Sometimes
we only hear half the story because the storytellers choose to only tell that
part. The tale of a sad little girl and her doll came to mind. It was the story
of my sister’s short-lived career as a hairdresser…
I was in first grade and too young to
recognize how this selective storytelling practice applied to the adults in our
family. They made preemptive attempts at hiding the details of sorted human
affairs they believed were beyond our comprehension. In truth, although we were
children, the half-truths darted in and out of our peripheral consciousness
like dust bunnies that travel from one corner to the next – not quite in the
open but never fully outing themselves. We were just kids, but we sensed the
dishonesty. For us it morphed into
mystery and insecurity when one night a dust bunny showed his real face and it
was not a pretty sight.
I was so proud of my pajamas with the
feet attached. They were soft, pink fleece and covered in sock monkey images. All
the monkeys were wearing red hats. I was not a happy camper on nights I had to
wear anything else.
I was awakened by the sound of my mother’s voice and her hand gently
rubbing on my arm. She said, “Get up girls. We’re going to Grandpa’s house.
We’ve got to go get Daddy.”
I didn’t know what time it was but I knew it wasn’t time to get up for
school. It was still dark outside and the house was so quiet.
Mom didn’t even make us put on our clothes. She gathered us up and the
next thing I knew, we were in the car heading somewhere. My sister had her
favorite doll tucked right underneath her arm, exactly the way she slept with
her at night. She had named her doll, “Seetsie.” We had no idea how she came up
with that name but she talked about and to Seetsie all the time.
The chilly night air gave me goose bumps and I was grateful for my sock
monkey pajamas. My sister and I huddled together in the back seat and it wasn’t
long before we were sound asleep again, our earlier sudden awakening forgotten
and the circumstances of our journey lost to slumber and the adolescent ability
to fall asleep anywhere.
When I awoke, it was to voices – angry voices. The light streaming
through the car window caused me to squint. The car’s engine was still running.
The light was coming from my grandfather’s porch where he and my mother were
talking. My mom was waving her arms in the air. She looked angry. I noticed she
was wearing no shoes. I wondered if her feet were cold. Why were we at grandpas
and where was Dad? The adults disappeared into the house.
Left alone, my sister and I got out of
the car and headed into the house. We passed through the darkened living room
walking toward the kitchen where there was light. As we stood in the kitchen door, every face
in the room turned to look at us. There was the sound of a gasp and then the
room turned frenetic with attempts to rush us out.
But they were too late. We had already seen the unimaginable for a
child’s eyes. Dad’s was the only face that hadn’t looked our way. He was still
in his work clothes lying face-up on the kitchen floor. His whole head was
bloody and so swollen I could only see one eye. The front of his shirt was torn
open exposing the white undershirt I always saw him put on during cold weather.
The undershirt was bloody too. I noticed his fingernails were trimmed short. I
don’t why I noticed this. I realized I had never really looked at them before.
He didn’t move. I thought maybe it wasn’t really my dad. I felt
light-headed and nauseous like we did on playful summer afternoons when we
would spin around in the yard until we were so dizzy we would fall down
laughing.
“Oh my God. Come on girls. Back to the car,” Mom barked, as she grabbed
our hands and practically dragged us to the back door.
“You were supposed to stay in the car. Now get back in there and stay
this time. I’ll be out in a few minutes.” Her voice was rough and heavy. I’d
never heard that voice before.
“But Mom, what about Dad? What happened to him?” I asked.
“Don’t worry about it, honey. He’ll be alright.” The old voice had
returned. It was softer.
My sister and I sat in the backseat in silence as we watched Mom go back
in. A little while later, she came outside again, and this time took us back
into Grandpa’s house. The kitchen had been cleared of body and debris and I
could smell coffee brewing. Usually this smell early in the morning made me
sick to my stomach, but for some reason the familiarity of the routine was
comforting to me right now. Maybe I was unconsciously looking for normal and
right now, coffee brewing in the morning was the only normal I could find.
Mom took us to one of grandpa’s bedrooms and tried to make us
comfortable enough to go back to sleep. My sister asked for her doll. Mom
rubbed Julie’s forehead and said, “I think you dropped her by the front door,
honey. I’ll look for her and bring her back to you in a little while. Now go
back to sleep. OK?”
Sleep? I couldn’t even close my eyes. I listened for voices or any sounds
coming from the other rooms. The rest of the night and the next day, none of
the adults spoke of my father. It was as if the image of him prostrate on the
floor had been a scene from a bad movie or a fleeting nightmare. I was afraid
to ask questions and my sister was probably too young to even put things
together, although it did have an impact on her, as we would soon realize.
Later that morning, we stumbled upon the fate of my sister’s doll, the
one she was almost never separated from - the one with blue eyes, curly blonde
hair, and tiny pink lips. She had been abandoned behind the sofa. Red marker scribbles, a perfect shade of
blood red, marred her eyes and the rest of her little face, and all over her head
were bare spots where big chunks of hair were missing.
We all looked over at Julie. Mom picked up the doll gingerly and held it
in her arms like a mother would hold a real baby.
“Julie. What happened to Seetsie?” Mom asked.
My sister didn’t say a word. She looked down at the floor and crossed
her arms over her chest like she did when she was angry or pouting.
“Honey, what happened to your doll?” mom asked gently.
My sister dropped her head to her chest and started to sob. Then she
bolted out of the room as fast as her chubby little legs would take her. Mom
followed her and the remaining adults began their futile attempts to restore
Seetsie’s face.
We found out later in the day that Julie had put the doll’s head into a
large, commercial can-opener grandpa had mounted on the wall in the kitchen.
She had given her a haircut and a face that looked like Daddy’s.
Despite the adults’ attempts, the ink on Seetsie’s face turned out to be
indelible, just like the memories of that night. Seetsie would never be the
same and I doubted that my sister and I ever would be the same either.
