One I'd Rather Forget....

Rachel

February 18, 1997

Early morning. I was sound asleep in my bed until a loud noise startled me awake. It was a metallic sound, like someone dropping pots and pans onto a concrete floor. It was an unusual sound, one that did not belong during the early morning hours. Had I only dreamed it? My heart pounding against my chest led me to believe I had not. As my vision came into focus I sat up in my bed and looked around the room. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Everything looked and sounded just as it should. Perhaps the sound had only been a part of my dream. Maybe it was like when you dream that you are falling only to wake up in your bed wrestling with the sheets. I breathed a sigh of relief, and unclenched my fists. I was thankful that the noise had not been evidence of another argument between my parents. Those were loud, vulgar, and occasionally violent. Sometimes their arguments seemed to last for days, spilling over into every room in the house, no unbreakable item left unbroken.

Just when I was entertaining the thought of allowing myself to drift back to sleep, another sound jolted me back into reality. In the distance I heard a whimper, but more like a choked back sob, one that you try very hard to keep in but it just forces it's way out. It was faint, but it had not been imagined. A second sob confirmed the first. This time I knew to whom it belonged. I had heard Rachel cry before, many times in fact, but I had never heard her cry likethis before. Immediately, I began to asses the situation. From past experiences I could only come up with one good reason why she could be crying- she had been "punished" by my parents. But I (along with our neighbors no doubt) would have heard her "punishment". Is that what the loud noise had been? From where I lay in bed I had a clear vision of the path one or both of my parents would have to take in order to exit the "scene of the crime". After a few moments, when they did not appear, I realized they had not been the reason for her tears this time. As comforting as that should have been, it scared me to think of what could be wrong. I pushed the blankets off of me and climbed out of bed. Slowly, I made my way down the hall towards the sound of her voice coming from the bathroom. At the door I listened for a second (she was still whimpering) and then timidly knocked. Nothing. I knocked again, this time calling her name. Still no answer. I tried the doorknob and found that it turned. Slowly pushing the door open I called her name again. This time there was no doubt about it. She was either ignoring me or something was wrong. Once inside the bathroom, I found Rachel sitting on the floor in a corner. Her knees were raised to her chin, and her arms were wrapped around her legs. Her face was hot with tears and her hair was disheveled. Her eyes were puffy and mostly closed. She was shaking as if she were cold. She did not acknowledge my presence as I kneeled down in front of her.

"Rachel, what's wrong?" I asked.

Nothing. I reached out my hand and touched her arm and she shrieked as if my touch had burned her skin. The shaking turned into a rocking motion back and forth, side to side.

"Are you hurt?" I tried again.

"Yes." It was faint, but it was a response.

"Where? Where are you hurt?" I asked anxiously.

At that moment, the rocking motions turned violent and she began to hit her head against the walls. Her whole body shook uncontrollably. I ran out of the room and found Jack.

"Something's wrong with Rachel!" I said, out of breath.

"I know, she's weird." he said, not hearing the panic in my voice, or not concerned about it if he did. I'm not sure which one.

"Get Mom and Dad!" I said more sternly. I wasn't very fond of the "Rachel is worthless" jokes, and I certainly didn't feel like putting up with it during this moment.

What happened next is all a blur. As I watched the chaos unfold in front of me, it was as if everything moved at a super-fast pace. Everyone spoke so quickly that I could barley keep up with the words they were saying. Yet at the same time, I felt that my internal clock had slowed down. Each thought that crossed my mind, full and long, and so many of them! So many questions, but no answers. It was almost dizzying, like I was not really watching everything from my own eyes. At some point, the two dimensions met in the middle, and the internal and external clocks reconciled. By this time my whole family was up and rushing around. Devon had carried Rachel from the bathroom and had set her down on her bed. Mom and Dad were trying to talk to her and calm her down, but she kept thrashing about and kicking their hands away. Joyce was on the phone with 911. The operator instructed her to place Rachel on the floor and told her not to attempt to hold her down. My parents complied with their instruction, and she continued to shake. Soon, an ambulance arrived and they took her away on a stretcher.

When we arrived at the hospital the doctors did not have anything to say to us. They were running tests, and would for the next twenty-four hours. She was unconscious, and when anyone would touch her she screamed as she had done just earlier that day. While we were sitting in the waiting room my parents did not speak much to each other. Perhaps they both silently wondered if the other was responsible for this. The truth of the matter was that they were both responsible. At one moment my dad leaned towards my mom.

"What about all of her spankings?" he asked, "what if they see?"

"Not now," she said quietly but sternly.

It would be twenty-four hours before his question was answered. Just twenty-four hours before a detective would pose her own question to them. Questions about the layers of scars they found on her body. Their only answer to explain the scars would be that Rachel was "clumsy"- a mantra that they took with them all the way to trial, and finally to prison.

Twenty-four hours can change what took a lifetime of moments to create. It has the power to cutoff your present from your past, and set your life on a new course, towards a new future. On February 18th, 1997, a nineteen-year old girl decided she'd taken her last beating. In the early morning hours before anyone else was awake, she spent her last moments alone, as she had undoubtedly been her entire life. The styrofoam cup she held in her hand was full of the antifreeze she was sure would take her life and end her hell. Twenty-four hours after she closed her eyes to a world that didn't love her, they opened once again to a room full of doctors and detectives. In just twenty-four hours, everything had changed.

One I'd Rather Forget....

Devon

I don't have to think very hard about a memory I'd rather forget. For the last decade, I've been unsuccessful in my attempts to forget about this altogether. After my parents were imprisoned, and during my teen years, Devon relentlessly pressured me into experimenting with illegal substances. Perhaps he only wanted me to share in the fun he felt he was having, but it really was an odd situation to find myself in. I was sixteen and he was twenty-one, yet I was the one telling him how bad drugs could be. I was the one left to wait up at night because I was worried he had fallen into a ditch. I was the one left to pay the bills when he lost his job because the money in the cash register was the only thing between him and his next "fix". Even worse, the few adults that showed any interest in us and our well-being, became angry because they saw the lifestyle that he had chosen and assumed it was a group decision. It wasn't long before they had written me off as well.

Looking back over the years I am proud for making the right decisions during a time when life is just plain hard to begin with. Today, I can definitely see the difference between those of us who made an effort to keep going and those of us who gave up. But it wasn't easy. It was hard, and there were times that I almost gave in and followed in Devon's footsteps. Not because I really wanted to, but because I was tired of fighting for everything and never getting anything back in return.

One to Remember....

Devon

What can I say about Devon? I could mention that he was the family prankster, the constant comedian, the unrelenting class clown... but while all of these things would be true, it really wouldn't say anything about Devon at all. Perhaps I should explain that Devon was the third eldest child after Jack and Rachel, but the first biological child of my parents. That the three of them were only 18 months apart in age, and that four months after my mom gave birth to Devon, she discovered she was pregnant with Joyce. But what would that really tell you about Devon? Perhaps you could assume that his jocular antics really were masked attempts at being noticed. I suspect your assumption wouldn't be that far from the truth.

When we were growing up, it was Devon that would listen to any hair-brained idea that came into my head. I wanted to live in a world where anything was possible and Devon fully supported that idea. He never made me feel like I had to leave my imagination behind. Although Devon struggled with reading, he still loved a good story. He and I would imagine up the most interesting characters together. The lady sheriff from El Paso, Texas, who rid the town of outlaws, Dr. Quinn style. The band of medieval brothers, fighting for the kings honor. Hiding in caves at night, keeping a careful watch out for their nemesis who was most assuredly to strike at an unsuspecting moment. Together, we dreamed huge dreams- most which I still hold onto this very day. To be completely honest, I've never truly understood the impact his "anything is possible" attitude had on me until writing this. It saddens me to think that perhaps I've given up on him just a little too quickly... that I have neglected to cheer on his imagination. That I, over the course of time, let his determination just fade away.. I watched his candle burn dim, and shaking my head in frustration I turned my back on him and kept on walking. More on this later....

If I had to sum up my childhood with Devon, it would be in the laughter he brought into our home. It would be the fact that he was more than willing to be the butt of a joke if it meant delivering the punchline. It would be that he was there when all I needed was someone to dream with me.

One I'd Rather Forget....

Jane

Christmas Day, 1998.

How can I ever forget the moments that led up to that day? Like snapshots in my mind, so clear, as if I am recalling events from last week and not years ago.... November 6th... Imagine waking up to the smell of bacon frying. In the distance you can hear your mother singing along with the radio while she cooks. In those first fragile moments you've barely opened your eyes, but your fourteen year old mind has already begun to map out what kind of day it would be. Not much later, you are sitting at the kitchen table; a heaping plate set before you. Completely oblivious to the fact that fate has been counting down the seconds to this day, and there was precious few left. Unaware, that today would be a much different day than anticipated. That I had, unbeknownst to me, slept my last night in my parents house. How could we have known that as we all took our places at the breakfast table, there were at least a dozen police officers outside, positioning themselves around our home. Who could have predicted the chaos that occurred, just moments later, when they handcuffed my mother and took her by the elbow to drag her towards their vehicle. Soon a second officer would do the same with my father. We didn't get to say goodbye. They just took them. The other officers began to pour into our house, walking through our bedrooms and going through our belongings. In vain attempt, Jane and I hid in the kitchen. A strange lady found us and told us she was going to take us away. She instructed us to pack our bags. How can a fourteen and twelve year old know how pack a bag to leave with a stranger to an unknown destination for an unknown length of time? She asked us to hurry because she was getting ready to go into overtime and she wanted to deliver us to the children's center on time...

November 8th... After staying the weekend at an emergency placement home, a new social worker transported us to our "permanent placement". A scary word- permanent; used so loosely. It would be like camp, she kept saying, we would have so much fun. Just think of it that way and it won't be so scary. It's not like we were going to Kalamazoo, she said. I had never been to camp, but I imagine that children aren't randomly selected and forced to go on the drop of a dime. I can't speak from experience, but I am sure the adults don't meticulously go through your belongings declaring everything either "acceptable" or "unacceptable". I am most positive that they don't place your initials on all of your clothing. And although I can't completely swear to it, I could bet you that at the end of camp you are allowed to go home. Once we arrived, I saw that the "camp" was really a cluster of "homes" located at the base of a large mountain in the middle of nowhere. The social worker called it a "group home". Jane would live on one end of the campus in the girls cottage, and I would live on the other end in the boys cottage. The adults in the house were deemed "house parents". Over the next few days we would learn the house rules, some of them reasonable enough, others were downright ridiculous. For example, the administration at the group home was concerned about how often Jane and I asked to speak to each other. They created a rule that stated Jane and I could only visit with each other twice a week, for fifteen minutes each visit. The reason: a young boy and a young girl had no business wanting to spend that much time together unless there was something inappropriate going on...

I kept telling myself that this was all some huge mistake. That we would only be here a few hours and then they would come back and take us home. My hope soon turned into panic as hours turned into days, and days into weeks. Every evening, right before dinner, the sun would dip behind the mountain range and a shadow would fall across the campus. The administration that worked in the main office building would all walk out at the same time as they finished up for the day. They would chat amongst themselves as they walked to their cars. Discussing what they would have for dinner, or of an event they would take their kids to that evening. One by one they all left. They all went home. Every day, I knew that at that time the world of lawyers and social workers had also stopped turning, as they too were most likely on their way home to their families. Every day, as the sun dipped behind the mountains and the shadow stretched its giant fingers across the homes below, my heart would sink just a little further as I knew that we would spend one more night away from home.

Every day it was the same. Chores in the morning, school throughout the day, chores in the evening, homework, dinner and then bed. Day in and day out, I would watch as everyone was free to come and go except for the kids trapped in this prison. Even the houseparents left and a "relief" couple would replace them for a week.

Thanksgiving... I don't remember much about that day except that there were a lot strange people in the house that I assume were relatives of the house parents. Normally, my family would watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on Thanksgiving. That year the television was on a Xena: Warrior Princess marathon all day. I wasn't allowed to speak to anyone in my family and I only saw Jane for fifteen minutes that day. It all seemed wrong. Holidays were usually a big deal to my family, but nobody seemed to care. I just told myself that this was just an ordinary day. It was just like the last. The sooner it was over the sooner it really would be just another day. In my mind I was certain that we would be home by Christmas...

Christmas Day... I was allowed to see Jane for a couple of hours that day, under close supervision I suppose. At the end of our visit I walked her outside to the bridge that separated the boys cottages from the girls. It was quiet outside; everyone was either inside their cottage or at home with their families. The night sky was pitch black and snow was falling over an already white blanket. As was routine with any of our visits, Jane would ask, when are we going home? I didn't know. Why did they do this to us? I wasn't sure. Will the judge decide to send us home? I didn't know. When is our court date? It was set for March. Why is it so far away, can't they make it closer? Probably not. I am praying to go home, why isn't God answering? An answer that I too wanted. Let's run away, they won't find us. We can't do that, they will find us and it will be even worse when they do. When is this going to be over? I don't know. Will we ever go home? Yes. How do you know? Because I believe we will. You said we would be home by Christmas. I was wrong. What if you're wrong now? I don't know. I want to go home. I want to go home too. You need to go to your cottage now, we will be in trouble soon if you don't. I don't want to go back there. I know, I wish you could stay. Please don't make me go. You have to, I am sorry. Don't you want to talk to me? I do, but you need to leave before we can't talk to each other at all anymore. I'm scared. I am too. When are we going home? I don't know.... In circles, our conversation continued until there was nothing left for her to do but to walk back to her cottage. I watched as she walked across the bridge and into the darkness. I watched until there was nothing left to see but the falling snow, already beginning to cover the tracks her shoes had made. It had been two months and our complicated situation had become only more complicated. We were separated from our family and stripped of our belongings and stuck in the middle of nowhere. I was so sure that we would be home by now, but we were not. We were guaranteed at least three more months at this facility and I was beginning to see that the court system has a slow engine. For weeks I had tried to remain positive and composed, especially around Jane. For half an hour each week, I was the only family she had left to turn to. I needed to be strong for her. But she had so many questions, and I didn't have any answers. That night, staring across the bridge into the darkness, I lost it. Everything that I had locked up inside of me came pouring out. No one was there to hear me cry. Nobody came when my muffled cries turned into screaming. Sitting on the bridge I was completely and utterly alone.

One to Remember....

Jane

July 3rd, 2006. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the beginning, it was the ending. It was all those things that bring a smile to your face, it was the lead in your feet and the cold feeling in your stomach. It was my last night in Tennessee, it was my first step away from my past. Two weeks prior, all the events had been set into motion that would result in the conclusion of my life in Small Town, USA. But even all the best planning never made it truly feel real. Then one day, as if without warning, I was left with only my blue Nissan Sentra, full of all the belongings I had not sold. My wife had gone on to Georgia before me never to return to our hometown as one of it's daughters, and strangers were sleeping under the roof I had once called home. On July 3rd, 2006- it became real.

For as far back as I can remember, my youngest sister Jane and I were inseparable. In fact most people often believed us to be twins, which we are not. They referred to us as Peter'nJane as if it were all one name and not two. So on that last night, with no where left to go, Jane and I met at Joyce's house and reminisced about the past over a couple of beers. We laughed about the time, while we were in foster care, we enrolled in four full weeks of summer school just to get away from the other kids. Or that time we re-enacted the final showdown between Luke and Darth Vader from The Return of the Jedi on the football field next to the group home we belonged to. With our stick lightsabers in hand, we fought for the galaxy because we were too sad to think about the real good and evil in our life. My favorite moment of the night came when Jane, after a few beers in, became increasingly convinced that she had the superhuman ability to stretch. I had a little fun with that one, I must admit, placing objects across the room and exclaiming with amazement at how far her arm could reach. To this day I still call her "Stretchy".

In the back of our minds we sensed this was the final night of our journey together as Petern'Jane, the Combs kids, Luke and Darth...July 4th would begin a new chapter, a new life and a new beginning. But July 3rd was a time to recall the past and drink to it's memory, and for goodness sake, laugh about the imperfect things that couldn't be changed.

One I'd Rather Forget....

Joyce

When she was only nineteen Joyce found that she was pregnant. Our parents were recently incarcerated and I cannot help but think that the pregnancy was a result of her seeking the attention she was no longer receiving at home. The baby was unexpected for all of us. What did we know about raising a baby? But the baby came, and although my parents posted bond for a brief time period, it wasn't long before they were tried and sentenced and sent back to their permanent home and we were once again alone with a new baby boy. It became a group effort amongst all of us to try to figure out what this crying thing needed, but once we did, taking care of Steven was therapeutic. He cries, you feed him. Simple. Unlike anything else in my life I felt like I could fix it.

As weeks turned into months, and months into years, we all began to deal with the reality that our parents were never going to come home. I still remember when I realized, at the age of fifteen, that I was no longer an adolescent, and how from that point on I would have to carry the burdens of an adult. That idea was not untrue. Our situation was was already difficult to say the least, but soon Joyce along with my other brother Devon began to experiment with drugs and alcohol. A vice that was unknown to any of us at the time. They were so preoccupied with partying and hanging out with their new "friends" that they both lost their jobs. This left Jack bringing in the only income from his part-time minimum wage job.

The day I turned sixteen I found an evening job at a Dairy Queen. When I realized this still didn't pay all of the bills, I took on a morning shift at a Pizza Hut. But even that wasn't enough for five people and a baby. The rent payments fell behind by six months, and our lights were turned off several times for late payment; once for a week in the middle of winter. I still remember how we had to sleep in our coats beneath every sheet or blanket we owned, huddled together on the floor trying to make sure that we kept Steven warm. Those times spent in the darkness were the hardest. I wanted so badly to make things work, but it didn't matter how hard I tried, it still wasn't good enough.

As time moved on, Joyce cared less about the son she had at home and more about the "friend of the month" she could hang out with. Sometimes she would be gone for days, one of those times being Steven's first birthday. I realize that she was dealing with her pain by ignoring everything else, but it was hard then and even now to empathize.

A couple of years ago, I visited my old hometown. I wanted to see Steven, who was at the time nine years old. He was at the "babysitter's" house, where he practically lives now. When I arrived at the house (which was really an old tin can on wheels), I was mortified with what I found. First of all, the stench from the camper as I walked in was almost unbearable. Steven looked as if he hadn't bathed in days which was likely the case because I later found out that the camper was without plumbing. I also discovered that the "babysitter" (I will call her the toothless old witch) relieves herself into an old coffee tin can and that it is Steven's job to discard of it's contents. The couch which served as Steven's bed was covered in brown crusty stains, from where the dog routinely vomits onto it while Steven sleeps. This visit resulted in a string of events in which I obtained custody of Steven for a period of nine months. Joyce was supposed to be getting her life back together during that timeframe, but even then I knew it wouldn't last.

Since then, I have tried to look out for Steven but it has been a useless battle. I have reported the drug binges, the pill runs, the child neglect.... I have talked to social workers and police officers, but nobody cares. Steven is on his own. What breaks my heart is that I fear I will watch him follow in his mother's footsteps. I hope not, but the odds are stacked against him. I know a little something about those odds. They beat you down over the head and remind you daily that no matter what you do, or how hard you work you will never be good enough. The odds tell you that you will always be sitting in the darkness in the middle of January huddled on the floor trying to stay warm.

One to Remember....

Joyce

For five years Joyce had been the "baby" in our family. No doubt my parents doted on her and treated her as their last, savoring each moment and checking off each baby milestone. That was the plan after all. By now they had two boys and two girls and that was enough. I am sure my parents were somewhat surprised when they found out that they were going to have another baby. But it was probably no surprise to anyone paying attention how jealous Joyce became when I came along and dethroned her. She was just another number now, four of five. Not the first born, not the last. But I think she soon realized that my parents would still treat her as their little princess, because as far back as I can remember she and I always got along exceptionally. I cannot remember a single argument that she and I had growing up. We pretty much agreed on everything and didn't step on each others toes. I wish I could say that things remained the same as we entered adulthood, but that would be the farthest thing from the truth.

The child Joyce was wide-eyed and curious. She always seemed eager to find what the day would bring her way. My parents, of course, still doted on her. She was their pretty daughter, their good one. Not like Rachel. Of this they made special effort to mention to both of my sisters quite frequently. For Rachel, it was just another slap across the face. For Joyce, it made her crave even more attention. This kind of treatment could make any child self-absorbed and Joyce was no exception. I think it was because of this trait that made small selfless moments stand out to me.

When I was six, reading had pretty much taken over my life, it was all I wanted to do. Joyce recognized how well I was doing with it and rewarded me with a small craft she had made. She had taken a small wooden heart and colored it blue with a marker. She then glued it onto a square piece of gray foam that came out of a small jewelry box. Something so small and insignificant, but I held onto it until my house burned down when I was fifteen. Every so often I would look at it and remember how proud she had been of me. As simple as the wooden heart, so is this memory. But it is my favorite one of Joyce. It is the one I hold onto when I try to remember the girl she once was but has forgotten how to be.