The Source of All Things (17 page)

       a. Both Mr. Lee and Tracy will be clothed whenever moving about the house.

       b. Mr. Lee and Tracy will not spend any time together without another family member or adult present.

       c. Mr. Lee will not discuss the molest [sic] with Tracy other than in the company of the therapist.

       d. Mr. and Mrs. Lee shall continue in counseling and follow the recommendation of their counselor to insure the safety and well being of Tracy. Tracy Ross will participate in counseling as recommended by the therapist.

       e. That all other previous orders remain in effect until changed.

 

Looking back on the court order, which I found in a pile of papers at my parents' house twenty-five years later, it's hard to find any protective measures in it. Even then, I doubted that my dad had been “cured.” It didn't make sense; even I knew how hard it was to give up on a crush who didn't return my advances. My dad had gotten a lot of physical satisfaction out of me. Why would he stop if no one was right there, every second, preventing him from abusing me?

Dad and I unloaded my belongings and carried them into the house. We hauled my clothes, books, and a dozen shopping bags from the back of the Camry and up the front steps. I paused at the
door, thinking of Dad's suicide threat, my attempt to run away, and my mom's interrogation sessions. Dad must have seen the fear in my face, because he shot me a look so warm and reassuring I followed him inside.

Stepping into the dark, air-conditioned living room, I smelled recently shampooed carpets and surfaces polished with Endust. My parents had gone all out to welcome me home. Trying not to get my hopes up, I hurried down the hallway and into my room.

Mom stood at the doorway, holding her arms like Vanna White. “Like it?” she said. “We worked on it for a week.”

My eyes popped. The whole room had been redecorated. A fluffy blue comforter replaced my white, ruffled bedspread. Dad showed me the illustration of the “Bearly Ballet” (with dancing teddy bears) that he'd hung on the wall over my dresser. And Mom pointed out a new stereo, cued up for my listening pleasure.

I took it in, smiling like a little kid on her birthday. But my heart didn't stop pounding until I'd scanned the frame around my bedroom door and saw that the lock I'd installed when Dad moved out was still in place and ready to be bolted.

It took no time at all for Dad and me to realize that our relationship was forever altered. That meant the good parts too, like the moments we'd shared fishing for trout or hiking through the South Hills under the showering aspens. In the weeks following my homecoming, we tried to reestablish a new order, but with no one to show us how to deal with our emotions, our tempers—heightened
by the tension we still felt in each other's presence—flared into bonfires. The vibes he sent me when we were alone made me feel like my safety with him was merely temporary. I could feel it when it was just the two of us together. I'd stand in the light streaming through the sliding-glass window, and his eyes would affix themselves to a certain part of my body. The gaze lasering through my nightgown made my muscles tense.

Maybe I'd say I wanted to go to the Potholes, a favorite natural swimming spot above Shoshone Falls, with Reed, or to a party in the desert. My dad's “No,” or any criticism of me, would set me off in a rage that was disproportionate to the immediate circumstances.

“What makes you think you can order me around?” I'd shout. “You're the reason our whole family hates each other. I didn't do anything to cause this. And I don't have to do anything you tell me!” Both of my parents cowered at the thought of what I could do now that the Health and Welfare Department had identified them as high risk. They knew that one phone call from me could send my dad to prison. Maybe that's what kept Dad from breaking my jaw when I used my fingernails to claw at his cheeks.

His temper blazed, too, when he couldn't stand my shrieking any longer. He'd grab my wrists and shove me against the wall. We'd stand chest to chest, and I'd see something in his eyes: the self-hatred he felt over what he was capable of doing, and the despair for what could not be undone. When he realized he was actually physically shaking me, he'd let go. Then, with indescribable tenderness, he'd wipe the sweat from my forehead.

The July days that summer were too hot to venture outside except to go swimming. But by the time I came home from Oregon, I was addicted to running. When my drive to run became too strong, I started sprinting into the night. Mom and Dad would be sitting in front of the television, watching the ten o'clock news and spitting watermelon seeds into a Tupperware bowl, when I'd shout, “See ya later!” and slip out the door in my silk running shorts. But the routes I chose could take up to two hours, and Dad didn't like my running alone. Breaking the first rule of the Health and Welfare Department—no unsupervised contact—he started jumping on his Honda 750 motorcycle and riding alongside me in the dark.

Dad looked more peaceful during those runs than at any other time of the day. I never felt obligated to talk to him, and I doubted he could put words to the way he felt about me. We passed the miles in silence, except for the few times he'd call out my split time, or shout, “Good job, sis! Keep it up.”

We ran while the rest of the world lay sleeping, and we found some comfort in it. I like to think of him sitting on that bike with the wind blowing through his sideburns. I knew he was suffering, even though he never said so. As badly as he'd abused me, we shared something no one could take away. I'd hated the way he harmed me, and never wanted to go through it again, but still I knew instinctively how badly my dad was struggling. I hoped one day he'd ask about my struggle too.

Junior varsity cross-country. Sophomore class vice president. As hard as I tried to be Twin Falls' version of Nancy Spungen, I was a fresh-faced kid with too much ambition. By October of 1986 I'd been elected to the student council, run hard and steadily on the cross-country team, and been chosen to represent Twin Falls High School at the Hugh O'Brien Youth Ambassador Conference in Boise. I joined the declamation team, which traveled around the state with the debate team but specialized in public speaking, so I could get out of the house and party with my friends. We rode in big, luxury buses with deep, plush seats and air conditioning. My specialty was Dramatic Interpretation, for which I wrote intense, tear-jerking monologues about girls who'd been abused by their fathers. During my first year, I won nearly every competition I entered.

As good as I looked on the outside, though, on the inside I was hurting. My home life was still tense and confusing. The worst part was that I couldn't say anything about the way I was feeling. Since we'd come home, we were officially over the past. Mom made it clear that we wouldn't talk, think, or cry about the events that had “turned all of us into monsters.”

“It's a new year,” she'd said over our first home-together dinner. “Everything's going to be better.”

But it wasn't better; not for me. I worried about my dad when I went to bed. I closed the curtains and locked the deadbolt before I changed out of my street clothes. But if I became lost in a daydream and walked in my underwear from my bedroom to the bathroom, I'd get a guilty feeling, like I was intentionally trying to lead Dad on.

I wanted to tell somebody—anybody—about the scary vibes that kept me awake, listening for footsteps at my door. But I didn't
have anything concrete to tell. Dad didn't grope me, walk in on me while I was in the bathtub, or ask me to tickle his back, but I was experienced in sexual tension. I could feel it when I sat in the living room with my dad.

Maybe I was expecting things my parents couldn't demonstrate. Like the instinct to not make such a big deal about my appearance. I thought they should have known better than to talk about my face or my body. But my mom couldn't get over how cute I looked since I'd dropped my baby weight while in Oregon, and she still asked my dad to do things like hook the eyelets of my prom dresses or squeeze a pimple that was bugging me in the middle of my back.

As a sophomore in the mid-1980s, I had no way to express this to anyone, not even to Reed. It didn't seem like he wanted to talk about it anymore, anyway. In fact, I wasn't even sure he still wanted to be my boyfriend. He flirted with other girls and sometimes said things that made me feel fat or stupid. I was hurt by his comment that when we had sex, my stomach rolled like a water bed, but I couldn't accept being called stupid—especially since, after watching him struggle in his English composition class, I started writing his essays for him. His stunned teacher never understood how he went from Ds to A minuses in the course of two papers.

For a little while, I went to a therapist, but I quit after a short time because he picked his nails while I talked to him and acted blasé and judgmental. Dad and I never attended joint therapy, so we never got to talk about our feelings for each other. I went to school and tried to feel normal, but I was reeling with self-hatred. With no outlet for my anger, I started drinking, smoking pot, and snorting cocaine.

The beer and pot I got from Reed, but the cocaine I got from older kids during our declamation meets. Because I won so often, my declamation teacher let me party with the juniors and seniors. I drank with them, did cocaine with them, and sometimes even had sex with them. At meets, we'd out-orate other kids from other schools and then celebrate with beers in a senior's hotel room. When we grew bored of playing quarters, though, we'd snort the fine white powder that always made me feel instantly lighter, more beautiful, and
capable.

The first time
I tried LSD was at a party with Reed at Darren Bolster's house. I was doing shots with my girlfriends, when he sat down beside me and showed me the small, white, perforated tab on the tip of his index finger.

“What's that?” I asked.

“The body and blood of acid.”

He took my hand and led me into the bathroom, where I placed the piece of paper in the hollow spot under my tongue. I let it dissolve, swallowed hard, and waited for something to happen.

Reed noticed the white paint bubbling on the bathroom walls first. I looked at my hand and saw a million pores, staring at me like eyeballs. We ignored the people pounding on the door, laughing, “Hurry up, or we're going to piss on the floor!”

“Go in the bushes!” Reed shouted back. It wasn't even that funny, but we laughed until we were crying.

A little while later, we went outside. The rain on the streets looked sequiny and bright. A half-dozen kids wandered with us, all staring out of unblinking, liquid-bottom pupils. I don't know
why it took me so long to notice the stars, probably because I spent half the night with my nose stuck in a tulip. They lined the yards like teacups full of weird inverted spiders. I sniffed them so hard and powerfully, I suctioned several seeds into my nostrils.

After a while, we all started to come down. Reed took a bong hit to ease his reentry, while I sat in an armchair watching him smoke. I might have drifted into a jittery, uncomfortable sleep, but Reed grabbed my hand and led me into Darren's mom's bedroom.