Hippie Boy: A Girl's Story Read online

  Dad usually came home on a Saturday and I always spent the fifteen-minute breaks Mom allowed us between chores stationed at the living room window, watching for his truck to pull up. When he finally arrived, I made sure I was the first one to run out and greet him.

  “Dad,” I would yell as I rushed into his arms for a hug. “You made it! I missed you to the moon and the stars and back.”

  “Well, look at you, Hippie Boy,” he would laugh as he wrapped his arms around me. “I think you’re even prettier than you were the last time I saw you.”

  Our routine was always the same. I would walk him into the house and wait impatiently by his side while the other kids lined up for their hug and kiss. Then I would drag him by the hand to the couch in the living room and spend the next few minutes snuggling next to him, telling him about my life and bringing him snacks from the kitchen.

  Dad couldn’t stand being away from his work for very long and after about forty-five minutes of visiting with me, he always headed to the phone in the kitchen to make his business calls. I would trail behind, pull up a chair next to him, and listen to what sometimes amounted to hours of phone conversation. If Dad said he had a business meeting to attend, I insisted on going with him. If he said he was tired and needed a nap, I sat in the hallway outside his bedroom waiting for him to wake up.

  After dinner, I cuddled with him in the living room again until it was time to go to bed.

  Because Dad spent only a couple of days out of each month at home, I guarded him closely and wasn’t about to share him with my brother and sisters—or even Mom. I figured we all needed to fend for ourselves, and if the others weren’t as demanding or persistent, I concluded it was their fault.

  Before moving to Mississippi, Mom had put up with my attention-hogging ways. But now that she was on a mission to save her marriage with Dad, she decided it was time to put a stop to my selfish behavior.

  One day shortly after Dad arrived, she grabbed me by the arm as I was heading to the fridge to make him a sandwich. She pulled me to a corner wall for a talk.

  “What you are doing is not right,” she chided in a loud, harsh whisper. “You need to let your dad spend time with me and your brother and sisters. Do you understand me? You aren’t the only one who matters in this house.”

  I knew she had a point. But I wasn’t about to let her make me feel guilty.

  I glared at her, pulled away, and ran back into the living room to be with Dad. I didn’t care how Mom or the other kids felt. I knew how I felt and how much I needed Dad. And I was willing to do whatever it took to make sure he felt the same way about me.

  A few weeks later, when Dad called to say he would be home for his birthday, I decided to do something big to get his attention―as in surprise him by jumping out of a cake in a string bikini.

  I had watched a sexy girl do this on TV and it was the first thing that popped into my nine-year-old mind. I didn’t own anything close to a string bikini like the girl on TV wore and had no clue how to make the trick cake that was used. But I concocted a modified version that I was certain would elevate me to favorite-child status.

  Early on the morning of Dad’s late summer birthday, I recruited Heidi, then almost seven, to help me bake a chocolate cake. Dad wasn’t due home until 4 p.m., but I wanted to make sure there was plenty of time to execute my plan.

  “What I want you to do is wrap me in a box with the cake, and then I’ll jump out and surprise him,” I told her while we frosted the cake and carefully arranged thirty-seven candles.

  I spent hours getting ready. I started by dressing in the most revealing outfit I owned, a pair of strawberry-patterned terry cloth shorts and a halter top my cousin had recently donated. I brushed my long, auburn hair until it was smooth and glossy, and softened my lips with Vaseline. I even snuck a little of Mom’s mascara to make my eyes pop.

  To substitute for the confetti the girl in the bikini had used, I convinced Heidi to help me cut up the Sunday paper into thin strips. We then headed to the cellar to retrieve the cardboard box Mom used to haul around her canning bottles. Together, we dragged the box up the wooden stairs and positioned it near the front door.

  At 3:30 p.m., I climbed inside the box, which was just big enough that I could sit down in it if I pulled my knees into my chest. Heidi handed me the cake pan, which I balanced on my knees. Then she shoved the newspaper strips into the cracks on either side of me.

  Once that was done, she set to work wrapping the box.

  "Hurry up,” I urged from behind the cardboard walls. "He’s going to be here any minute.”

  Heidi finished wrapping just before 4 p.m. and went to hide in the living room.

  Ten minutes passed. Then twenty.

  My legs started to cramp and the air in the box turned hot and clammy.

  "Heidi, I can't breathe!" I yelled. “You’ve got to get me some air!”

  She ran to Mom’s sewing room, grabbed a pair of scissors, and punched holes in the back of the box. Then she headed back to her hiding spot.

  We waited. There was no sign of my dad.

  After an hour and a half, Mom announced that she and the other kids were going to the neighborhood block party for some Sloppy Joes. I loved Sloppy Joes and had been looking forward to the party all week.

  "Okay. I'll be over in a few minutes—just as soon as Dad gets here,” I called from inside the box.

  Time slowly ticked away. To keep me company, Heidi came out of her hiding spot and sat next to the box. We talked about the surprised look on Dad’s face when he opened his present.

  Another half hour passed before the phone rang. Heidi ran to answer it. It was Dad.

  "I'm running a little late,” he told her. “I should be there in a half hour or so."

  Heidi decided this would give her plenty of time to head across the street for some food. I envisioned all my neighbors laughing and having a good time. Along with the Sloppy Joes, I knew there would be potato chips and orange soda—food we never got to eat at home.

  I listened as the door shut behind Heidi and willed myself not to feel bad. I ignored my growling stomach and focused my thoughts on Dad and on how happy I would make him.

  The minutes crawled.

  Sweat rolled down my back and I could feel the newspaper strips sticking to my legs. I wiggled my feet to keep them from falling asleep.

  Heidi returned after a few minutes. The block party ended soon after and Mom, Connie, and Jacob returned as well.

  “What are you doing?” Connie asked as they filed past the box. I could feel her eyes rolling in her head.

  Heidi punched a few more holes into the back of the box so I could breathe easier. Finally, at 7 p.m., Dad arrived.

  “Hi, Dad,” Heidi said as soon as he came through the door. “Open your present.”

  I waited as Dad peeled off the paper and opened the box.

  “Surprise!” I yelled, struggling to stand up.

  I was dripping with sweat and my hair was matted against my face. The chocolate frosting had melted and dark smudges of ink from the newspaper confetti covered my thighs.

  There was a long second of silence. The room was so quiet I could hear my heartbeat.

  “Well, this is nice,” Dad said finally.

  I heard the hesitation in his voice as he eyed both me and the cake. I was suddenly mortified by my bare stomach and sweaty, ink-covered body. I didn’t need a mirror to know how ridiculous I looked. I saw it in Dad’s face.

  “I tell you what,” he said, pushing past me as he spoke. “I have to make a quick phone call and then we’ll eat.”

  I watched him head for the kitchen, leaving me standing in the box with the cake and confetti. Heidi trailed behind him, anxious to distance herself from the spectacle she had helped create.

  My face flushed with shame. For a minute, I was too stung to move. I just stood there in my clammy, inky mess. I could feel the tears pressing against my eye sockets but I was determined not to let them come. I didn’t want either
Dad or the rest of the family to know the extent of my humiliation.

  I sucked in my breath and concentrated on keeping my face blank.

  I waited for a few minutes to pull myself together. Then I carefully climbed out of the box with the cake, forced my mouth into a smile, and headed for the kitchen.

  The stinging feeling vanished a few minutes later, when Dad hung up the phone and gathered me in his arms for a hug.

  “What do you say we dig into that cake?” he asked, a big grin spreading across his face. “I’m hungry.”

  CHAPTER 4

  CONNIE AND I camped out in the hallway next to the door leading to the attic stairs. We both had our heads pressed to the wall, straining to make out the angry hissing sounds vibrating though the ceiling above us.

  We mostly caught snippets of Dad’s rants, because Mom’s voice was too quiet to carry.

  “Maybe instead of going to that bishop all the time, you ought to come to me for a little advice and support,” his voice thundered through the ceiling. “Do you know how hard I work? Seven days a week! Maybe if you stopped preaching to me and started accepting me for who I was, I would want to stay at home and would have more money to give you!”

  Dad and Mom now fought every time he came home for a visit, which was becoming less and less often. We hated it when they argued because Dad had a bad temper and it was hard to know what would set him off. When the trigger came, it was like watching the guy on TV turn into the Incredible Hulk. Dad’s face would turn purple, the veins would bulge out of his neck, and his hands would ball into fists. Then he would blow and whatever was in his way got destroyed.

  Neither Connie nor I were in the mood for an explosion. But what was bothering us most about this particular fight was that they had chosen to have it in the attic.

  Connie’s bedroom was in the attic. So was our TV.

  Connie was irritated because she needed to get her violin so she could practice. Her orchestra teacher had a fit when students showed up unprepared and often threatened to kick them out of the class.

  Connie was like that—always wanting to be responsible and do the right thing. I just wanted to watch TV.

  The two of us played Rock, Paper, Scissors for a while, ignoring Dad’s angry shouts and hoping he and Mom would be done soon.

  When we grew tired of that, we had contests to see who could last the longest making a bridge with their body across the hallway. I always won because I was practicing to be a cheerleader when I got older and could already do the splits.

  After a while, we got bored with that, too, and both sat against the wall with our knees hugged into our chests, silently willing them to wrap things up already.

  I picked at my hangnails, trying to pass the time. Connie was restless and grabbed a piece of paper and pens from the kitchen so we could distract ourselves with a game of dot-to-dot. By the time we were finished with that, she was fed up and ready to act.

  “If I just sneak up to my room, they probably won’t even notice me,” she began, adjusting the brown-framed glasses she sometimes wore. “It will only take me a second.”

  I was usually the daredevil in the family and I wanted to be upstairs just as much as she did. But we both knew the potential consequences far outweighed the benefits.

  “I wouldn’t do it,” I warned. “It’s going to make Dad mad.”

  “Yeah, but they’ve already been up there for two hours,” Connie fumed. “What do they expect us to do?”

  We sat in silence for the next few minutes, straining to hear their conversation. It was muffled, but much quieter now, and we both took this to be a good sign.

  Connie spoke up.

  “Mom wants me to get good grades, right? If they get upset, I’ll just explain that I need to practice my violin or I’ll flunk.”

  “I wouldn’t do it if I were you,” I cautioned again, though I wasn’t very forceful because I was starting to rethink my position. Mom and Dad had been going at it forever, and I was beginning to wonder if they would ever be done.

  We waited in silence for a few more minutes. Connie looked at me and I could tell by the expression on her face that she had run out of patience. I had too. Wonder Woman was about to start.

  “I’m going up,” Connie announced, pushing herself up off the floor and grabbing the doorknob.

  “Okay,” I said, trying to hide the relief in my voice. “Good luck.”

  The explosion came within seconds.

  “What in the hell are you doing here!” Dad’s voice blasted through the house. “Did I say you could come up?”

  His rant was interrupted by a loud crashing sound. Another scream and smashing sounds followed. I felt the familiar fear rip though my chest. I wasn’t sure what was coming next and ran to the living room for cover. I immediately headed for my hiding spot in the corner crevice between the piano and couch. I huddled there, trying to keep myself from shaking. There was more yelling, crashing, and banging. Then I heard glass shattering and wood splintering.

  I hugged my knees close against my chest and pushed my body hard against the side of the piano, willing myself to become invisible. I heard a final yell. Then I heard Dad’s heavy footsteps crashing down the old plywood steps and the slam of the front door. The house went silent except for Connie’s wailing sobs.

  I was worried that Connie was hurt and felt guilty for letting her go upstairs. But I was too scared to move.

  I waited until I heard Dad’s truck roar away and then cautiously stepped out of my hiding spot. I rounded the corner, opened the attic door, and started making my way upstairs. The first thing I noticed was that the half wall that lined the top of the stairway was busted apart and now hung in pieces of jagged wood. When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw that our TV was on the floor with a big hole in the screen, surrounded by shards of broken glass. Mom’s bookshelf was overturned and books were scattered across the floor.

  Connie was standing in a corner clutching her black violin case. She looked small and scared. Mom stood with her back to me, a few feet in front of her.

  “I was just trying to get my violin,” I heard Connie pleading in between sobs. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

  I never heard Mom’s response because she suddenly realized I was standing there.

  “Ingrid, go back downstairs. Now!” she ordered.

  I moved slowly down the steps, straining to hear more, but the only noise I heard was Connie’s muffled sobs.

  During Dad’s next visit home, he and Mom fought in the living room.

  This time, Connie and I knew better and locked ourselves in the bathroom. Heidi and Jacob hid in a small room tucked away at the back of the house. When the front door again slammed and everything went quiet, Connie and I tentatively made our way down the hall to the living room.

  My eyes locked on the new light fixture that Mom had proudly purchased a few months before. It had a long, brass neck that branched out into six arms, each featuring a pretty white glass cup that held a light bulb. What we had affectionately referred to as “our new chandelier” was now a mass of broken glass dangling from ceiling wires.

  Then I saw the piano―the used Wurlitzer Mom had spent years dreaming about and had purchased two years earlier on a five dollar a month rent-to-own plan. Connie must have seen it at the same time because she made a gasping noise that sounded a lot like a dog’s yelp. Half of the piano keys were chipped from the force of Dad’s fists pounding on them. The piano bench looked like it had been karate chopped. Pieces of wood lay scattered across the living room floor, mixed in with the hymn books that had once been stored inside.

  My eyes moved from the piano to the couch where Mom sat, tears streaming down her face.

  “Are you okay, Mom?” Connie asked, running to her side to comfort her.

  For a second, I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t believe Dad had ruined Mom’s piano. What was wrong with him?

  I took a seat on the other side of Mom and hugged her. Mom just sat and sobbed—harder
than I had ever seen her. I couldn’t tell if she was crying because she was scared or had a broken heart.

  “It’ll be okay,” I heard Connie say, doing her best to be the support system she always was to Mom. I wanted to agree with her but I couldn’t. Everything in the room was busted up or torn apart—just like our family.

  How could things ever be okay?

  I had a hard time reconciling the Dad I worshipped with this crazy man who petrified me. I began to escape by locking myself in my room with the wire hook lock that hung on the door. Once safely inside, I would lie down on my bed, close my eyes, and dream about my real family—the Osmonds―who would soon come to take me away.

  I settled on the Osmonds because they were rich, famous, and Mormon—plus, I figured they already had so many kids that throwing me into the bunch wouldn’t make a difference.

  My fantasy was always the same. There had been a horrible mix-up in the hospital nursery on the day I was born and I had been given to the wrong family. For years the Osmonds had been secretly looking for me. They couldn’t advertise it because they didn’t want hundreds of kids coming out of the woodwork claiming to be theirs, so it was taking longer than it should have. But any minute now, I expected them to knock on the door and save me.

  I imagined how angry Donny would be when he discovered that his little sister had been living in such awful conditions. Once rescued and driven the hundred-mile journey by stretch limo to the Osmond compound, he would take me into his room—which I knew from reading Tiger Beat magazine could only be entered through a tunnel—and sit me down on his bed. I envisioned it would feature a purple quilt since purple was Donny’s favorite color.

  “I’ll never let anyone hurt you or treat you like that again,” he would fume, putting his arm around me protectively and holding me close.

  Wrapping up our private talk, the two of us would make our way back through the tunnel and out into the living room. That’s where all of my other brothers and my sister, Marie, would smother me with hugs and tell me how sorry they were for losing me. I would pretend to be angry at first, just so they knew how hurt I was. But then I would melt from their love and affection and tell them that I forgave them.