Hippie Boy: A Girl's Story Page 17

  I believed in Dad and was convinced he could reach his million-dollar goal if he could just become a little more savvy and ruthless like his role model on Dallas and learn to say “no” to the leeches that always sucked him dry.

  It took only one look at the three or four guys who made up Dad’s revolving sales crew to know that they weren’t our ticket to success. They were a disgusting combination of bad teeth, stringy hair, and tight jeans―and looked and smelled like they hadn’t showered in weeks. They all either smoked or chewed tobacco and often stood outside their motel rooms polluting the air with their cigarettes or spitting out mouthfuls of black tar onto the sidewalk.

  I could barely stand to look at them, but I still could’ve tolerated them if they’d carried their weight. After all, the whole idea of having them on the road with us was to generate more revenue for Dad. Each night, we met for dinner at a pre-designated Denny’s or some other motel cafe to map out our plan for the next day. Dad would settle up with the guys―supplying them with tools on consignment as needed and collecting money for the tools they had sold. In theory, Dad was supposed to receive a ten percent commission in exchange for supplying the tools. But it never worked out that way. Half the time, the guys didn’t sell anything at all and Dad would have to pay for their dinner and then give them gas money for the next day.

  When I asked why he was covering their costs when they were supposed to be paying us, he acted like it was just part of doing business.

  “Oh, Ingrid, sometimes you just need to have a little patience,” he said. “They just need a little help to get them going and then it will start to pay off.”

  Dad couldn’t believe that anyone would purposely try to rip him off or take advantage of him, and was always giving the guys second, third, even fourth chances.

  A couple years earlier, when he was still running his tool company out of Salt Lake City, he told me that one of his sales guys had taken off with a semi truck loaded with merchandise. Dad had reported it to the police, who tracked the guy down and arrested him. The sales guy used the one call he was allowed to phone Dad and plead his case. And Dad ended up going down and getting him released from jail.

  Being a Good Samaritan was one thing, but helping someone get out of jail after they had just stolen from you was taking it too far.

  “So why did you do it?” I asked, trying not to sound as irritated as I felt. “I know I wouldn’t have.”

  I could tell by the sound of Dad’s voice that I had hurt his feelings.

  “Well, for one thing, I knew he would be grateful and wouldn’t steal from me again,” Dad said defensively. “But I also know that everyone deserves a second chance. Wouldn’t you want a second chance, Ingrid?”

  Most nights, we were done with the guys after dinner, and I didn’t have to see them again until the following night. But sometimes, if they had a particularly bad sales day, Dad would invite them to stay in our motel room with us so they wouldn’t have to spring for a room themselves.

  This meant giving up my bed. For privacy, I would take the bedspread off Dad’s bed, grab one of his pillows, and create a makeshift bed on the floor in the small space between Dad’s bed and the wall.

  I hated giving up my bed. But the worst part was sharing the bathroom with them. I always made sure I was first one in the bathroom each evening so I wouldn’t have to put up with the smell the room emitted later. In the morning, I always flushed the toilet and washed off the seat with a washcloth before I sat down.

  I had been putting up with the occasional sales crew sleepover for a few weeks and hadn’t said a word. But when Dad told me one evening after dinner that we were giving up our motel room to one of his sales guys because he had a girlfriend with him, I’d had enough.

  “But what about us?” I asked, growing angrier by the second. “We worked hard to earn the money for that room. Where are we even going to clean up?”

  Normally I wouldn’t have minded sleeping in the van, but I was furious that Dad was so willing to sacrifice my comfort for some woman we didn’t even know. What’s more, when we did spend the night in the van, we always slept at a rest area or truck stop so I had easy access to a bathroom and could clean up in the morning.

  Dad looked at me like there was something wrong with me.

  “Ingrid, what did you expect me to do?” he asked, exasperated. “They didn’t have any money. They needed a place to stay.”

  I spent the night seething as I tossed and turned on the foam mattress that separated Dad and me from the van’s hard metal floor. My jeans were tight and uncomfortable. I had to use the restroom but didn’t dare knock on the door in the middle of the night. Finally, at five in the morning, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I fumbled in the dark for the latch to the van door and climbed out. I walked up to the motel room door and pounded on it.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the girlfriend―wrapped in a sheet―answered the door. She didn’t say a word. She just shot me an annoyed look.

  “I need to use the restroom,” I mumbled as I pushed my way past her.

  The woman climbed back into bed and was already asleep when I passed through the room a few minutes later and headed back to the van to start my workday.

  It’s just how it goes,” Dad said as we drove to a nearby 7-Eleven to gas up and grab a Sugar Free Dr Pepper. “They needed our room more than we did last night. Someday I’m sure you’ll understand.”

  CHAPTER 14

  EVEN DURING MY time with Dad, I had been looking forward to fall because I was finally going to be in high school. But the minute I walked into the house and Dad drove away, the pit in my stomach was back and the same crushing depression―like being trapped between two stone walls that were closing in on me—took hold. Only now Connie wasn’t around to help push the walls back.

  When Dad called the next evening to check in, I sobbed into the phone, so choked up I could barely speak.

  “What’s the matter, Ingrid?” he asked, his voice cracking. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

  I couldn’t explain the emotions colliding inside me; the knots in my stomach and the way I had lain in bed the night before, fighting off waves of panic that washed over me. Or the suffocating air that filled the house and the hopelessness that wrapped around me like a straight jacket. But my desperation must have sounded through my sobs.

  “We are getting you out of there,” Dad announced flatly before hanging up.

  Within a few minutes, first my grandma, then an aunt who lived near Salt Lake City called—both offering to let me live with them. Connie, who had finished the summer in Jackson and was now in Southern Utah getting ready to attend her first quarter of college, also called and offered to let me come live in her tiny, one bedroom apartment.

  Dad was doing his best to find a solution for me. The problem with all of these offers was that I wouldn’t be able to attend high school with my friends. I didn’t want to leave them and start new in a strange place.

  Something had changed in Mom over the summer. After three years of living through Earl’s daily tirades and threats, she suddenly seemed to understand the devastating toll it was taking on our family. And despite feeling trapped in her marriage to Earl, she was as determined as Dad to help find a better living situation for me.

  That evening she invited me to go for a walk so we could figure out a place for me to live.

  For a few minutes we both walked in silence. I focused on the dairy processing plant that loomed in front of us, remembering how when we were little, Connie and I used to race each other on our bikes from our house to the plant. Sometimes, when we got home, the ice cream truck would be making its way down the street and Mom usually managed to scrounge together enough change for us each to pick something.

  “I talked with Sister Perry and she says you can live with her,” Mom said finally, her voice barely audible.

  I knew she was just trying to help, but this was the last thing I wanted. The woman was as religious as Mom and even str
icter―she didn’t even let her daughter wear makeup.

  I wanted to scream at Mom, to demand that she throw Earl out and do something to start fixing our family instead of acting so powerless to it all. I also wanted to hug her to try to heal her broken heart, and thank her for her willingness to help me.

  I stayed quiet and kept walking. Mom was quiet too.

  After a while, she reached for my hand and took it in hers. It felt good to be near her. This was the first time we’d spent an uninterrupted hour together since she and Earl had married. I didn’t realize until then how much I had missed her.

  “I have an idea,” Mom said after a half hour of silence, a hint of hope in her voice. “Why don’t we go talk to the bishop about it and see what he thinks you should do?”

  Normally I would have scoffed at the idea. As far as I could tell, it was Mom’s constant discussions with the bishop that had brought on this whole mess in the first place. But at the moment, I was feeling so conflicted I didn’t know what else to do. And I really liked our new bishop. He was a firefighter by profession and had warm, kind eyes. Even Dad liked him.

  As soon as we got back to the house, Mom called and made an emergency appointment. Thirty minutes later, we were sitting in Bishop Whitten’s living room.

  “Can I get you two a glass of water or something?” he asked before taking a seat.

  Bishop Whitten was about six feet tall with black hair and clear blue eyes that seemed to look right into your soul. I knew his daughter from my church classes and had always been a little envious that he was her dad. He was constantly taking her skiing and doing other fun things with her, and seemed so nice and caring.

  “So why don’t you tell me what’s going on?” he asked kindly, nodding toward me.

  I wanted to speak but I was too torn up inside and didn’t trust myself to talk. So Mom did the talking.

  Bishop Whitten waited until she was finished and then turned his attention to me.

  “From what I’m hearing, it definitely sounds like you shouldn’t be living in the same house as Earl,” he said. I detected empathy and even concern in his voice.

  “Maybe you can live with your grandma so you can still be close by. That seems like the best solution to me.”

  I left his house grateful that he understood my situation, but just as conflicted as before. Out of all my options, I liked the idea of living with Grandma the best. But the truth was that I hardly even knew Grandma. Before my parents were divorced, Mom used to take all of us out to Grandma’s house for a Sunday visit a couple times a month. But usually Connie and I just played games in her TV room while Mom and Grandma were visiting. And after Mom married Earl, we only saw her once or twice a year.

  Grandma always remembered us with cards on our birthdays. But with eleven children of her own, she had so many grandchildren to keep track of it was hard for her to maintain close relationships with any of them.

  I spent the evening considering the Grandma option. She was easygoing and I knew it would be peaceful living with her. But she lived seven miles outside the city limits, which meant I would have to go to a different high school. And since I was too young for my driver’s license and had no way of getting around, it also meant I would spend most of my time stuck on a farm in the middle of nowhere.

  I went to sleep still undecided. The next morning, as I tried to block out our morning scriptures, my eyes locked on Earl. He shot me an ugly, victorious grin.

  My gut burned as the realization slowly washed over me. I was playing into his hands. All he needed was for me to be completely out of the picture and there would be no one to stop him―or at least try to stand in his way.

  He had already started referring to himself as Daniel’s “Daddy” whenever I was in earshot, and just before leaving with Dad for the summer, I caught him hitting Daniel and Jacob when they didn’t say their prayers. I knew Heidi, who had just turned thirteen, was too sick with her asthma to put up a fight. And my brothers were too young to defend themselves. That moment of clarity made me understand I couldn’t leave.

  “I think I’ll give it a try here for a couple of weeks,” I told Dad when he called to check in that evening.

  “Are you sure, Ingrid? Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

  He sounded both surprised and suspicious.

  “Yeah, I’m sure, Dad. I think everything’s going to be fine. I’ll explain it all later.”

  I looked over at Earl, who was standing a few feet away, listening to my side of the conversation. I saw the angry, dumfounded look on his face. I stared into his icy, mean eyes and flashed him my biggest smile.

  I LOVED HIGH SCHOOL. It was so much bigger and freer than junior high, and I could choose from all sorts of classes and after-school activities. Mom insisted that I go to Seminary―a Mormon religion class that had its own building adjacent to the high school campus. But aside from that, she didn’t care what classes I took; so while my friends’ parents made sure they were enrolled in AP classes, I signed up for the easiest math and English classes available. Unlike junior high, the high school was only four blocks from my house, making it possible for me to stay at school as long as I wanted after classes ended each day without worrying about how I was going to get home.

  My new strategy at home―in addition to staying away as much as possible―was to pretend like Earl didn’t exist; and it seemed to be working. Though Mom and I never discussed it, my decision to stick it out at home came with an unspoken agreement between us that from that point on, only she had a say in my life. I didn’t know it at the time, but Bishop Whitten had also stepped in on my behalf. He had met with Mom and Earl and told them that Earl should stick to being a husband, stop trying to play any sort of father role, and leave me alone.

  So that I could earn some spending money, Mom lined up a weekly housecleaning job for me with one of her patients and gave me a ride to her home each Saturday. The rest of my free time was spent with my new friend, Heather, who had instantly become my soul mate.

  I had been without a best friend since the end of seventh grade, when Phyllis had decided to quit the Mormon Indian Student Placement Program and stay on the reservation with her real family. I’d known Heather from a couple of classes we’d had together in junior high, but our friendship didn’t click until we partnered up in biology class.

  Just the idea of dissecting frogs made me light-headed. But Heather―who didn’t shy away from anything―was fine with it.

  “Don’t worry about, I’ll do all the cutting,” she assured me. “You can just stand by and watch.”

  Heather was everything I wanted to be. She was slim and beautiful, with dark brown hair, sea-blue eyes, and a perfect soprano singing voice. Even though she was only a sophomore, she had already landed a role in our high school musical. She was also one of the most head-strong people I knew. I avoided confrontation whenever possible but Heather had no problem arguing with anyone. And she was good at it.

  Heather was the youngest of four children and was the only one of her siblings left at home. I loved going to her house because it was peaceful. It was also the kind of house I had always wanted. It was a modern ranch-style with nice furnishings, new carpet, and three bathrooms―all with their own showers.

  I was embarrassed to have friends over to my house, and I knew some girls at school avoided me because I was poor. But Heather didn’t care about where I lived or how much money my Mom had. And her parents quickly accepted me despite my whole broken family situation.

  Heather’s dad was an engineering professor at the university. I also knew from Heather that he was in the stake presidency, which was an even higher ranking than bishop, and that worried me a little. But he only asked me once if my dad was a priesthood holder. When I answered with a curt “no,” he never brought the subject up again. Instead, he asked me questions about what I wanted to do with my life and focused on correcting my grammar.

  “It’s not ‘me and Heather,’” he would prod in a kind, teache
r sort of way as he drove us to a movie or the arcade. “It’s ‘Heather and I.’”

  Soon I became a regular fixture at Heather’s house after school or on the weekends. And when I walked in, her mother always greeted me with a smile.

  “Well, hi there, Ingrid,” she would say, either looking up from the magazine she was reading or from the homemade dish she was preparing for dinner. “Would either of you like a snack?”

  Between my Saturday cleaning job, hanging out with Heather, and the occasional dates I was now being asked out on, I was rarely home anymore and the school year flew by.

  Though I didn’t see Mom much, I knew she was exhausted from her long hours at the Health Department and her ongoing, nightmarish struggle with Earl. But I didn’t ask about it because it seemed pointless.

  “You know what I was thinking?” she asked quietly one Saturday in March as she drove me to my weekly cleaning job. “I was thinking of taking a vacation with just you kids this summer. That way we can all get a break from Earl and spend some time as a family.”

  I heard the wistfulness in her voice and it made me sad. A family vacation without Earl sounded fun―a vacation at all sounded fun. We hadn’t been on a vacation since before the Mississippi move.

  But I knew there was no way Earl would let her go off on her own. And as much as she was dreaming of an escape, I knew she knew it too.

  I wondered if she was feeling out the waters to see if maybe I would stay around for the summer, given that the school year had gone so much better than years before. But that was out of the question. Summers belonged to Dad and me.

  “Sounds nice, Mom,” I said after a while, reaching over to squeeze her hand. “You and the kids deserve a break from Earl. I hope you get it.”

  NEXT TO MY FRIENDSHIP with Heather, the best thing about my first year in high school was turning sixteen. Along with being allowed to date, I was finally eligible to get my driver’s license―which I hoped meant that I would soon be getting a car from Dad.