Chapter 24: Teetering on the Edge of Despair

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— Full chapters will appear in the printed published book. —

I was finding it more and more difficult to accept my life the way it was.

The pleasant three weeks at Myers’ Camp, away from the farm, opened my eyes and gave me a sense that things did not have to be so bad as they were, in more ways than one.

For the first time in my life, I had learned how to clean. This might seem obvious and simple, but there was a big difference between cleaning a barn, and cleaning a house or cabin. I certainly knew how to clean a barn.

When I came back to the farmhouse after being away, I then noticed dirt I had not seen before. It was always there, but I was so used to seeing it. The enamel-covered basin where we washed our hands and brushed our teeth was covered in a thick layer of grey grunge around the edges. I scrubbed it until it was totally clean. It looked so different. I didn’t think it had ever been cleaned before. I washed the wall behind it, covered with toothpaste droppings and who knew what else. The dipper that sat on top of the communal drinking water bucket, which we all used to drink from, was slimy around the edges. It had never occurred to me that it should be cleaned occasionally, so I washed it with soap, rinsed it, and placed it back, bobbing on top of the water.

The floor was filthy and could use a scrubbing, but I decided that would not be practical. It would be dirty again in a day.

One day, while walking through the kitchen, two pink hairless baby mice fell on my head and then onto the floor. I looked up at a hole in the rafters. There must’ve been a mouse nest somewhere in there. I picked up the mice by the tails and threw them outside into the grass. Some animal would have a snack.

I hadn’t had a bath or shower since I left Myers’ Camp. I started a new routine of washing my hair using the warm water in the reservoir of the stove. We couldn’t find any shampoo so I used either a bar of soap, or dish detergent.

I always enjoyed watching the Alfred Hitchcock shows, though I never should have. They were an hour long and they scared me. Before I started watching, I turned on all the lights in the house. Marg and I had an agreement that we would phone each other at the commercial break halfway through. This was more for my comfort and reassurance than for hers, as she was always with her mother and other family members. I was alone. There were a few episodes that I still remember. “Last Seen Wearing Blue Jeans” was about a young girl who falls asleep in the back seat of a car that is stolen by criminals. Another one was about some hillbillies putting a woman’s head in a jar.

When I got ready for bed those nights, I started in the basement. I stoked the fire in the furnace before turning off the basement light. Then I went to the main floor and turned off those lights. I went upstairs. Finally, I went to bed and turned off my bedroom light. Then I tried to sleep until Cliff and mom came home at midnight or thereabouts.

My mother and I rarely had a conversation together anymore. I remembered those times in British Columbia when I sat at the table watching her make pies, and she sang along to the radio. I remembered sometimes complaining that I was bored, or that my brothers hit me, and she told me to “quit feeling sorry for myself.” Now I considered those the good old days, and I longed for those good old days. If I could have gone back to those times, I would never complain again. But those idyllic days were gone and were only a faint memory now. I didn’t know how good I had it.

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Whenever I thought of Cliff, I used some very, very bad descriptors — words that I would never say in public where anyone could hear me. But I shouted them out loud when I was in the house or in the barn, any time when I was alone. I didn’t think it was so bad to do that, but I knew that God heard me, so I had many sins to confess every night.

For some reason, the most common vulgar term I used for Cliff can be abbreviated as FB. These two words are not difficult to guess. Every time he yelled at me, I mouthed these words. Every time he kicked me out of the house, I muttered these words as I marched off to the barn or the field or the pump, wherever it was he was sending me this time. I yelled these words in the empty kitchen as I read his list of chores, left for me on a ripped cigarette package. These words entered my mind at night just before I fell asleep. Yes, I was a sinful person, and every night I prayed that the Lord would forgive me for hating Cliff so much.

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Christmas was coming and, no matter how bad things seemed, I knew that Christmas had to be fun. I looked forward to it eagerly, especially Christmas eve when we opened gifts together. Even without my brothers Raymond and Bruce at home this year, I was still able to put up and decorate a real Christmas tree myself. Cliff allowed me to do that. I didn’t think my mother cared whether I did it or not.

I wasn’t sure who would be with us for Christmas on the farm that year, if any of my brothers would be there.

I hadn’t seen or talked to Bruce since the summer, when I saw him briefly. He was in his second year of university in Guelph now. He had a Volkswagen Beetle and stopped in at the farm one time looking for Raymond. When he found out he wasn’t there, he left to look for some of his other buddies from around the area to hang out with. I didn’t know if he stayed at Edith’s that summer or not. He might have found another place to stay. He didn’t come back to Dryden at Christmas. Possibly, he visited with Doug in Toronto. I didn’t know much about any of that. No one kept me informed of anything.

I hadn’t talked to Raymond since the first day of school. I caught glimpses of him only once or twice between classes in the busy hallways of Dryden High School. He took auto classes and machine shop, so most of his subjects were in the technical wing at the far end of the school. My subjects were all in the academic wing.

The downside of Christmas was the long holiday period. This meant that I would not only spend my evenings alone, but almost all of the whole days as well. I didn’t know this back then, but keeping my mind active was helping to keep depression at bay. I almost knew that instinctually.

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The bright light for me was that I knew that my mom and Cliff would be home for Christmas eve. They always were before. The beer parlour closed at 6 o’clock that night which meant they would be home by 6:30 at the latest. I could be with my mom and we could open presents together. Cliff would be there too, and though I hated being around him, he was not as grouchy on Christmas eve or Christmas day. Perhaps there was some goodness in his soul somewhere. He still wouldn’t be nice to me, or friendly, or even cracking a smile, but he wouldn’t be as horrible as usual.

This year, I wanted to do something very special for me and for them for Christmas eve. On the last day of school before the holidays, after being dropped off at the highway, I walked to Ed’s Grocery to make sure I had all the ingredients to make shortbread cookies. I knew I needed to buy butter because we had only margarine at our house. I had never baked anything before, so I wanted to do this right. My mom hadn’t baked any cookies for a long time, so this would be a treat for all of us.

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On the afternoon of Christmas eve, I turned on the radio to have the music in the background playing Christmas songs. The Beatles and other British groups were really popular now too. The kitchen was toasty and warm, the kitchen stove was stoked and ready. I rifled around in the cupboards to find two baking sheets. I proceeded to follow the recipe very carefully and make the cookie dough. I had never baked anything in the oven before. I was in such a happy mood. I wouldn’t be alone tonight. It was Christmas eve! I sang along with “Silver Bells” and “Silent Night.”

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Just then I heard the car drive up and the lights shone in the front window. Cliff and mom came in the house and they were drunk. No surprise there. I showed my mom the burnt cookies and asked her why that happened. She had never baked shortbread cookies either, so couldn’t give me any advice.

I wondered if my mom would make dinner tonight, but I noticed that they didn’t take their coats off. I was looking forward to sitting around the Christmas tree and opening the presents as we always did on Christmas eve. One box for me looked like chocolates, so at least I might have some tasty sweets tonight, now that my cookies were a disaster.

I waited to see what mom and Cliff were doing, and then I realized they were not staying. They had met somebody at the beer parlour and were going to their home to continue drinking.

My mind started to panic. What would happen to our special Christmas eve time together? Having dinner together. Opening our presents together. They didn’t mention me in their plans. Surely, they wouldn’t leave me alone on Christmas eve? The one special day of the year when I didn’t want to be alone.

“You’re going out? You’re not staying home?” I asked my mom, my voice trembling.

“Yeah, we just came back to get something,” she answered.

I scrambled for ideas, quickly. Maybe I could persuade them to take me with them. I could go with them, sit somewhere quietly while they drank with their friends. I wouldn’t be a problem. I just didn’t want to be alone, not tonight.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“If it was any of your business, we would tell you!” Cliff yelled. He came up to me appearing very angry, then brushed past me. I thought he was going to hit me, but he didn’t.

I directed my conversation to my mom and tried to ignore him.

“Can I come with you, mom, please? I won’t be a problem.” I pleaded.

“No, you can’t,” was my mom’s answer.

I felt as if my whole life was crumbling. If they weren’t home for Christmas eve, then I might as well be abandoned for good.

“I don’t want to stay home alone on Christmas eve!” I tried to hold back the tears.

I continued to plead and try to salvage my one precious night of the year. “Please don’t leave me alone by myself. Not on Christmas eve! Please let me come with you!”

I moved in front of my mother, away from Cliff. I didn’t want her to ignore me. “Please let me come with you,” I begged, looking her directly in the eyes.

Just then, my mom slapped me across the face as hard as she could. I was absolutely stunned.

My jaw dropped open, my hand immediately went up to my face to hold my stinging cheek. I was used to harsh treatment, but my mom had never slapped me before. Now I knew there was nothing else I could say. That ended this conversation.

Mom and Cliff moved past me and went out the door. They got into the car and drove off. I stood at the window, watching through the thick plastic that was stapled there to prevent cold winter drafts. The tears came cascading down my face like a torrent. I just couldn’t stop them. They made everything so blurry.

I could not stop crying. My cheek was red and continued to sting from my mom slapping me. But this physical pain was nothing compared to how I was feeling inside.

At that moment in time, I acknowledged something that I hadn’t quite accepted before. It was that not one person in this world cared about me. My mom didn’t care about me. My brothers Doug, Bruce and Raymond were somewhere with other families, they didn’t care. Edith didn’t care about me. Aunt Emily and uncle Felix didn’t care about me.

When I did experience morsels of kindness, it usually came from strangers. The wood truck driver, the bus driver, Mrs. Myers after I almost fainted at the camp, the tourists at the camp — and when Mary, a girl I had just met at school, wanted to immediately host a birthday party for me.

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My tears dried up, my cheek was tender and still red, but it no longer hurt. I drifted off to sleep. I heard the car return sometime in the middle of the night.

It had been my worst Christmas eve ever. I told myself that I had to be strong. I would survive.