Hippie Boy: A Girl's Story Page 11

  Mom came barging in, took one look at me, and shook her head in disgust.

  “What were you doing in here?” she asked sharply. “Did you do this to yourself?”

  I was too sick to invent a story. I nodded my head.

  “Well, I hope you learned your lesson,” she said, fuming. Then she turned around and stomped out of the room.

  I concluded while washing the floor that I’d rather be fat than go through that experience again, but now that I had a chance to lose weight without having to throw up after each meal, I decided to go for it. I stopped by a drugstore and found a calorie counting book, and then told Dad I wanted to start bringing my lunches to the office. For the rest of June and the month of July, I lived on iceberg lettuce and boiled eggs. I skipped breakfast each morning and when I did accompany Dad to McDonald’s, I limited my order to a kid’s size hamburger, and then forced myself to chew each bite fifteen times before swallowing. At night, I dressed up my iceberg lettuce and eggs with two slices of bacon that I crumbled on top of it.

  “You’re something else, you know that, Ingrid?” Dad said watching me one evening, shaking his head. “With that determination of yours, you’ll be able to do anything you want in life. And if what you want right now is to lose weight, I’m going to do everything in my power to support you.”

  The next day, Dad took me to a bookstore and gave me money to buy a Jane Fonda exercise video. I started doing aerobics at the trailer for an hour every evening. Sometimes Dad even joined me. And while he talked on the phone at the office, I alternated between sit-ups, jumping jacks, and jogging on the mini trampoline.

  By the time I returned home in August, I was down to eighty-eight pounds. Dad had bought me several new pairs of shorts because my old ones were now too big. I felt fantastic.

  “How did you do it?” Connie asked. I could hear the jealousy in her voice.

  “Oh, I just went on a diet and did a little exercise,” I answered casually.

  Mom didn’t notice my weight loss, or at least she didn’t comment on it. She had dark circles under her eyes and didn’t seem to remember how to smile. Earl had lost his job at the motorcycle shop, which meant that instead of having the financial help she had counted on, Mom now had one more person to care for and one more mouth to feed.

  Within a few hours of being home, the stiffness had returned to my body and my headache was back.

  But it went away when I was at school. And at school, everyone noticed my weight loss, especially my gym teacher.

  As I did three months before, I waited in a single file line with the other girls while Mrs. Shipley motioned for us to step onto the scale. When it was my turn, she did a double take.

  “You weigh eighty-eight pounds! You look great!”

  I smiled as her voice echoed through the gym. This time, I wanted the other girls to hear.

  CHAPTER 10

  CONNIE AND I WERE in the living room folding laundry when Earl rounded the corner. It took only one look at the cruel smile inching its way across his face to know he was looking for a fight.

  “That dog of yours is a complete waste,” he started, locking his icy-blue eyes on Connie. “All it ever does is eat, crap, and dig up the yard.”

  Earl was always picking fights and sometimes we just ignored him. But Abbey was off limits—we all knew that.

  Connie shot daggers at Earl.

  “Speak for yourself,” she sneered, hatred caking her voice.

  Connie had never been the affectionate type and couldn’t stand it when people tried to hug her, but with Abbey, it was different. The dog was constantly licking her, snuggling up against her, or jumping up on her in excitement, and she couldn’t get enough of it.

  “You know what I’m going to do?” Earl bellowed, his voice rising to a high-pitched whine. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get rid of it!”

  Connie didn’t miss a beat.

  “If Abbey goes, I go!” she hissed.

  Within seconds she was on her feet, heading for the door. Earl grabbed her by her shoulders, spun her around, and threw her down into our cloth-covered rocking chair. Connie’s body hit the chair with such force it nearly flipped over.

  Earl hovered over her, ready to strike. But when the chair rocked back up, Connie had her feet in front of her and kicked him in the face, sending his glasses flying.

  While he staggered around fumbling for his glasses, Connie jumped out of the chair and shot past him.

  “Look what your daughter did now!” Earl screamed to Mom, who came running down the hallway just in time to see Connie slam the front door behind her.

  Mom swung the door open and called after her. “Don’t forget you have to be at the bishop’s office at seven.”

  Her voice was calm and normal, like she hadn’t overheard the eruption that had taken place.

  Two hours later, our family crowded into Bishop Jones’s office for what Mom told us would be a “family talk.”

  Bishop Jones stood at least six foot four and towered over the rest of us. He had broad shoulders and a big head with black hair and stern eyes. Even when he was sitting down, he took up a lot of space—especially in his cramped office, which barely fit his desk, a bookcase, a filing cabinet, and a couple of chairs.

  It was late October and the outside air was so cold we all wore coats. But as soon as we jammed our seven bodies into the tiny, windowless space, it got hot and stuffy, accentuating Earl’s stench. Whatever we were going to talk about, I wanted to get it started and over with so we could get out of this room.

  I shot an annoyed look at the bishop, who was making small talk with Mom. Every time Mom had a problem, she ran to him for advice. It had driven Dad crazy when they were married. Bishop Jones knew every detail of his and Mom’s relationship, all from Mom’s point of view. He was the one who had overseen Dad’s excommunication from the church and had advised Mom to get a divorce.

  Dad couldn’t stand Bishop Jones, and because of that I didn’t like him either. Plus he was a hypocrite as far as Connie and I were concerned. We spotted him drinking what looked like coffee while walking by JB’s Big Boy once. Coffee was forbidden because it violated the “Word of Wisdom” doctrine written (through revelation) by Joseph Smith, the first prophet and founder of the Mormon Church.

  Bishop Jones stopped talking with Mom and stared at my siblings and me from across his desk, as if he could intimidate us into submission.

  When he finally spoke, his tone was scolding and cold.

  “Do you know how lucky you kids are that your mother has found someone who loves her and cares about her?” he asked, pausing for a moment to let his words penetrate. “Your Mom and Earl are working hard to create a loving, stable life for you kids and you need to start supporting them in their efforts.”

  He glared at us, oozing self-righteousness. I wanted to scratch his eyes out.

  “Yeah, aren’t we all so lucky to be treated like dirt in our own house?” I wanted to scream. “Isn’t it great that Mom now has a leech to support while he bosses her around and acts like she’s his slave?”

  I bit my lip and forced my body to stay still and my face to remain emotionless. I wasn’t going to let this jerk get the best of me.

  Bishop Jones spent the next ten minutes droning on about our responsibilities in the new family Mom and Earl were trying to create. After a while, I stopped listening. I found a spot on his oversized forehead and stared at it so Mom would think I was paying attention. When he finished preaching to us, he told all of us kids to wait in the foyer outside his office while he had a private conversation with Mom and Earl.

  “No wonder Dad hates him so much,” I fumed to Connie as soon as we were outside his office walls.

  When the two of them came out five minutes later, Earl was gloating.

  “Ingrid and Connie, Bishop Jones wants to talk to the two of you alone,” Mom said in the serious, reverent tone she reserved for church. “We’ll see you at home.”

  I w
as too pissed off to answer.

  I looked over at Connie, who rolled her eyes in annoyance. I wondered if she was second guessing herself for listening to Mom and coming to this family meeting.

  Connie was sixteen now and had recently started her junior year of high school. Between basketball, track, and her job at the park, she was hardly ever home and usually managed to avoid the daily nightmare the rest of us experienced.

  “I don’t have time for this crap,” she muttered as we headed back into Bishop Jones’s office.

  Bishop Jones was seated in his throne behind his desk and motioned for Connie and me to sit in the two metal folding chairs he had positioned in the five feet of space between the front of his desk and the wall.

  He wasted no time making his point.

  “I hear from your mom that you two girls are causing problems at home. What I don’t understand is why.”

  He said this as a statement, not a question. It was clear from the way he was glaring down at us that we were to keep our mouths shut and listen.

  His voice took on a hissing sound. “I want to tell you girls something right now. Your dad is no good. He was kicked out of the church for a reason. He was unfaithful to your mother and he hasn’t been there for any of you in years.”

  I felt the blood rushing to my face. I looked at Connie for a cue. She had the bishop locked in a cold stare. Her brown eyes looked darker than I’d ever seen them.

  He continued his verbal lashing. “You girls are lucky your mom found Earl, and you need to start loving and respecting him. After everything your dad’s done, you don’t even have a right to love him.”

  Connie wasn’t all that close to Dad. But this put her over the edge.

  “Let me make sure I heard you right,” she seethed, jumping out of her seat and leaning in toward the bishop. “Did you just tell us we don’t have a right to love our dad?”

  Before he could respond, Connie was grabbing the doorknob. I was right behind her. We walked out of his office door and then started running to the nearest church exit. Once outside, we sprinted for another block before stopping to catch our breath.

  “What a jerk!” I huffed. “I hate him.”

  “I don’t know who he thinks he is,” Connie agreed, breathing hard. “I can’t believe Mom set us up for that.”

  I was so grateful to Connie for standing up to Bishop Jones that I wanted to hug her. I wanted to thank her and tell her that I was glad she was my sister. I even considered telling her I loved her. But I knew she wouldn’t go for any of that and I didn’t want to ruin the moment.

  “Yeah, I can’t either,” I said quietly.

  We were both too worked up to go home so we began weaving up and down blocks in our neighborhood. The sky was dark and the air was freezing, but I felt safe and even warm next to Connie. She had proven that she would protect us even if Mom wouldn’t.

  We walked in silence for more than an hour. I didn’t want to go anywhere near our house, and if Connie had wanted to, I would have stayed out all night. I was half hoping she would suggest we run away. But as the adrenaline rush wore off, the freezing air closed in on us.

  “We should probably head back,” she said finally. “But don’t worry. If Mom asks any questions about the bishop meeting, I’ll do the talking.”

  “Okay,” I said, feeling the knot forming in my stomach.

  When we got home, we were both relieved to see that all the house lights were off—even the porch light. We walked in and made a beeline to our rooms.

  HEIDI DIDN’T FIGHT BACK against Earl like Connie and I did. She mainly stayed quiet and kept to herself. But ever since his arrival, the asthma she had been diagnosed with a couple of years before had gotten worse. After a while, her medication stopped working, and the week before Christmas, her breathing got so bad that she was admitted to the hospital.

  On Christmas morning, we took our presents to her hospital room and opened them there, while she lay in bed, hooked up to tubes and a breathing machine.

  She was so sick we had to open her presents for her.

  Once back at home, Mom summoned all of us kids into the living room for a talk. Earl stayed hidden in the bedroom.

  She looked tired and resigned.

  “The doctor told me that Heidi’s asthma is being caused by emotional problems and says we need to get some help. So I’ve made an appointment for family counseling.”

  I wanted to shake her until she came to her senses. We didn’t need some counselor to tell us how to fix our family problems. We all knew what the problem was.

  I considered voicing my thoughts but Mom looked so sad and defeated that I kept my mouth shut. Connie must have been thinking the same thing because she didn’t speak up either.

  A few days after Heidi was released from her two-week stay at the hospital—which Connie and I had secretly dubbed “her vacation” because of the break she got from home—we all headed for the Family Counseling Center, a free service sponsored through the Mormon Church.

  We entered a plain, tan brick building and walked into a large rectangular room with grey office carpet and glaring white walls. The room was empty except for eight metal chairs that had been arranged in a circle.

  “Welcome,” the counselor said, shaking Earl’s hand and giving Mom a friendly pat on the back. “Why don’t you all take a seat and we’ll get started.”

  The counselor looked to be in his mid-forties and could have passed for any of the elders at church. He had a plain, clean-shaven face with thinning blonde-brown hair that he wore combed over to one side of his head. He was medium height and had a slim frame that was dressed in a white, short-sleeve button-down shirt with a tie, and navy blue suit pants held up by a thin, black belt.

  I followed Connie’s lead and took a seat at the furthest end of the circle. Mom and Earl sat down in the chairs on either side of the counselor, who had positioned himself directly across from Connie and me. Heidi sat next to me, and Jacob and Daniel filled in the remaining seats.

  For several minutes, no one spoke. Then the counselor started in.

  “What’s wrong with you kids?” he asked, looking directly at Connie and me. “Don’t you know your mother and Earl are trying hard to make a nice family for all of you? Why can’t you children show Earl a little love and respect? Don’t you think your mother deserves that after all she has been through?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. It was a repeat of Bishop Jones.

  I was so fed up I couldn’t even look at Mom. Instead, I picked a spot on the wall directly behind the counselor and tried to block out the sound of his voice. To keep my hands from trembling, I gripped both sides of the metal chair.

  Like me, Connie kept silent. The only sound in the room was Heidi’s constant, hacking coughs and pumps from her asthma spray.

  The counselor was the only person who spoke the entire one-hour session. That was our last family counseling session.

  Mom, following the doctor’s recommendation, found Heidi her own therapist and from then on, Heidi spent an hour each week in therapy. I never asked her what she talked about in her sessions or how she was coping, and she never told me. Heidi and I had stopped hanging out when I started junior high and we rarely talked anymore. With Earl around, we were too busy focusing on our own problems.

  IT WASN’T HARD to notice that Mom was as miserable as the rest of us. Everything about her—from her facial expressions to the way she walked—was heavy and sad. Mom’s life consisted of working forty to fifty hours a week to make sure we had food on the table and a roof over our heads, and then coming home to a war zone, with both sides demanding her loyalty.

  The minute she walked through the front door in the evening, Earl guarded over her like a bull dog, following her from room to room to make sure she was always in his sight.

  Mom’s only escape was the bathroom. Sometimes after dinner, she locked herself in there for an hour or two. I often heard her crying through the door. But like everything else in our
family, we didn’t talk about it.

  After Heidi’s hospital stay and the family counseling fiasco, I noticed that Mom tried to make an extra effort with us kids.

  That spring, she surprised me with a trip to a plastic surgeon’s office.

  “I’ve been talking to some people at work and I think there might be something we could do to fix your scar,” she said as we drove.

  I was so touched and thankful that I was at a loss for words. It had been a year and a half since the car accident, and though the boys at school had stopped asking me if a bear had attacked me, I could still see it on their faces when they passed me in the hall. I was able to cover the mass of scar tissue on the right side of my forehead with my feathered side bangs. But no amount of foundation could hide the thick, crooked scar that stretched from the right corner of my lip to halfway up my cheek.

  We checked into the doctor’s office and were taken to a patient room to wait. I was nervous, but when the doctor walked in, he looked like a kind grandpa and immediately put me at ease.

  “Let’s take a look here,” he said, running his fingers along my scar. He was quiet for a minute and I held my breath.

  “Well, I don’t know who did the sewing job on this scar,” he said finally. “But the good news is that we can do a lot to improve it. What I would do is reopen it, cut out the scar tissue, and then re-sew it in an intricate zigzag pattern that works better with the muscles in your face.

  “You’ll still have a little scarring but it won’t be nearly as noticeable. And when you smile, people won’t even know it’s there.”

  The doctor gave me a warm smile and patted my leg. His words were magic but I didn’t want to get up my hopes. I looked at Mom, praying in my head that she would say yes.

  “Would she have to go to the hospital?” Mom asked.

  “Not at all,” the doctor replied. “We can do this in our office in a couple of hours, and once it heals, she’ll be as good as new.”