Come Back With a Bonus Excerpt: A Mother and Daughter's Journey Through Hell and Back

by Claire Fontaine

  I had always thought my mother’s lack of physical affection was because I looked just like my father, who turned out to be a rather less than ideal husband. In this photo, she’s a slender, blue-eyed blond around thirty, holding a fat, squawky baby named Claire. You can see the veins in her hands, and that she’s smiling. As I see my mother in my hands, I realize for the first time that, far from disliking me because I looked like my dad, whom she still loved then, I was a source of joy for her. I was the first new life in her arms after losing her family in the war.

  I’ve spent so much time blaming and being angry at her for not telling me she loved me for forty years, I didn’t see the most obvious thing, something that must have hurt her very much—that I waited forty years to tell her. Me, an expressive, modern woman, for whom saying I love you should have been no big deal, was mad at a woman who had no blueprint for such things.

  Her mother was hardly warm and cuddly. She didn’t have the luxury; she was dying of kidney failure while trying to raise four kids. She died when my mother was only twelve, a few years before the rest of her family was taken to the camps. My mother was on her own at thirteen and in hiding by sixteen, when she wasn’t doing slave labor. Or passing as a Gentile without false papers, just guts and Aryan-looking beauty.

  Whatever else I’ve learned about her history has taken my sisters and me thirty years of coaxing out. In this regard, survivors fall into two categories, those who never stop talking about the war, and those who never speak. Only a few years ago, out of the blue, my mother mentioned at lunch why she’s never been a big fan of Raoul Wallenberg. She used to overhear Wallenberg and Eichmann making deals under the staircase in one of the buildings she was hiding in. “He only saved you if you had money, what are you ordering, Claire?”

  My parents refuse to pull me, so there’s no way I’m going home. Which means I have 18 months left in this hellhole because I refuse to work this program. I’ve learned what I’m going to and at this point it’s just circus tricks, a game.

  Ever since I dropped, Sunny’s the only junior staff who doesn’t treat me any differently, even though she probably gets reamed by other junior staff for “supporting me in my crap.” Roxanne has totally avoided me. I love how in one conversation I’ve managed to do a one-eighty. Never mind anything else, she talked about sex, OH MY GOD, she’s a terrible person.

  This drop was the last straw. A favorite expression here is that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Well, I’ve been working the program for fourteen months and, obviously, I’m still not home.

  Being out of control of your own time, of your own life, is the worst sensation. To know the world keeps on turning while I’m locked up makes me so frustrated, so furious, I dig my nails into my skin to keep from screaming at the top of my lungs. I feel like I’m rotting.

  The past few months, I’ve divided my days between working in the kitchen to avoid my family and Miss Kim, and deliberately getting myself sent to worksheets when I accumulate enough points to move up.

  I’ve thought about running, but there’s no point. I couldn’t go home, they’d just send me back and I don’t want to live on the streets anymore. It’s like they’ve destroyed my desire to do one thing without replacing it with another.

  Five minutes to the end of group, thank God. Most of the girls who shared today were new and full of shit, all they do is bitch and blame and not actually deal with anything.

  “Okay, girls, see you tomorrow,” Miss Kim says as we line up.

  “Wait!” Sunny cries.

  We all turn, puzzled by her outburst. She looks like she’s about to either laugh or cry. Then, she takes a deep breath, raises her head high, thrusts out her chest, and announces like Spartacus:

  “I…AM…LESBIAN!”

  Not I am gay, not I am A Lesbian, but I Am Lesbian, as in hear me roar. Only Sunny.

  Roxanne rolls her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Several girls ditto her, including Miss Kim. Sunny bursts into tears. “Oh, you guys, this is just faaabulous!”

  “Time’s up, kiddo.”

  Mike tosses me my coat and reaches to scoop up the pile of candy wrappers I left on his desk.

  “I’ll get those.”

  “Oh, I’m not cleaning up your mess, just counting it. Twenty-three, know what that means?”

  “What—I’ll soon be rich and famous?”

  “You ate more than you spoke today.”

  “You have interesting ways of measuring productivity, Mike.”

  “You have interesting ways of justifying sitting on your ass.”

  I shove my arms through my jacket, annoyed.

  “So, you’re jumping on the bandwagon now, too? We both know you don’t need to graduate to succeed. I’ve been through all the seminars, I’ve been almost every level there is to be in here, I’m done, I get it, this place is wasting my fucking life!”

  “Then go home.”

  Is he not hearing me? I open my mouth to swear at him, but stop myself. Mike’s the last person I need to be getting mad at now. I sit back down in the chair, frustrated.

  “I almost cut myself the other day, Mike.”

  His eyebrows shoot up and his eyes flash surprise and hurt.

  “I found a safety pin from when I was on the upper levels. I was in a stall, just pissed about being locked up, it was that same feeling of being out of control I felt whenever I cut myself back home. But it just seemed pointless and stupid. I don’t want to hurt myself anymore.

  “And that’s the thing, Mike, I haven’t wanted to do drugs or run away in eons. And everyone thinks I’m in my crap because I won’t work the program, but they don’t get why.”

  “Bull! Everyone thinks you’re in your crap because you are. You’re sabotaging yourself to prove a point. And this situation translated into the outside world scares the hell out of me. There’s always a “man,” there’s always a system, and the sooner you get over it, the quicker you can get what you want. I don’t particularly like paying taxes, I could say lock me up, I’m not giving you a dime. But, then I’d be missing my kids’ birthdays while Bubba tries to bend me over. And I don’t really like that idea.

  “You know what you need to do to get what you want and the only thing stopping you is you.”

  “Hey, you have a minute?”

  Roxanne’s the last person I expect to hear this from.

  “Yeah, one sec.”

  I grab my toiletries from out of the shower and sit next to her on my bunk. Without a word, she starts brushing my hair like old times.

  “Your hair’s grown a lot since the last time I did this! Remember how fried it was when you came in?”

  “Yeah. I was jealous because you had this thick, shiny hair, but when you—”

  “Mia, I’m going to the next PC2.”

  I turn around and we stare at each other for a minute in silence. PC2 is the final seminar, it means graduation. And just like that, it’s like we never fought, like I never dropped, like we never left Morava. We both start apologizing, she for avoiding me, me for resenting her for doing what I wasn’t.

  “It’s crazy,” she says. “I’ve hated being here but I really think some of the best memories of my life came out of it.”

  “Yeah, remember when Lupe put on “Bohemian Rhapsody” during dinner?”

  “And when you and Brooke had that chugging contest at Halloween with cranberry juice and you both puked gallons of pink vomit!”

  “And das penis brot!”

  The other girls in the cabin look over at us, they have no idea what we’re talking about.

  “I can’t believe you’re going home.”

  She reaches over to hug me and I feel two things: sadness at losing someone like a sister to me and frustration because I should be in her shoes.

  A sudden shaking rouses me from a dream. My first groggy thought is that it’s an earthquake. Then I hear Chaffin’s booming voice, “Wake
up! You have five seconds to get in line!” The shaking is fourteen girls jumping out of bunks to line up heel to toe.

  “FIVE! Anybody talks and you’re all back to Level 1! FOUR!”

  We’re marched along an icy road, slipping as we try to stay heel to toe. We finally stop at the edge of a huge crater full of mud, big rocks, and junior staff.

  “Ladies, welcome to the Gravel Pit!”

  We’ve all heard of this process, but don’t know anything about it, just that it’s “powerful,” which can mean many things here at Spring Creek.

  Chaffin starts shouting orders like some sinister ringmaster, and we’re the circus animals. Our first performance is to move an enormous pile of rocks from one side of the pit to the other. The icy drizzle is turning to sleet. Our fingers are frozen so we keep dropping the rocks on our toes. Why is he doing this to us?

  Junior Staff surrounds us, taunting and antagonizing.

  “Come on, Mia!” Max yells, following me. “Your mom’s not gonna come rescue you this time, hurry it up!”

  We’re ordered to freeze where we are and squat, then to walk in this position in a circle ten times. Like ducks! Brooke waddles in front of me, sniffling as she moves pieces of mud-covered hair from her eyes. Chaffin’s yelling again, this time to go up the sides of the rocky pit and back down ten times. This is unbelievable! It’s two in the morning, I’m frozen, and my knees are killing me from squatting. There’s no possible reason for this! Nobody tried to run, no one stole meds or passed notes, no one did anything wrong!

  Some girls are crying, others silently fuming for fear of losing points. Brooke’s totally given up now and sits crying in a mud puddle at the bottom of the hill.

  “Get up, Brooke!” a girl shouts at her. “This is just like the way you let guys shit all over you back home while you just sat there and cried.”

  Brooke slings a handful of mud in the girl’s face before screaming and running up the hill. I follow the orders as long as I can until I feel my knees give. As I start to fall, I feel a pair of strong arms reach out and lift me to the top where I’m given some water.

  Chaffin blows his whistle and circles us up.

  “All I said was move the rocks from here to there! I never said you each had to do it on your own! But you were all so busy being in your crap it didn’t occur to you to stop and think, you all went right to the same patterns that landed you here! You could have made a line and passed the rocks hand to hand in no time!”

  He continues yelling at us collectively, then he starts in on us one by one.

  “Mia, do you think your parents knew what the hell was going on when you ran away? Did they know if you were ever coming back? If you were dead or alive?!”

  He goes on and on till I get it, really get it. I had no idea what was going on tonight, it came out of nowhere. It seemed mean and pointless, I didn’t deserve it, I was hurting, I was scared, I wanted it to end. All the things my parents felt every time I took off. For the first time I really, literally, felt how they did. Only, for them it wasn’t over rocks and frozen fingers. It was over their daughter.

  Then I think of my mom’s miscarriage. The first time she opens up to me, I throw it in her face. I did exactly what she was scared I’d do.

  Dear Mom,

  I’m so sorry. I’ve been so selfish about your miscarriage that I understand if you never open up to me again…I was unsupportive and hostile. I just felt like you had moved on and left me behind, like the pregnancy was your way of making a fresh start at motherhood…I feel like I’m not your little girl anymore. I guess I haven’t been for a long time now, it’s just hard to admit. I still wish I could be five and grow up differently and have been a better kid…

  I also realized you have your own life I’m not a part of; you’ve changed in ways I haven’t been able to witness. When I read your letter I felt like you were a stranger…It made me feel really empty…that’s why I’ve been so desperate and anxious to come home, I felt as though everyone was changing and I was getting left behind…

  I’m realizing that you had a whole life before me, that you are your own person with her own hopes and fears and dreams, that there are sides of you I have no idea exist. I do want to know that woman…the you who isn’t a wife or mother. And now I feel like I fucked up. I responded so cruelly and immaturely that you have no reason to let me in.

  I am still very selfish in some aspects, I guess I still have some growing up to do. I don’t know how to say all I want to, just know that I love you. Mia

  29.

  I’ve pulled myself out of my funk. I still refuse to move up levels, but my attitude’s better—I just try to think of this as my permanent home. I’ve made a list of books to read, I’ve started playing basketball every day, I made a list of art projects. As long as I’m in here, I may as well be productive.

  I still go to Unity family twice a week, though I almost don’t need to be there anymore. I feel just as comfortable with guys as girls now. I’m about to eat my words.

  During group, I tell them that we’re suing my father and that I think it will help me get some closure.

  I finish and Mr. Greg calls on Jason, a golden-haired guy who’d be considered handsome if his face wasn’t covered in zits.

  “I’ve been sort of pissed off since Mia came in the family. Not at her, I mean you, but just agitated. I haven’t been around a chick in a long time and it’s bringing up a lot of shit for me.”

  Dittos are murmured. I’m suddenly very self-conscious. Sometimes guys are slow to react. I’ve been with them for three months and I’m just now bringing up their issues?

  “See, back home, I had this girlfriend. We were together like five months.”

  He stops and looks around the room, then back at his shoelace, which is now twisted in a gigantic knot.

  “Well, I sort of raped her.”

  There’s an awkward silence. There’s rapists here?

  “I raped her!” he repeats, almost frantically. “Me, I’m a rapist! She looked at me like I was a monster.”

  “How does Mia bring this up for you?” Mr. Greg asks gently.

  “Every time she looks at me, I feel like she knows, it’s like my old girlfriend looking at me. Just being around her makes me feel like shit.”

  He continues, beating himself up over and over. The fact that he watched his dad beat his mom growing up comes out, too, and explains the origins for the lack of respect for women.

  “I’m just scared shitless I’m gonna end up like my dad. I always got in fights with him to protect my mom, I thought I was different, but then I did something like that!”

  Eventually, anger turns to tears. It’s strange, but the more he called himself a monster, the less I saw him as one. His actions were selfish and cruel, but seeing how strong his regret is, seeing that what he has to live with is its own torture, makes him painfully human.

  After my dad, then Derek, I stopped seeing guys as human. They were like this alien species you could lock in a cage with peanuts and Playboy and they’d be happy. How a father, or friend, could do the things they did was so illogical it seemed like a mistake. The only way I could understand it was by seeing guys as fundamentally different, by grouping them all together as assholes.

  “I was raped,” I interrupt him.

  I sit on my hands to keep them from shaking.

  “My first reaction when you started talking was anger. I wanted to leave the room, I thought you were deranged and perverted, probably all the things you were scared I’d think. But the more you spoke, the more I felt myself wanting to say, it’s okay, you didn’t mean to, just because you’re so miserable and guilty.

  “And it’s not okay, it’s plain wrong. But you know that now and you need to stop beating yourself up and move on. Have you apologized or communicated with your girlfriend since then?”

  He shakes his head. “She probably hopes I’m dead.”

  I touch his arm to prompt him to make eye contact with me, which he’s avoided
.

  “She probably hopes you’re sorry, Jason. When you were talking I found myself getting mad at the guy that raped me because I don’t think he regrets it, or even feels like he did anything wrong. Same with my old dad. If he ever apologized, if he even just admitted what he did, it would have meant a lot to me. Not that I necessarily would forgive him, that’s not why you apologize, but it would have meant something to me.

  “She’s probably just as hurt by your taking off and never talking to her again than by the rape itself. Half of what hurts is the violation of trust. For them to acknowledge they’re just as horrified as you helps for some reason.”

  He looks at me and nods his head contritely, a little boy nod that reminds me of something Mike told me last session.

  He said that some of his favorite cases are boys, but that they can be much harder to reach. They’re like rocks, he said, they seem unemotional, they’re hard to move. Most of the time you drop a rock and it just sits there. But every now and again, when you drop one, you look down and see a shining geode at your feet.

  “P. BOY.”

  Tiny blue letters painted on little white ceramic cubes, strung together and tied to his newborn wrist. Nick wasn’t always a violent, druggie husband, or a stoned, moody fiancé.

  I came across his birth bracelet in a yellowed dossier while searching for documents needed for the lawsuit. He’s refused to acknowledge any responsibility, financial or otherwise, for Mia’s problems, so we’re going to trial. I’ve spent months gathering statements, canceled checks, receipts, Mia’s psychological records. Both Nick and I have been deposed, myself over the phone. He still denies that he ever abused her in the first place, which I expected.

  I’m surprisingly relaxed at the prospect of seeing him in court. Focus was like having a demolitions expert detonate the charge of accumulated emotional garbage I’d been schlepping around for years. It gave me some new tools, then kicked my ass out into the world with them, where I could do the hard work of being awake and aware in my own life and conscious of my choices. Or I could keep doing what I’ve always done. Which would give me more of what I already had. No, thank you.