Bad Idea

Moving to Washington State was a bad idea, an intensely painful time, not the least of which was that I'd never see my dad again.

I can vividly recall the moment when my mother explained that we'd be leaving California.  I was brushing my dark curly hair in the bathroom, and I suddenly found I could no longer move the comb through my tangled tresses.  I shuddered and felt violently ill, which was quickly followed by rage.  I didn't want to leave California!  What if my real mother tried to find me?  I would be lost to her forever.  I often fantasized that my real mother would one day find me, and that I would finally get to live with her and her other children (for some reason, she always had other children in these fantasies.)  Sometimes my imagination would make her out to the Queen, which would mean that I was actually a princess.  Other times, she was just a normal mom -- one that was kind and sweet and didn't scream at me when I got scared when our barely running car broke down by the side of the freeway.

I also felt an extreme terror in the idea of living with my mom's boyfriend.  I could see that he drank too much, but as he was often drinking at the pub I really didn't spend too much time with him.  In fact, I spent more and more time alone.  There were many sleepless nights when I first encountered a lifelong affliction with insomnia.  One night, I tossed and turned in my little bed, my thoughts flying from the impending move, to thinking about my dad, to wondering about the family down the street that had recently been given my dog.  I got up and pulled my sleeping bag out of the closet; I had recalled sleeping so well on a recent camping trip.  But even after I spread the sleeping bag down across my bedroom floor and crawled in, I couldn't fall asleep.  This would be the first of many sunrises I was all too ill-prepared to greet.

I had known that my parent's marriage had been disintegrating.  My father worked at the Napa State Hospital as technician.  I had even accompanied him on a call one night, when of the patients had escaped and the other techs had not known to which building to return him -- so they called my dad.  We drove over to the hospital to find the patient upset and rocking quickly back and forth, mumbling quietly to himself.  Clearly he was upset.  Somehow my dad knew to check the inside band of his underwear for his identifying information.  I felt so proud, but also so curious about the people who lived inside the expansive property.  I also got to tag along with my dad and his buddies.  We walked through the woods, and forded a small creek.  We sat around a coffee table and listened to loud rock and roll on a friend's new stereo.  We cruised the street in his semi-restored '57 Chevy pickup, checking out the 'foxy' women walking down the sidewalks.  My dad was cool.  He was so cool that he even wore a teeny tiny silver spoon around his neck.  

But the more time my dad spent away from home and with his friends, the more he and my mom would argue.  My mom worked as a hair dresser at salon called Kathleen's, which is still in operation today.  Her specialty was the beehive, and every morning she would tease her own naturally blond and highlighted hair into a tall Marge Simpson-like 'do.  But even after giving birth to a daughter of her own, she became increasingly more unhappy and had difficulty losing her pregnancy weight.  She started gaining more and more weight, and by the time she and my dad separated she had gained nearly 100 pounds.  Quite frankly, it was surprising at how quickly she was able to find a replacement male companion, given the fierce anger she harbored at my dad and the recent weight gain.  Joe was 5' 7" with dark hair and dark eyes.  He fit the part in that he actually looked like he could be my dad.  But the whites of his eyes were often inflamed in red from all of the drinking, and I was often scared to be around him.  I had barely been introduced to him when she decided to throw her fate with his and move us across two states.

That winter, in the middle of my first year of school, we all piled into a Uhaul and drove the 800 miles straight up Highway 5 to our new home.  Pulling into Washington I grew excited as we crossed the Columbia River roiling far below our wheels.  The heavy mist shrouded the evergreens, and I drew pleasure from the natural surroundings.  However, these pleasures were not to be enjoyed for long as I quickly realized upon settling in a dry, arid part of the state.  It was not uncommon to watch tumble weeds blow across the flat plateau of the highway.  The irony of the Evergreen State nickname was not lost on me, as there was hardly a tree in site.  

My mom worked quickly to find a home for us, as the temporary housing that she and Joe had secured on a previous trip would soon expire.  The small home she eventually located was actually a duplex, but we never even had the chance to get to know our neighbors.  We did have a huge expanse of a lawn, on which I would practice countless somersaults and cart wheels.  And we also had a lilac tree which would bloom in spring.  I can recall standing next to it's flowers which were busy with bees gathering pollen and inhaling deeply, having never before smelled anything quite so lovely.

Whatever beauty I found in Washington was quickly obscured by the horrors to come, horrors which would have a profound and lasting affect on me even to this day.