But my mother wasn't interested in taking cues from the Joneses or fueling the vanity of me and my spoiled friends. Her main concern was to deepen and strengthen my character. No pre-teen wants that kind of mom.
After we had lived in Texas for about two months, I could tell she was hurt that I wanted to spend more time with friends than with her. I wouldn't talk to her as much anymore. I'm not sure why stopped talking to her. It's not that I didn't love her, I just wanted to be a crazy teenager. And crazy teenagers don't read books with their moms.
Our relationship became strained. We argued a lot. I was always slamming the door and throwing myself on the bed about something. She would laugh to keep her sanity, but she was getting fed up with all of it. She was annoyed that I was making all the stupid choices she had made when she was a teenager. When she looked at me, she saw herself, and that drove her crazy.
On the other hand my relationship with my dad was starting to improve. When I was little I had a great relationship with my dad. We went on daddy daughter dates and played card games together, and I could talk to him about my depression and playing the piano, but somewhere in 6th grade things just got awkward. I didn't really know how to talk to him anymore. And I had no idea what to talk about. I think he felt the same way. He helped me with math homework, but that was the extent of our relationship for about 5 years. We just didn't talk much. If I needed to talk with someone, I talked with my mom. But when we moved to Texas, Dad started driving me to seminary in the morning which was about a 30 minute commute, so we were forced to talk to each other, and we were both surprised to realize that we got along pretty well. I told him about my friends and school, he told me about work. Simple stuff, really. But I started figuring out how to have a relationship with him again.
My Dad had been learning the song, Lullaby, by Billie Joel. He was always learning a new song from the radio. He would purchase the album and would sit at our electric piano with my boombox nearby. As the song played he would lean in and touch his ear to the speaker. After a few seconds, he would stop the stereo and turn to the piano, plucking out chords that perfectly duplicated the track's piano arpeggios. He would make a few markings on a blank grand staff, and then return to the boombox to listen again.
"Why don't you just buy the music at the store?" I remember asking him. "No way," he scowled, "The music arrangements at the store are terrible. They never match what's actually played on the CD."
After I had heard him playing and perfecting his performance of Lullaby for a few weeks, he called me and Kirsten into the piano room on a late Saturday afternoon.
"I want to play a song for you guys. This song is by Billie Joel and I want to tell you why he wrote it. Billie Joel and his wife were divorced when their daughter was a teenager. He was heart sick that his time with his daughter would be lessened because of the divorce. He wanted to write something for her to explain how much he loved her even though he couldn't see her as much as before." And then my dad teared up. My dad hardly ever cried. Besides seeing him crying on his bed years before, I can't think of a single time I watched him weep. He wiped his tears away from his eyes and said, "I love you guys so much. I wanted to learn this song because it reminds me of the way I feel about my children." And then he played the song.
Goodnight, my angel
Time to close your eyes
And save these questions for another day
I think I know what you've been asking me
I think you know what I've been trying to say
I promised I would never leave you
And you should always know
Wherever you may go
No matter where you are
I never will be far away
Goodnight, my angel
Now it's time to sleep
And still so many things I want to say
Remember all the songs you sang for me
When we went sailing on an emerald bay
And like a boat out on the ocean
I'm rocking you to sleep
The water's dark
And deep inside this ancient heart
You'll always be a part of me
Goodnight, my angel
Now it's time to dream
And dream how wonderful your life will be
Someday your child may cry
And if you sing this lullabye
Then in your heart
There will always be a part of me
Someday we'll all be gone
But lullabyes go on and on...
They never die
That's how you and I will be
The drive home was a little awkward. Dad talked about work and asked about school. I sat slouched in the passenger seat staring out the window listening to his cheerful conversation giving him half hearted replies. He didn't say anything about being mad. He should have been mad.
Hours earlier my family and I arrived at our church's Halloween party. Wearing my sister's black pleather pants, a slightly scandalous homemade tube top constructed out of blue saran wrap, and a tightly fitted jean jacket, I entered the house of God and pulled my best Charlie's Angels pose. The name Farrah Fawcett meant nothing to me at the time. I was going for the sexy look of Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore, and Lucy Liu in the 2000 remake of the 1970 classic. Of course I just looked like white trash with my caked on makeup and hairspray, but I was a 14-year-old girl curiously aware of my budding sexuality while hopelessly naive of it. I wasn't allowed to see to the Charlie's Angels movie which made the whole notion of it that much more alluring. My friends shrieked with delight at my costume as I entered and I ran off with them to talk about boys and snack on carmel apples.
"Let's go call the boys and I'll ask them which girls they like," Amy suggested to me and our three other girl friends. We giggled at the thought of it. Amy Pack always had a slightly impish scheme up her sleeve. Like the time we sneaked into Steven Ragsdale's backyard to spy on him, or the time we created a scandalous version of the Grinch who Stole Christmas filled with innuendoes that none of us understood, or the time she and Brittany took pictures of themselves wearing bikinis.
"Let's go to my house" Heather offered, "It's within walking distance."
Now here's where the teenage stupidity comes in. I didn't sneak away from the party. I honestly didn't. I just didn't think about the fact that my parents would be worried if I suddenly disappeared. I've heard that teenagers have some funky rewiring going on in their brains during their adolescent years. I attribute this situation to that funky wiring. I wanted to be kind of bad, but I was definitely not the type of kid who would sneak away from my parents. I just didn't do that kind of stuff. All I did was go to Heather Jensen's house with Amy, Brittany, and Eliza to call boys...and it took me an hour and a half to realize that my parents had no idea where I was. And hardly anyone had cell phones back then.
"Hi mom"
"Alyse!" my mom chided, "Keith, she's on the phone. Alyse, where are you? How could you sneak away like that?"
"I didn't sneak! I'm sorry. I forgot. I'm at Heather's house."
After an exasperated sigh of disapproval she retorted, "Whatever. Dad is coming to get you right now and we'll talk about it when you guys get back."
I don't know why my dad didn't say anything about it when he picked me up. I know he had been worried and disapproved of me not telling him and my mom where I had been, but he said nothing. Was he just going to hand me over to the wrath of my mother? I was too nervous to ask. When I walked in through the back door, my mom was facing away from me working on the computer. She didn't turn or acknowledge me at all. I could tell she was steaming. I know she heard me walk in, but she completely ignored me as I walked by. I ran to my room, shut the door, and flew onto my bed sobbing.
That's the last full memory I have interacting with them.
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We had been living in Texas for about 3 months. Our house was still full of moving boxes, and our windows didn't have any blinds, but we were all starting to feel a little more settled. However, my parents's, my mom especially, was feeling homesick for Idaho. Thanksgiving was on Thursday and she had arranged for us to celebrate with her sister, Ellen, and Ellen's family - the Hironomous's. The Hironomous's lived in Austin and it was about a 3 to 4 hour drive to their house. We had already made the drive to Ellen's house two months earlier after we arrived in Texas because we wanted to say hi and visit cousins. Aunt Ellen commanded that we stop at The Czech Stop and the Little Czech Bakery in West, Texas on our way to her house. It's almost considered high treason for a Texan to travel between Dallas and Austin without stopping at the Czech Bakery. And since we were Texans, we of course had to adopt the tradition. On that first trip, two months earlier, we walked into the Czech bakery and filled our lungs with the smell of freshly baked dough. My siblings and I pressed our hands against the glass display case and agonized which treat we would choose from the rows and rows of perfectly browned, flaky pastries filled with fruit glazes and cream cheese fluff.
As I packed my bags for our Thanksgiving trip to Austin, I thought back to the first visit to the Czech bakery and I licked my lips remembering the caramelized cheese Danish I selected. Would I try the raspberry on this trip, or stick with the cheese? I couldn't decide.
"Are your bags packed, Alyse?!" My mom yelled from the kitchen waking me from my sweet daze, "Throw them by the door! Dad is loading up the van."
It was Tuesday evening, and our plan was to leave at 6:00 AM the next morning. I doubted we would make it out that early. We never left for a trip at the time we planned. Mom was usually behind packing for my brothers and Dad would start cleaning the kitchen right when we were supposed to leave. I made a mental bet with myself that we wouldn't be driving away until at least 8:00 AM.
Mom was in laundry room pulling out Superman underwear and and worn jeans from a clean laundry basket. Andre, the five-year-old whined, "No mom, I want the Batman undawea!" He couldn't quite say his "r's" yet.
"That's fine, Andre." My mom said as she chucked the folded underpants across the hall and into a blue backpack.
I walked into the family room and threw my bags next to the backdoor. Kirsten, 12, and Clint, 9, were sitting at the kitchen table laughing uncontrollably until Clint finally fell off his chair to the ground in a fit of giggles which made Kirsten laugh even harder. I rolled my eyes as any self-dignified older sister would and then ran up our beautiful staircase. My mom loved grand staircases, and our new house in Texas had one of the grandest of them all. A mahogany banister, a small circular showcase half way down protruding out like a mini Juliet balcony, and steps that gradually curved and widened into our family room. My mom imagined me and my sister gracefully descending the steps in our pink prom dresses and ivory wedding gowns.
As I reached the top of the stairs I slipped quietly into Caleb's room while he slept. Standing over his crib, I watched his little chest expand and contract in deep slumber. And while I watched him I couldn't help remember the terrifying experience I had with my baby brother 6 weeks earlier.
My parents asked me to babysit Caleb while they moved our belongings from our temporary apartment to out new home. While may family was working at the apartment, Caleb and I were alone in the house. After a few hours of babysitting Caleb starting crying because he wanted to be held. I picked him up, but then remembered I needed to get his bottle from his room upstairs. I set him at the bottom of the stairs and raced up the staircase to retrieve the bottle. As soon as I set him down he started wailing, so I ran faster so I could get back to him sooner. While searching through the blankets in his crib, Caleb's wails downstairs suddenly stopped with unnatural abruptness.
I ran from the room to the top of the stairs to looked down at a purple baby slumping to the side. I bounded down the stairs and fell to my knees yelling, "Breathe, Caleb! Breathe!" As I picked him up he went limp in my arms. I gasped and jumped up running into the kitchen, then to the living room, but their were no phones to call for help because we were in an empty house. I looked down at Caleb and screamed "Breathe!" But his color only darkened. I reeled towards the front door intend to scream for help when I suddenly heard a grinding wail, a sob, a whimper, and then he was fine. I broke into tears rocked my baby brother in my arms crying, "Caleb, Caleb. Don't do that again. Please don't do that again." I'm not sure what happened to Caleb that day, it may have been a normal crying fit, but that was the closest I had ever been to death and it shook me deeply.
After thinking about this memory I pulled myself back to the present moment and looked down at my sleeping baby brother. He was fine, he was breathing. I softly touched his forehead and then walked out of his room.
I ambled into my bedroom, shut the door, and crawled into bed. That night before our trip to Austin was a restless one for me. I was excited for the trip, but mostly I couldn't stop thinking about boys. There is nothing quite like your first crush. I decided that I liked Jared the most, but Brandon was pretty cute, too. But he and Brittany had a thing going, so I decided I would just like Jared. Oh, he was so great. An intelligent student, skilled basketball player, complete with spiky bleached hair. I was in love. He flattered me with teasing flirtations and insults as most teenage boys do who are hopelessly confounded by girls' allure and intimidation. I couldn't sleep.
It was 11:45 PM and I heard my mom walk through the backdoor. I got out of bed and walked into the kitchen and watched her unload groceries and organize snack bags for our trip the next day. I leaned against the counter and smiled. Despite the tension between us, I swelled with love for her as I watched her stack cheese sticks and crackers in little plastic baggies. My journal from a few months later records that I gave her a hug and a kiss right then, though I don't actually remember.
The next morning I awoke at 5:30 AM and my parents were almost finished loading our white 1990's van with the blue dolphin stickers on the side. I strapped on my bra and pulled on my Doc Marten look-alike sandals. Brushed my hair and examined myself in my long mirror. I frowned at my small chest. How did all the other girls my age have way bigger boobs than me? I grabbed a blanket and pillows and walked out to the van. I watched my dad gently lift and carry out Caleb who was snuggly dressed in an overstuffed baby coat.
I hopped into through the van's side door and decided I wanted to sit next to a window so I could sleep. I made my way to the back corner seat, Kirsten's seat, as Kirsten often reminded us. To this day I don't know why Kirsten didn't fight me for her seat. If there was one person I fought with more than my mom, it was my sister, Kirsten. I usually sat next to Caleb in the middle bench and Kirsten sat in the back corner, but maybe she was too sleepy to protest. Kirsten climbed in next to me, followed by Clint who sat next to her. Andre was the last kid in, and he sat next to Caleb on the middle bench. Mom and dad were still outside scurrying around picking up last minute items. My dad slid shut the side door and climbed into the passenger seat and my mom climbed into the driver's seat. The car doors slammed and the engine ignited. I looked at the green neon analog clock on the front dashboard. 6:01 AM. We were leaving on time. A miracle.
"Dad, did you bring the cd's?" Kirsten asked. "Yep, they're up here with Alyse's boombox. We'll turn it on once we reach the freeway."
"I want some juice!" cried Andre. My dad unbuckled his seatbelt and twisted behind him to pull a juice bottle out from the cooler. "Maybe I can weach it," Andre offered and he unbuckled his seatbelt to pull out the juice. My dad returned to his seat and re-buckled.
"Andre's not wearing his seatbelt!" Clint tattled.
Dad turned around, "Andre, buckle up." Andre grudgingly obeyed.
"Nu uh!" Kirsten yelled. Kirsten and I were at in again. Arguing about something meaningless. Kirsten had a way of pushing my buttons and I would always stubbornly retaliate. I don't remember this, but my journal records that my mom scolded from the front seat, "You guys, Kirsten and Alyse, please stop fighting. Are you capable of that?"
It had only been about 3 minutes since we pulled out of the drive way. This was going to be a long trip. I leaned my head against my pillow next to the window and closed my eyes. All my siblings decided they wanted to sleep as well and the car fell silent except for my parents in the front seat quietly discussing the best way route to the freeway.
"But I can go this way, right? It will take me there?" My mom asked.
"I think so, but I always go the other way. We can try it, though," Dad replied
We had been driving only a few minutes when my mom turned down a dark country road in the middle of a wide field. All of us were calm, relaxed, and completely unaware of what was about to happen. The van pulled to a stop. The pause was quiet, but it felt queer. And suddenly my mom gunned the engine and the car jerked forward.
And then she screamed.
My blood drained, my stomach pitted, and my gut wrenched in a sickening craze as my mother's shriek ripped through my ear drums, rattling my sanity. But the scream was instantly silenced.
A crashing bang exploded against the van and threw my body against my sister and then wrenched me back into a shattering window. Ripping metal, crashing glass, squealing brakes rang through the caverns of my skull as my pillow was sucked out the window. I dug my fingernails into the cushion of the middle bench as it crushed into my legs while my body flung right and left in surges of psychotic centripical force.
With a final crashing blow my body slammed against the middle backseat knocking the air from my chest and then violently whipped me back against the back of my bench. And then nothing.
A deafening silence pounded against my temples and then I heard a shriek escape my clenched teeth. It swelled louder and fuller as my mouth opened slightly, and then it retreated back into my throat until all that was left was air whisking through my braces.
Thousands, thousands of screams ebbed and undulated inside the twisted metal heap lying contorted and writhing under a crisp azure sky, pierced with bloody streaks of sunrise.
It lasted less than half a second. Half a second.
A newly conceived embryo requires nine months inside their mother's womb to develop eyes, ears, toes, a liver, kidneys, a brain, and a tiny heart before it's prepared to face the harsh elements of the outside world. The mother then surrenders one year of her life to sleepless nights and throbbing breast pain in order to succor and sustain the baby past its first year. Then it takes 18 years of bone growth, brain maturation, language development, respiratory regulation, electrical synapsing before this body is finally deemed full grown. And then earning a college degree may take 4 years, falling in love could 40 years, creating a literary masterpiece could take over 30 years, raising kids requires 18 years for each child, and at least two weeks are necessary to enjoy Paris. Nine months in the womb, 18 years of childhood, and then 60 more years of adventuring and creating and loving before that fleshy frame finally wears out. In other words, it takes a lifetime to create and experience life.
But on that cold Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, a life that had taken decades to blossom into a complicated and beautifully intricate being was instantly and unceremoniously extinguished. And it took less than half a second.
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After a few seconds past, the chaos in my mind subsided to a degree where I was able to make sense of what had just taken place.
"Let's go call the boys and I'll ask them which girls they like," Amy suggested to me and our three other girl friends. We giggled at the thought of it. Amy Pack always had a slightly impish scheme up her sleeve. Like the time we sneaked into Steven Ragsdale's backyard to spy on him, or the time we created a scandalous version of the Grinch who Stole Christmas filled with innuendoes that none of us understood, or the time she and Brittany took pictures of themselves wearing bikinis.
"Let's go to my house" Heather offered, "It's within walking distance."
Now here's where the teenage stupidity comes in. I didn't sneak away from the party. I honestly didn't. I just didn't think about the fact that my parents would be worried if I suddenly disappeared. I've heard that teenagers have some funky rewiring going on in their brains during their adolescent years. I attribute this situation to that funky wiring. I wanted to be kind of bad, but I was definitely not the type of kid who would sneak away from my parents. I just didn't do that kind of stuff. All I did was go to Heather Jensen's house with Amy, Brittany, and Eliza to call boys...and it took me an hour and a half to realize that my parents had no idea where I was. And hardly anyone had cell phones back then.
"Hi mom"
"Alyse!" my mom chided, "Keith, she's on the phone. Alyse, where are you? How could you sneak away like that?"
"I didn't sneak! I'm sorry. I forgot. I'm at Heather's house."
After an exasperated sigh of disapproval she retorted, "Whatever. Dad is coming to get you right now and we'll talk about it when you guys get back."
I don't know why my dad didn't say anything about it when he picked me up. I know he had been worried and disapproved of me not telling him and my mom where I had been, but he said nothing. Was he just going to hand me over to the wrath of my mother? I was too nervous to ask. When I walked in through the back door, my mom was facing away from me working on the computer. She didn't turn or acknowledge me at all. I could tell she was steaming. I know she heard me walk in, but she completely ignored me as I walked by. I ran to my room, shut the door, and flew onto my bed sobbing.
That's the last full memory I have interacting with them.
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We had been living in Texas for about 3 months. Our house was still full of moving boxes, and our windows didn't have any blinds, but we were all starting to feel a little more settled. However, my parents's, my mom especially, was feeling homesick for Idaho. Thanksgiving was on Thursday and she had arranged for us to celebrate with her sister, Ellen, and Ellen's family - the Hironomous's. The Hironomous's lived in Austin and it was about a 3 to 4 hour drive to their house. We had already made the drive to Ellen's house two months earlier after we arrived in Texas because we wanted to say hi and visit cousins. Aunt Ellen commanded that we stop at The Czech Stop and the Little Czech Bakery in West, Texas on our way to her house. It's almost considered high treason for a Texan to travel between Dallas and Austin without stopping at the Czech Bakery. And since we were Texans, we of course had to adopt the tradition. On that first trip, two months earlier, we walked into the Czech bakery and filled our lungs with the smell of freshly baked dough. My siblings and I pressed our hands against the glass display case and agonized which treat we would choose from the rows and rows of perfectly browned, flaky pastries filled with fruit glazes and cream cheese fluff.
As I packed my bags for our Thanksgiving trip to Austin, I thought back to the first visit to the Czech bakery and I licked my lips remembering the caramelized cheese Danish I selected. Would I try the raspberry on this trip, or stick with the cheese? I couldn't decide.
"Are your bags packed, Alyse?!" My mom yelled from the kitchen waking me from my sweet daze, "Throw them by the door! Dad is loading up the van."
It was Tuesday evening, and our plan was to leave at 6:00 AM the next morning. I doubted we would make it out that early. We never left for a trip at the time we planned. Mom was usually behind packing for my brothers and Dad would start cleaning the kitchen right when we were supposed to leave. I made a mental bet with myself that we wouldn't be driving away until at least 8:00 AM.
Mom was in laundry room pulling out Superman underwear and and worn jeans from a clean laundry basket. Andre, the five-year-old whined, "No mom, I want the Batman undawea!" He couldn't quite say his "r's" yet.
"That's fine, Andre." My mom said as she chucked the folded underpants across the hall and into a blue backpack.
I walked into the family room and threw my bags next to the backdoor. Kirsten, 12, and Clint, 9, were sitting at the kitchen table laughing uncontrollably until Clint finally fell off his chair to the ground in a fit of giggles which made Kirsten laugh even harder. I rolled my eyes as any self-dignified older sister would and then ran up our beautiful staircase. My mom loved grand staircases, and our new house in Texas had one of the grandest of them all. A mahogany banister, a small circular showcase half way down protruding out like a mini Juliet balcony, and steps that gradually curved and widened into our family room. My mom imagined me and my sister gracefully descending the steps in our pink prom dresses and ivory wedding gowns.
As I reached the top of the stairs I slipped quietly into Caleb's room while he slept. Standing over his crib, I watched his little chest expand and contract in deep slumber. And while I watched him I couldn't help remember the terrifying experience I had with my baby brother 6 weeks earlier.
My parents asked me to babysit Caleb while they moved our belongings from our temporary apartment to out new home. While may family was working at the apartment, Caleb and I were alone in the house. After a few hours of babysitting Caleb starting crying because he wanted to be held. I picked him up, but then remembered I needed to get his bottle from his room upstairs. I set him at the bottom of the stairs and raced up the staircase to retrieve the bottle. As soon as I set him down he started wailing, so I ran faster so I could get back to him sooner. While searching through the blankets in his crib, Caleb's wails downstairs suddenly stopped with unnatural abruptness.
I ran from the room to the top of the stairs to looked down at a purple baby slumping to the side. I bounded down the stairs and fell to my knees yelling, "Breathe, Caleb! Breathe!" As I picked him up he went limp in my arms. I gasped and jumped up running into the kitchen, then to the living room, but their were no phones to call for help because we were in an empty house. I looked down at Caleb and screamed "Breathe!" But his color only darkened. I reeled towards the front door intend to scream for help when I suddenly heard a grinding wail, a sob, a whimper, and then he was fine. I broke into tears rocked my baby brother in my arms crying, "Caleb, Caleb. Don't do that again. Please don't do that again." I'm not sure what happened to Caleb that day, it may have been a normal crying fit, but that was the closest I had ever been to death and it shook me deeply.
After thinking about this memory I pulled myself back to the present moment and looked down at my sleeping baby brother. He was fine, he was breathing. I softly touched his forehead and then walked out of his room.
I ambled into my bedroom, shut the door, and crawled into bed. That night before our trip to Austin was a restless one for me. I was excited for the trip, but mostly I couldn't stop thinking about boys. There is nothing quite like your first crush. I decided that I liked Jared the most, but Brandon was pretty cute, too. But he and Brittany had a thing going, so I decided I would just like Jared. Oh, he was so great. An intelligent student, skilled basketball player, complete with spiky bleached hair. I was in love. He flattered me with teasing flirtations and insults as most teenage boys do who are hopelessly confounded by girls' allure and intimidation. I couldn't sleep.
It was 11:45 PM and I heard my mom walk through the backdoor. I got out of bed and walked into the kitchen and watched her unload groceries and organize snack bags for our trip the next day. I leaned against the counter and smiled. Despite the tension between us, I swelled with love for her as I watched her stack cheese sticks and crackers in little plastic baggies. My journal from a few months later records that I gave her a hug and a kiss right then, though I don't actually remember.
The next morning I awoke at 5:30 AM and my parents were almost finished loading our white 1990's van with the blue dolphin stickers on the side. I strapped on my bra and pulled on my Doc Marten look-alike sandals. Brushed my hair and examined myself in my long mirror. I frowned at my small chest. How did all the other girls my age have way bigger boobs than me? I grabbed a blanket and pillows and walked out to the van. I watched my dad gently lift and carry out Caleb who was snuggly dressed in an overstuffed baby coat.
I hopped into through the van's side door and decided I wanted to sit next to a window so I could sleep. I made my way to the back corner seat, Kirsten's seat, as Kirsten often reminded us. To this day I don't know why Kirsten didn't fight me for her seat. If there was one person I fought with more than my mom, it was my sister, Kirsten. I usually sat next to Caleb in the middle bench and Kirsten sat in the back corner, but maybe she was too sleepy to protest. Kirsten climbed in next to me, followed by Clint who sat next to her. Andre was the last kid in, and he sat next to Caleb on the middle bench. Mom and dad were still outside scurrying around picking up last minute items. My dad slid shut the side door and climbed into the passenger seat and my mom climbed into the driver's seat. The car doors slammed and the engine ignited. I looked at the green neon analog clock on the front dashboard. 6:01 AM. We were leaving on time. A miracle.
"Dad, did you bring the cd's?" Kirsten asked. "Yep, they're up here with Alyse's boombox. We'll turn it on once we reach the freeway."
"I want some juice!" cried Andre. My dad unbuckled his seatbelt and twisted behind him to pull a juice bottle out from the cooler. "Maybe I can weach it," Andre offered and he unbuckled his seatbelt to pull out the juice. My dad returned to his seat and re-buckled.
"Andre's not wearing his seatbelt!" Clint tattled.
Dad turned around, "Andre, buckle up." Andre grudgingly obeyed.
"Nu uh!" Kirsten yelled. Kirsten and I were at in again. Arguing about something meaningless. Kirsten had a way of pushing my buttons and I would always stubbornly retaliate. I don't remember this, but my journal records that my mom scolded from the front seat, "You guys, Kirsten and Alyse, please stop fighting. Are you capable of that?"
It had only been about 3 minutes since we pulled out of the drive way. This was going to be a long trip. I leaned my head against my pillow next to the window and closed my eyes. All my siblings decided they wanted to sleep as well and the car fell silent except for my parents in the front seat quietly discussing the best way route to the freeway.
"But I can go this way, right? It will take me there?" My mom asked.
"I think so, but I always go the other way. We can try it, though," Dad replied
We had been driving only a few minutes when my mom turned down a dark country road in the middle of a wide field. All of us were calm, relaxed, and completely unaware of what was about to happen. The van pulled to a stop. The pause was quiet, but it felt queer. And suddenly my mom gunned the engine and the car jerked forward.
And then she screamed.
My blood drained, my stomach pitted, and my gut wrenched in a sickening craze as my mother's shriek ripped through my ear drums, rattling my sanity. But the scream was instantly silenced.
A crashing bang exploded against the van and threw my body against my sister and then wrenched me back into a shattering window. Ripping metal, crashing glass, squealing brakes rang through the caverns of my skull as my pillow was sucked out the window. I dug my fingernails into the cushion of the middle bench as it crushed into my legs while my body flung right and left in surges of psychotic centripical force.
With a final crashing blow my body slammed against the middle backseat knocking the air from my chest and then violently whipped me back against the back of my bench. And then nothing.
A deafening silence pounded against my temples and then I heard a shriek escape my clenched teeth. It swelled louder and fuller as my mouth opened slightly, and then it retreated back into my throat until all that was left was air whisking through my braces.
Thousands, thousands of screams ebbed and undulated inside the twisted metal heap lying contorted and writhing under a crisp azure sky, pierced with bloody streaks of sunrise.
It lasted less than half a second. Half a second.
A newly conceived embryo requires nine months inside their mother's womb to develop eyes, ears, toes, a liver, kidneys, a brain, and a tiny heart before it's prepared to face the harsh elements of the outside world. The mother then surrenders one year of her life to sleepless nights and throbbing breast pain in order to succor and sustain the baby past its first year. Then it takes 18 years of bone growth, brain maturation, language development, respiratory regulation, electrical synapsing before this body is finally deemed full grown. And then earning a college degree may take 4 years, falling in love could 40 years, creating a literary masterpiece could take over 30 years, raising kids requires 18 years for each child, and at least two weeks are necessary to enjoy Paris. Nine months in the womb, 18 years of childhood, and then 60 more years of adventuring and creating and loving before that fleshy frame finally wears out. In other words, it takes a lifetime to create and experience life.
But on that cold Wednesday morning, the day before Thanksgiving, a life that had taken decades to blossom into a complicated and beautifully intricate being was instantly and unceremoniously extinguished. And it took less than half a second.
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After a few seconds past, the chaos in my mind subsided to a degree where I was able to make sense of what had just taken place.
Every summer when was I young my family and I would go to the Boise River Festival. Pottery vendors, jewelry dealers, scarf embroiderers and cinnamon bakers filled the city parks with colorful kiosks and eager patrons. Local music echoed along the greenbelt while kids splashed in the Ann Morrison Park fountain. As night dimmed, red, yellow, and blue electric parade floats lit up downtown and tumblers and tubas danced through the streets. But every day, before all the festivities and concerts and shopping and parades, even before the sun had fully peaked its head over the rolling foothills, the sky would fill with balloons.
