Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (9 page)

That strategy didn't last long. Not because I had tons of new friends or was won over by this new town they called home. It was because my parents began fighting, and they were fighting about
me.
“Discussing” is what they called it, but fighting is what it was. Loud disagreements followed by tension-filled silences were becoming the norm.

Believe me, my parents needed to work on their marriage. They had separated and come back together so many times that I classified my birthday pictures as “they were separated that year,” or “that's the year they were trying to work it out again.”

I guess I was just tired of trying to guess if a slammed door meant my father was out of our lives again or just going for a walk to let off steam. Or if my mother's smile was a happy one or the forced one she used to reassure me that “we'll be just fine without your father.”

It was bad enough that they kept splitting up. But I couldn't handle being the reason for this dreaded occurrence. So I cleaned myself up, worked hard in my classes and began to meet friends. Things at home mellowed out, but I was afraid to think or feel anything that might cause so much as a ripple. It was my turn to be the keeper of the peace.

Things seemed to be getting back to “fine,” until one night the front door slammed and my mother's morning smile was the “we'll-be-just-fine-without-him” one. I had been the best I could be, and it hadn't been enough.

At night, I crawled into bed exhausted with nothing to fill me, nothing to renew me for the next day. The hollow me crumbled in on itself.

Then I met the little girl next door.

I was alone on the front porch steps, trying to work up the energy just to go inside. The rhythm of her jump rope clacking on the sidewalk as she counted out her skips had a calming effect on me. Her hair was fanned out behind her and shining in the setting sun.

“Forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty,” she counted, half out of breath. How simple she made it all seem.

“Sixty-three, sixty-four . . . oh, no!” She looked over at me, distressed. “Look, the handle came off! Can I call a doover? I was skipping my best ever. The miss shouldn't count. It wasn't my fault it broke.”

I knew exactly how she felt. I was doing my best when my parents' marriage broke.

She plopped herself on the step next to me. “So, what do you think? Do I get a do-over?”

She was so serious. I wanted her to know that I understood the weight of her question, but I just couldn't hold back the smile that had welled up from within me. She looked up, waiting for my answer.

“Well, I know you didn't step on the rope and make the handle pull out because I was watching you.” She gave a serious nod. “And it isn't as if your shoe came off because you didn't tie it tightly enough.” She studied her shoes and nodded again.

“So, given all the circumstances, I do believe that you're entitled to a do-over.”

“Me, too,” she said, dropping the handle and rope into my lap. “You fix the handle, and I'll let you keep count for me. I stopped at sixty-four, and I bet I can skip over a hundred and that's my highest good counting number.”

So I fixed her rope and counted her do-over up to one hundred and twelve.

“One hundred and twelve!” She gave me a high-five. “That's higher than Amy at school, and she's a grade ahead of me!”

That is when the miracle happened. It was a little thing, heartfelt and easily given. Then she hugged me! The warmth of her hug made my heart smile and, just like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, I understood.

“Meet me tomorrow,” she said, completely unaware of all she had just given me.

My parents did get a divorce, and it was very painful. But it wasn't me who caused it, and there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. With my new understanding that came from the innocence of a little girl, I too had earned a do-over.

Carrie Hill
As told to Cynthia Hamond

Table for Three

I'm awakened by the sound of voices arguing in the garage. Rolling over, I squint my eyes at the alarm clock, realizing it's only five in the morning. I recognize the two voices as my mom and dad's. I hear my father's voice rising as my mom's darts around in hysteria. I'm familiar with this sickening duet, only just not at this early hour.

I recall a conversation I had with my dad and realize its implications are just now taking effect. Last week over fries at McDonald's, he shared a secret with me that would forever change my life. He began by asking if I was happy with the way things were at home. I knew he was referring to the tension that existed between him and my mom. It's not that I was happy with the way things were, but I was frightened by the thought of divorce. It's sort of like hanging on to an iceberg.

Divorce is rampant among my friends' parents, and although I knew that it was inevitable that we three would soon join the group, this was one club I did not want to be a member of.

Then out of nowhere, he was sharing this loaded “secret” with me—a secret I never wanted to hear. He was telling me that he'd be leaving my mother next week, all the while assuring me that he'd always be there for me. I found myself nodding my head as if I understood, when all along I really didn't. He told me they hadn't been happy for a very long time, and I'm thinking,
If you're both
not happy, why the big secret? Why isn't Mom here sharing this
awful moment?

He hugged me in an awkward kind of bear hug, and I got all stiff to his touch. Scratching his nose, he informed me that he wasn't ready to tell my mom he was leaving just yet. I asked him
when
he was going to tell her, and he closed his eyes while sighing, “When the moment's right.”

So for two weeks now, I have stared into my mom's eyes, while never revealing the secret. I am betraying her just like my dad is. I try to convince myself that the conversation at McDonald's never really happened at all.

Now, as I lie in bed listening to my mom's muffled cries, I realize that the moment has arrived. Although my mom and I have not always seen eye-to-eye on a lot of things, such as dating, driving, school, friends, life . . . right now my stomach is aching for her. Each of her sobs shoots through me like a dart piercing my chest. The agony is so great that I finally understand what a broken heart must feel like.

I shuffle out of bed and quietly make my way down the long hallway towards the garage from where the voices seem to be coming. Slowly, I open the door wide enough to see but not be seen.

The scene being played out by my parents makes me want to vomit. My mom is holding on to the bottom of my dad's leather jacket. She is straining to hold him back, so that he won't leave her. This is not the proud woman who once refused to accept my grandmother's financial help back when my dad first lost his job. Her face is red, awash in tears, and her nose runs while she howls in pain. She has no pride; he is taking it with him.

He grabs his coat from her and pushes her back with one hand. He tells her it's over. “. . . It's been over for a very long time, and we both know it.”

She howls again, and through her wailing I hear her moaning, “No, no, no, no,” like some strange hypnotic chant. And then suddenly her tone changes to one of anger as she screams,
“You were just going to sneak out in the
night . . . weren't you? . . . You're a child. . . . You have no backbone,
you coward. . . . I hate you, you pig!”
She's still not letting go of her grip on his jacket.

He pulls away from her, and she's left holding only his jacket in her hands. He kneels down, tossing his packed valise into the open door of our family van. Then he gets behind the wheel and, without another word, he backs up out of the driveway and out of our lives forever.

Now all that's left is the echo of her tortured cries. I'm not worried about the neighbors hearing what went on. They're used to the sound of my parents' war; each gave up their dignity a long time ago. We don't know what shame feels like anymore.

As my mom leans against the wall wailing in spasms of anguish, all I can think of is what I might have done to cause this. Was it because I talked back to my mother that time, when we were out having a nice family dinner? She got so angry with me, and I remember my dad told her not to lose her cool and that I was right. Her frozen glance across the table suggested that she did not at all like this friendly alliance my dad and I had formed. There was screaming and yelling and people were staring, but my parents didn't seem to care. Next thing I knew, my dad stormed out of the restaurant for the refuge of the car.

That was always the pattern: a knockdown fight followed by my dad retreating to some remote corner. My mother turned to me that night as we sat alone at our table for three and said, “Please don't destroy my marriage. I don't think I can live without him.”

I felt sorry for her now and wondered whether I was the driving wedge between my parents. I was always Daddy's little girl, and she was my rival for his affection. My mom described our relationship as black and white. If she said up, I said down; if she said fat, I said thin. It was not something I could stop myself from doing.

I pulled the door to the garage closed and headed back to my room. Once inside, I pressed my forehead against the cool windowpane, hoping his car would be coming back. Maybe it was all a bad dream and soon I'd wake up.

Then I felt her hand touch my shoulder. My rival, my sparring partner, took my head in her hands and turned it towards her. She wasn't crying anymore as she pressed my cheek to hers, yet I could still feel the wetness of her tears. There were no words spoken between us that morning. For once, we both felt the same thing. We were in agreement in our grief. And now we were left with one chair painfully empty at our table for three.

Isabel Philley
As told to C. S. Dweck

A Most Precious Gift

Divorce. The word alone sends chills down some people's backs, but not mine. It may sound unusual, but my parents' divorce was, in a way, the best thing that ever happened to our family. You see, I can hardly recollect what it was like for my parents to be married. It all seems like a very distant memory, like a story from another lifetime.

It was the New Year's Eve right after my sixth birthday when my father moved out. All I remember was being in my family room and receiving a good-bye hug from him. My brother, who was four, consoled my mom and me. My dad left us all crying miserably. I thought I was never going to see my beloved daddy again. But the following Monday night, there he was. And our weekly dinner ritual was born.

He came to pick my brother and me up for dinner every Monday and Thursday night. And every other weekend he would take us to his new apartment where we would spend the night. For some reason, I learned to love my new life. I knew that every week I couldn't make other plans on our dinner nights; it was our precious time to spend with our dad. I learned how to pack a bag for the weekend trips to the apartment, trying hard not to miss a thing. Over the years our dinner ritual had to work around dance, basketball, tennis, art classes and golf leagues. But it always came first.

Three years after my parents got divorced, when I was nine, my mother got remarried to Marty. He's wonderful and has been making me giggle ever since with his brilliant sense of humor. Adding another man to his children's lives may have angered some fathers, but not mine. My dad took our new stepfather out and befriended him.

With our new stepfather came an older stepbrother and an enormous extended family. Three years later, my dad finally found the love of his life, and my brother and I were blessed with a not-at-all-wicked stepmother, Suzi. Suzi's son and daughter quickly became part of the family as well.

Now that my mom and Marty have been married for over nine years and my dad and Suzi for six, it has become impossible for me to even imagine my parents married to each other. Over the years, when people have been introduced to all of my parents and observe their relationships with each other, they tell me that my family is a prime example of how life should be after a divorce.

When I meet new people and they find out that my parents are divorced, they always apologize and sympathize. But to me, my parents' divorce is not something to be sorry about. A divorce in itself is sad, an ending, but the outcome in our case has been great for all of us. For our birthdays we all go out to dinner, the six of us. My parents have remained friends, and my mom and Suzi have even golfed together.

I wouldn't change anything about my life. I have eight grandparents, four parents, four siblings, too many aunts and uncles to count, and an endless amount of cousins. Love and support surround me no matter what or whose FAMILY MATTERS 83 house I happen to be at. With the help of my family I have learned to cope during the hard times. But above all, I have learned that love is immeasurable and, when shared, the most precious gift of all.

Jessica Colman

Memories of My Mother

I
still miss those I loved who are no longer
with me but I find I am grateful for having
loved them. The gratitude has finally conquered
the loss.