All my life, I’ve felt haunted. Haunted by ancestors past, whose abuse would have devastating effects for generations. The two people responsible for raising me would each be plagued by their respective familial traumas— shadowed by the demons of addiction and mental illness for their— and my— entire life. I stood in my mother’s house, the house I grew up in, and I shivered. For the second time in five years, I was confronting the not-so-friendly ghosts of my childhood; complex memories wafted in and out of every dusty nook and cranny. An only child, now essentially an orphan (one deceased parent and one lost to dementia) I am tasked with taking care of the “stuff.”
I stood in the living room, staring at the coffee table she built. She was a master craftsman, coveting power tools the way other moms might covet Louboutin heels. This wooden table with turned legs has a glass top and is deep— a shadow box. Its purpose was to artfully display family photos and artifacts, while remaining a functional place to set down a glass. I reached in to pick up the last silver frame I needed to pack. A shot of the three of us at a wedding— I’m about seven in the jovial image. A tear forced its way out and I let it trail down my cheek. There would be plenty more.
We moved into this house in April 1994. My dad didn’t love it; my mom wouldn’t stop talking about the “potential.” Their crumbling marriage was supposed to be salvaged by the purchase.
It was a great start.
My mom had me at 41, which in 1985 was considered “late in life.” I think from the very beginning she was afraid to parent me. I couldn’t say it was all her fault. Born in Puerto Rico to a traditional Catholic family, she would be slapped or forced to kneel on rice for the slightest infraction. Emerging as a total knockout by her teenage years, (seriously- unparalleled cheekbones). She had experienced sexual assault, domestic violence, a miscarriage, and a stillbirth by the time she met my dad— who would be her fourth husband. By then, she thrived on chaos and insecurity. She couldn’t handle anything else.
My dad really should have been avoiding chaos at all costs. He was a drummer, incredibly talented and well-versed in blues and jazz history. He’d also been abusing alcohol since taking his first drink at age nine. He attended the insidious Catholic schools of the 1960s, and although he did regale with me with how a priest “boxed his ears” to the point he suffered permanent hearing damage, that was as deep as he would go. I always wondered if this period of his life was a contributing factor to his alcoholism.
Since I can remember, all he wanted to do was play gigs, come home, and hang out with us “girls.” He loved being a dad, and thought I was the bee’s knees as soon as I was born. This was a profound threat to my mom. I could never understand, as a child, why she wouldn’t just stop being so angry and come to the park with us instead.
Our first Christmas Eve in the house was torture. I don’t remember how it started, although I’m certain my dad had was “celebrating” a bit early in the day for my mom’s liking, and everything spiraled from there. By 8:00 p.m., I was on the kitchen floor, sobbing. My mother wielded a kitchen knife at my dad and screamed at him to “Get out of this house!” I yelled back, with all my might, “PLEASE! JUST GET A DIVORCE! I CANNOT TAKE THIS!” My father, red-faced and crying just as hard as me, pleaded with my mother to put the knife DOWN and just talk to him. I have no idea what gifts were under the tree that year or how they resolved that one. I was eight. It was much easier to keep erasing everything from my little memory.
A total latchkey kid by 14, I often snuck friends over, including my crush. Having just transformed from ugly-tween-duckling-to-socially-acceptable, I was eager to be coveted. Everything was always so fragile; all I knew was fight and flight. I wanted the romance my parents never seemed to have. I did NOT find it then. What I found instead was a boy skilled in coercive control. One afternoon, alone in the house, he forced himself on me, convincing me that it was okay because he “loved me.” Suddenly, my room— with beads on the door, glow-in-the-dark stars, collaged walls— felt totally foreign. It didn’t feel like home. I felt worthless. I had no one I could tell. What did my parents know about keeping me safe? They weren’t even safe from themselves. The physical, emotional, and sexual abuse continued until the boy left for college a year ahead of me.
In 2009, as I was getting married, my parents were getting divorced. It was necessary— but still felt surreal. Dad moved into an apartment around the corner from the house. As fate would have it, they became best friends. It was lovely to see them finally recognize the good in each other. It certainly made holidays peaceful.
When the isolation of the pandemic became too overwhelming, my dad and his liver called it quits. My beloved father, with the hearty laugh, the Clint Eastwood squint, and those beautiful drummer hands, died alone at home two days before Christmas 2020. Teetering on the brink for years, his death catapulted my mom into the bottomless pit of despair that is dementia. There was NO getting her to leave that house. Living there alone transformed their relationship into an idyllic romance in my mother’s mind. She wouldn’t get rid of the chair he’d sat in the last time he’d visited. She wouldn’t cut the cherry trees he’d planted. It was becoming a time capsule; she was the 21st-century Miss Havisham; the house became more Dickensian by the day.
Now she had a new reason to be afraid of me. I wasn’t simply the intruder who had stolen her spotlight, her relationship. I was trying to get her out of Satis House. Away from the ghosts of our past to a bright space, with functional plumbing and steady meals. In a twist of fate, she fell on the front steps one icy morning. At the hospital, her hostility and incoherent phrasing made it clear that she wasn’t well. I had finally been able to admit her to a nursing facility.
Once more alone, immersed in memories, I thought about the father I miss desperately, the mother I will never truly know. The ghosts of my parents, on good days and bad. These two people were far from perfect— but they were mine. I felt the determination set in as I stood there. It takes more than desire to break cycles of abuse; but I would. I wiped the tears and placed the picture gently in the box. The front door clicked behind me as I carried it out to my car.
Contributor: Chelsea Pegues | chelseaelizabethwrites.com
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