Roaring Springs

I startle at the train whistle, and it pulls me away from people watching through the window. I look over at Callie and see that she's still reading her book. Typical. Anything to distract her from who we're traveling to see. I never thought I'd return to Roaring Springs, Colorado. There's a good reason for that.

I was nine years old when I witnessed my mother try to kill herself. It was warm that evening, the kind of night where the wind feels perfect and the fireflies light up the dark. As I sat on the porch steps that night, watching the tall fir trees sway before closing my eyes to take a moment to be one with the wind, I could hear my mother creaking on the porch swing as she drank deeply from her red and white can of beer. I’d lost count on how many she’d made me bring her.

Looking back, I wonder if maybe I could tell that she was worse than normal. I’ll never know for sure.

Because as usual, I let her blend into the background. I loved summer nights like this. It made me feel less alone in my pain, being surrounded by the beauty of nature. Like the ugliness of my life didn’t have to be all that I saw and felt.

I wish it had been enough to keep me whole.

THEN

We’ve been back from Texas for four months, and it’s summer in Colorado. It used to be my favorite season. There’s no snow, we don’t have to walk to the bus stop with cold wind stinging our cheeks, and I can play outside for hours until the lightning bugs come out to twinkle in the warm night.

It’s not my favorite season anymore. I no longer get the breaks from home that I got with school being in session. I don’t get to go to my friends houses, or ride my bike with them. Mom says that she’s afraid the “Joes” will kidnap me and take me away from her.

That’s her word for soldiers. She makes me watch Oprah with her when she airs these specials and teaches me that bad men will want to take me for bad reasons. I’m safer at home. But I don’t like it here.

Daddy was deployed to Sinai, Egypt by President Clinton. I begged and pleaded for him not to leave us again. Not after Texas, not with Mom. Can’t he see that she’s not well? She’s different from how she used to be, and I don’t like it.

When we came back to the house, I was shocked to see it. We were only gone for six months, but it looked like the house had aged 10 years. It was filthy too, but luckily our rooms were okay. Just really dusty. The kitchen floor had chunks of linoleum missing, there was a huge water stain on the back bedroom ceiling that sat empty except for storage, and the front porch looked really beat up.

I could tell Daddy tried to keep calm, but I could hear him yelling at Mom that night out in the back yard. I peeked through the kitchen window when I went to get water. They were seated at the fire pit with beers, and while Daddy yelled, Mom just looked into the fire.

But now he’s not here, so she makes me brush and french braid her hair, and put lotion on her legs and feet while we watch as Oprah reruns such as ‘Ways to Protect Your Children (From Abduction, Molestation, Predation, Abuse, Etc)’, the one where she interviews Betty Broderick’s children (“You’re so lucky to have a mother who loves you, Lark”) and ‘How Far Would You Go to Protect Your Child?’ which is about Ellie Nesler murdering her husband to protect her son, who the man was molesting.

“You know that I would do that for you Lark, and for Callie,” she slurred as we watched Ellie’s interview. “I would MURDER THAT SON OF A BITCH!” she shouts, startling me. I hate when she drinks this much. It isn’t even dinner time. But I’m not that upset because it means that she will take her beer and cigarettes out to the front porch and stay out there until after we go to bed. If I’m lucky.

There is plenty of food in the house tonight. Sometimes when the Swanson truck comes by Mom let’s us pick all kinds of frozen meals out. There are all kinds of Fun Feast boxes in our freezer, with characters like Fred Flintstone and Scooby Doo on the cover. Callie loves those best because there are always a Fun Stuff surprise inside. Honestly, I do too.

As I predicted, Mom heads out to the front porch, so I go grab Callie from her room where she’s playing with dolls and we pick our dinners. I pick the Chillin’ Cheese Pizza with cinnamon apples, chocolate and vanilla ice cream, and corn. Callie chooses the Roarin’ Ravioli with cinnamon apples, a brownie, and corn.

I heat our meals up and we eat them sitting in front of the TV, now that I’m not being forced to watch shows about bad people. They always leave me feeling jumpy and a little wary. I get scared at night when it’s dark and the Joes and the bad men will come for me.

I go to ask Mom if she wants me to heat her up a meal, but I hear her crying on the front porch. She does that a lot, but only when she’s drunk. Sobs alone on the front porch. I know better than to go out there when the crying starts. Sometimes she’ll make me sit and talk to her, like an adult, which always makes me uncomfortable because she talks about things like how long it’s been since she and Daddy had sex, which is hard for me to understand, and I don’t want to. She tried explaining it one night, but I was so uncomfortable that I yelled “I have to pee!” and then ran inside and locked my bedroom door.

I don’t know if she ever remembers those talks, because they only happen when she’s had so much beer that Other Mom comes out. I don’t like Other Mom. She’s the one who set the fire in Texas, and who throws parties and smokes marijuana while her friends fight. Other times I’ve tried to comfort her, she’d grab me in a really tight hug and make me cuddle with her, which I also don’t like. I don’t like being forced to hug or touch, it doesn’t give me comfort, but I’d feel really bad telling her that.

Somehow I know it would make things worse.

So on nights like this, when she cries and becomes overly emotional on the front porch, I make myself scarce.

“Time to go to bed, Callie.”

Even at four years old, she knows better than to argue.

The next few days follow the same pattern, and our supply of frozen meals dwindles quickly. Mom sometimes makes us breakfast, but I’ve been teaching myself to cook. Sometimes Mrs. Sheila lets me cook with her when Callie and I come visit. We do this a lot on weekends when Mom’s friends come over around lunch times and stay well into the night.

Maybe Mom knows or maybe she thinks we’re sleeping in our rooms. She loses track of time really easily on those days.

For an early birthday present Mrs. Sheila got me my very own cookbook called Cooking Light by Oxmoor House Staff. There’s a picture of some sort of pie topped with sliced tomatoes on the cover that I will never make, but lots of recipes inside look good. Recipes like Strawberry-Chocolate Cheesecake, and Grilled Sirloin with Citrus Salsa. The only problem is that we don’t have ingredients. And I don’t know how to grill.

“I have to work on your birthday, but when I’m free we can test out some of those recipes, what do you think?” she’d said.

“Yes please!”

It’s late now, and it’s quiet and very pleasant outside. I sit on the porch steps watching the tall trees sway in the breeze. Lightning bugs light up the air all around, calming me and making me feel warm and fuzzy. They’re lovely to look at. I trapped a bunch in a jar once, but I forgot to poke holes in the lid, so they all died. I felt terrible, and I buried them under the apple tree in our back yard.

So now I just watch them. I try to pretend that it’s just me and the lightning bugs, but I hear Mom swaying on the porch swing. The chains creak as she moves and I hear her take a long drink of her beer. I’ve gotten so many for her tonight that I finally loaded a bunch in the blue and white cooler that Daddy used for his lunches when he was home.

I sigh. I miss him. I stay up late every Tuesday and Friday when he calls from Egypt. He says he’s eight hours ahead of us, so 10 pm our time is 8 am his time. That’s his break from duties in Sinai. I look at my Flik Flak watch. It’s only 7 pm! I decide to go inside and watch TV. Callie is already in bed since she skipped her nap and fell asleep after dinner, so I get to watch whatever I want!

“Going inside Mom!” I say as I bound up the steps, brushing the dirt off my bottom. She just stares ahead as she tips back her can of beer into her mouth.

I sit and watch episodes of Clarissa Explains it all, but after a few hours I get bored with that. Mom’s mood for the past few months has me feeling really down, and I would honestly just go to bed if Daddy weren’t calling. But I don’t like to miss his calls. He’s so far away and doesn’t get but a few chances to dial home.

I know what will make me feel better. Christmas movies! I look through the VHS tapes, looking for my tape that has “The Bears who Saved Christmas” and “Prancer” and my longtime favorite comfort short “The Snowman”. That one makes me feel warm and cozy and safe. David Bowie plays the grown version of the boy, James, but the rest is animated. The opening music always gives me chills, it’s so ethereal and lovely. The snowman nor the boy speak, and the animation makes it look just like a movie storybook. I’ve watched it my whole life, and right now there is nothing that I want to watch more.

And I can’t find the dang thing anywhere.

I rush out to the porch. “Mom, do you know where my tape is, the one with Prancer and The Snowman? I can’t find it anywhere and there is still an hour until Daddy calls,” I whine.

She takes a drag from her cigarette, and I see more empty beer cans on the patio table, and a bottle of tylenol. She gets a lot of headaches, but they’re usually in the morning.

“Mom?”

“No Lark.”

“Can you please help me find it?” Now that I’ve put my mind on it, it’s the only thing I want to watch.

“Not tonight Lark. I’m not feeling up to it,” she slurs, and I know I’m on my own. “But tomorrow,” she starts, and my ears perk up. “Tomorrow you can do whatever you want.”

Whatever I want?! “I can eat cake for breakfast and watch Christmas movies all day long?” I ask, excited.

She nods. “Okay! I’ll come give you the phone when Daddy calls!” I say over my shoulder as I go back inside. I end up watching Aaahh!!! Real Monsters until Daddy calls.

“Hello?”

“Hey honey, how was your day?” He sounds relaxed and happy, and I don’t want to tell him the truth. “Good! Just played with Callie, watched some shows, and sat outside for a while. The fireflies were everywhere, you should have seen it!” He chuckles. “Wish I could have seen it. Mom around?”

“Yep! Did I tell you that Mrs. Sheila gave me my birthday present early this weekend? Cooking Light, a cookbook and she’s gonna teach me how to cook!”

“That’s awesome, Larky.”

I go out to the porch and look to my right. The swing is empty. I look left and the couch is empty, too. And the rocking chair. I’m confused, did Mom somehow get inside without me seeing?

That’s when I notice the brake lights.

We have a long gravel driveway that ends by our house in a circle. The Jeep is idling at the base of the circle, facing the strong, closed wooden gate. Beyond our house is the two lane road, and past that is our front neighbors huge field, surrounded my an electric fence to keep his horses and cows in.

“Daddy, I’m not sure-” I gasp. My mom floors the Jeep, spinning gravel before it speeds towards our big gate. Daddy made that gate himself, and it’s over an inch thick. The jeep slams through the gate, crosses the road, and slams through the electric fence on the other side before falling into the ditch on the other side of the fence and staying put. The Jeep lands at a slide downward angle, the entire thing playing out before me as my brain struggles to catch up to what I’ve witnessed.

I scream and drop the phone. Over and over I scream, I’m panicking and I don’t understand what just happened. Why did my mom do this, why would she try to drive?!

“LARK!” I hear my dad yell from the porch floor. I pick up the phone, hyperventilating. “D-d-daddy, I don’t know what she did, she drove the jeep through the gate, it’s in the field, I don’t know I don’t know-”

“Lark,” he barks. “What happened?” I try to take some steadying breaths. I hear my mom wailing something from the Jeep. “I have to call 911!” I say and hang up the phone before calling. They tell me not to go anywhere near the Jeep since it’s dark and there may be live wires. I tell them there is no smoke, and that I have to call my Dad back, but I don’t know his Egypt number.

Before the cops and ambulance arrive, Mrs. Sheila pulls up in her Cadillac, and slams to a stop my the house. I’m so relieved to see her.

“Lark honey, what happened? Is that your mother in the Jeep? Callie isn’t with her is she?” I gasp, unsure of my grasp on reality at the moment. Could she have gotten Callie? I race into her room and turn on the light, and thank God, she’s still asleep. When I walk back to the porch, Mrs. Sheila tries to get me inside.

“You don’t need to see her like this Lark, trust me honey.” But I can hear her. She’s screaming one name over and over and over. “JACK!”

I find out information in bits and pieces over the next few days while they hold my mother under the Baker Act. We stay with Mrs. Sheila and her husband Mr. John Kim. Well, Sheriff Kim, that is. He was there that night, and it’s only be eavesdropping on him and one of his deputies having a beer and piece of cake in the kitchen the next night that I learn what happened.

My mother tried to kill herself. She drank 24 beers that day, and took an entire bottle of Tylenol before getting behind the wheel of the Jeep and trying to kill herself on impact. She didn’t even leave a note, but I’ll never forget the last words she said to me that night. What she thought would be her last words ever.

“Tomorrow you can do whatever you want.”

Three hours after she said those words to me, two hours after I witnessed my mother attempt suicide, and one hour after throwing up from anxiety before falling into a restless sleep, I turned nine years old.

I felt much older than that. 

Now

The train whistles again before starting to move. It starts to rain, and droplets cling to the window, obscuring my view. I don't know that I'll ever be ready to see Mom again. But now that she's dying all these years later, I really don't have a choice. Closure is being forced on me after all.