Broken (17 page)

August 1969

July melted into August. Russia launched the spacecraft Zond 7. It circled the moon and took colored pictures. Thousands of Americans demonstrated against the war in Vietnam. Church attendance was at an all-time low and the steel valley lay in a pit of unemployment.

Anna Mae worked full time at The Pizza Parlor and a few hours a week, helping Angelo’s mother care for Irene and Dobie Siminoski. Towards the end of the month, on a hot, humid afternoon, Angelo dropped Anna Mae off at the Siminoski’s then went home to help his father with yard work. Anna Mae walked around to the back of the house, pushed open the ragged screen door and walked into the old fashion kitchen with its dented porcelain sink and worn yellow linoleum. Despite her cutoff jeans and tank top, Anna Mae could feel sweat trickle down her back.

Marie Tamero, holding a dust rag and a bottle of Pledge, walked into the kitchen. A single thick black braid hung down Maria’s back. Her pretty face was etched with fine lines. But it was her eyes that Anna Mae always noticed first—large, dark, doe-like, and radiating kindness.

Without even saying hello, Maria gasped, “Mother of God! What did you do to your hair?”

Anna Mae ran her fingers through the short, uneven strands. On the right side, a big chunk was missing. “I cut it!”

“Why?”

Avoiding Maria’s astonished stare, Anna Mae went to the table and began taking canned vegetables out of a brown grocery bag, then juggling an armful, she walked toward the cupboard, saying, “I guess I went a little nuts. How’s Irene today?”

“Not much better. Why did you do that to your hair?”

At the far corner of the kitchen, Anna Mae opened the rusted metal cupboard and began arranging the cans on the bottom shelf.

“Did Angelo take you to Pittsburgh this morning?”

Anna Mae nodded, walked back to the table and picked up a box of rice. A picture of her mother flashed in her mind and the pain was almost physical. She stood motionless, holding the rice, fighting her tears.

“Sit down!” said Maria, more maternal than demanding. “This is the first time you actually saw your mother, isn’t it?”

Anna Mae reached into another bag, but Maria put a firm hand on her arm. “Stop with the groceries!”

Anna Mae put the rice back on the table and sat down on a wobbly kitchen chair.

Maria sat beside her. “Tell me what happened.”

“What about Irene?” asked Anna Mae.

“She’s sleeping. She has her bell. She’ll ring if she needs us. Now tell me.”

Anna Mae traced a circle through the crumbs on the table. She felt Maria staring at the place where the chunk of hair had been lopped off. Next week she would talk to Dr. Rhukov about why she had done such a stupid thing. Today she had to live with it. She recalled gathering the golden strands from her bedroom floor, putting them into the wastebasket, and Angelo’s reaction when she joined him on the porch. Once he had gotten over the shock, he said it looked cute. He was trying to be kind. He was lying.

Maria’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Do you want something cold to drink?”

“We got there about eleven,” said Anna Mae, as though she had not heard the offer. “My mother lives in a really bad section of town. Her place is on the first floor. I don’t think anyone lives upstairs. The houses are old and rundown. The one next door is condemned.”

She could still see the squalor—the old newspapers piled on the couch, the stale smell of beer from the empty cans on the coffee table, the stench of rotting food in the kitchen.

“Was she glad to see you?” asked Maria.

“She was embarrassed about the house,” said Anna Mae. “She started to run around picking things up. Angelo told her to sit down.”

“He went in with you?”

“I asked him to.”

“And?”

“She’s only thirty-two. She looks fifty.”

“You didn’t tell her you were coming?”

“No,” said Anna Mae. “Every time I called to ask if I could visit, she just kept putting me off. So I went anyway. She’s not married. She has a little girl, Missy, about a year old.”

Anna Mae didn’t mention her mother’s dirty blond hair and grease spotted blouse. She didn’t tell Maria that her mother reeked of body odor and alcohol. Maria’s brown eyes filled with compassion and Anna Mae knew that Maria knew there was more than what she was telling her.

“The baby was dirty and her diaper needed changed. I offered to do it, but Becky said no.”

“You call her Becky?”

“Now I do.”

“Why did you cut your hair?”

“When we got back from Pittsburgh I asked Angelo to take me home so I could change before we came over here. I don’t know what got into me. I just grabbed the scissors and started cutting. Look at it,” she said, pulling at the uneven ends.

Maria stood up and ran her fingers through Anna Mae’s hair to check the damage. “It can be fixed. A little styling and it’ll be fine.”

The bell rang in the upstairs bedroom. Anna Mae said she would go. To get upstairs, she had to walk through the living room. It smelled of furniture polish and pipe tobacco. A single lamp in the corner cast a circle of light, leaving the room in semi-darkness except for the flickering of a twelve-inch black and white television. Dobie Siminoski sat in his easy chair in front of the television with his back to the stairway.

“Young lady,” he said without turning around, “what’s all the fuss about your hair?”

“I cut it, sir.”

“Come over here. I want to see it.”

Anna Mae walked across the room and stood by the side of the television. The right side of Mr. Siminoski’s face was a mass of scar tissue reaching beyond where his hairline once was. His left ear consisted of a dab of flesh and his left eye, nearly blind, sagged into his cheekbone. When he looked up at Anna Mae, she didn’t recoil. She was accustomed to the horrible disfigurement that had turned the former steelworker into a recluse. Anna Mae saw beyond the scars to find a thoughtful and kind old man.

He studied her for a moment. “It’s nice! You look like a little girl.”

She lowered her head, shaking it. “It’s all crooked.”

“Beauty is beauty,” he said, waving a hand where the fingers were fused together, then quickly shoved his hand between the cushions of his chair. The bell upstairs rang again. “You better go see what that old biddy wants. Tell her to come down here. I need some company.”

“I will,” said Anna Mae and hurried up the steps.

Irene Siminoski was propped in her hospital bed. Her deep auburn hair flared out over the snow-white pillow. She wasn’t a particularly pretty woman, her nose a bit too big and her eyes too close together. But people were drawn to her easy-going nature. Now in her early fifties, she was too young to be suffering with serious heart problems. Anna Mae admired how Irene had continued to take great care with her grooming despite her sunken eyes and sallow skin.

When Anna Mae entered the room, Irene’s jaw dropped. However, before she could say anything, Anna Mae blurted out, “I cut it!”

Irene adjusted the nasal cannula that brought a constant supply of pure oxygen into her lungs. “Well, you could have been a little more careful.”

“I was angry,” explained Anna Mae. “I’ll go to the beauty shop tomorrow and have it straightened out.”

As Anna Mae helped her out of bed and to the bathroom, Irene chattered on about how many different hairstyles she had worn in her life.

Ten minutes later, she helped Irene back into bed. Anna Mae then said, “Mr. Siminoski would like you to come downstairs.”

Irene reattached the oxygen line and adjusted herself against the pillows. “I’ll go down later. Right now, I want to talk to you.”

Anna Mae looked around for a place to sit. In the corner of the room was an overstuffed chair whose back and arms were draped with pieces of complex embroidery yellowed by the years. She sat down and waited.

“How long has Walter been in jail now?” Irene asked bluntly.

Anna Mae thought for a moment. “One year and one month.”

“When’s he getting out?”

“He won’t have a parole hearing until a year from this October.”

“Are you worried?”

“I try not to think about it.”

“If it were up to me he’d never get out. They could gas him for all I care.”

Anna Mae knew that Irene was a bit of a spitfire, yet she was surprised at how vengeful the sick woman’s voice had become.

“I didn’t know you knew my uncle.”

“Oh, I know him all right! Walter is the most rotten, despicable, treacherous bastard that ever walked the earth.”

Anna Mae became concerned about what all this anger could do to Irene’s weakened heart.

“Please don’t get upset,” Anna Mae said getting up and going over to the bed. “Walter can’t hurt anybody now. Can I bring you a dish of Jello?” she asked in a feeble attempt to change the subject.

“What a darling girl you are,” said Irene, patting Anna Mae’s hand. “Why don’t you just help me downstairs and Dobie and I can have a snack together.”

March 1970

Mrs. Reynolds, senior class history teacher, had a knack for calling on students who didn’t know the answer. She also had a reputation for belittling remarks that reduced some students to tears. In a shrill, no nonsense voice, she addressed her class: “The Confederacy opened fire on a Union stronghold on April 12, 1861. Where did that battle take place?”

At the back of the classroom, Anna Mae, who hadn’t studied, leaned behind the boy in front of her where Mrs. Reynolds couldn’t see her. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt.

Three nights a week at the Pizza Parlor and Saturday at the Siminoski’s was enough work for any high school senior. Add to that, the workload she carried at home because Sarah cleaned other people’s houses and not her own. Anna Mae hadn’t the time or the energy, nor the incentive to keep up with her studies. And today she was completely exhausted.

“April 12, 1861—where did the Confederate army attack the Union forces? Does anyone know the answer?” Mrs. Reynolds’s critical gaze scanned the classroom as she paced in front of the blackboard.

Anna Mae felt dizzy. Her heart began to palpitate. Suddenly, she was consumed by a fear, all out of proportion to her mere inability to answer a history question.

“Debbie Henderson, where did that battle take place?”

“Antietam,” Debbie responded.

“Wrong! You should spend more time studying and less time flirting with the boys.”

The teacher’s tone of voice hurled a sting of harsh criticism, and Anna Mae thought she might be next. Fear gripped ice-cold in her veins, and overwhelmed her with a sense of immediate danger. It took all her strength to suppress the irrational terror that told her to get up and run.

She glanced around the room. The other students were all sitting at attention. Clearly, they didn’t feel what she was feeling—an overpowering foreboding—that something was dreadfully wrong.

Mrs. Reynolds held up the history book, her sarcastic words incoherent as sweat dampened Anna Mae’s under-arms and ran down her back. She lowered her head, trying to hide within herself—within the hysteria. Seconds ticked on. She lost all sense of time. For an alarming moment, she thought she was dying.

Then she remembered. She could almost hear Dr. Rhukov’s comforting Russian accent: ‘The fear is illogical. It feels like you will die, yes? In your mind, the chemicals get mixed up. They make a panic attack. You must tell yourself: This is not real. There is nothing to fear. And you must always come back to the breathing.’

Anna Mae willed herself to inhale deeply. Then exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.
It’s not real. There’s nothing to fear. I’m not dying. I’m having a panic attack.
Her breathing slowly came back to normal.

From far away, sharp and insistent: “Anna Mae! Are you paying attention? Where did the Confederacy open fire?”

A boy next to her spoke up. “Fort Sumter.”

“Did I ask you?” snapped Mrs. Reynolds. “Anna Mae, answer the question!”

With the terror now slipping away, Anna Mae looked to her left. Was anybody aware of what just happened? She looked to the right. Did it show?

Mrs. Reynolds was tapping a ruler on her desk. “Anna Mae McBride! If you don’t start paying attention you will not be graduating.”

*     *     *

On Saturday morning, Anna Mae told Maria Tamero she would not be able to help at the Siminoskis. She then took two busses to Oakland. Dr. Rhukov finished sorting his papers and placed them in a neat pile at the side of his desk. Anna Mae looked into the intense brown eyes behind the rimless bifocals. “It was the same thing, Dr. Rhukov.”

“Another panic attack?” 

She nodded. “Why am I having these now? I never had them before.”

Dr. Rhukov placed the papers in a drawer, took a Kleenex from the box by the Tiffany lamp and wiped his glasses. “I think it has to do with meeting your mother,” he said, returning the glasses to his nose. “Before you met her, you had hope for a better future, did you not?”

“What does that have to do with panic attacks?”

“Think about it. Think how meeting your mother has changed your life.”

Anna Mae recalled last summer—the first time she met her mother, the first disappointment in a long succession of disappointments.

The Doctor was right. It had changed her. It had been a turning point; a circle completed that left the naiveté of her childhood behind. But what had that to do with the panic attacks? She looked at the doctor. “I don’t get it.” 

“Listen closely,” he said. “All your life you imagined your mother to be a fairy godmother. Yes? You convinced yourself that when you found her, she would make everything better. But now you know that’s not going to happen.”

The doctor waited for Anna Mae to respond, but she just sat there, looking at him.

“Someday we will uncover the abuse that has caused your basic instability. Psychic damage as severe as you suffer will not just go away. It’s still there,” he said tapping his head. “It’s tucked into your deepest memory. And it’s festering—it is the basis of all the problems: the mood swings, the panic attacks, the lost time.”

“But since Walter went to jail, I haven’t had a blackout. Whatever abuse there was, I should be over it. Shouldn’t I?”

“No. You know that. As long as you had hope for the future—a belief that finding your mother was the answer to all your problems, the damage stayed put. However, now, as you say in America, ‘there is no light bulb at the end of the tunnel.’ I believe this has created subconscious havoc. And that havoc is emerging as panic attacks. Makes sense, yes?”

Anna Mae tried to think back to the time when she still lived with the illusion that her mother was going to rescue her. What the doctor said made sense. But it didn’t solve the problem. She ran her fingers through the uneven hair that she had chopped when she was upset about her mother. It was now at the awful stage of being too short to tie back and too long to manage easily.

Dr. Rhukov asked, “Would you like to explore the theory?”

“The theory that if you cut your hair when you’re angry it will grow back a mess?”

“Now don’t try to jest your way out of this,” he said, his lively brown eyes sparkling. “Answer my question. Would you like to talk about your mother and the effect she is having on your life?”

“No. Not now,” said Anna Mae, then added, “My mother’s going to Alcoholics Anonymous. I think she’s slipping. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. We won’t talk about it.”

“Did I tell you I asked her about my father?”

“No. When was that?”

“Last week. She told me some hair-brain story about a rock star who found her irresistible one night and then left town the next day. She didn’t know his real name and she has no idea where he is now. Sarah said my mother had never been anywhere near a rock concert.”

“Who do you believe? Your mother or your Aunt Sarah?”

“Aunt Sarah.”

The doctor nodded and leaned forward on his elbows. “What about depression? Has that given you any problems lately?”

Anna Mae gazed beyond him to the big window. Charcoal clouds rolled across the April sky. She should have listened to Sarah and brought her umbrella.

“Don’t drift away, young lady,” the doctor said. “Talk to me about mood swings. How has that been since I last saw you?”

“On Monday and Tuesday I was totally depressed,” she replied. “And then I got up on Wednesday and everything was okay. I felt great.” She thought about that for a moment then said, “Angelo called. He’s upset because I don’t want to see him all the time. It’s not that I don’t care for him. It’s just that my senior year is a lot of pressure. Then there’s the pizza parlor and helping Maria. She’s trying to get Irene to get rid of some of her junk. Irene saves everything, every last scrap of paper. What can I do about the panic attacks, Dr. Rhukov?”

“You said the Librium makes you too lethargic. We could try a smaller dose,” he said, opening a desk drawer to get some samples, “or another medication. Equanil sometimes helps.”

“I don’t want to take any more drugs.” 

“I’m reasonably sure,” he said closing the drawer, “that the abuse started when you were a small child. To have established itself so deeply, something had to have happened when you were very, very young—under two years of age. You can’t remember that far back. You remember when you were seven, maybe eight. If the abuse had started when you were eight years of age, most likely we would have broken through by now. However, this damage is so deep, so very hidden. Eventually we must reach it. Otherwise the depression, the panic attacks—I doubt very seriously if they will go away.”

Anna Mae examined her pink fingernails then folded her hands in her lap. The doctor leaned forward on his elbows. “I think we need to attempt something more extreme to get at those memories.”

With the toe of her right shoe, Anna Mae traced the intricate designs in the oriental carpet. Then she tucked both feet beneath her chair and looked at the doctor. “Extreme? What do you mean by extreme?”

“We could try sodium amytal. It is better known as the ‘truth serum.’ It will reduce your resistance...”

“Right now?” Anna Mae asked with enthusiasm.

Dr. Rhukov smiled. “My, you’re eager. But no. Under the circumstances, with the severity of your problem, we must be in a controlled environment. Somewhere if your reaction is too upsetting, there will be help available.”

“The hospital?”

He nodded.

“A mental hospital?”

“Yes. You will be graduating in a few months. You will have time. And don’t worry about the cost.”

“Dr. Rhukov,” she said firmly, “I’m not going into any mental hospital. I’m not crazy!” She paused for a moment, then added, “Am I?”

“No, no, no! I tell you again and again. You are not crazy. And you must stop using the word ‘crazy.’ I don’t like that word.”

“Am I mentally ill?”

“That depends on what you mean by mentally ill,” he said.

“You’re the shrink,” she said. “What do you say it means?”

“Most mental problems are caused by chemical imbalance in the brain. The question is, did the imbalance cause the condition? Or did the condition cause the imbalance? In your case, I am convinced the condition—the abuse, caused the imbalance. If it were the other way around, I might be able to give you a drug to even it out—to make it normal.

“I have told you many times before, the blackouts, the panic attacks, the mood swings are the result of both physical and psychic trauma. This is essentially the same thing that happens to some of our soldiers coming back from Vietnam. Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome is what they call it.”

“Is that what you call it?”

“No. I call the blackouts, Traumatic Amnesia.”

Anna Mae sat silent, thinking. Finally, she said, “I think I understand. But what can I do about it?”

“Just what we’re doing,” he replied. “It is not an easy process. Sometimes drugs help. Sometimes not. I believe we must get you to remember what has happened to you. And that will take as long as it takes.”

Suddenly a roll of thunder rattled the windows. Lightning crackled and the Tiffany lamp flickered. Doctor Rhukov reached into his pocket for his wallet, then held out a twenty-dollar bill. “You take a Taxi Cab. It’s going to be a big storm.”