“Isabel, you promised you’d try to jump in from the diving board!” Evie the fish egged me on, as she did a breaststroke and then a backstroke and finally a freestyle all the way to the other side of the pool.
“Evie, I’m not ready to swim in the deep part yet!” I cried.
“Look at me, look at me!” Alicia yelled as she jumped from the opposite side of the steps.
“Abuelo, did you see what Ali did?” I shouted out to him.
“Heh? No le entiendo hija. Espanol por favor.”
Evie, Alicia and I have him to thank for growing up in a trilingual family. While our first language was always English, we spoke our native dialect as well as Spanish quite fluently.
As the afternoon wore on, I splashed around in my rubber tubing, edging my way toward the line separating the five foot depth and the gradual descent into ten feet of water. This was me. Cautious, methodical. Afraid of the unknown. Always.
“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was within me an invincible summer.”
—Albert Camus
I remember the day that it happened so vividly in my mind. It was the beginning of the end for our family, as we knew it. It started out like any normal day, the three of us sisters trying to find something to fight about.
“Isabel, guess what I did? I drooled on Pinky,” Evie announced annoyingly.
“You what?” I demanded, as I protectively clutched my baby pillow.
She took the pillow from me and said, “I drooled on it, just like this!” She tilted her head and allowed a sliver of spit to fall on my freshly washed pillowcase.
Alicia grabbed Evie by the arm and screamed, “Evie, why would you do that?”
I didn’t wait to hear her reason. I ran over to Evie and bit her.
“Girls! Girls! Stop it right this minute!” My nanny rushed in as she tried to pull us apart. Evie cried, I furiously washed Pinky and Ali ran off to hide behind the door. “Your parents have decided to go to church with you today. Let’s stop fighting and start getting changed before you all have to stand in the corner!”
Several minutes later, the incident had been forgotten and we were all ready to leave the house. I was wearing a pink dress underneath a pink coat with shiny white tights and white shoes. My Cat Woman glasses were lopsidedly perched on my nose as I linked arms with my sisters and we skipped down the winding driveway.
My mother had little nicknames for the three of us; sometimes they were funny, oftentimes they were just made up words that she treated as her terms of endearment for us. She was in a good mood, ushering all of us into the car.
“Let’s go,” she started, “my brownie, my whitie and my chubby babies.”
We all giggled and walked down the driveway toward the chauffeur who had opened the door for us, welcoming us into the car with a big smile. All of a sudden from out of nowhere, I caught sight of my father as he stormed past me and pushed through my sisters to get to my mother.
“You don’t call the children those names!” he yelled as he delivered a flying kick to her stomach, the sound of which I will never forget. It was a thumping sound on impact, but I swear I heard a crack right as my mother slumped against the wheel of the car.
Everything turned into a blur, as the maids rushed to my mother and people were running to get my grandparents. Shortly after, my nanny picked me up and carried me across the garden to my grandparents’ home, which we called the big house. When I asked what happened to my mother and father, they only told me that my mother was recovering from a ruptured spleen and that my sisters had gone to live with my father. My nanny said that I would be living with my grandparents for a while. I wasn’t sure what “for a while” meant because I ended up staying there for what seemed like forever. I think this marked the first time that I knew what true loneliness felt like. Little did I know that this would be a normal part of my everyday life from then on. I was torn away from Evie and Alicia, and at that age, I didn’t really know how to come to terms with it. My grandparents tried to replace their presence with toys and books. Lots of them.
Pictures don’t lie; they actually remind you of the memories you push to the back of your mind because you would rather not remember. There is one of me at my piano recital. I wasn’t laughing. I wasn’t smiling. I was clutching my nanny’s hand and staring out into space. I didn’t look upset or sad. I just looked really lonely.
The next time I saw my sisters was outside of a courthouse on the way to my parents’ custody hearing. It was a major circus, the news media everywhere and photographers lurking in every corner. I heard when I was older that my mother and father were represented by the two most prominent lawyers of that time. As I walked down the never-ending hallway to the courtroom holding my grandmother’s hand, I saw two tiny heads on the other end. My sisters! I screamed their names and we all broke through the crowd and met in the middle, hugging and kissing and chattering like we had never been separated.
“Isabel!” Evie whispered cautiously. “Why haven’t you called us?”
“Nanny said that you and Alicia were busy with schoolwork,” I whispered back.
“Isa, I don’t think they want us talking anymore,” Alicia chimed in. “I think Mommy and Papa are in trouble or something.”
“Where’s Mommy?” Evie asked.
“I don’t know. After Papa kicked her, I think she’s still in the hospital,” I said, looking around as if the subject of my mother was not to be discussed.
“What are we doing here then?”
“I think the judge wants to know who we want to live with.”
“Who should we live with, Evie?” I asked tentatively. “Grandma and Grandpa said that they would give me $20 if I told the judge I wanted to live with my mommy.”
“Isa, Mommy is bad. She asked the bad men to follow Papa to the gas station and shoot him!”
“Alicia, what are you talking about?” There were footsteps coming toward us and I desperately tried to hurry the conversation up.
“Issy, didn’t you know? Papa can’t walk because of a bullet wound in his leg. The bad men shot him a few days ago, and he crawled up the steps to Abuelo’s house. There was blood on the steps when Evie and I walked outside to go to school the other day.”
“Evie, why am I living with Grandma and Grandpa all by myself?” I asked, confused about how this living arrangement was working for anyone, including me.
“Papa said that Grandma and Grandpa only chose to take care of you. If you ask me, I think it’s because you’re the only one who looks like Mom,” she said indignantly.
“Well, he shouldn’t have hurt her. I still want to live with Mom. Can we just call each other and see each other on Saturdays?”
Then, as quickly as we had come together, there were parties in between us, separating us. By the time we entered the courthouse to take our seats, there were two distinct factions — on the left side sat my grandparents and me, and on the right, my father’s family and my sisters. There were muffled whispers and shuffling noises, as my sisters and I sat on the floor and played with our toys while the hearing took place. After about an hour of endless droning, my older sister was led to the podium by the bailiff. The prosecutor’s lawyer started to interview her, and she calmly told him what had happened the day my mom punctured her spleen.
I don’t remember any more of it other than this: Without warning, my sister ran up to the judge and bit him! She bit him as she screamed, “I want to live with my dad! I don’t want my mom taking me away!” A swift kick to the judge’s shins immediately followed that bite. A commotion ensued and we were whisked away together. I gave Evie the widest smile and a thumbs up as we were hurriedly escorted out of the courtroom.
“I walked a mile with Pleasure
She chattered all the way;
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow
And ne’er a word said she;
But oh, the things I learne
d from her
When Sorrow walked with me.”
—Robert Browning Hamilton
The years just melded into each other and before I knew it, I was twelve years old, and my mother had finally come back.
My grandparents and I were having lunch one Saturday, just the three of us. It was the same kind of meal we used to share every day. Standing alongside several plates of various entrees, the chef continued to explain to my grandmother what they were.
“And what are these garnishings you used, Felipe?” She pointed to the various dishes with swirly green things and flower shaped tomatoes. “They don’t look good, too tacky. Next time just use some sprigs of rosemary or parsley. They would look more presentable,” she instructed as she took a spoonful of one of the dishes. “I think this needs more salt or something,” she continued.
“Yes, ma’am,” was all Felipe could say.
My grandfather ate in silence as I sat next to him, my squeaky voice rattling on and on. Engaging my grandparents in conversation was not an easy task.
“So, Grandpa, do you remember Melissa, the girl who came over the other day? She lives two houses away from the club.”
He nodded his head and waited for me to go on.
“Well, Ali’s friend Paula told her friend Marge that Melissa was caught kissing a boy at the bus stop. And she got grounded!” I squealed.
I craved to hear anyone’s voice but my own. Just then, the maid respectfully interrupted my story, which was just about to get more exciting.
“Ma’am Anna, Claudia is asking to see you. She’s waiting outside by the front door.
“Claudia, as in my mom?” I didn’t wait for an answer.
I bolted out of my chair and ran through the halls toward the front door. There she stood, looking absolutely beautiful. She was all dressed up in her designer clothes, a pair of Chanel palazzo pants and a silk blouse that was knotted up at the waist. She was surrounded by a set of matching Louis Vuitton luggage and flanked to the side by a tall, dark man with the kindest looking eyes I had ever seen.
“Isabel! Come and say hi to your new dad!” my mother said excitedly, like she was never gone from my life for all those months.
I ran over without any hesitation and gave him a hug. He lifted me up and hugged me back. I just knew right then and there that Dad #2 was going to be the best dad ever.
It wasn’t much longer than a few months when the fights between my mother and stepdad began to get worse. There would be screaming matches and crying fits. My stepdad would always end up walking out on her and staying away for days. I know they fought about money because she forged his signature on checks to pay for all her things. She was depressed when her shopping was curbed and he couldn’t control her spending. She accused him constantly about cheating on her with another woman. I don’t think this is normal, I would tell myself every time there was a commotion at our house. And yet this was the only family life I had ever known. It was either a cold and tense silence like she shared with my father, or knockdown drag-out fights like she had with my stepfather.
One Wednesday afternoon, as I came home to get ready for a riding lesson, I rushed into my mother’s bedroom to greet her. The air conditioner made a humming sound and the room was ice cold and eerily still. My mother had migraines quite often, so the shades were pulled and the room was always pitch black.
“Mommy, I’m home. Are you sleeping again? I have to leave for my lesson in an hour.”
I jumped on the bed like I’d become accustomed to, intending to take a short nap beside her. I reached out for her, but she wasn’t on the bed. Just as I got up and headed out for the door, a feeling of dread washed over me. I felt a slight movement on the other side of the floor, so I climbed back on the bed and leaned over the edge to the opposite side. There, on the ground was my mother, slumped but alive, mumbling like she was drugged out of her mind.
“Mommy, get up, what did you do? Did you fall?”
She was crouched in a fetal position, her elbows jutting out as her arms were tucked in under her head. I tried to grab her hands and then I saw them. They were bloodied and wet, glistening red against the darkness of the room. She had cut her wrists. Both of them.
“The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved.”
—Mother Teresa
Surprisingly, when you’re twelve and you witness something as devastating as finding your mother bleeding, semi-conscious and near death, there is a defense mechanism that kicks in to protect you from falling apart. The vision of her bloodied hands would stay with me forever. But aside from that, everything I felt or thought was more or less centered on the fact that I didn’t want my life to change again. Nothing ever stayed the same. No one was in my life long enough to get to know me. Most importantly, why did I always have to go through this alone?
Visits to a child psychiatrist began immediately after the incident. Ballet and piano lessons were quickly replaced by sitting in another waiting room; only this time, I was the patient. The first few two-hour sessions were spent doing puzzles and analyzing flash cards. Ink blots on cards. They all looked like different shapes of butterflies and I let the psychiatrist know that. When she asked what a red scribbled line looked like to me, I told her they reminded me of my mother’s wrists.
“Isabel, do you know why you’re here?” Dr. Pressler asked at the end of one of the sessions. She was a tall middle-aged woman who wore different colored headbands.
“Yes, I do,” I answered, looking down at the floor. “I’m here because of what happened to my mom.”
“Tell me what happened when you found your mom. How did it make you feel?” she asked.
“I found her on the floor, bleeding. That’s it. I was afraid she was dead, but then I heard her whispering, so I knew she was alive. She looked like one of those soldiers who are shot in John’s video games.” I continued to stare at the carpet underneath my feet. John was my stepbrother, my mother’s only connection to having a son.
“Who is John?” She leaned back into her chair and crossed her arms.
“He’s my stepbrother. He’s 16 and my mom loves him so much because he’s the only boy in our house.”
“Do you get along with John?”
“Yes, he hangs out with me a lot. He has a lot of cute friends who come over, and my sister Evie and I always hide behind the big tree by the pool to watch them.”
She laughed. “What do you watch them do?”
“Nothing, really. We watch them play pool on the veranda and just hang out. Sometimes I walk over to talk to them, but Evie is so shy about boys, she stays behind the tree.”
“What about your stepfather, Isabel? Do you like him?”
“Oh! I love him so much! He bought me a mini trail motorcycle and a horse. He always takes time to talk to me. We spend a lot of time together.”
“How about your grandparents, Isabel? Do you get along with them?”
“I’ve lived with them since I was seven. My grandmother is always angry at my mom, calling her names and telling me that I’m going to grow up to be just like her. Then she gets angry at me.”
“Why do you think she gets angry at you? Do you know what she means when she says that you’ll grow up to be just like your mom?”
“I think it’s because I look like my mom. When boys look at me or talk to me, she says it’s because I act like my mom, whatever that means.”
Dr. Pressler shook her head slightly.
“Isabel, tell me about school. Have you been getting into fights lately?”
“Yes,” I said guiltily. I started to pull out a thread from the hem of my dress.
“Do you start the fights? What are they about?”
“It bothers me that everyone at school knows about what my mom did. Some of the kids on the bus tease Alicia and call my mom names. I don’t like it, and I don’t let them get away with it.” The inflection in my voice had notably changed. The thread kept on unraveling. This dress was going to be two
inches longer by the time I got done with this session.
“Does anyone in your family talk to you about it when they hear from the school?”
“Just my stepdad. He never gets mad at me, though. He says that I have a love for life that he admires. He always tells me that someday some guy is going to be very lucky to marry me.”
“And how are you feeling now?” Her voice was soft and gentle, almost calming. No one ever asked anything about me. I wanted to tell her, to keep her attention.
“I’m okay. I miss my mom. I’m going to be visiting her again after this.”
“Do you like visiting her?”
“I don’t mind it. Even when I’m without my sisters, I like being close to her, knowing where she is, what she’s doing. She has no one but me to take care of her.”
“Do you feel like you’re always the one that’s there for her?”
“I am the only one. That’s just how it is, I even stay home from school to keep her company whenever she’s sad,” I declared with so much conviction.
“What do you like to do, Isabel? Tell me what you do during your free time.”
“I love to read. I also want to be in the Equestrian Olympics one day, so I try to ride my horse as often as I can. I love talking to my sisters and playing games with them,” I answered excitedly. Someone was trying to get to know me.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she asked in a soothing voice as she leaned close enough so I could see the beautiful freckles on her nose.
“A good wife and mother,” I announced self-assuredly as I snapped the thread in half with my fingers.
“Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
—Robert Frost
As I took the final step off the landing stairs and onto the ground, the hot and humid breeze grazed my cheeks. I was home. I followed the line of people through the runway and into the main building toward the immigration booths. I was one in a sea of people. No one knew me; no one knew I was here. I smiled to myself as I thought of the normal process my family went through at the airport. Ordinarily, I would have been whisked out of the airplane into a private walkway leading to a private immigration line. There would be no waiting, just a branding of our passports and we would be on our way. It felt wonderful to be inconspicuous and unrecognized.
The Light in the Wound Page 2
