Juvenile Records Remain Sealed, part 6

May 18

If you are just seeing this series now, I suggest gaining some context and reading from the beginning: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5.

For regular readers, thanks for your patience and support while I figured out how to present this difficult section between work, art projects, and my regular happy life :)

Much as when it rains and you find yourself without an umbrella, you have no choice but to get wet. But you do have a choice whether to complain about it, look for a rainbow, or merely accept the circumstances as what they are. You can curse the rain and wish it hadn’t come, yet you know how much the land needs it. You can fear the rain and think it will never end and that you will drown in it, yet you know that we do not live in the dramatics of Biblical times. You can wish the rain would have come at another time, when you were better prepared — but such are the circumstances of life. I’m sure I’d learned this lesson before, but never so deeply as the week of my 14th birthday.

It’s such a sad tale that I do not want to tell it, especially since I’ve come to terms with the gifts of its happening… much the way it’s pointless to enjoy the fruits and flowers without the rain.

Most of the specific event details have been blocked out, reduced to mere slides on a circular View Master slide reel, creating an inevitable momentum and perpetual replaying. There are great time lapses between moments, but, as a whole, a story is made where I have no interest in filling the gaps.

The weird thing about telling sad stories is that you want to keep saying — But, look! I lived! Everything is okay! And some don’t want to be pulled into the sadness… yet that is where triumph comes. Where we can stand on our mountain, even if it’s fabricated from the shit of landfills.

***

I will pick up where I left off.

My summer days were now beyond empty with no relief in sight except going to the mall with my mom on Saturdays. Why can’t school go year round? I missed the structure, routine, variety, and I missed my friends. I missed seeing anyone, really.

One evening my mom got a call about Nana. Who phoned and relayed this story? It must have been my uncle because the chances of my mom believing her sister were slim. Nana was on one of her trips, had become seriously ill on the plane so they landed and rushed her to a hospital. There was internal bleeding. They were stabilizing her and rushing her home to Maine for further care.

My mom never missed work, was never sick, would never change her schedule for anything, but this was different. Nana, a true matriarch, had a pull over her children like I’ve never seen. A veil had dropped and the truth came out: there’s a very real possibility that Nana will die and is dying — and my mom is really upset about it. Grudges are forgotten.

The next morning, my mom called into work, bought one plane ticket, and then wondered what to do with me for a few days while she would be away.

I so wanted to go with her. My mom has this weird habit of keeping me from illness or funerals of those I love. I met many of her physical therapy patients over the years, yet I’d never been to someone’s bedside while they were sick or dying. In actuality, she probably couldn’t afford to take me with her, and I’m sure she didn’t want to think about me or my needs while wondering if her mother was going to live or die.

So the choice was given to me: stay at home alone or go to one of her friend’s houses. I thought of packing up the animals and bringing projects and books to occupy my time at a single woman’s house. I took the easy route and opted to stay home. I know what to do — I’ve been a latch key kid, home alone since age 7. But I’ve never spent a night at home alone, much less several… but it’s sure to be fine. Let’s make things easy for Mom. I’ll stay home. It’s no big deal. She’ll be home before I know it.

I don’t remember my mom leaving, but I do remember being a little excited to be alone. I fantasized about being one of those cool teenagers who would (or even could) throw a party. I even mentioned this to my older brother in a letter in the hopes he would think I was so cool and grown up. I remember him having parties and going to parties, and now he lived in Boston, a real city, so this bragging was sure to earn his respect, even though we both knew I was joking because I was so not that kid. I was testing the waters of irony.

This fantasy was funny because I was a good girl, liked to study, and never went to parties. I was never even invited to parties. I had friends at school but never saw them outside of school. I mainly had one close friend, Lisa, who my mom despised — she was a bad influence — which made me like her even more.I called Lisa and talked with her. She said she could come over for a while. Did I try to act like the cool girl to her too? Probably. Isn’t that what a girl turning 14 would do? If I did, I didn’t count on her telling her older brother, who tagged along and invited a bunch of his friends too.

At this point I panicked. There’s no good way to hide a party in a chintzy condo complex. This was beyond my Latch Key Kid skills. The place did not get overrun with people, but there was alcohol, music, and playing quarters, a drinking game, on my mom’s brand new dining room table. People got me to drink so I would chill the fuck out.

Next slide.I remember Lisa and her brother leaving because they weren’t allowed to stay the night.Suddenly I’m in a room of people I don’t know. More specifically, it’s a room of older guys. But I’m drinking and dancing and everything is all right.

Next slide.I’m in my mother’s room, very hazy and unsure of my body. There’s a guy kneeling on my mother’s bed, naked, asking for praise and reassurance — aren’t I beautiful? Something is missing, but this guy didn’t take it. A feeling of unease starts to wash over me.

Next slide.I open my eyes. The door is closed and the room is dark. There’s a guy kneeling at the bedside, mere inches from my face. He’s begging to have sex with me, convinced I’m saying no, no, no because he’s black. A desire rises within me to thank him for being nice, wanting to let him know that his other 3 friends didn’t even ask, much less have consent… and that it has nothing to do with him being black. What comes out is no, no, no, no.

Next slide.I wake up in the morning on a my mom's bed, half collapsed. Somehow it's been broken. One guy is still in the house trying to figure out what to wear to work. He pulls on a pair of my mom’s elastic-waist navy blue work pants he finds in the ironing basket on top of the dryer. He discovers my pale blue Camp Illahee sweatshirt in the dresser in my room, turns it inside out, puts it on and cuffs the sleeves. A rather inventive assemblage, and I always wondered if his seeing that sweatshirt pained him as much as my loss of it.

Next slide.Suddenly I am alone. ALONE.

My only desire is to escape. The condo. My skin. My life.

***

There are blank spaces where there should be tears, showers, calls to friends… memory of any action.

The blackness is so deep that I have no memory of leaving. Did I pack? Did I call someone to pick me up?

All I can guess from future events is that I walked out the door.

The blackness spreads from there.Next slide.I’m arrested and put in juvie. It’s not for long, maybe a few days. There was nothing to do. No pens. No paper. No books. No tv. A bed bolted to the floor of a bare room. There’s one small window in the door that people peek through at least once every hour to make sure I am where I should be.

Next slide.When the cops come to get me to take me home, I’m relieved. I change into my street clothes I came in with.

The exiting counselor says to me, “See you again real soon.” I smarm back, “I don’t think so,” confident that I've learned my lesson. That I got this. That I can deal. She replies, “It ain’t out of you yet.”

She’s right.

Next slide.

Kathy Frey