Months earlier, I had finished 9th grade at the county high school, Douglas MacArthur, and was ready to begin 10th grade in the fall. I was excited to reconnect with my high school friends and to get my driver’s license, since I would be turning 16 during the school year. To maintain residency at Douglas MacArthur, I had to continue living with my grandparents and list their address as my own.
Four houses down the street from my grandparents’ house was my mother’s house, but in an ironic twist of boundaries, it fell within the city school district. I had a bedroom there, in what had once been the attic. The house originally had three bedrooms, but Earl renovated the attic to accommodate Sharon and her soon-to-be baby. Mickey and I were relegated to small attic cubicles, while Sharon, Russ, and my mother occupied the more spacious downstairs bedrooms. My room was very narrow and had a dormer window that would allow me to escape in an emergency. Even though my personal possessions were divided equally between the two houses, I spent most of my evenings with my grandparents.
In many ways, I viewed my grandparents as my de facto parents. They were kind and loving, and they never made me feel like I was intruding. Their living room was cozy, with the TV in one corner and three recliners in the other three corners. One of those recliners was mine. I felt like I belonged. I enjoyed my evenings with my grandparents because there were no confrontations and there was usually a bowl of ice cream as we watched TV. Sometimes, as a special treat, my grandmother would bake a blueberry pie especially for me because she knew it was my favorite. Even though my grandparents died many years ago, my thoughts sometimes linger on the warmth and love we shared over a warm slice of pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.
My mother never seemed bothered by the fact that I did not live with her. I was 15 years old, and she was 32 years old. In many ways, I felt like I was the adult in our relationship. Getting married at 16 and having a child eight months after her wedding deprived my mother of her single teenage years and her carefree twenties. She was in her third marriage, and her household was in total chaos. Her third husband, Earl, was an alcoholic who could become physically abusive if he had too much to drink. I always knew trouble was on the horizon when Earl came home from a bar and referred to himself in the third person as “Uncle Dudley.”
Additionally, my mother had one stepson in legal trouble and a stepdaughter pregnant with a married man’s child. Raising two biological children, Mickey and me, must have been daunting for my mother. I know she struggled to cope with her family situation. Affairs seemed to be her emotional outlet. Years later, when I asked my mother what she truly loved in life, she told me without hesitation, “Smoking, drinking, and screwing.” Sadly, I knew this was true, and there was very little room in her life to nurture an unbreakable maternal bond with Mickey and me.
One day in late August, I received a call from my mother at my grandparents’ house. She said firmly, “Johnny, I need you to come home because I need to talk to you.”
After I protested that I was busy, her tone turned slightly angry, and she told me, “Now!”
I left my grandparents’ house and walked to my mother’s house, wondering what could be so urgent.
(Next: The visit)
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