Going Home

I have recurring nightmares about my childhood home, a 1960s California ranch on Melody Lane, a quiet street in the hills of Orange County. We were children of the air raid sirens and Kennedy’s bloody motorcade, mothers on Phenobarbital. We didn’t understand why Martin Luther King was shot on a balcony in Memphis or Bobby Kennedy in the kitchen of the Ambassador Hotel. At slumber parties, we talked in the dark about how Charles Manson had stabbed a knife 16 times into the pregnant womb of Sharon Tate. He could come to our house too.

Our family lived on Melody Lane from the time I was seven until I graduated from high school, and during that period, my mother divorced my father, dated and soon married another man, and had a baby who died two days after birth. Never during my mother’s pregnancy did she acknowledge she was pregnant, even though my two sisters and I could clearly watch her belly grow. My mother carried the baby for nine months and then one morning, while loading clothes into the washer, she said to me, “I’m going to the hospital today.” I didn’t ask why and went on to school. That evening our stepfather brought McDonald’s home for dinner. “Your mother had a baby boy today,” he said, unwrapping hamburgers on the table. “The doctors don’t think he’ll live.” And, sure enough, two days later my mother came home empty handed, and nothing was ever said again.

I was 12 and my sisters 10 and eight when my father sat us down in the living room one Monday night to announce he was moving out. “Your mother doesn’t want me living here anymore,” he said. My parents had never openly fought, so I had no context for this statement, yet it pulled from me a thread that had tied my world together. If more were said that night I didn’t hear it, so I walked down the hall to my room, while my sisters and father went to the den to watch Andy Griffith on TV. The next morning, my father packed some boxes and moved to an apartment near the freeway.

It was 1965. I didn’t have a friend whose parents had divorced. No one in our neighborhood was divorced. I didn’t know what divorce meant. I didn’t tell anyone what had happened until the next summer when I was at my grandparents in Iowa and I wrote a postcard to my best friend, revealing the news. She told me she had already heard.

After my father moved out my mother distanced herself from my sisters and me as she wrapped her arms around her new husband, a very masculine man who’d pull up to our house in an old army Jeep with a bicycle strapped to the back. He was athletic, and soon my mother and he were skiing on weekends and climbing mountains. They took rock climbing lessons at Yosemite. Rappelling ropes and ice picks hung on the wall above their bed.

My mother didn’t often look at me, but when she did, her eyes were hard and black, and she took on a casual indifference I didn’t recognize. For about a year after she remarried, I’d wake up around three every morning and lie under my covers in the dark, imagining her waiting for me in the shadowed hallway outside my door.

In my dreams, I’m standing across the street from my house, looking back at it. Usually I’m planning to go home, but it’s night, and I’m afraid of the interiors, dark and silent, and the half-closed doors along hall. In my dreams, I never go in. The other night I had the dream again. I was at my girlfriend’s house across the street, and it was getting late and had begun to rain. I wanted to rush home to turn on the lights, but I couldn’t do it. Perhaps in some other dream I will. A small girl waits for me there, still hiding under the bedcovers, probably needing to be held.


All That I Leave You

When you die, your will designates the beneficiaries who’ll receive the residue of your estate, basically the junk that’s left after your assets and significant possessions have been dispersed. I’d never seen the word residue used this way until I read my father’s will and realized he’d left his entire estate to his young wife and the residue of his life to my sisters and me. That is, we got the dust he left behind. His faded plaid shirts and broken down shoes, a Burl Ives record collection. So when I did an exhaustive weeding out of my old clothes last weekend, I was reminded of that awful word, residue. I sorted through probably eight years of clothes that had been stuffed into “Winter” and “Summer” tubs stacked in the basement. Dreary old cardigan sweaters (what was I thinking?), short skirts, ill fitting jeans, purses and pointy shoes, now thrown into heaps. I thought about my father and the worn shirts he’d left me, and how when I’d received them, I’d put them on to see if I could still feel him inside the cloth, but they hung lifelessly against my skin. The younger me who’d once filled out the residue now piled on the basement floor had disappeared too. The younger me was gone forever, while my residue awaited resurrection at Good Will.

A Woman’s LIfe

My friend Anne has a lump in her breast. She sends me a text when I’m in a meeting: “How about a visit to Frankenstein’s castle?” she asks. She wants me to go with her for the surgery, but the deal is, hospitals don’t set well with me. I don’t like the long halls and seascape art, the clatter of IV poles wobbling across tile, those families sitting glumly at bedsides.

If you’re female and over 40, a good percentage of your life is spent wondering if you’ve got a lump growing somewhere inside your breast. Any day, out of nowhere, there it is. You get those diagrams on self breast exams, how to stand in front of a mirror and look for puckering or changes, how to press your fingers into your breasts and arm pits while you’re taking a shower. There’s a process for checking when you’re lying down too. Then, when you’re not self-examining, you’ve got the mammogram, so cruel and barbaric that machine is, flattening your breast like a grilled cheese. First you put this arm here and that arm there, then you turn your head to the left, now lean back, hold your breath. Yes, just like that. Steady. Ho-o-o-ld it. Perfect. One in eight women will have invasive breast cancer in her lifetime. Those greedy little cells will gobble up your insides, taking over your body like they own the place, all while you’re making a presentation at work or trying on shoes at Nordstrom.

At 5:30 a.m. three days later, I pick up Anne at her house. It’s dark and cold, a fall morning. She’s wearing green sweats and tennis shoes, her hair still wet from the shower. Someone going for surgery would look just like she does. Shiny and clean. We drive across the sleeping city and pull into the hospital’s back lot to enter through the outpatient wing. Signs on the walls direct us: Having surgery? This way. Having surgery? Down this hall. Having surgery? Please come in.

The receptionist in the waiting area is disinterested when we approach, but she checks her roster against the computer, and then snaps the ID bracelet on Anne’s wrist. I peek from the corner of my eye at the people in the room. A woman by the door shakes her leg, while her husband watches TV. A small child fusses at their feet. No one’s bothered to open the curtains, even though a hint of sun is forcing its way through. We sit down, and soon a woman in blue scrubs arrives, marching briskly into the room. “Anne?” she calls, looking at no one. What can we do but rise and follow this woman toward the future before us? Down the hall and past the work stations we go (what good soldiers we are!) until we get to the prep room, with its gurney bed, clean and waiting. Anne sits at the foot of the bed while the nurse explains how the morning will go. The anesthesiologist will come in, then the surgeon. Surgery will last about an hour, and then there’ll be two stages of recovery. All visitors who enter Anne’s room must wash their hands, and she has a right to request that they do so. There’s a coffee cart for me, down the elevator and to the left. Anne puts on her gown and lies down. Blood pressure normal. Lungs good. When was your last bowel movement? What time did you eat? Do you have any pain? Here, take this pen and mark an X on your breast, over the spot where the lump is. That’ll help the doctor. Can you make a fist? It’ll burn just a bit once I start the IV. When the nurse finally wheels Anne out on the gurney, I make her stop so I can get a picture. Anne’s wearing a wrinkled paper scrub hat. She smiles at the camera. “Wait for me, okay?” she says and lifts her hand to give the peace sign.