It wasn't a mystery where he was. Mom and I hoped he
hadn't killed himself or someone else.Dad was an alcoholic and deep into his addiction.
The bottle and drinking at the bar with friends was his first choice and had been
for years.
Still, we hoped.
It was one hour before midnight, late for a child of
nine to be up on a school night. Then again, the dark family secrets I kept made
me grow up quickly. My friends were all tucked away and sleeping in their beds,
but not me.
The night Mom and I sat in front of the Monopoly
board waiting to see if my father was alive and unharmed, her routine changed—forever.
It was the last game I remember playing with her. The bits of light indulgences
that had remained ended. Her romance novels, once an occasional respite, become
her permanent escape. Maybe it allowed her to have the courage she needed to
open her bedroom door at night and enter the whiskey-scented air that awaited
her. Maybe by staying up late, she'd be tired enough to fall asleep as soon as
she laid her head down on her pillow. Perhaps it was a luxury in which she
indulged so she wouldn't have to endure the hacking, mucous-filled drunken
coughs of her husband.Maybe, she could dream of lost romance—or a possible
future—rather than the addiction that held her life hostage.
We sat on the living room floor in front of the
heater vent, one of two in our 1930's San Francisco two-story home. The heater
was an antiquated monster, with two big arms that reached up from the basement,
bringing warmth into the living room and hallway outside of the two bedrooms we
had.
The Monopoly board was spread between us. We rolled
the dice, purchased properties, went to jail, tried to get out free, and winced
as we landed on each other's high rent district.
I knew I was playing with my best friend.
With each move through St. Charles Place, Marvin
Garden and Boardwalk, we wished we'd hear Dad's sky blue, Chevy step-side
pickup pull into the driveway. Even though we played a game, the thing remained
unsaid and lay just under the surface, was the fear that his life, or someone
else's, had ended because he's driven home drunk.
"How about I make us some fudge?" Mom got
up and walked toward the kitchen. "Mark the board so we don't forget whose
turn it is."
"Yeah!" I shouted with the anticipation of
a delicious reward, feeling special that she was cooking a batch just for
us.One again, the answer to my pain was the comfort of sugary treats.
As the fudge boiled, we'd taste a spoonful every few
minutes. She'd drop the mixture into a bowl of cold water, pinch it between her
fingers, and when it formed the perfect soft ball it meant her fudge was ready
to rest and minutes away from being whipped into form.
When it was done, she'd pour the thick chocolate caramel
into a bowl prepared with a full stick of butter sitting in the bottom. It became
floating liquid in the sweet, warm treat, spreading out, pooling all through
the creamy comfort.For the final touch, she'd add a tablespoon of vanilla and then
let it sit for fifteen minutes. After beating it with an electric mixer she'd
scoop it onto a buttered plate and cut it into thick, one-inch squares.
The intermingling of chocolate, cream and vanilla
were not only delicious, they were intoxicating. When she cooked it, I knew I
had love and comfort. Sliding the butter knife into the mixture was like
cutting a piece of serenity all my own.
Letting the chocolate melt on my tongue meant our
worries had lifted . . . temporarily.
The fudge was placed on the counter to set and we
went back to our game, rolling the dice, both of us into it, trying to win the
large pot of money in the center of the board.Twenty minutes later, and closet
to midnight, we had to pause to whip the fudge. I loved hearing those beaters
whirring. It didn't matter what she cooked. Itmeant she was doing something
just for us—she was present and thinking about her family.
We stood at the kitchen sink intensely waiting for
the crucial moment it started to harden. It was a critical time. If it turned
hard in the bowl, it wouldn't be smooth and creamy on the plate, and she would
scoop it out in grainy sugary clumps.
Just as I put my hand on her back, bringing our
connection closer, my father came home.
Twelve marble stairs led to our front door. If he
came up through the basement, there were thirteen wooden steps.
Even at such a young age, I knew it was amazing he
hadn't fallen and killed himself as he staggered back and forth on his way up
the steps.
That night, Dad crashed into the wall as he came
through the front door, stumbling and falling into the living room. His face
was red and his eyes were sunken. He stepped onto our game, kicking and
scattering all the pieces throughout the living room.
My mother's face dropped.
Her expression was a mixture of relief and regret.
I could see the blade of abandonment slice through
her.
Her face seemed twisted in pain.
My hand lifted from her back when she turned off the
beaters. The big spoon she used to stir the fudge dropped against the porcelain
bowl. I knew the candy was at its crucial moment, ready to turn from liquid to creamy
chocolate candy.Mom turned off the kitchen and range lights, and lay down on
the couch.
Our game, our evening . . .broken.
"You do anything but lay around andget fatter?"
Dad said to his wife. His words were the usual poison tipped arrows of
defense—shoot before you get shot. She said nothing, only looked at her book. He
turned to me. "Get to bed or I'll paddle you all the way upstairs."
Those words didn't miss their mark. Still, I
couldn't move. I froze, waiting for the danger to pass.In only seconds, both of
them left me standing alone in the darkness, as if I didn't exist—as if none of
us existed as a family. We abandoned each other day after day.
"I'll finish, Mama," I cried out after Dad
stumbled upstairs, crashing into the walls.Hoping to continue our evening, I
turned the lights back on and began to whip the fudge.
It had hardened in the bowl.
I knew I couldn't save it. But I had to save . . .
something in our house. So I took the big spoon Mom had dropped and scooped out
the clumps of candy onto three buttered plates: one each for my mom, my sister
and me.Soaking the pot in warm, soapy water, I also put the beaters in the
kitchen sink and slid the plates of candy in the refrigerator.
Carefully, I put all the pieces back on the Monopoly
board.
If I could only keep all the pieces together . . .
it might be okay.
Maybe I'd still have my mother, my friend.
"Mama, I finished everything. The game is back
just like we had it, so can we play now?
Was I breathing when I said those words?I'm not
sure.
Questions were difficult to ask in our household. It
often felt like I held my breath until I was certain I hadn't offended anyone.
If challenged, they became angry.
"I don't feel like it," she said wearily.
"Would you mind putting everything away?"She never looked at me as
she said the words.
I'd become invisible.
I cried silently as I packed away our
evening.Somewhere deep inside I knew I was packing away the memories of being a
child with my mother.
-Pamela Taeuffer
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