Call Me Cockroach: Based on a True Story

by Leigh Byrne

  “As far as your kids go, your mother has never been a part of their lives. And your brothers will have to deal with their kids in their own way. You have a right to tell your story. It was all kept quiet to protect the family for too long. Now it’s your turn to talk.”

  “The rest of my family, and maybe some neighbors, might also be offended because they did nothing to help me.”

  “Who cares? Besides, it’s not about your family; it’s about you and the many people who will gain inspiration from your story. Look, if you’re so worried about your family then change all the names. Authors do it all the time. Just get your story out there. That way your suffering will not have been for nothing.”

  “They’ll probably deny it, you know.”

  “Of course they will. No one wants to admit to having any part in something like that. Or, who knows? They might surprise you. Most of them didn’t know how bad it was for you. Maybe deep down they want to know, maybe they need to know.”

  “What if nobody believes me?”

  “The people who matter will believe you.” She sat her coffee down. “I know what you’re afraid of. You’re afraid that what happened with social services when you were a kid will happen again. But I can tell you this: it never once occurred to me while you were telling me your story that what you were saying wasn’t true. I could feel the pain in your words and see it in your eyes.”

  “I don’t know if I can write about everything that happened to me, all the disgusting things I had to do. Maybe I’m embarrassed.”

  “Tuesday, you’re not giving the readers enough credit. Most people are compassionate. They’ll get it!”

  “You think?”

  “Let me ask you something. How did you feel while you were reading A Child Called It?”

  “Inspired, and this may sound awful, but also a little glad I wasn’t the only one.”

  “Do you doubt it’s true?”

  “No! I know it’s true, because the same thing happened to me!”

  “Look, I’m not going to push you on this, because we’ve been there before, and I know if I push you you’ll run the other way. I want to say one more thing, and then I’ll drop it. I feel strongly about you writing this book—getting it all out, dealing with what happened on your own terms, and I’m not going to let you forget about it. You have a story that needs to be told, and you’re a gifted writer. How many more hints does Fate have to give you?”

  “Okay, you’re right. I’ll write a book—someday.”

  Dani dropped the subject, like she said she would, but she never let me forget about what came to be known between us as “the book.” She continued to slip it into conversation from time to time, address, and shoot down all my excuses, then back off again.

  SEARCHING FOR THE SURFACE

  We never know when someone special is going to walk into our life. Someone who, if we don’t flub things up, could play a significant role in our future. Had I known ahead of time such a person was coming my way I would’ve been better prepared. I would’ve worn a more flattering dress, spent more time on my hair that morning, and thought up some cool lines to make me seem clever and confident. But I didn’t know he was coming, so I was left with no other choice than to be me, the awkward, insecure me, who wasn’t confident or cool, or beautiful, even on a good hair day.

  About ten minutes before closing at the furniture store, a fortyish man came in and zipped past the counter. He was the customer all salespeople hate. The one who comes in right before a store closes, most likely intentionally, knowing he’ll be free to browse in peace, because no salesperson wants to deal with a customer ten minutes before closing time.

  From my now extensive experience in sales, I’d found that if I left such a customer alone, he sometimes stayed past closing, but if I played the part of the typical pesky salesperson and followed him around the store every step he took, I’d chase him right back out the door.

  I got on the customer’s heels and followed him to the bedding department at the back of the store. As soon as he got there, he sat down on the most expensive pillow-top mattress we sold. The salesperson in me became excited. In addition to commission, I received a healthy spiff from the manufacturer every time I sold that particular mattress. But before I launched my sales spiel, I reminded myself that the right-before-closing customer usually didn’t buy.

  But what if this guy’s different? What if he needs a mattress now? I couldn’t risk losing a good sale. “So you need a mattress?” I said, trying not to sound too anxious. “The one you’re on would be an excellent choice.”

  He looked at me with watercolor blue eyes.

  “Is this one the best you sell?” he asked.

  “Top of the line.”

  He smiled. Although he was middle-aged, evident by his slightly thinning hair, he had an impish smile, giving him a child-like quality. “I’ll take it then, in king size.”

  Wow that was easy. “Are you sure? No one else has to try it out?”

  “Nope; only me.”

  Divorced; she got the furniture. “Well in that case, come with me and I’ll write it up for you.”

  “How soon can you deliver?” he asked, as we approached the front desk.

  “We have the bedding in stock, so we can have it to you within the next few days. By the way, there’s no delivery fee on our bedding.”

  “Excellent!”

  “I just need to get some information from you,” I said. Darla, another saleswoman who was behind the counter, gave me a surprised smirk when I picked up a sales ticket. “Your name, sir?”

  “Colin Scott.”

  Two first names; Grandma Storm once told me to never trust anyone with two first names. Hope he doesn’t write a bad check. “And your address?”

  “Ridgeway Apartments, apartment twenty.”

  Definitely divorced. “And we’ll need your phone number so our delivery crew can call and tell you when they’ll be bringing your mattress.”

  He pulled a business card from his wallet. “Here’s my card. They can call me at my office, and I’ll leave work and meet them at the apartment. It’s only five minutes away.”

  “Dr. Colin Scott?” I read aloud from the card.

  “You’re a doctor?” Darla asked. “I’ve been looking for a good doctor.”

  “You should call the office and make an appointment,” he said, handing Darla a card. Then he turned to me. “What about you… I’m sorry I didn’t get your name…”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Do you need a doctor, Tuesday?”

  “Well, I don’t have one in Evansville yet. Maybe.”

  He smiled. “Do you have a business card, Tuesday? I need an entire bedroom suite, but I’ll come back at another time for that.”

  He took my card, paid for his mattress, and then left the store. As Darla was locking up behind him, she giggled and said, “I think he likes you.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The way he looked at you when you weren’t paying attention. And all the grinning. I’ve never seen anyone that happy about buying a mattress.”

  “Oh, he was just being nice. And maybe trying to drum up patients. Besides, he’s a doctor. Why would a doctor be interested in me?”

  “Why wouldn’t he? Look at you!”

  “You’re sweet, Darla; but I don’t think so.”

  That night, when I got home, I stood in front of my mirror thinking about what Darla had said. I saw blotchy skin, still prone to regular breakouts, stringy, blond hair and a nose noticeably crooked from being broken more than once. I saw a mouth that simply refused to smile without considerable effort, which sometimes gave my face a forlorn haggard appearance. Stepping back, I twisted my hair into a bun at my crown, did a quarter turn of my head, and faked a smile. I knew there was no possible way a man like Colin could be interested in the woman I saw in the mirror. Doctors go out with pretty women from good families with masters degrees from reputable colleges, or women so gorgeous intelligence d
oesn’t matter. Or nurses—perky fresh-out-of-college nurses. Not a mousy salesclerk with a screwed up past, who’d recently been teetering on the edge of sanity. Such things don’t happen—ever—not even in the movies. I dropped my hair—and my smile—and went to bed.

  Molly, now fifteen, had grown into a striking young lady with a wholesome, girl next door quality. She wore hardly any make-up because she didn’t need to. Her cheeks were already blushed; her skin smooth and even, and her eyelashes naturally thick and dark. She wore her shiny black-brown hair in a straight, simple style, and often pulled it back in a high ponytail. She was dating now, all wrapped up in a steady boyfriend, and so she had little time for Chad or me.

  Daryl, taking after my side of the family, was blond and lanky-tall, bearing a vague resemblance to Jimmy D. He too always seemed to be busy doing something with his friends. He hated coming to Evansville. The times I was able to coax him into staying with me, all he wanted to do was go to the mall. When we were there, he walked five steps either in front of, or behind me, but never by my side where I wanted him. He’d reached a stage where being seen hanging out with his mom was a threat to his cool factor. I understood, but his new attitude broke my heart, because I still saw him as a toddler with his arms wrapped around my leg.

  With my head now bobbing up from the deep end of my depression, I yearned to reconnect with Aunt Macy. I called the only number I had for her, but it had been disconnected. Information had a listing under Edwin’s name, so I dialed it.

  Edwin picked up the phone.“Edwin? This is Tuesday, Macy’s niece. Do you remember me?”

  “Yes, of course. How are you?”

  “Well, I’m divorced now, and life’s been a bit rough lately. That’s why I haven’t tried to contact Aunt Macy in a while. But things are better now. The kids are healthy, and so am I. I guess I can’t complain.”

  “Sorry to hear you’ve been having trouble.”

  “Oh, don’t be. Everything’s fine. Could I talk to Aunt Macy? I’m anxious to catch up.”

  “Oh, I’m afraid that’s not possible, Tuesday.”

  “Why?”

  “Macy has been very ill, and part of her illness is that she can’t communicate. She tries to talk, but nothing comes out. I think she’s a bit confused in her head, and she’s afraid if she says anything she’ll embarrass herself.”

  “What’s the nature of her illness?”

  “At first the doctor said her problems were hormonal, so he prescribed some medication, and it seemed to help for a while. Then one day she stopped talking. I thought maybe it was a side effect of the medication, so I took her back to the doctor. She’s on another medication now, but there’s been no improvement. They have been running test after test on her, but they just can’t seem to figure out what it is.”

  “Does she have any other symptoms?”

  “Just general malaise; she has no energy, or will to go out. She’s lost her spirit, Tuesday.”

  “Would you tell her I called and when she feels better to call me?”

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t expect her to for a while.”

  “Should I come to see her?”

  “No, no, she won’t see anyone.”

  “She’ll see me.”

  “No she won’t. She knows I’m on the phone with you now and she’s shaking her head no.”

  “She doesn’t want to see me?”

  “I think she doesn’t want you to see her as she is. She has the Storm pride, you know.”

  “Will you hold the phone up to her ear so I can tell her something?”

  “I guess I can do that.”

  “Aunt Macy, I love you so much, and I miss you, and I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you when you tried to help me. But I want you to know I went to school and got my degree and…”

  Edwin got back on the phone. “Tuesday, I’m going to have to hang up, now. Something you said has made Macy anxious and she’s started to cry.”

  “Will you tell her I’ll call back in a few weeks to see if she’s better?”

  “I’ll be sure to do that, Tuesday. Take care,” he said, and hung up the phone.

  I waited a week and called again. This time no one answered. For weeks, I kept calling but no one ever picked up. It occurred to me that Edwin might not have had caller ID on his phone, and I hadn’t given him a number where Aunt Macy could reach me. I sent my number in a letter to the address I got from the phone book, and never got a response. I sent another letter in case she didn’t get the first one. All of my letters went unanswered.

  The cute doctor who bought the mattress came back into the furniture store and ordered a high end bedroom suite. He was sweet and smiley, like before, but also like before, he didn’t act the least bit interested in me. Silly Darla, I thought. Still he seemed like a nice guy. I told him I liked to do business with people who did business with me, and when I needed a doctor I would be sure to call him.

  Later on that day, Darla paged me to the phone. “It’s Colin Scott, that doctor,” she said. “I told you he liked you.”

  “He doesn’t like me, Darla. He ordered a bedroom suite and he’s probably wanting to add a nightstand or something. I pulled Colin’s information up on the computer, and then picked up the phone. “Hello Colin, how can I help you?”

  “I’m not calling about furniture,” he said. “I’m calling about something else.”

  Could it be? “What is it, then, Colin?”

  “Well, Darla called the office this morning and made an appointment. When I got home this afternoon, it hit me that you might want to do the same.”

  Oh, crap; he’s trying to get me to be a patient again. This guy must be a lousy doctor to have to solicit patients to this extent…

  “I don’t want you to be my patient, because if you’re my patient I can’t go out with you, and I want to go out with you. That is, if you will.” He paused a second or two, and then said, “Tuesday, life is full of missed opportunities and I don’t want to miss the opportunity to get to know you better.”

  “So you’re asking me for a date?”

  “Yes, a date. With me.”

  After I told him I’d go out with him, I wished I hadn’t. When I hung up, I wanted to call him right back and tell him I’d changed my mind, but decided to call Dani instead.

  “Dani, I’ve got this huge problem,” I said. “You’re not going to believe this, but the cute guy I was telling you about…”

  “The divorced guy who bought the expensive mattress?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. Anyway, he just called and asked me out to dinner!”

  “So, the problem is…?”

  “The problem is I can’t go out with him!”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? Because he’s a doctor!"

  “And you’re going to hold that against him?” Dani had the patience of a saint. She had twin boys—hyperactive twin boys. She’d sat through my six failed attempts to drive to the college on my own and never said a word. She hardly ever got agitated with me, but there was definitely agitation in her voice now. “You told me about this guy’s dreamy eyes and sweet smile before you even mentioned he was a doctor, which means you were attracted to him before you found out what he did for a living, right?”

  “He’s so nice; a real gentleman.”

  “What if he didn’t ask you out because you’re a salesclerk, a job some may consider inferior to his profession?”

  “I’d think he was an arrogant snob.”

  “But he’s not a snob! You will be though—sort of… in reverse—if you won’t go out with him because of what he does for a living.”

  “You’re right; he can’t help it if he’s a doctor.”

  “No, he can’t. You like this guy, and obviously he likes you, so go out with him and forget he’s a doctor.”

  “Gosh, I don’t know if I can do that.”

  “Well try, When’s your date?”

  “Friday night.”

  “This Friday? Wow that’s
three days away.”

  “I’ll have to have a new outfit.”

  “Of course you will; we’ll go shopping tomorrow.”

  Somehow I found the confidence to go out with Colin. He was charming and attentive on our date, and confessed to being just as nervous as I was.

  He asked me out again, and soon we became a couple, spending practically every day together. Molly and Daryl liked him, and he had two young daughters I was crazy about. No one had ever treated me as well as Colin did. He never talked down to me, or made me feel inferior in any way, and he acted proud to have me by his side during pharmaceutical events and dinners with his brainy colleagues. He was not the least bit jealous or possessive. The problem was I was used to jealous and possessive. Jealous and possessive felt like love to me, or what I thought love felt like.

  After we had been dating for several months, Colin suggested we get a place and move in together. We rented a beautiful furnished house in a golfing community overlooking the eighteenth hole. The house was spacious, and there was a bedroom for each of our kids. Molly and Daryl liked it better than any other place we’d lived since the divorce, and they started visiting more. The house—contemporary and decorated in colors of taupe, beige, and ecru—had soaring windows, a winding staircase, and an indoor koi pond. I couldn’t help but chuckle when I thought of the miniscule trailer I’d once been content to live in, with its orange shag carpet and holes in the paneled walls. Life is truly unpredictable, I thought. And it has a sense of humor too.

  Everything about my relationship with Colin appeared perfect on the exterior. At times, it even felt perfect. Still, skulking in the back alleys of my mind was my fear of rejection. Fear that Colin would someday cast me aside like Daddy had, because I wasn’t good enough.

  When I thought the time was right, I decided to include Colin in the handful of people I’d trusted with the secret of my past. I didn’t go into detail; I simply told him I had been an abused child. He was gentle, supportive and sympathetic. I thought sharing this intimate secret with him would bring us closer, but instead it did the opposite. Either he told his ex-wife about my history of abuse, or he told his girls and they told her. However she found out, she knew, and sent word through Colin that she didn’t want her children around someone who was potentially unstable.