Call Me Cockroach: Based on a True Story

by Leigh Byrne

  The next thing I knew, we had a for sale sign on the front lawn and prospective buyers were traipsing in and out of our home. In less than four months the house sold to a single state trooper. As soon as we closed the deal, early that spring, we borrowed the money to start building on the land. We couldn’t afford much square footage, so we chose an open plan with a vaulted ceiling to give the house an illusion of spaciousness.

  We took our full sixty days to move out, because we barely had the foundation of our new house laid. When our sixty days were up, we had to put all our furniture in storage and rent an apartment in an old building downtown until we’d finished the house. The apartment was a cramped place with a cracked vinyl sofa and dingy shag carpet of a color I couldn’t identify. It smelled of mildew and had a roach problem, but it was the only thing we could find that worked into our budget and didn’t require us to sign a lease.

  The next several months of the four of us crammed into that dank apartment crept by. When we’d finally finished the house and were able to move in, Chad got busy working on the yard, and I became engrossed in decorating the inside in a cozy country style. Soon our new house took on our family’s personality and felt like a home.

  My secret fear of driving and getting lost kept me manacled to the house. At one time, I had blamed Chad for my isolation, but now the blame could be placed nowhere but on me. He still didn’t like the idea of me going places without him, but he wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d once been. He had bought an old truck to drive to work, so the car was always available to me in case I needed to go somewhere.

  When we lived in the subdivision, keeping my fear of driving concealed was easier with Mindy willing to drive me anywhere I needed to go. She’d even driven Molly to kindergarten, pointing out there was no reason for me to get Daryl out when she had to drive Joey to the school anyway. To try to do my part, sometimes I picked the kids up in the afternoon, but not without trembling the whole way. Molly now rode the bus to school, so I didn’t have to worry about that anymore, but I lived in constant dread that she or Daryl would get sick, or be hurt, when Chad wasn’t there and I wouldn’t be able to drive them to the emergency room.

  Mindy’s driving me around wasn’t the only thing I missed about her. I missed her. We had become close like sisters. We still talked over the phone a couple of times a week, and I saw her on volleyball nights, but it wasn’t the same as always having her near. Molly missed her friends in the old neighborhood too, but with her bubbly personality, it didn’t take her long to make friends with a girl her age that lived next door.

  Molly’s new friend was a frail and timid blond named Emma. She reminded me of myself at her age, so I was instantly drawn to her, but I could hardly get her to talk to me, except to say hi. The only time she seemed to open up was when she and Molly were playing.

  Emma spent quite a bit of time at our house. She came in with Molly every day when they got off the school bus and often stayed until dark. On the weekends, she sometimes showed up at our door early in the morning, and then stayed all day, eating both lunch and supper with us. Molly adored Emma, and I didn’t mind her being around, because she was a well-behaved kid, but I found it odd that her parents didn’t want her home more. I became suspicious of this and started asking questions.

  “Emma, is it okay with your parents that you’re over here so much?”

  “Yes,” she said, staring at her feet.

  “I just thought maybe they missed you.”

  “My daddy’s at work and my mommy don’t care; she’s always asleep.”

  “Why is your mommy always asleep?”

  “She’s tired.”

  Molly tugged at Emma’s arm, “Come on, Emma; let’s go in my room.”

  When I realized I wasn’t going to get much out of Emma, I decided to investigate on my own. That night, after supper, I started by finding out if Chad knew anything about Emma’s parents.

  “Do you know Emma’s dad,” I asked him, casually.

  “Yeah, he works in the mines.”

  “Does he seem nice?”

  “I guess; he’s just a regular guy.”

  “What about her mother? Do you know her?”

  “Yeah, we went out a few times in school.”

  “So you know her better, right?”

  “Right, but not much; we didn’t go out like that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He grinned. “I mean we didn’t talk that much.”

  “Oh. Well did she seem normal to you?”

  “Normal? Hell, I don’t know! Why?”

  “Because Emma told me she sleeps a lot.”

  “So? What are you getting at?”

  “I think it’s weird that Emma is over here so much.”

  “Why don’t you ask Emma why she’s over here so much?”

  “I hate to do that. I’m afraid I’ll embarrass her.”

  “Well, you’re barking up the wrong tree here.”

  The next afternoon when Emma got off the school bus, I noticed she had a couple of bruises on one of her legs. I stooped down to her. “Honey what happened to your leg?”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled, still not making eye contact.

  “Did someone hit you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I took her by the shoulders. “Emma, look at me. Did your mommy or daddy whip you there?”

  She started to cry. “No! My mommy and daddy don’t whip me!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mama, leave Emma alone!” Molly interjected.”You’re scaring her!”

  Molly was right. To Emma, I was a woman she barely knew grabbing her by the shoulders demanding answers. “Oh, Emma, honey, I’m so sorry,” I said, turning loose of her. Molly took Emma’s hand and they went out to play.

  Emma’s reaction to my questions aroused my suspicions even more. I was convinced something was going on in her house. When Chad got in from work, I told him what had happened.

  “I think Emma is being abused.”

  “What makes you think that?” he asked.

  “She has bruises on her legs.”

  “So does Molly. Kids fall.”

  “She started crying when I asked her if her parents whipped her.”

  “You probably scared the shit out of her! Leave the kid alone!”

  “I can’t just stand by and let her be mistreated!”

  “Tuesday, every time we go to the grocery store and you see a mother spanking her kid you cry abuse. I’m sick of hearing it! Nobody’s being abused, so drop the subject and don’t bring it up again!”

  “I saw her run into her daddy’s arms when he got home from work the other day, so I think it’s her mother” I said. “I could at least call social services.”

  “Yeah and what if you’re wrong. You’ll disrupt their family and Emma won’t be able to play with Molly anymore because we’ll be their enemies for life.”

  “But what if I’m right?”

  “You’re not. Mind your own business, Tuesday.”

  What does he know? I thought. Even though he denied it, I suspected he still had his doubts about my abuse.

  That night, I lay awake in bed thinking about Emma and how I could save her. If she is being abused, I of all people should do something. But Chad was right about one thing; I couldn’t report Emma’s mother without proof of abuse. I made up my mind to go to Emma’s house the next day and meet her mother. We lived right next door to one another and our kids played together. It’s the neighborly thing to do.

  The following morning, I readied myself to visit Emma’s mother. I baked oatmeal cookies to take with me. I was sitting at the kitchen table trying to get my nerve up, when the doorbell rang. The doorbell never rang. It must be Bobbi.

  I opened the front door to a small-boned blond woman in what appeared to be a nurse’s uniform. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Amy from next door; Emma’s mom.”

  “Oh… hi. I’m Tuesday. You’re not going to believe this, but I was getting
ready to come over to your house!”

  “That’s so funny!” she said. She had a sweet smile. But that didn’t mean anything; Mama appeared to be nice too. “I thought it was time we meet each other since our girls play together.”

  “Me too; come in.”

  “Okay, I’ll step in for a minute, but I can’t stay long.” She walked in and stood by the door.

  “So, you’re a nurse?”

  “Uh-huh. I work third shift at the hospital. I just got off.” Mama was a nurse, I thought. Amy looked around her at everything but me. Was she nervous, or just shy, like Emma? “Your house is so pretty!” she said.

  “Thanks. Would you like some coffee?”

  “Oh, no, I’ve got to get to sleep so I can wake up when Emma gets home from school.”

  “Emma told me you sleep a lot.”

  “Sometimes I’m still asleep when she gets home. She used to wake me up, but lately all she wants to do is play with Molly!”

  “Molly loves playing with her too. Seems like she’s always here!”

  Amy’s face turned pink. She was a mood ring person—someone so pale-skinned her complexion color changed with her emotions. “Emma’s not getting on your nerves is she?” she asked.

  “No, not at all!”

  “Because if she is, let me know and I’ll keep her home.”

  “Emma’s a good kid. I don’t mind having her around.”

  “The thing is Molly’s the first real friend Emma’s ever had. She’s so introverted. She gets it from me.” Her blush deepened. “Molly has brought her out of her shell and I am so thankful for that.”

  From years of watching Mama deceive everyone around her, I knew good acting when I saw it. Amy was not an abusive parent. She was a loving mother concerned about her daughter’s problem with shyness.

  “I’m glad the girls are friends,” I said, in a softer voice than before. “It’s good for both of them.”

  Amy turned for the door. “I’ve got to get to sleep before I fall over. So nice to meet you, Tuesday, and if you ever need anyone to watch Molly, you let me know.”

  “Thanks, and nice to have met you too,” I said. “Amy wait,” I called out to her as she walked away. I jogged into the kitchen and got the cookies. “I made these for you. I hope you like oatmeal raisin cookies.”

  “My favorite! Thank you! You’re so sweet!”

  After she’d left I hung my head in shame. Chad was right; I saw child abuse where there wasn’t any. Amy was a nice, hard working lady, doing the best she could as a mother. If Chad hadn’t stopped me, I might have turned her in to the social services, and possibly ruined her life. I thought about my neighbors growing up, and wondered if maybe they had felt the same way.

  HUNGRY AGAIN

  As an adult who’d been starved as a child, I considered eating a luxury and a privilege. Because of this mindset, I often overindulged. But somehow I’d always managed to keep my weight under control, until I became pregnant with Daryl and put on close to sixty pounds. Almost three years later, I still hadn’t lost all the extra weight.

  One day, I nonchalantly mentioned to Chad that I needed to go on a diet.

  “That’s probably a good idea,” he responded a little too quickly. “You are beginning to look like a giant bottle.”

  A normal woman with healthy self-esteem might have ignored what Chad said, or come back at him with a clever counter punch. But I was in no aspect normal. Not even close. His words had cut straight to my heart, and inside, I was screaming hysterically—a very abnormal reaction. But I could do a good impersonation of normal. I’d learned how through watching TV and observing the people around me.

  “Go to hell, Chad.” I said, with an I-couldn’t-care-less-what-people-think laugh. I was so convincing, he never knew the depth of the wound he had inflicted, and he would never know. In bed, after he went to sleep, I muffled my sobbing with my pillow.

  The next day I started my diet. I didn’t adhere to any specific regimen, like the Atkins plan, or the then popular Grapefruit Diet, but rather one I’d created on my own. It was called the Eat Practically Nothing Diet.

  Food had become such an important part of my life, it took great effort to adjust to my new eating habits. The first few days of my diet messed with my head more than my stomach, taking me back to the days when food was scarce. But losing the weight was a priority, a mission—my new obsession—and I’d swore not to stop until I was satisfied. The problem was I had not yet defined satisfied.

  When I started a new obsession, I went all in. I talked Chad into buying me some scales and a book to educate myself on calories and fat grams. I studied the book until I could accurately cite the calories per serving of almost any food. I kept a meticulous mental record of my daily caloric intake, making sure it stayed around 1,200. I had learned from my reading that in order to lose weight, total fat consumed should never exceed three grams per every 100 calories. At any point during a day I knew, not only how many calories I’d taken in, but also how many grams of fat.

  Soon food lost its appeal. What had once been a deity I worshipped had now become my enemy. Numbers were constantly whirling around in my head. Every morning I woke up planning what I would eat that day. At night, I lay in bed unable to sleep for calculating my calories and fat grams, double checking to make sure I hadn’t exceeded my daily allotment. If I determined that I’d gone even one calorie over the set amount, I would get up out of bed in the middle of the night and sprint up and down the stairs—sometimes for more than an hour—until I was sure I had burned the extra calories.

  For the first couple of months, I lost weight at a steady pace. Then my body adjusted to the diet and my weight loss slowed down. I cut my daily caloric intake to 1,000 and increased the intensity of my exercise routine. I started jumping rope, doing pushups, and lifting weights two or three times a day for an hour each session.

  Chad began to complain about my preoccupation with exercising and compulsive weighing, claiming I was neglecting him and the kids. To get him off of my back, I stopped working out while he was home. But I snuck in exercise at night, like running in place when I went to the bathroom, or doing quick laps around the yard when I took out the trash.

  Soon the weight started to drop rapidly from my five feet seven inch frame. The first thing in the morning I stepped on the scales. It was exciting to see the needle inch down a little more every day. Fat continued to melt away right before my eyes, until my weight had plummeted from 150 to 105 pounds. I weighed 120 before I got pregnant with Daryl, but I had no intention of returning to my former size. I loved my slender new body, how my once binding jeans now hung loosely on my protruding hipbones. But most gratifying of all, losing weight was something I made happen—something I controlled.

  By accident, I discovered a way to expedite my weight loss even more. Ever since I had Daryl I’d been prone to constipation, so I decided to try a laxative. I followed the package directions of a dosage of two pills. Nothing happened, but some cramping, so I took two more pills, and finally got results. Afterward, I noticed my belly had gone from flat to concave. I got on the scales and saw I’d lost two pounds. This got me to thinking. If four pills made me lose two pounds then maybe eight will make me lose four or five.

  After months of dieting, exercise, and laxatives, my period suddenly stopped. I knew I couldn’t be pregnant, because I’d had my tubes tied after Daryl was born. I told Mindy, and she said she’d heard about a woman who’d had a tubal and still got pregnant because her tubes grew back together. This scared me, but not enough to make me go to the doctor. I was positive I wasn’t pregnant because I didn’t have any other symptoms, and after two children, I knew how my body responded to pregnancy.

  A few weeks later, my hair started falling out by the fistfuls. I decided it was time to go get checked out. The doctor examined me and ran a few tests, and determined I’d stopped my period because I hardly had any body fat. He said my fat to muscle ratio was like that of a teen gymnast, not a woman in
her twenties. I was okay with not having any more periods, but according to the doctor, the hormonal imbalance from my dieting could cause other problems besides not having a period, one of them being hair loss. He told me I needed to get my weight up to 118 pounds to resume my period and stabilize my hormone level. The thought of gaining even one ounce terrified me, let alone almost eighteen pounds, but my fear of losing my hair was greater than my fear of being fat, so I had no other option.

  To gain weight, I ate only the blandest foods that lay heavy in my mouth, like rice and dry toast. I would not allow myself to taste, because I didn’t want my old lover to woo me into his arms again. It took months, but eventually I gained back some of the weight I’d lost, resumed my menstrual cycle, and most important of all, I stopped losing my hair.

  But just because my body was back to normal didn’t mean I had to abandon my control over it. I got better at concealing my dieting and exercise, and continued to keep a close check on the scales, never allowing my weight to get one ounce over 118 pounds, which the doctor claimed was still too thin for a woman of my height. My life became a silent daily struggle to keep from breaking through the fragile membrane between merely watching my weight and returning to a full blown eating disorder.

  ECHOES OF DISCONTENTMENT

  After my weight had stabilized, Chad asked Bobbi to watch the kids while he took me to buy some new clothes that fit properly. There weren’t many places to shop in Sullivan, but Mindy had told me about a trendy ladies clothing store that had recently opened downtown, called Ashley’s.

  Ashley’s had a good selection of stylish clothes, and I found two tops and a pair of shorts at a price Chad was willing to pay. While we were checking out, the sales clerk, a chatty fresh-faced woman around my age, mentioned, in passing, that if I knew of anyone who needed a job they were hiring.