He was fabricated with unfinished tattoos. His teeth were his signature. Everybody knew his smile. The perfect line of pearly whites indented in a pink gum, lined up like a set of sailors before inspection.He had a grip. His arms rough with damaged veins and staff scars. Daddy, whats the neeld for, are we playing doctor?

He was never there for Christmas, not a hug on my birthday, no Valentine’s Day teddy bear, nor a plate to share on Thanksgiving. Yet, each year I would make him a Father’s Day card. Even on the day we left.

It was the middle of January but I didn't want him to forget me while I was gone. I licked the tart tasting envelope and laid it on my Disney princess high chair, in plain sight so he would see it when he arrived from his other girlfriend’s house (which was supposed to be a secret). It was signed ‘’To: Daddy’’ with a line through it. In black sharpie I scribbled ‘’To: Zach’’ underneath because Mommy said it was a more suitable title.

That day mom’s Mercedes was filled with boxes and Louis Vuitton suitcases. My brother, Questin, sat in his safety seat next to our bulldog, Diesel. They took up most of the tan leather interior in the back seat.

My mom’s eyes were weak, blood shot, sagging from emotional tears tugging on them. They say your face falling is a process that comes with age, but she was young. Maybe, it only happens because adversity fills the human race and begins to eat at its physical futre.She was dressed in a white tank top and jeans; her typical everyday house outfit, less baggy than her eyes. Every time we came at a red light she nervously tapped her fingers on the wheel.
Licked her chapped, glossed lips.

Tap, Tap, Tap.
A quick look over her shoulder.
Then she would press the gas and ask if everyone was okay.
“Mommy, Where are we going?” Questin would giggle as he caught the falling spit from Diesel’s mouth.
“Far, baby boy. Far away.”
The car would grow quiet. I could feel the tires moving over little bits of rock in the road, but surving.
The car sat silent for five days, every now and again Mommy would ask if we were alright and one of us would mumble "mhmmm". We drove from Las Vegas, Nevada to Huntington Beach, California to see my mom’s parents. My “grandparents”. When we arrived to the four story mansion my “grandparents” lived in, the nanny at the door turned us away and gave a message from my moms dad that we were not accepted in the vicinity.
Off to Palm Beach, Florida.
We stayed in little motels accepting animals along the way. Every night we would pull over or Check In so Mom could put her place nightmeres in her sleep, where they beglonged. We would wake up and be blinded by the sight in front of us.
Long.
Narrow.
Straight.
Road.
It lied in front of us, taunting us with the thought of a never ending journey. Leaving my mom defeated by the thought of my dads chapped hands being laid on another female. A another women caressing the scards on both of the creases in his arms. You could always tell when she was thinking about it. She would press her size 7 shoe to the pedal and speed long enough to feel the rush.
We would eat small donuts wrapped in a clear coating listing the 230 calorie ingredients from whatever gas station we stopped at. Questin would cry every once in a while complaining that Diesel was too big or he wanted the window rolled down.
The radio played Maroon 5 and my mother would find a short period of sollum in their voices and a relation to their lyrics and sway along with the beat. I would look up at her from the passenger seat that was much to big for my being. She was so beautiful. Even when she was a wreck, she looked so natural. Swaying to the innocence of loving pop cultural, pure. Then the song would end. She never looked at me in the seat, right next to her. And when she did, I could see how lost she was.
Where were things going?
Would I see daddy, I mean Zach, again?
What is suicide and why is Mommy always talking about it?
When we reached Florida it was a new beginning from the time we crossed the border and saw the large green welcoming sign. I knew life would change.
We pulled up to a two story yellow house on the water. My red headed grandmother was on the porch holding a martini glass, her bright red lipstick snagged on one tooth. Her legs were crossed as she laid in the green pool chair. She caught a glimpse of my mom from the corner of her eye; then me, then Questin.
We all giggled.
She flew out of her chair, down the stairs, and spilled bits of the drink from side to side out of the glass.
She looked like Diesel when Mom cooks Questin and I bacon for breakfast.
Mom slowly got out of her car and rose. She opened her arms and caught Grandma’s tackle.
My grandmother was dating a man named Ed. He was tall with a beer belly and a buzz cut. He always wore a cliche beach patterned shirt. Palms tree’s printed on the front, buttons half wat up. He was the kind of man to never chew with his mouth shut and would sip the rim of a coke can until the last drop was planted in the bottom of his stomach. His house was the only thing keeping a roof over our heads. His large yellow house fell on the water’s beaches. We were stuck with him, the house, and grandma; until we met Jeff, Ed’s son. He was the deregulation to my new beginning and because of him, my mother became something she’s not, a sight I’d never seen before.
Bleached Hair.
Purple eyelids.
Her house clothes had cleavage.
Never sober.
She came home night after night with Jeff. Slowly catching the steps in front of her. Swaying. Mumbling loud roars. Leaving Questin in tears and smeared lipstick on whatever pillow caught her face. Soon waking up exposed. With a headache and no breakfast.
Questin and I would sit waiting for toast, I would rock Q to peace. She’d come out around noon, walk past our television to get water and then make her way back to her hole.
We missed daddy.
This behavior continued for the next three years with different men, constantly packing clothing into Louis Vuitton suitcases and listening to the harsh final words the old tool would have before we hopped into the pale interior Mercedes again. We would drive off to find another roof and wallet to use. Some nights we were in the car, some nights in hotels, others at What’s-His-Name's house.





Safe

I soon decided daddy wasn’t coming for the rescue and mom told me he developed a new habit. She answered my first question. I knew where things were going.
Down.
That year Zach came to Florida to sign custody papers over to my mom. It had been three years since I’d seen him. He was scary looking. He had no teeth, his fingernails were yellow and his nose rim burnt. Black grub was hidden in his fingernails and his eyes were stained red.
He made me nervous.
Unfamiliar.
Confused.
He wasn’t daddy or Zach anymore, he was simply a man that needed some change and shelter. His voice laced my thoughts for days; rough and solo.
“ I’m gonna getcha damn mother back Elizabeth.. I mean, um, I forgot your name.”
I nodded my head.
Did I want them to get back together? I had a feeling in this case two negatives would be far from making a positive. His burned brain cells and her ruined blatter would never lead to success.

“I won’t give up on you baby, I won’t. I will never stop trying to be apart of your life!”
“Okay... Zach”
A part of me was terrified to grave his body for a hug. Scared maybe of a spider crawling out of his brown overcoat or maybe scared of the black grub leaking from his finger nails and into my hair or on my bathed skin. Earlier that night the bug judge gave Zach permission to take Questin and I out to dinner. We ate dinosaur chicken tenders at a restaurant named “Maddison’s.” We ate there because we shared the same name and Zach said thats why it was special. I found out later that night that it was only special because one of the waitresses was a bit more interesting for my dad. On our way out I watched him kiss her goodbye and whisper something in her year.
“She kind of looked like mom” I coughed out as we walked out the doors.
“Yea, mhmm”
“Is that why you kissed her daddy” Q announced when we reached out cab
“ No son, sometimes you just aren’t to sure why you do things”
Years when on, after that night I never received a phone call or a visit again from my father. He had slowly and quietly disappeared. He escaped my life and left a small crack on his way out. My mother progressively got worse. I learned to be Mom to Questin and be Doctor for her. I became immune to her psychotic actions.

Immune and sick.
Tired of dirty laundry, no lunch, and having to make her coffee so she could get out of bed just to feed Questin. Each morning she would cry and claw the white bed sheets. Screaming her mistakes loud enough for the neighbors to hear. She would apologize for her life, wish she was dead. Clarifying my fuzziness on the word Suicide. I would hold my brother's ears and we would sit on my closet floor and wait for her to fall back asleep so the house could return to its sollum atmosphere.

emptiness.

hazard.

Sorrow.
Escape


I needed to leave. I needed to getaway. I needed to turn and run and never look back. My only escape was boarding school and that was exactly the route I took. I researched campuses for days. Consistently clicking and highlighting the links. I realized my mom’s suspicion at my odd hours and my constant sneaking into the computer room. When she realized my plan she wasn’t angry, if anything sad and disappointed. She finally noticed she was the monster that I had been afraid of in the dark. She was the spatula that spanked me. She was the empty bowl that teased my hunger. She knew it was time for a change. We clicked on links for weeks. We finally found a small military academy in Florida. It was 45 mins away from our temporary home.

The Academy would become my home for the next 6 years, I learned that my school's walls were only so tall. The haunting ooze from home would still find a way to cram through the cracks and stick itself on my mind. But, only one last time. I had everything I needed there. A person to talk to was always around the corner. Every teacher was there to hear you speak and none of them had problems to overwhelm you with. I no longer had to see my mom weep mascara or drink. I was finally in the heaven I had dreamed of.

My first year was the only year I thought going home was an obligation. I came home to Sarasota, Florida every weekend and return to my damaged childhood. For three years until my 8th grade year I witnessed my mother leave the house every weekend as me and my brother stayed at home on Jefferson Avenue, the part of town my friend’s family called, not safe. A young girl lived down the street from me named Serenity. Questin, she, and I always stayed out until it was too dark for one of us or Serenity’s grandma was uncomfortable with her being out and about. Then, Questin and I would stay home and wait for mom to walk through the door so both of us could grab an arm and quietly walk her across the type rope of tile; down into her bedroom.

She had met a new man by then as well. His name was Mikey. He was a major undertaker in the deep hate I developed for my mother’s lovers. A very vivid conversation of the pro’s and con’s behind drugs was held on a drive to dinner one evening. He took the drugs-are- okay -side-and-children-are-immature-and-brainwashed-to-think-all-drugs-are-bad-argument. My mother sat in the front seat yelling at him to stop speaking.
“ Their lives were ripped apart by drugs Mikey! Shut up! Its a touchy subject for them,” My mother would jump in.
“ I don’t give a.... Chelle.”
The car became silent. Questin and I had heard the F word from my mother but never from someone that used it with such force. He made it sound as if a policeman should arrest him right then and there. Questin’s mouth stayed open. Tears began to leak from his eyes. My mother turned around to mouth the words I'm sorry, while Mikey continued to drive the car forward with nothing but a stubborn look swallowing his face. That evening, we were told, was the last time we would see him. But, we knew better. My mother was in love. The first time since my abusive father. The first time I had seen her smile in a long, long time. She started staying home more often but Mikey would sneak over the back gate and crawl in bed with her. We could always hear them speaking through our walls. Once they talked of getting rid of my brother and I. They came up with a fantasy plan that would just drop me off at my grandmother’s house and never come back. It scared me. I quietly cried so they couldn’t hear. The thought of somebody stealing my mother away from me. Then the talk was disrupted by my mothers voice.
“What’s that, what the hell Mikey is that. Is that an ankle bracelet Mikey? Are you on house arrest Mikey!!?” My mother shook her voice.
“Babe, calm down” He argued.
“No, get out of my house now!” She battled back.
The next noise you heard was the slam of my front door. I never saw Mikey again.
Her smile faded again.
More wine.

Soon Vodka.

Then bed.

I still lie in bed and think about her murmured voice telling Fabrice she would give up one me. It still scares me. I race through thoughts of not having her and where I would be, everything starts to speed up and tears form in the rim of my eyelids. The idea of her being so miserable she would just leave me make the tears fall. Then the picture of her walking out the door form a small gasp in-between tears.
Every Sunday Mom would pile me and Q in the car and we would make a 45 minute drive up to the dorms and drop me off for another week of learning and peace. This all repeated itself until my mother moved to Huntington Beach, California because she became very ill with cancer. We needed my “grandfather’’ to supply us with cash and a hospital room so she could get healthy again. I stayed in St. Petersburg, Florida. It was official my disease had moved west and far enough away to stop squeezing my mother’s troubled grimy fingers in through the school's halls.

It was time for me to focus. My freshman year became more eventful as days went on. I thought all my worries had finally dropped of the cliff off thought. Until my mother met Fabrice. They had been dating for a solid two weeks when my mother decided it was time to stop living off of daddy and pick up and move once more. So she made her bright and shiny new beginning in the doorway of Fabrice’s two story condominium. Mom found work near her new shelter and began to cut hair for a small, two-chaired styling salon. She hated it!

Short hours.

Barely a pay.

Broke.

She came home every night late and still made dinner for Fabrice and Questin. Never catching sleep or even an ounce of food due to the little she could make with such a low salary.

“Babe, I’m getting paid fourteen hundred every month after Tuesday,” Fab would scream up the stairs while as my mother prepared her bath.

“Yay, honey!” She would yell back with a unconvinced attitude.

One evening I sat my school's warm halls listening to a math professor flourish our Geometry Honors class with proofs when my phone rang. It was Mom. The one person I had managed to escape was calling me during the academic day. I knew it wasn’t going to be good. I picked up my black notebook out of my hands and placed it on the grey desk in front of me. I stood up and walked out the back door, taking a deep breathe to prepare myself for whatever news she was going to give me.

“Hello?”

“We need to talk; I need to ask you something very important!”

“Okay” I said scared of giving her permission to move on.

“Fabrice has come up with a promotion that will benefit everything we need in life. You will no longer need to feel guilty for eating dessert, or for having too much laundry for the machines, You will no longer be scared to ask me for field trip money or new uniforms. But, this job requires a move and I know I have moved you quite a few times growing up but this is nothing like a Vegas or Florida detour this is something very new.”

“Mhmmm.”

“We are moving to Guatemala”

“Guacamole?”

“ No hun, Guatemala its in North America just below Honduras you will love it!”

“Ummm okay.”

I hung up the phone and stared at the open baseball field in front of me. I was stunned. My mother had finally lost her mind. But there was nothing I could do. I was stranded on a island and I couldn’t even ask for a ride back to shore. I was soon to be a residential Guatamalian.
We moved.

Life was in a quick spiral from there.

No Longer Growing From My Own Soil


That summer I went home to Guatemala. It was the worst summer of my life. I discovered a whole new level of depressing sadness. I witnessed the one thing I thought I would never feel. I felt Alone. We left the house maybe once a week. Fab left every morning to go to work and left us stranded in a unfurnished house with nothing but two channels in Spanish on one TV. I had nothing to do all day, everyday. My mother and I, in a two bedroom house, was not a good combination. It created disaster. Her drinking became worse. She was now a drunk. She became meaner and less happy. Fab would come home around eight everyday and mom would have dinner prepared for him on the counter. Then they would leave and take a walk around our neighborhood. Questin and I had to stay behind. The people in our building had never attempted to speak English and there were no kids. My brother and I became sick with each other until Mom would have an Episode and we would have to come together to shield her dark words. Every evening after the “Walk” she would come home wasted.

“Where are ya. Get out in front of me and look at me right now”

I would slowly open my door.

“Yea, that’s right I see you.”

“Yea mama. “

“Don't you yea mama my ass. You don’t even like me. You get to go home to your perfect little life in Florida while I get to sit here and rot in this crummy place. You spoiled brat.”

I would shut my door thinking I could shield her harsh words.

“Get back outta here right now!”

I didn't move.

My bedroom door swung open.
“What, am I hurting your feelings? Is the truth finally getting to you? Does it bother you that I pointed out you get everything you’ve ever wanted. Does that make you want to cry? The fact that you're abandoning your own mother and leaving your brother in the dust.”

Tears leaked. I was weak.

“Mom get out! It’s okay! Don’t cry.” My brother would protest.

Fab would come in after her and grab her arms.

“It’s time for bed Chelle”

I could hear her through the doors. Talking of how guilty I should feel. How much of a mistake I was. The low voices still stung.

The next morning she wouldn’t even remember that she scared me the night before.
Nights went on like this for a terrible time of two months; until school started up again and I took the guilty walk onto my plane replaying the words of my disappointed mother. The walk to feel it again. A little ball of misery was forming in the depths of my thought.
It only took a moment.
I could see the little ball of misery lying on the carpeted floor in front of me.
I’m still alone.
When I arrived at school that evening I put my face in my white feathered pillow and released every feeling that was bottled up, on top of my pillow case. It came out in salty hail like tears and mascara. I would scream quietly against my pillow, my face bloomed red. Hair stuck to my dry tears. .

I sat straight up and circled the open room with my eyes.

Get it together.

I picked up a pen that was on my brown would dress next to me, grabbed the notebook lying next to it, and remember my assignments for the next school day. Here I am now. Slowly printing my story on paper, leaning towards the scary thought of my experiences being public . All I hear is the pitter patter of the keyboard and my timeline running through my fingers. Putting it on paper is relaxing. With every breathe I take in a little more calmness. I have the presets of my pen and the comfort of its ink, the walls surrounding me, and my pillow case. With so little, I feel so whole.

Finally.

Not alone.

Present

I know what you're thinking. You're sorry for me, or wishing for me to stay strong. But, I'm not asking for sympathy or encouragement to move on; because these experiences have brought me to the footsteps I make today. I remain at boarding school, this being my fifth year of escaping my battle field in Sarasota, Florida where my mother finally planted her seeds, until another man comes along. I now have the courage to fight back. In a way she is my guidance, doing a mother’s job, she is an outline of everything I wish not to be. I have seen her mistakes and heard her tales and know not to repeat them. Without her I wouldn’t be sitting at a computer sharing a story unlike any others. I wouldn’t have gained the responsibility I now obtain. She remains blocked from my life, put on hold on my phone bill, and I see her maybe twice a year. I call school home and teachers family, but I will never forget she is the reason I am typing my keys. All it took was a couple late nights and a Guatemala outburst for me to learn my lesson, that separation is sometimes for the best.

As for Zach, I see him every once and awhile. He is in and out of behind cold metal bars. He continued with an addiction for eight years after my mother, Questin, Diesel, and I hopped into the tan leather seats of her Mercedes. He has a new daughter with the women he cheated on my mother with. Her name is Maddison Abigail Gudgel. We call her Abi she is the fresh start for my dad. A chance to never see a father's day card left on a high chair saying good-bye. The chance to never picture us packing the car up with everything he had ever loved. Abi is his new second chance at making things right and I’m happy for him. My brother and I became closer as the years went on. He started to understand the pain I suffered through and witnessed it for himself.

Then began with the first mile without him. That mile shaped the rest of my life. I am who I am because the wheels on that car drove me thousands of miles into Florida’s deep situations that I dealt with. I learned that happiness is never at the bottom of a wine glass. That pillows aren’t used for drunk drool and that after you make a mistake it is your choice to learn from it. Through the harsh words and long mornings of desperation, and the nights I stayed awake wondering if my mother would wake up the next morning it all, from the times I was scared my brother would never escape and turn out like zach; I have grown from these dark thoughts. So, think of them as beneficial not heart wrenching or depressing experiences, no need to feel sympathetic.

This is who I am.
No longer confused.
And finally familiar.