Crossroads

An excerpt from my (as yet unpublished) manuscript, INDELIBLE: A MEMOIR, originally published in Text Power Telling Magazine, Volume VII

Photo by Claudio Schwarz on Unsplash

At my urgent request in the Spring of 1971, my mother arranged for me to see a counselor. I was 15, and my father had been dead for years. A psychiatrist agreed to see me once or twice free of charge as a professional courtesy to my step-father, who was also a physician in our town.

In his dark gray suit and shiny black shoes, the shrink was far from the confidant I’d had in mind. But without money of my own, my options were few. Leaning back in his black leather chair, his fingers laced tightly in his lap, the doctor seemed bored when he asked why I was there.

“My step-father used to touch me,” I began, figuring that should be enough to start the gears of the justice system turning on my behalf.

But the doctor didn’t look in the least alarmed. “I see. And where did he touch you? Your panties?” He sounded amused, and his eyes held no warmth.

The rest of the words I’d rehearsed caught in my throat. My big sister left home and now I’m alone and I caught my step-father spying on me through my bedroom window, I’d planned to say. And he used to molest me, but now he just masturbates where he knows I’ll see him. My mother does nothing. I can’t take it anymore. Help me, please!

Unnerved by the doctor’s impassive stare, I abruptly left in tears. It would be years before I understood how naive I’d been— a lamb walking into a lion’s den. How foolish of me to trust this man to report a colleague for child abuse.

The following month I got my learner’s permit and, immediately after that, a little red motorcycle. My mother would no longer have to drive 12 miles round trip twice a day to my Catholic high school, which had no bus service. This daily chore had long interfered with her routine of making breakfast for her husband and afternoon tennis dates. My sister, Gail, would do something if she knew about the most recent events at home. That’s what I told myself, at least, overlooking that she’d been unable to do anything before she packed a few belongings and headed north three months ago, shortly after her eighteenth birthday. She was independent now, I told myself, a woman of the distant, sophisticated world of San Francisco. My belief in my sister as a survivor was unshakeable. I was lost, and I needed to believe she wasn’t.

One morning in April, instead of pointing my motorcycle towards school, I merged into the stream of traffic heading north on Interstate 5. My canvas backpack held a pack of Marlboro Reds, a Zippo lighter with the peace sign on its shiny face, a change of clothes and the $20 I’d stolen from the fat roll of bills my step-father kept hidden in his closet. Gas was cheap in 1971: I could fill the tank of my cycle for way less than a dollar, leaving what I hoped was plenty of money for snacks and more cigarettes.

Before long I passed the border checkpoint near San Clemente on Interstate 5, where uniformed guards searched vehicles for undocumented immigrants trying to get to Los Angeles. My own plan for a better life unfolded as I continued north. As a fellow refugee from the wasteland of our childhood, my sister would welcome me, I was sure. Had I bothered to check out my assumptions with her? Did I think her entry level dental assistant paycheck would support us both? Did she have any clue I was headed her way, planning to lay my desperation at the doorstep of the apartment she shared with a few other people?

In Orange County my view of the coastline disappeared, replaced by the wall of buildings on either side of the freeway. Surrounded by cars and 18 wheelers, I urged my motorcycle to the upper limits of its power and focused intently on the road. My cycle was my friend, a trusty and determined steed, the ticket to my freedom, faithfully chugging along as if it, too, wanted me to escape the snake pit of the house I’d left. As I approached L.A., people seemed to drive much closer to my puny bike, and for the first time that day I felt afraid. With my hands clenched tightly on the handlebars, my forearms tense, and my butt already sore from the unforgiving vinyl seat, the goal of reaching San Francisco began to feel absurd. Still, I persisted, and after making my way through the thick of L.A., I left the fray of cars and trucks on Interstate 5 for the relative ease of Highway 101.

In Ventura the highway narrowed. Instead of five lanes in either direction, there were only three, and far fewer cars. Relaxing the grip of my sweaty hands on the plastic ridges of the handlebars, I stayed in the slow lane, admiring the view of the Pacific Ocean to my left as I entered Santa Barbara County. How long the Highway Patrol car trailed me before I noticed the red light in my rear view mirror, I don’t know.

The officer was pleasant enough when he asked for my license and registration. “I must have forgotten them at home,” I lied, shrugging one shoulder and offering a smile. With only a learner’s permit, I wasn’t supposed to be driving alone, and my 100 cc bike wasn’t even legal on the freeway.

“Take your helmet and your sunglasses off, please.” His manner stayed pleasant but his words were terse. I complied. My long brown hair was tangled, matted with perspiration from being flattened for hours. My eyes burned from the wind and highway fumes.

“How old are you?” the officer asked, his voice shifting to a calm, curious tone.

I felt a brief pang of guilt when I replied. “16.” He looked like someone’s kindhearted dad. Fun, attentive to his children. A real good guy, I imagined.

“You were going 50 miles per hour. The minimum speed is 55.” (Years later I’d laugh at the irony: I was a teenager in trouble for driving too slow.) “Where are you headed?”

It was at that point, though, that my lies ended. I hadn’t thought of a back story. “To my sister’s in San Francisco,” I said, maybe because he looked like someone who might really care.

“And where do you live?”

“Near San Diego.”

“Whoa,” said the officer, his eyes widening, shaking his head. “That’s way too far from home for a 16 year old!”

Yes, I agreed. I was too far from home, and if home were a safe place to be, I’d rather have been there than 200 miles north in Carpinteria, standing at the side of Highway 101. My eyes were tired and my body, even at 15, felt tired and sore from the sustained effort of focusing on the road. I also realized my money might not last the nearly 300 miles remaining between me and San Francisco. And would my sister really welcome me? The whole plan felt silly, all at once, especially now that a kindly father figure had interrupted my fantasy of a successful escape.

Not until later that day did it occur to me the patrolman hadn’t asked why I was so far from home. But after the failure of my recent plea for help, telling him my problems felt like too big a risk. He might have changed from the supportive father-like figure he seemed to be into someone who’d scoff at my story, someone who’d shake his head in disbelief or even—as the psychiatrist had done before I’d left his office in tears— seem amused by my anguish.

“I’ll give you a choice,” the officer said, his manner gentle, a half-smile on his rugged face. “Call your parents or I’ll have to take you to Juvenile Hall.”

I knew from Gail that Juvie was no picnic. Every time she’d run away, she’d been locked up, treated like a criminal. Not once did anyone investigate the crimes in our house that impelled her to run. It was our step-father who should be locked up, not my sister or me, and our mother should snap out of her cushy fairy tale life and choose her daughters over her husband, the predator. But none of this seemed likely anymore.

From the emergency call box at the side of the road, the officer dialed the number I gave him and handed the phone to me. He also spoke briefly to my mother, asking questions to confirm she was in fact my parent. He requested she come pick me up but she preferred to meet me halfway—in Anaheim, 100 miles south. That meant I’d have to brave the L.A. traffic again, this time during the late afternoon rush.

Driving south I felt defeated but, at the same time, oddly, as if I’d been seen, heard and understood by the Highway Patrolman. How low my expectations were back then! Any attention from an adult who seemed kind and concerned was enough to pacify me for a while, even when I knew nothing about the person other than how I felt during a brief interaction. I told myself the patrolman might have helped me, if only I’d been brave enough to tell him the whole story.

Surely, I thought, my attempt at escape would compel my mother into action. When it didn’t, I was disappointed, but not surprised. There’s an old story about an elephant who grows up in captivity, one of its legs chained to a stake in the ground. It can move only so far in any direction before the chain digs into its leg. Even if the chain is removed, the elephant doesn’t go far. From its many vain attempts at freedom, it has learned to avoid disappointment. Later, when I was fortunate enough to see a true therapist—not the charlatan of a psychiatrist— I’d find out this behavior has a name: learned helplessness. As a teenager I was flooded with stress. Adrenaline kept me ready to fight or flee, my body and brain revved like an engine running on all cylinders. But, like the elephant on its chain, it was as if I had one foot jamming a gas pedal to the floor while the other fearfully slammed on the brakes. I felt stuck, out of ideas, out of the energy and stamina it would take to try again.

For more than two years after the day I failed to get to San Francisco, I stayed away from home as much as I could and, when I had to be there, I kept to myself, out of sight as much as possible. After graduating from high school, I moved away as soon as I turned 18. My healing began the first time a therapist held me in the metaphorical arms of her empathy and said I hear you, I believe you, it’s over, you’re safe. When I think of the girl I was back then, I hope she can somehow feel the power of my encouragement, compassion and love.

Several years later, Gail moved from San Francisco to a small, peaceful town further north, and I’d settled into a job and an apartment less than an hour away. Sexual abuse had left wounds in my psyche, and my injuries required ongoing care. But when I hung out with my sister I felt happy, safe, and grateful we’d both survived. We were sitting on her porch one day enjoying the sun when I mentioned the day her 15 year old kid sister tried to drive 500 miles on a wimpy 100 cc motorcycle.

“Goofball,” Gail said, but she was smiling, and her eyes were full of love.