Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

I wasn’t with my mother when she died; twelve other people were there. However, I doubt if my mother asked for them. You could call them twelve witnesses. Many of them were members of my father’s family. The “victim’s family” was how it was stated in the official newspaper report. The rest were made up of the press and a state attorney or two.

I wasn’t allowed to attend my mother’s execution. I guess I wasn’t an “official” victim. I’m not even sure if I really wanted to be there. I’d only just found out about it a day or so before it took place.

Would the reality of being there changed the stark images I have in my mind?

Probably not.

Would I have wanted to see my father’s family sitting smugly in the front row with small smiles of satisfaction on their faces as my mother drew her last breath?

Probably not.

Would it have made any difference to them if I were in the room?

Probably not.

According to the official report the entire ordeal went smoothly. The sedative was administered without incident. According to witnesses, my mother didn’t even cry. They said she just closed her eyes and went to sleep. She probably didn’t even know when the lethal doses of Pentothal, Pancuronium, and Potassium Chloride were injected.

I think that was for the best.

The day after the execution, I received a telephone call. “Miss Anderson?” the caller asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Miss Charlotte Anderson?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“Sgt. Crawford from the State Correctional Facility. I, that is, we have a box from, well . . . um, from your mother, Miss Anderson.”

I said nothing. I had no idea why the prison would call me now, after the execution.

“Miss Anderson?” Sgt. Crawford probably assumed I had hung up on him.

“Yes, I’m still here. Are you sure you have a box for me?”

“Yes, ma’am. Your mother left instructions that her stuff be given to you after her, uh, execution. I’m sorry if this is upsetting, but I have to follow orders.”

“Don’t worry, Sergeant, you’re not upsetting me. I take it you’d like me to come and pick up the box?”

I agreed to be at the facility the next morning. During the drive I questioned my motives for even going to get the box. Why did I want it? It’s not like I had kept in touch with my mother or my father before his death.

You could say I was the product of a bad environment. Or, you could say I was an accident waiting to happen. It doesn’t matter now. They’re both dead and out of my life forever.

Did it matter that murder was what took them away? Not entirely. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I must have known that one day one of them would kill the other. I’m glad I wasn’t there to see it. I’d seen enough while I was there to last me a lifetime.

I ran away from home when I was fourteen. I’m not even sure my parents noticed I was gone. If they did, they sure didn’t act worried. No calls to the police. Not even a single “have you seen this girl?” poster. I was out of their life and apparently they accepted it. I guess you could say I saved my own life twenty years ago. So, what in the hell was I doing by accepting a box from my dead mother?

The process for picking up the box was surprisingly simple. I thought I’d have to go through a lot of barred doors, endless corridors, and submit to a strip search. I was wrong. Secretly embarrassed, I reprimanded myself for letting my imagination go out of control. I scolded myself, then told myself no more watching those damn police shows on television. I was relieved I didn’t have to succumb to a search of my body’s various cavities.

The administrative office stood separate from the prison. If I hadn’t seen the sign that indicated the property was a prison, I wouldn’t have known the difference between it and any other office complex.

The officer in charge checked my identification then helped load the box into the trunk of my car. I was back on the road in under fifteen minutes.

During the ride home I purposely kept the radio loud and sung along with all the songs. Anything to keep my mind off the box sitting in the trunk. I could almost feel weird vibes all the way up in the front seat. I mentally shook myself, then scolded myself for acting like the boogeyman was going to get me. It was just a box of stuff. That’s all.

Why did an item or mention of the past start your mind hurtling down on all kinds of random tangents? My life was pretty darn good at the moment. I’d finally put my past behind. I’d gotten out of the business and I had a nice nest egg to live on while I went to school. Even though I wasn’t exactly sure what my major was, I felt pretty damn proud of myself for completing my education, considering what I’d been through.

I know I was one of the lucky ones. I’d seen what the “life” had done to a lot of girls. Many never made it past their eighteenth birthday. Good thing I was considered “old” at twenty-four. I couldn’t handle the unending flow of the nameless faces of smelly, drunken men who would paw at me for a few dollars. I’d worked hard. I’d kept out of the drugs and stayed away from the cops. Maggie even helped me get my GED so I could make something of myself.

I smiled at the thought of my old manager. Maggie Monroe, she called herself. To me, she was the closest thing to a mother I guess I’d ever have. Even if I did work for her. I remember when I told her I was leaving the business for good. She said, “Good for you, kid.” Then she gave me this awkward hug and complained about mascara getting in her eyes making them water. I knew she was crying, but I’d never let on. Maggie made all of us tough. It’s what kept me from going crazy, night after night, doing the same routine, wearing the same disgusting outfits, listening to the same lines from dirty old men and horny little bastards.

I knew she liked me. The other girls knew it too. But, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was now. Today. The past was the past and it had to stay that way. So what in the hell was I doing with a box full of the past in the trunk of my car?

At home I had a hundred excuses why I couldn’t open the box right away. There were dishes to do, windows to wash, a tiny garden to weed. Homework to do. I even sanded and painted a chair I’d had in my garage for a year. Anything to keep from finding out what my mother thought was so important she needed me to have it after her death.

Why me?

It wasn’t as if we were close, even before I ran away from home things were never good between us. I tried to talk to her about how my father screamed at her when his dinner was too salty. I struggled to bring up the subject, but she shushed me and told me to pretend it never happened. That’s how she always handled stress. She just pretended it never happened. When I ran away, she probably pretended I was still there, right up to the end when she killed my father. Maybe she pretended that never happened, either. Who knows.

For two months the box stayed in my living room as I quietly lived my life around it. I went to school. I ate my meals. I did my homework. I left the box alone.

A part of me thought that if I continued to ignore it, that one day maybe the box would just disappear and I wouldn’t have to deal with it. The more realistic part of me said that when I was ready to open it, I’d know.

It was time.

I watched a gorgeous sunrise over the ocean then took a long walk along the deserted beach. Sitting on the sand, just out of reach of the lapping waves, I felt a peacefulness surround me. My mind cleared and I knew I was finally ready.

I closed the shutters on my little beach cottage and sat the box on the floor of the living room. Outside, I could hear the waves slapping at the beach. That sound never failed to comfort me. It didn't fail me today, even when I got no comfort from touching the box.

I peeled off the tape imprinted with “Property of State Correctional Facility.” It barely kept the flaps together. The box nearly burst with its contents.

I focused on keeping my breathing regular and my shaking hands steady.

Notepads. A box full of notepads. What on earth . . .? I had no idea where to begin. I took them out of the box one by one and started stacking them around me. The piles grew. Piles of plain old legal size notepads. I couldn't figure out why . . . Why notepads? Then it hit me. Spiral bound notebooks probably weren't allowed in prison.

My mother's journals.

Her words.

Her life.

I didn't even know my mother liked to write. I knew she read. Magazines mostly. Those True Story magazines about teenage mothers and stuff. She always had a bottle of soda and a bag of potato chips at her elbow when she read those magazines. She'd read them over and over, always wiping her greasy fingers carefully before turning the pages.

I snuck one into the bathroom to read one night, not too long before I ran away. The sad stories intrigued me with their tormented and horrible lives. I didn't think people really acted like that in real life and believed the stories were just that – stories.

My mother thought differently. She'd rant and rave about how this person suffered and that person needed to be punished for hurting so and so. She single handedly crusaded for the rights of every person in those magazines. I'd hear her talking to herself, mumbling about the strong ones who got away from their attackers. I don't remember much of what she'd say. I tried to ignore her.

I thought hard. There was so much I should remember, and so little that I really did.

Walking home from school, the sun setting behind me. For some reason I can't remember, I got home late. She was mad. She told me to go to the corner store and get a can of tomatoes and a loaf of bread. I hurried as fast as I could, running all the way there and all the way back, but it wasn't fast enough.

She yelled at me for making her late with dinner and mumbled something about getting punished. I thought she meant me. I stayed silent the rest of the night hoping that my father wouldn't ask and my mother wouldn't tell.

I wasn't punished that night. I never gave it another thought, except that I must have gotten off easy.

Only now, trying hard to remember, I recall the next day my mother had a black eye. She said she fell in the middle of the night tripping over something in the dark. My father called her clumsy all the time. “Accident-prone” were the words he used. Come to think of it, she had a lot of black eyes, and puffy, lips, and . . . my mind shut down. I didn't want to think about this anymore.

A shiver ran through my body.

Maybe that's why it took me so long to finally read my mother's journals. I wish that were true, but deep in my heart I know it wasn't. I was scared to find out what my mother was really thinking.

I made a pot of herbal tea then sat down cross-legged in a small space I managed to create in the midst of the pile of notebooks. With no other sense of direction than just trying to find a logical place to start, I reached out a tentative hand, opened the first journal closest to me, and began to read.

July 28, 1972 – Too hot to do anything, but did that stop HIM? Of course not. He chooses the hottest day of the summer to decide to work in the yard. It didn't matter that I told him little Charlie would get heatstroke or sunstroke or whatever. He never listens to me. He hasn't listened to me for 17 years, why should he start now? Apparently my job is to make sure everyone takes breaks, so I fill in for each person taking the break. I tried to explain to him that the only logic in that was that everyone got a break but me, and HIS answer was a quick slap along the right side of my head, of course the kid wasn't around to see it. I should have kept my mouth shut. Now I have to work in the heat with a splitting headache. All the while, he walks around like he's king and barks orders at everyone. That poor kid. Even if she happened to do it right the exact way HE wanted, she'd still get yelled at. It's the only kind of communication he knows.

I closed my eyes, trying to remember that hot summer day. I remember lots of summer days working in the yard. My mother beside me, pulling weeds, pushing lawnmowers, raking leaves. I remember complaining about the heat. I remember my father always yelling at us because we just didn't do something to meet his satisfaction. That was the way he was. Afterwards, he usually had something really fun planned for us. We'd go to the drive-in and see a movie, or to the lake and go swimming and have a picnic. I guess all kids remember the fun stuff more than the not-so-fun stuff.

I decided to get better organized about reading my mother's journals, so I sorted them by date. I noticed that sometimes it took several notebooks to finish a year, and at other times, one notebook would span a couple of years. I wondered about those times, whether they were lean on words because the times were good, or just the opposite?

By the time I'd finished sorting the journals and gathering pillows and a heavy throw for my “reading nest,” the sun was high over the calm, cool ocean. I made a quick lunch of raw vegetables that could easily be munched while I read and snuggled back into my cozy nest.

I struggled through the first few notebooks, deciphering my mother's childish scrawl while trying to imagine this young girl, so happy and in love was the woman who gave birth to me.

I skimmed rather than read too closely my mother's idealistic ramblings of the sexual prowess of my father.

I stood up, stretched, and took a quick bathroom break to distance myself from what I had just read.

Staring at myself in the bathroom mirror, I silently asked myself if it were possible that someone else had written these journals. That maybe, somehow, they were mixed up with my mother's things while she was in prison?

The doorbell rang while I contemplated calling the prison to see if a mix-up were possible.

“Hey, Charlie, ya home?”

That voice could only belong to one person. Sara. I smiled at her spontaneity. Only Sara would drive all they way out to Indian Rocks beach without calling first.

“Hold on, Sara. I'm coming.”

I opened the door to behold my friend juggling a bottle of wine, several Chinese take-out containers, and a small watermelon.

I rescued the watermelon from splattering on my front walk and led the way into the kitchen.

As we passed my living room, Sara questioned me about the scattered notebooks.

“Working on a new project?”

“No, not really.” I took the wine from her and put it in the refrigerator to chill.

“What then? Don't tell me it's homework, cuz I don't remember an assignment, and if I forgot, I'm dead, ok?”

I laughed at the disconcerting look on her face.

“No, it's not homework.”

“Girl, you know you can't keep secrets from me, so spill.” She opened up one of the small white containers and grabbed chopsticks from a drawer. “Shrimp fried rice, yum.”

I smiled. Sara was right up to a point.

I took a deep breath and then pursed my lips. I thought about what I should say, and then shrugged my shoulders. Someone would find out eventually, I guess it'd be best if I said it first.

I put my arm behind my back and made a mock face of pain. “Oh, ow, ok, I'll tell. Don't twist my arm anymore.”

Sara dropped to the floor and sat cross-legged next to one of the piles. Thoughtfully munching her rice, she asked, “Serious stuff, huh?”

I got my own set of chopsticks and opened the other container; beef and broccoli, my favorite, of course. Sara was like that. She took the time to get to know you and then remembered special things, like how much I loved beef and broccoli. And, she remembered that when it came to serious stuff, I'd make a joke to get around showing my feelings.

I shoved her over to make room for me and I sat down next to her. We ate in silence for a few minutes.

“They're my mother's journals.”

Sara sat her take out container down and played her chopsticks like a drum. “Ba-da-dum . . . tssh!!” She said. “And for my next trick, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!”

“I'm serious.”

“You said you didn't have a mother. Wait a minute. You told me your mother was dead.”

“Well, she is . . . now.”

“Wait, are you telling me your mother just died?”

“It's kind of complicated, Sara. You want the short version or the long version?”

Sara smiled and settled back into my comforter. “Oh, definitely the long version, girl.” She waved her hand in my general direction. “Speak. I'm listening.”

For the rest of the afternoon, I told Sara the story of my life. I didn't leave anything out. When I'd finished, she cried into her paper napkin for a few minutes then composed herself. Sniffling like a child she asked, “Have you read all of these yet?”; indicating the piles of notebooks.

“No, I'd just started when you'd gotten here.”

“Do you mind if I . . . ?” She asked as she tentatively reached a hand toward the closest notebook.

“No, I . . . no, go ahead. I want you to.”

Sara and I sat and read well into the evening. By the time we'd finished our second pitcher of margaritas, and listened to a rack of jazz CDs twice, we'd finally read the last notebook.

Around sunset, we'd moved out to the back patio to mellow out and give our eyes a rest. Thank goodness I'd had the patio screened last summer, or else we'd been eaten alive by the mosquitoes. The water calmed me while the frogs croaked a soothing reminder that I wasn't alone.

I was the first to break the comfortable silence that had settled around us.

“I guess I'd turned a blind eye to my parent's relationship.”

“How could you have known, Charlie, you were only a kid.”

“I must have known something was going on with them back then. I mean, shit, I left home to get away from them, right?”

“Yeah, I know, but according to what your mother wrote, she sheltered you from most of it.”

“Not all of it.” I mumbled and then quickly changed the subject. “Hey, what about Statistics, huh? You figured out our homework assignment?”

Sara saw right through my diversion. “Fuck Statistics, what did you mean when you said ‘not all of it'?”

This wasn't going to be easy. “I've only told one other person this, Sara. And, well, she promised me that as long as she was alive, he'd never . . . There was this one time, when my father, well . . . he, shit . . . “ I flung myself out of my wicker chair and paced nervously. I swung my arms back and forth, trying to wave away bad memories.

“Take your time, girl. Relax. We don't have to do this now, Ok?”

I wrapped my arms around my body and squeezed. “I'm ok. I didn't think this would upset me; must be from reading all those notebooks.”

I sat back down and turned to Sara. “My father molested me. Once. He came into my room late at night. At first I thought someone had broken into the house. Then I heard his voice. He said, ‘don't ask any questions.' Then he started touching me. I stared into the darkness, I don't even remember if I breathed. When . . . when he was finished all he said was ‘don't tell', then he left my room.”

Sara gaped at me with her mouth partly open. For once, I'd finally shocked the unshakeable Sara. I went on. “I left home the next day.”

Sara and I sat in strained silence, absorbing my words, contemplating our separate lives. A burning sensation began in the pit of my stomach. The fire spread. Heat burned beneath my body's surface. I needed a change.

“Sara.”

“mm..hmm?”

“What would you say if I changed my major?”

Sara smirked then said with a tiny bit of sarcasm, “What major?” Good ol' Sara. She was back. I could do this.