Chapter 3.2 Almost Undamaged

Every morning was the same.  I would wake up, take a shower, get dressed and make my bed.  Then I would eat a bowl of cereal and head to school, where my boyfriend would be waiting for me.

His name was Andrew Satterfield and his family was well-respected in the community.  Both of us were attending Par Excellence.  He was on the varsity team as our starring quarterback and hoping to get a scholarship.  I was a Berdorf and if my name wasn't enough, my cousins were Horowitzes.  Enough said in Hidden Springs.  My family tree's prestige carried enough weight in the town that doors were opened before I even chose to step through them.  

We were the cute couple in high school.  You know, the one that kissed every morning before homeroom and by each other's lockers.  We'd hold court at our usual table in the cafeteria at lunchtime, flanked by his football goons and my giggling girlfriends.  We were going to have the perfect Senior Year and were favored to win Prom King and Queen.  To the casual outsider, my life was perfect.

Okay, so maybe Andrew was a little boring and being a jock, seemed to be confirm every stereotype I had ever heard about athletes.  But he sent me good-night texts, walked me to class and took me out to dinner and the movies.  A few girls had admitted that they would have killed to have such an attentive boyfriend and how they hated being single.  We could go to college together, get married, live in a nice house with a white picket fence, raise a nice family and have a nice life.  Even at seventeen, I could see how our lives would play out perfectly like a movie.  And even if our conversations were less than stimulating, he still was someone, and better than dealing with everyone else.

Teachers would fawn over my test scores and perfect attendance.  Parents would encourage their students to be more like me.  Girls wanted to be my friends.  Guys wanted to date me.  And as much as I "loved" being me, Ramona Bergdorf, Par Excellence's sweetheart, I knew that most of the adoration wasn't about how pretty I was, how well I treated others or even about being smart.  Hidden Springs was a small town and even as prestigious as both of my grandparents had been or how talented an artist my father had been, the truth is, that didn't matter.  None of it did.  They felt sorry for me, because of all the events that led to my grandfather getting killed in a car accident, my mother cheating and leaving, and finally, my father shooting himself in the head.  I could feel them watching me all the time, waiting for me to snap.  Everyone seemed to be anticipating the moment where I would break down and they wanted to be there when it happened.  I felt bad for disappointing them.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

On the weekends she came home from Smugglesworth Prep, my cousin Bettina would stay over.  She was my best friend, even if she was a bit snobby, but I felt like she was the only other person who could empathize with what I had gone through.  Of course, we never talked about it, but it was there and I appreciated her for what it was worth.

As per custom, we would watch a chick flick, have a pillow fight and then pass out.  I'd always give her my bed and would instead choose a sleeping bag on the floor.  She asked me the first time why I didn't sleep in my parents' bedroom.  After his death, my grandmother had hired a crew of cleaners to come in and fix it up. They had scrubbed the floors and mopped the blood up but there was still a tiny nick in the wall from where the shell had gotten lodged there.  Is it weird that I kept that shell, the one that had gone through my father's head, killing him?  But I never told Bettina this.  She wasn't the one that found him.  Still, long after she had drifted off into a deep slumber, I would lie there in the dark, remembering.

I was seventeen and as a child, I had already witnessed a man's death.  I had seen my own father's brains splattered all over the wooden floors, his head a pile of blood and mush, his body growing cold and stiff as we waited for the ambulance to take his corpse away to the morgue.  I had been the one to tell my grandmother about the suicide and was the one who had made the 9-1-1 call as she sat on his bed, not moving, aside from the shaking of her shoulders, as she sobbed for the son she never completely could get through to.  I knew that I would never, could never, be just seventeen, my childhood gone in a moment, my future already tarnished.  

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

"So, what did you think?"  We had gone to see the latest drama that had just come out a couple of days ago.  We had been let out of school early and Andrew had suggesting catching a flick before heading home to my place, where we did homework every afternoon.

"It was alright, I guess, maybe a little morbid," he chuckled like he always did when he didn't know the answer, which was often.

"Morbid?  It was a satire on how society gives young women distorted views of their bodies, making them think that they have to be a size two and blond to be beautiful."

He chuckled again.  Why did he always have to laugh when he felt awkward?  It was an aggravating habit.  "God, Ram, it's just a movie.  Do you want to go get something to eat?"

"Andrew, it's a problem that happens in real life!  Eating disorders are happening to nine-year-olds who are convinced that they are fat because they don't look like Kate Moss."

"But sweetheart," he said tenderly, "you're beautiful and never have to worry about something like that.  Besides, don't you think they exaggerated it just a bit?  I mean, a tenth grader killing herself because a boy called her Thunder Thighs?  No wonder it's a satire.  Suicide is so stupid.  I mean, talk about an exaggeration."

"What?" I whispered.

Andrew realized his mistake and immediately started spewing apologies and excuses, knowing how close his comment had hit to home.  "I mean...not everyone who kills themselves is stupid...your father...he was a good guy...there probably are good reasons...just I don't think being overweight...maybe young girls..."

"I understand how you feel, Andrew.  About my father, my family, even about me.  It's okay.  I get it.  Maybe to everyone else, suicide is some taboo topic, but ignorance only perpetuates more ignorance.  Everyone thinks that the only people who kill themselves are crazy.  Psycho, right?  That one thing happens and they go off the deep end, but it's so much more," I shook my head, tears in my eyes.  "You might be ignorant, but I think you're lucky.  You're lucky you will never understand."  I started to leave without him.  "See you in school tomorrow?"

"Ramona, wait, let me explain," he called out, but I didn't stop and he didn't pursue me.  I didn't know if I would have a boyfriend in the morning, and at the moment, I didn't care.

When I got home, I started my nightly ritual early.  I went up to my room and cried until I had no more tears to cry.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

The next morning, a bright and beautiful Saturday, I woke up feeling a little better and ready to apologize to Andrew.  I was up and dressed by seven and coming downstairs, I heard my grandmother shouting in the kitchen.  "Stupid dishwasher!  You're not even two years old and falling apart!"  There were some sniffles and then, "oh God, I wish my Nate was here.  He would know what to do."

  

This is why I had never enrolled at Smugglesworth Prep to attend school with Bettina.  My grandmother who was at least eighty years old, needed me too much for me to just leave her here to deal with the large house's upkeep and maintenance.  We needed each other.

"Grandmother," I said gently, taking her by the arms, "why don't you go get cleaned up?  I'll call the repairman and we'll get it fixed by this afternoon."

She sniffed.  "When your grandfather was alive, we never had to call a repairman.  My Nate always took care of everything.  And now he's gone and I don't know what to do.  I've been so lost since he died.  And then your father...I don't think I can do it, anymore, Ramona.  It just hurts too much."

"I know Grandmother, I know.  But you still have me.  I'll take care of everything.  Go wash your face and I'll make us some tea, okay?"

Grandmother nodded, her cheeks still damp with tears.  "Okay, darling, I will do that.  I don't know what I would do without you."

The repairman would be there in an hour, which gave me some time to do damage control.  When Grandmother returned, our tea was ready for her in two white, steaming cups.  We sat at the table and sipped our hot drinks slowly.  

"Ramona, I've been thinking.  I know it's been a long time since it happened and you seem to be doing well, but maybe it would be a good idea to you know, talk to someone."  

"I'm fine Grandmother.  Really!"  I tried to smile at her convincingly.

She gazed at me with wise, tired eyes.  "I've heard you at night crying.  I come upstairs and I hear you."

So my secret was out.  "Yes," I admitted, "you're right.  I feel like everyone treats me like kid gloves, just waiting for my fall.  You're the one who shares this pain with me and you've got Grandfather, Olivia AND father to mourn as well as raising me.  I can't burden you any further.  So I think about him at night and cry.  That's how I've learned how to deal with it.  I don't think talking to a stranger would help anything."

"I want you to be as happy and healthy as possible.  Holding it in is only going to drive you crazy, darling.  Believe me, I know.  I've been researching support groups lately on the Internet.  There's one in town for teenagers who have experienced trauma.  They meet in the old Baptist church over by the garage.  Would you agree to at least give it a chance for one night?  If you don't like it, we can get you a therapist, but I really think it would be good for you, to have a chance to talk to others."

I thought about my tear-filled nights, my superficial cousin, my insensitive boyfriend and about what it meant to be Ramona Bergdorf.  I thought about the strain of staying home instead of going away, in lieu of leaving Hidden Springs and all of its bad memories behind.  I thought about my Grandmother, who I took care of, who I was responsible for and who loved me more than anything.  And lastly, I thought about the empty bedroom, the one that bleach had purged clean of death.  Unfortunately, there was no bleach for the brain.  People who experienced tragedy could not simply be cleansed of the memories.  We had to live with it forever and now I had a chance to meet people like myself, who might understand me and teach me how to live as a full person.

"Okay Grandmother, I'll do it," I told her, putting my hand on hers.

"Ramona, dear, when the repairman comes, will you let him in?" she asked, standing up slowly.  "I'm not feeling very well."

"Of course, are you okay?" I asked, getting up to help her.

She waved me away.  "Oh, just a cold, I'm sure.  Sit back down and finish your tea.  I'll be fine."

Grandmother walked to her room, also very slowly and shut the door.  There she napped for the rest of the day.

Chapter 3.1 Miss You Much

I always knew my family was dysfunctional, even when I was too young to know what that word meant.  I think it was something I felt more than understood.  My dad would sleep all day and his breath would smell.  Sometimes, he'd forget to shower or shave.  My mom was constantly on the phone, whispering to some guy she called "baby".  Grandmother would visit the graveyard every day.  Sometimes she'd take me with her.  She actually sat there and talked to my grandfather and baby sister, like they both were alive.  I never knew either of them and it was years before I could comprehend the significance of their deaths.

By the time I came along, my family had already been damaged for years.  I have to give my parents credit though.  At least they tried to give me a good childhood.  The last memory I have of the three of us was a couple of weeks before my mother left.  It was a warm Saturday morning and we had walked to the park.    

My father, my best friend, had pushed me on the swings as we laughed and played together.  I was blissfully unaware that only the two of us were enjoying ourselves.

He was sober that day and smelled of soap and clean laundry.  They had been fighting more lately and I guess that this particular outing was more for my sake than their own.  Whatever it was that had first brought them together had been gone for years.  I had appreciated the effort.

My mother wasn't even swinging.  She sat next to us in silence as if she was completely oblivious to my squeals of delight, begging my dad to push me "faster, Daddy!  I want to go faster!  I'm going to touch the clouds!"  She might as well have been in another world.  For all I knew, she was.

There's only one way to get off a swing: jumping.  I flew through the air and landed on my feet as solidly as a gymnast.  My father cheered and then I ran to the jungle gym, by that time sensing that they might need a moment alone.

"C'mon, Farryn, it's just one day!  You can't even give her that?!" roared Dad.

"I'm sorry, Go," she shook her head sadly.

From my vantage point, I saw everything.  Their faces were full of anger and pain.  To look at them, a stranger would never be able to tell that once they loved each other.  But I knew better.  When I came down, they had smoothed things over.  At least by that time, both of them were pretending.

"Ramona," my father turned to me, "do you like ice cream?"

"Yes!" I shouted in delight.  I had wanted us to be a family so badly, I just played along.  I knew my role and it wasn't recalcitrant child.

"Ha," he laughed, " I was just asking."

"Daddy!," I squealed.  My role was to be the dutiful daughter in this charade, this play in which we were all actors, and if it made us a family, it was a part I would play to a tee.

"Oh did you want some?" my mother turned, smiling wider than she had in months.  "What do you say, Go?  Want to stop by the ice cream shop on our way home?"

Each day was a struggle and the facade was wearing thin on each of us.  But still, we had made it one more day.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

The night my mother left, I stood outside of their bedroom door like I always did when they were fighting.  Something was different this time.  For one, I didn't hear shouting.  My father had gotten dressed up and cooked her dinner and she had just now gotten home.  I had expected him to raise absolute hell, but there was no yelling that night.  He was crying.

"Farryn, please don't leave.  My mom and I had a talk and she made me realize some things.  I haven't been a good boyfriend or a father...but I want to be!  That's what tonight was for.  I want to give you everything you deserve, to be better for you and Ramona."

"I'm sorry baby, but I just don't think it's going to work," my mother said.

"We haven't been a couple for years now.  I kept waiting around, hoping that things would get better and they never did."

"But," he protested, "I really think if you just give me one more chance, I can prove myself to you."

"Baby," she said, her voice thick with emotion, "I love you so much, but I just...I just don't have anything left to give you.  We used to have fun.  This used to be fun...and then Olivia and your dad...I can't do it anymore."

"So this is it?" he asked.  "You're going to leave us for him?"  I didn't know he knew about my mother's affair, but even in his inebriated state, he had somehow detected the other man in her life.

She had nothing to say to that.

"What about Ramona?  What about our daughter?" he wanted to know.

"You and I both know that neither one of us is really capable of being a good parent to her.  She'll be better off staying here with your mother," she choked out.

He thought for a moment.  "Okay then," he said resignedly, "I know you're miserable and I'm miserable.  One of us should have the chance to be happy and it won't be me.  If you really want to go, I can't stand in your way."

"I will always love you," she said softly.

Mom picked up her bags and slowly carried them to her car.  Then she came back inside, where I was waiting for her.

"Ramona, Mommy is going to go away but I need you to be a big girl and look after Daddy and Grandma.  Can you do that?"

I nodded, staring up at her, wondering if this was the last time I would ever see my mother.

"If you ever need anything, it doesn't matter what time, you call me, okay?"

Another nod.  I was still in shock, my mind being pulled in a million different directions.  Was this really happening?  Was she really leaving us to go live with that man?  What about my father?  What about me?  What would we do without her?  Was it my fault?  Was I too much of a burden?  Would she have stayed if I had been a better girl?

She kissed my head.  "I love you so much, Ramona."

I knew she loved me.  But she also loved Daddy.  And two people who loved each other belonged together. This wasn't a job!  She couldn't just quit.  Sure, they fought.  But they always made up.  Why couldn't she just  go back upstairs like always and cry on my dad's shoulder and tell him "Baby, I don't want to fight anymore.  Let's make up".  If you messed up, you said you were sorry and the person forgave you.  Apologizing always worked.  Right?

I watched her walk out of the door, down the sidewalk, and out to her car.

Once in her car, she sat there for five minutes, tears streaming down her face.  But then determined, she put the key in the ignition and started the engine. Very slowly, she backed out of the driveway and eased her car on the street.  I was still watching even when the car had disappeared from my sight, unable to believe that she never once looked back.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

After Go died, there was only Marilyn and Ramona left.  Marilyn was worried that her granddaughter would be devastated with her mother leaving and her father committing suicide.  After all, Ramona had been the one to find the body.  But the little girl was an absolute doll.  She set the table for dinner every night, helped with her chores on the weekend and completed her homework without being told to.  Her teachers said that she was a model student in all of her classes and she had a sweet disposition that just made people want to be her friend.  

"How is school, sweetheart?" asked Marilyn.

"I won first place in the spelling bee today," Ramona replied, finishing the last of her essay.  "Tomorrow we're going on a field trip to Scrumptious Nibbles Cafe."

"Oh?" said Marilyn  casually, sipping her bedtime tea, not wanting to sound concerned.  "Well if you need any money for a souvenir, just let me know."

Ramona always enunciated her words and spoke very clearly, like she had taken the etiquette classes that Marilyn had hated so much in her own childhood.  "My homework is done.  May I go to bed now?"

"Of course darling, but first you must give your old granny a hug."

She hugged Marilyn with the sweetness of a child, although she carried herself with the solemnity of one who had lived far longer than eleven years.

"Ramona," Marilyn smiled indulgently at her oldest grandbaby, "would you like me to tuck you in?"

"No thank you, Grandmother," was the girl's prim response.

"I love you sweetheart."

"I love you too, Grandmother."  And with that, Ramona headed to her room.  When her father had been alive, he had tucked her in with a bedtime story, but since Go's death, she had insisted on putting herself to bed.  Still, Marilyn asked her every night, hoping against hope that tonight would be different.

The elderly lady frowned.  Ramona had already been through too much.  She had seen things that would scar most adults.  Her granddaughter was an old woman in a little girl's body.  She feared for Ramona's future.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Chapter 2.15 So Sad the Song

My Dearest Ramona,

I know that certain behaviors are so offensive it is impossible to ever be redeemed from them.  

And let it be so, for who am I, to even think that I deserve such empathy, such mercy?  I was fully aware of the repercussions all along.  

Why should I be given a second chance?  I, no better than the rest, and worse than most.  

I am nothing but a coward, and have more than earned the right to hang my head, eyes fixed on moving feet, and wander my days in shame.  

I am a lowly sinner, a scoundrel, and to be spit on is to be considered a warm embrace.  

To never have known comfort or another's gentle touch, is not horrible.  

But to be alienated where once welcomed, and cast out where I once was protected is unbearable. 

I would rather die and be finished with it all.  

Because as hard as I try to escape, I have finally succumbed to the madness and it is consuming me.  

For your  sake, I tried to be better, but as with everything else, could not rise above my pending insanity.

I feel every fiber of rationality slipping away from me even as I write this. 

Growing up, I could not find where I belonged.  

There wasn't a time where I could be comfortable in my own skin and every choice I made left me feeling like it was the wrong one.  

I was born an artist and even my finest, most expensive paintings still left me numb.  

Then came you and you were more beautiful to me than all of the flowers in all of the valleys, all of the sunrises in all of my days, my greatest creation.  

I never wanted anything for you but the very best, and to you, I give you the hopes and dreams I've held in my heart since the day you were born.  

When you think of me, I hope you remember me as I was, talented and loving and not the shell I'm leaving behind.  

However, I look back at the decisions I've made, the bridges I've burned and I fear it is entirely too much to grant my last request. 

I know better than to ask for pity and especially forgiveness.  

So know, be it far too late, that I'm sorry, and I love you.

Your father,

Gabriel Alexander Bergdorf

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And to Valpre, a new reader...I wanted to make sure you would see my reply and wasn't sure how to send you a message.  Thanks for reading and the lovely, supportive comments!