CHAPTER ONE

The house was a complete disaster.  Toys were strewn all over the floor, disposable diapers overflowed the trash can. Saltines lay smashed on the milk‑spill‑stained hardwood floor.  Overloaded ash trays, never emptied enough, spilled ashes on every tabletop.  Fast food wrappers were everywhere‑‑from McDonald's, Wendy's, Taco Bell.  God, I should get to this, I'm home for chrissakes. What kind of a mother am I?  How in the hell can we afford all this fast food‑‑much less what it must be doing to us?  What in the hell am I doing here?

Picking up an armful of clothes, I headed for the steps.  Damned drafty old house‑‑two years after closing it was still half‑done, with no money to finish it.  Gaping holes in the staircase waited for the quarter‑round that never seemed to get put up‑‑or couldn't we afford that, either?  Eyeing the antique oak ball we'd put on the stair rail, visions of Jimmy Stewart rushed through my mind, and I wished it weren't so well attached so I could pull it off or slam it down‑‑perhaps against the wall.  But I had news for Jimmy‑‑it was anything but "a wonderful life."  It was a trap.  Finally, the injustice of all  the talent I was supposed to have but never deserved was catching up with me.  I was broke.  Disheveled.  A 3‑year‑old and an infant were still nursing the life right out of me, long after being weaned.  They were napping.  It was quiet.  I was lonely and restless.  I headed for the telephone.

"Um, is Tim there?"

"Please hold and I'll see if he's still here right now, Rachel."

God, how I hated that secretary‑‑the way she spit out my name, the way she'd always keep me on hold forever and toy with me like Tim might not be there, even though she knew damned well that he was.  She was always mocking me.  I could just see her there at the switchboard, all made‑up, wearing one of those damned designer suits that must have consumed half her salary.  She was a goddamned secretary, no less, who thought she was CEO.  And I envied her.  Bitch.

"This is Tim."

"Hi, Tim. . . "

Dead silence.  What in the hell had I called to say, anyway?  God, I was pathetic.

"Rachel?  Are you there?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"Well, what do you want, Hon?  I'm kind of busy here, I've got a presentation in a half hour."

"Oh. . ."

"Is something wrong?"

"I hate this house, Tim.  I just hate it.  It's a fucking mess.  The kids are napping, but I just9 don't feel like cleaning it."

"Then don't clean it.  Take a nap yourself.  I can help you with it when I get home."

"When are you coming home?"

"I dunno.  I have a whole life presentation in a half‑hour and then I got a call‑in on my annuities ad‑‑I thought I'd go over there at about five."

"Then you won't be home until six or seven!"

"I know, but I haven't gotten a lot done lately. . . "

"And it's my fault, isn't it?"

"I didn't say it's your fault, honey.  It's just that‑‑well, I've got to get some shit done."

I began to twist the phone cord around my finger, tempted to do so around my neck.

"I'm a real pain‑in‑the‑ass, aren't I?  You're pissed, aren't you?"

Tim tried to keep his patience, but I could still hear him sigh.

"Please, Rachel. I've got to make a living."

"Like I don't do anything around here?  Is that it?  Like I'm some kind of stupid housewife that just sits around here and doesn't do a goddamned thing?  Is that what you're getting at?!"

Another sigh.

"Okay.  Look sweetheart.  I've got to do this presentation this afternoon because it's too late to cancel.  But I'll see if I can reschedule the annuity guy for tomorrow.  I'll be home by four and I'll help you clean up the house."

"No, no, no!"

I was beginning to cry.

"What now?"

"God, Tim.  I'm such an idiot!  Such a baby!  I don't do a damned thing around this house and here I am, wanting you to help me clean.  I must make you sick!"

"You don't make me sick, sweetheart.  Okay?  You don't.  Look‑‑I'm really sorry but I've got to go‑‑"

The tears reached full‑strength.  The cry became a moan that turned to piercing screams.  Why in the hell can't I control myself?  The man has to make a living!  He's such a good guy, he doesn't deserve me‑‑no one deserves to have to put up with me!  Goddamnit, why can't I stop crying?  But I couldn't‑‑the piercing screams overwhelmed me, took me over, possessed me.

"Rachel?  Rachel?  Please calm down.  Please!  Come on, you're gonna wake up the kids, the neighbors are gonna wonder what in the hell is going on.  Rachel?"

"Fuck you!  Is that all you give a shit about, what the fucking neighbors think?  Fuck you, then.  I don't need you home.  I don't want  you home.  Let this fucking house rot for all I care, let the fucking kids starve.  I don't give a shit.  And I don't need your shit!"

"Rachel, listen to me.  I'm canceling the whole life appointment, I'll be home in a few minutes.  Okay?"

"You must really hate me,"  I sobbed.  "You really hate me don't you?"

"No, sweetheart," he sighed audibly, "I don't hate you."

After hanging up the phone, I sat there, frozen, staring at it.  Why did I do that kind of shit?  Tim was trying hard to build a business.  I knew how much it took to build a business, what it took to make a decent living.  After all, my father had worked seventy and eighty hour weeks running his business.  And my mother wouldn't have dared to pull him away from it like I just did to Tim.  My mother.  My dependent little mother who never did a damned thing with her life.  My mother, who spent half her days at the shopping mall and the other half in front of the television set.  My mother, who accomplished nothing‑‑who seemed to be unable to make the simplest of decisions without my father.  She had been wholly dependent on him.  She'd made me sick.  And as I sat in the kitchen, the stench of two‑day‑old dirty dishes, the overflowing garbage can reminded me that even she hadn't been as worthless as I had become.  My God, I thought, the bile rising in my throat‑‑I'm ending up to be a dependent little piece of shit.  Just like my mother. Worse than my mother.  Poetic justice reigns. . .

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Tim wasn't able to reschedule the whole life appointment, the prospect had gone to a competitor.  The annuity prospect fell through as well.  He'd been in the business now for over six months, and was barely able to meet the business expenses, much less the household ones.  This meant having to take "the handouts" from my parents. . .and accepting the strings attached.  The strings of "I‑told‑you‑so".  The strings of failure.  I didn't grow up in poverty‑‑I didn't know what it was like.  Thanks to my parents, I wasn't destined to know what it was like.  I, did, however, have a good taste of failure.

It got increasingly hard not to place that same label on Tim.  Why, oh why‑‑with all the men I knew and dated, all the men with degrees, had I chosen this college dropout whose only means of making anything significant of himself was selling insurance?  Why hadn't I married an architect?  A lawyer?  I wouldn't be overcome with guilt every time I wrote a check at the grocery store, wondering if I were going to be able to cover the mortgage payment without getting another "hand‑out."  Why couldn't Tim settle down and get a real job, with a steady paycheck, as my father continued to advise?  Why did he have these delusions of getting wealthy, instead of focusing on making ends meet?  Why couldn't he be more of a man, like my father ‑‑ practical, steady, successful?  Then again, what in the fuck was wrong with me, to have all the credentials and be sitting at home not doing shit?

I began to press Tim to go out and get a regular salaried job, with the same insistence

 I had in getting him to come home and be with me.  He was beginning to feel like he was a failure, too.  His initial zest for the insurance business, his carefully projected income goal charts, his dreams of huge college funds and a totally renovated house on acreage‑‑all of them waned.  And with them waned his ability to "close the sale."  Doubting his own ability to succeed in insurance, he began to search the want ads, send out the resumes, go on the interviews, and get the rejection.  There really wasn't much along the lines of non‑commissioned work that paid the kind of money to even equal the "handouts."  He was getting dejected, as was I.  Our sex life had practically ceased to exist‑‑my appetite for it was gone, and his desire was not exactly burning. 

I didn't make it any easier for him.  Somehow, he was still able to be patient with my constant phone calls at work, but he was clearly more irritable.  I think he wondered what I did at home‑‑if I couldn't handle his absence when he worked at a place where he set his own hours, how would I handle it with a boss, who would force him to be there from nine to five, perhaps make him travel, even?  It was a wretched situation, a Catch‑22 trap, and I hated myself because I knew much of it was my fault.  And yet, I couldn't seem to stop myself from making it worse.

If only I could just disappear.  Run away.  Far away.  If it were only Tim in the picture, I could‑‑indeed, in past relationships I would have been long gone at the first signs of my own dependency.  Thus could I appear to be independent, not needing a soul.  But it wasn't only Tim anymore.  There were Jeffery and Melissa.  I loved those kids‑‑perhaps they had tied me down in a way‑‑but I couldn't help but love them.  I loved Tim too, of course.  But he could make it without me‑‑in fact, do much better without me.  Jeffery and Melissa, however, needed me more than anyone ever had in my life.  No, I was just plain stuck‑‑in a life that seemed at every turn to spiral downward ever further.

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It was nearly midnight when we got home from Tim's softball game.  It had been a late game, followed by some bad directions that led us to drive aimlessly through the West Side for over an hour, with doors locked, streets dark, totally lost.  We'd blamed each other.  The kids were asleep in their car seats, the late hour and the car's motion a lullaby, the hushed tones of bickering continued as we passed block after block of boarded‑up brownstones.  Upon finally making it home, Jeffery and Melissa screamed at the sudden shock of being awakened and pulled out of the car.  Juggling irritated toddlers, diaper bags, bat, ball and glove, we whisked them up the steps, got them to bed, and fell asleep ourselves‑‑quite angry with each other, but too exhausted to fight about it.

I was still in bed when Tim was on his way out the door to work, and I heard him cussing in frustration that he couldn't find his wallet.  Unable to fall back asleep, I joined him in a search that led us to every room of the house, under every sofa cushion, through the piles of dirty laundry.  It

simply wasn't there.  It was gone.

"What did you do with it?," he demanded impatiently.  "I had two hundred dollars in there!"

"What do you mean, what did I do with it?"

"I handed it to you, dammit!  Don't you remember?  I took in all the softball stuff and Jeffrey, you took Melissa, the diaper bag and the wallet."

He was right.  I remembered it.

"Well, what the fuck did you expect?," I yelled back defensively.  "You drug us out to that stupid game way too fucking late‑‑got us lost on the goddamned West Side.  Then you expect me to bring all this shit in!  If you were so fucking worried about it‑‑why didn't you take in your own goddamned wallet?"

"Give me a break, Rachel.  There was two hundred fucking dollars in there.  I can't believe, as much as you bitch about money, that you act like it's nothing!"

The tears came back.  Then the moan.  Then the screaming wail.  I'd blown it.  I'd really blown it.  Tim, on this early summer morning, would have none of it.  He simply slammed down his fist, picked up his briefcase and headed out the front door to work.  He'd never done that before, had never walked out on me when I was crying.  His patience did have a limit.  I'd crossed the line and driven him out the door.  I'd lost him.

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As it turns out, I didn't "lose" Tim.  He returned, as usual, at dinnertime‑‑still a little irritated at what had happened, but feeling slightly guilty he had walked out on me, trying to make amends.  I still felt sheepish and guilty for having lost the wallet.  Shortly after dinner, a neighbor came to our door and returned the wallet‑‑the two hundred dollars, the credit cards, the pictures, all of it still there.  The Good Samaritan apologized that when he saw the wallet on top of the car that morning, he intended to return it right away, but was already late for work.

Tim was relieved and quite willing to totally forgive and forget.  I should have been relieved, except that now, with the missing money no longer an issue, I started thinking about how he had walked out on me.

"Well," Tim said with a smile as he took a long drag on his cigarette.  "I guess there's still some good and honest people around.  Imagine, going to the trouble to return it and apologizing for being late for work."

"Yeah," I sniffed.  "At least he apologized."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean, you walked out on me this morning, you sonuvabitch!  You blamed me for everything, even though it was mostly your fault!"

"My fault?,"  Tim looked stunned

."Yes, your fault.  You dragged us out to that game, didn't you?  We didn't want to go to that game."

 "You wanted to go to that game!", his patience was fading again.

Twice in a day, I thought, panicked.  He's pissed again.  I'm going to drive him away.  Why was I so dependent on him?  Why can't the tables turn?  Why can't I walk out on him?

The moan began again.  This time, I didn't make it to the screaming part.

"No, not again, Rachel.  Don't do this again.  I can't take any more of it!"

That cinched it.  He hated me.  He'd leave me, broke, with these two little kids and the piece of shit house.  No, no!  He couldn't leave me.  I wouldn't give the sunofabitch the satisfaction. 

The tears halted immediately, and I felt a rush of energy.  Barefoot, in gym shorts, without so much as grabbing the car keys, I began to run out the door, through the yard, and down the alley.  I could hear Tim asking where the hell I was going, pleading with me to come back and frantically apologizing for losing his patience.  I felt the grandeur and the power rising up within me as I didn't look back and kept on going.

I didn't have a destination in mind, but as I kept running down the streets of the city, I began to think of a direction.  I was heading west‑‑to the West Side.  If I were lucky, I'd make it as far as the projects.  If I were even luckier, the God in whom I didn't really believe could show that he did have some mercy on me and I'd become just another crime statistic.  Suicide roulette‑‑it was a

game that intrigued me and fueled me as I ran for miles, a crazed‑looking woman running barefoot through the glass‑strewn gutters and sidewalks of passing neighborhoods that continued to decline as I kept moving westward.

I called Tim.  Twice.  He would answer the phone relieved to hear from me,  pleading for me to come back, apologizing for anything he could think of for which to apologize.  He was absolutely frantic and besieged by worry, literally begging for me to tell him where I was, so that he could come and pick me up.  Instead I told him I was going to die, that he would be better off without me anyway, and hung up without giving him as much as a clue.

I didn't quite make it to the projects.  I'd run about four or five miles, which had rid myself of some of my excess energy and a lot of my anger.  I wasn't about to call him and tell him where I was‑‑to do so would be to admit my stupidity.  Almost two hours after I had fled the house, I was resting on a park bench at dusk when I saw the red Dodge pull up, the kids looking out the windows from their car seats.  He drove me home without one word of admonishment for what I had done.  He was too tired and too scared‑‑afraid, I guessed, that I'd go running out the door  again and the next time wouldn't be so lucky.

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The next few weeks were like a whirlwind tornado raging out of control, swelling in its vehement fury, intensified by all the destruction its path.  The running "habit" became a nightly routine‑‑Tim was concerned with me jogging in the darkness of the city at night, but didn't stop me from the ritual.  Perhaps he was afraid that if he were to resist me, I would not stay within the radius of the neighborhood, but begin heading westward again.  The screams and moans were frequent

 now, and Tim stopped all night appointments for fear of what could happen in his absence.

I don't know why, up to this point, I had not taken out my fears, frustrations and anger on my children.  As wildly erratic as I could be with Tim and others, there was a calm that seemed to come over me when dealing with Jeffrey and Melissa as if I were a totally different person, the demons within me rested and at peace for awhile.  I was, in fact, much more patient with them

then a lot of other mothers‑‑sharing the same calm satisfaction my infants did when I nursed them.  One of those "pouch mommies", I had taken them everywhere.  Seldom, if ever, had I lost my patience.

In the spinning fury of my loss of control, however, even this bond began to fray.  I had weaned Melissa, Jeffery was talking like a boy twice his age and, unfortunately, quite capable of understanding the kind of words I was beginning to hurl at him.  In his eyes was a stunned look of betrayal, he'd never seen anything like this before.  He was frightened, as I began to be frightened of myself.

On a Friday in late June‑‑about three weeks after my "West Side Run", I woke up shaky, irritable, and more out of control than usual.  Restless, I tried to read a book, to lose myself in it and hopefully kill the time and the day so that it would pass.  Jeffery, however, had other ideas as he kept trying to crawl up in my lap and instead of welcoming him, I shoved him away, not wanting to touch him.  Not wanting anyone near me.  Wanting to be alone.  At first, Jeffery thought it was some kind of game, until I slapped him so hard he went reeling to the floor.

I looked at him laying there, crying in earnest now, as the thoughts began to spin in my head.  Jesus Christ, Rachel, you aren't even a good mother anymore!  You have nothing.  You are hateful,

crazy, awful.  How dare you!

Jeffery wouldn't take his eyes off me, nor would he stop crying.  He sat there, on the floor, reminding me of what a wretched human being I was.

"Goddamnit, Jeffery, STOP IT!," I screamed at him.

Jeffery didn't stop.

"Goddamnit, you little pain‑in‑the‑ass, SHUT THE FUCK UP!"            He didn't.

Besieged by rage, I grabbed him hard by the shoulder and began to vigorously spank

him until my  hand was red and stinging.  I couldn't stop.  Until I got another look in his eyes.

He had stopped crying, the fear of the consequences having overcome his need to express his emotions.  But his eyes were wide open, as big as I'd ever seen them.  And absolutely, unequivocally horrified.  That look stopped me.

The familiar feeling of weightlessness overtook me again.  I knew Jeffrey’s look, I knew that feeling‑‑it had been all too common a part of my childhood, enduring rages that I could never be sure would have an end.  The reality sunk in. . . I had beaten my child.  Just as my father had beaten his.  Just as I swore I'd never do.  A wave of nausea rose within me‑‑I was just like my father.  Even my children would be better off without me.  There was no longer reason to stay alive.

Suddenly, I felt a great sense of calm.   I knew what I was going to do, what I needed to do.  I was going to die.  Yet, somewhere within me still lurked a shred of reason, a tiny candle flame‑‑quickly fading‑‑of self‑preservation.  Fully "floating" by now, it was as if it were someone else who were calmly gathering the children, asking them to play in the yard.  I had a phone call to make.  Perhaps it would be my last one.  I was a prisoner of life awaiting execution at my own hands, making one final attempt for a reprieve‑‑one I was not altogether sure I wanted.

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I didn't call Tim.  Lord knows, I'd done to enough Tim.  Instead, I called a church‑sponsored Family Crisis Hotline.  It was rather a pointless exercise, I felt at the time‑‑no one was going to talk me out of my final exit‑‑and yet I felt compelled to do it.  I stayed on the phone with them for over an hour and a half spilling out a wild flood of emotions, of self‑hatred‑‑punctuated by moments when I would interrupt the conversation to check on the children. 

I'm horrible, I told them.  I hate myself.  I'm crazy!  I'm crazy! I'm crazy!  It would pr

probably really surprise them that, once upon a time, I used to be somebody.  I used to accomplish something.  People that knew me, I told them, wouldn't believe that all of this was going on.  It was probably hard to believe, I said, but they think I'm a nice person.  They don't know me.

I apologized several times in the course of the conversation for wasting so much of their time.  Surely, I said, they must have better things to do, more worthy people to serve‑‑people who deserved their help.  The gentleman on the other end of the line, however, was not about to let me off the line.  He attempted on numerous occasions to get my name and phone number, but I was resistant to giving it.  He would stop me, then.  I didn't want to be stopped.

Finally, thoroughly exhausted and defeated, I relented to give him the name and the number.  As I suspected, the man said he was going to call an ambulance to come and get me.  I couldn't imagine it‑‑the sirens going, everyone on the block coming to see what was going on‑‑ sirens a magnet of curiosity.  The lights would be flashing and everyone would be watching me, seeing the children, seeing me being taken away.  Everyone would know.  The ambulance simply couldn't be an option.

What followed was more like a negotiation, as the man sold me on the importance of not being alone right then.  He insisted that, if I couldn't come up with a better plan, he was going to call 9‑1‑1 within the next five minutes.  I ultimately agreed to call a teenaged neighbor to watch the kids and go and see the pastor of my church, an appointment the man called to set up and verify‑‑keeping me on hold while he did so.  He was vigilant‑‑if either the phone were hung up or the pastor reported I had not met him, he would have no choice but to call both the police and an ambulance.  By then, however, it didn't make a difference.  I was resigned to go ahead with the meeting as promised, to give life one more chance‑‑albeit a temporary one.

I mechanically picked up my Walkman, kissed the children goodbye, and walked to the church rectory‑‑stopping for a Big Gulp and a carton of cigarettes along the way.  Why a carton and not a pack?  Perhaps I knew where I was destined to go.

Without much effort, the pastor persuaded me to let him and another parishioner take me to the emergency room.  Numb by then, I acquiesced.

Never once in this whole surreal episode did I call Tim, nor would I allow anyone else to do so on my behalf.  I'd agreed to their terms, they'd agree to mine.

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