Part Six

 

My Aunt Sara taught me how to love. Good touches like a hug and the gently patting of a baby’s back were not known to me. I would have been lost without spending the time I had in her home. I was two months pregnant when she and I got into contact through her son and she welcomed me in, no questions asked. We had not spoken since I was a child, due to a falling out between her and my mother. I never knew exactly what had happened between them, but Aunt Sara assured me that it had nothing to do with me or our future and she was glad that I was a part of her life now.

I just turned twenty and now sat with a newborn baby the size of a jumbo watermelon resting on my lap. He was crying, a soft meowing sort of cry, but it still made me nervous and anxious; and all I could say was “Hush, you’re ok.”

Aunt Sara saw me as she was passing by my open bedroom door. She was a very caring, and thoughtful woman. She wasn’t very tall, most of the women in my family are within the 5’5” to 5’7” height range. Aunt Sara had shoulder length chestnut colored wavy hair that showed streaks of grey at their root. She had a plain round face that never wore make up, thin pale lips and light brown eyes. She always reminded me of Dom De Louis dressed as Aunt Kate in the movie Haunted Honeymoon. Her own history in our family left her with little to no self-esteem, a nervousness that scarred her arms from itching an itch that didn’t exist and an eating disorder that transformed her wardrobe into moo moos with flower and holiday prints that always seemed to smell like the day before.

My mother had always talked so badly about her, but Aunt Sara was very kind. Sometimes she would hug me briefly if I passed her in the hall or if she came into the kitchen and I was in there before her. The hugs were always brief, she could feel that I was uncomfortable with touch. My back would stiffen, my eyes would go wide and my breathing would quicken. Sometimes a hug would make me feel naked and ashamed and I would want to push the trespasser away. So she would try to loosen me up and say ‘You’re alive, you made it and I love you’.

            “Here let me show you,” Aunt Sara said as she entered the room and scooped up the baby from my lap. She gave him a little snuggled in his neck and began to gently bounce and rock him in her thick arms.

            “I know it’s hard for you Meg, and no one understands that better than I do, but it’s ok to hold him. You can hold him close to you, he will not hurt you. You can hold him just to hold him. You can cuddle him and love him and give him kisses. You won’t hurt him either; he already loves you more than anyone else in the world will ever love you and he needs these kinds of touches and comfort from you now. You are everything to him. You can never spoil a baby Meg, don’t forget that.”

“Isn’t that right little one,” Aunt Sara cooed to her great nephew, “you can’t be spoiled, you can have anything you ever want”.

            I was relieved to surrender the baby to her. Christopher, my new bundle of joy weighted almost 10 pounds, had skin the color of vanilla bean ice cream drizzled with honey and dark grey eyes that would blink up to me and melt my heart. Aunt Sara was right though, I didn’t know what I was doing. I would get flustered when he would cry. I didn’t know how to console him, how to hold him close or that it was ok to give him kisses. Too often than not I would cry right along with him not knowing what to do. How could I have known that you can hold a baby and rock them to soothe them? I never even thought about holding Christopher just for the sake of holding him. I never left his side and he slept in bed with me but I didn’t know how to cuddle.

            “So if you lean back a little and rest him right on your boobs, you can free a hand for other things” Aunt Sara said, as she shifted Christopher from cradle position to resting him on one of her large breasts, holding him there with one hand. “Yes, they can be used for other things my dear” she said laughing at my facial expression.

            She liked to shock me with her bluntness. She was pushing 60 years old, the eldest daughter of four siblings on my mothers’ side. When we were alone, I felt that she could be herself. She would laugh more, joke more and tell me stories about her childhood. However, when there were other people watching, she seemed nervous, she would itch her arms, not have consistent eye contact and keep conversations to herself.

Aunt Sara sat down next to me on the twin-size bed. She had to sit slowly, all the weight she had gained over the years took a toll on her body and weakened her knees. She walked slow, stood often and sat only if she had something to say.

While she talked to Christopher, I looked around the room she gave me. It wasn’t much but Aunt Sara assured me that everything in it was mine to keep. She bought me my own twin bed, brightly colored blankets with yellow and sky-blue stripes, sheets, and pillows to match. A light oak dresser and nightstand. Atop the dresser sat a little TV and antenna. Aunt Sara also made sure I had everything I would need for Christopher, a crib, plenty of clothes, diapers, stuffed animals and formula. I was even allowed to put up posters on the walls. Currently I had a crush on Dwayne “The rock” Johnson and as my eyes passed over his wrestling poster, it asked if I could smell what he was cooking.

Living in my mother’s house, I was always made to understand that nothing was mine. And as I got older, my personal space became smaller and smaller. I may have slept in a bed or on a couch at times, but my clothes were kept in trash bags in the living room closet or garage. Nothing truly belonged to me; anything that I had could be thrown away or burned at any time. I always felt like a guest that was hardly welcome.

 

I sat down on my bed and tried so hard not to cry. I looked down at my bare feet on the cold grey concrete floor. My room once had carpet, but it was pulled out to make way for the hard wood floors. The new flooring started in the living room, spread out to the kitchen, dining room, bathrooms and stretched down the hall stopping at my door. She decided She didn’t want me to drop anything on her new floors, so my room was never done. The floor had snake like designs covering the concrete where the glue had been from the carpet. Sometimes I would walk on them and twist and turn around the room as they did, following them as far as the furniture would allow.

 She leaned in the doorway of my lavender room, a color She chose to paint it only after asking me what color I would like the walls. She did little things like that all the time to get my hopes up or let me think I had an opinion or a choice. She even stenciled hot pink ballet slippers bordering each wall, circling the room. I never liked pink and was never interested in ballet.

She stood with her arms crossed watching as my dad grabbed toys, stuffed animals, my New Kids on the Block and Bart Simpson cassette tapes from their shelves, stuffing them into trash bags. He took my Elvis records and record player. I loved Elvis and was worried because I did not want the record to break. I once asked if I could go to one of his concerts. She said, ‘of course you can, when you’re older’. I remember being so excited I told my teacher at school. The teacher looked sad and told me that he had died before I was born and that I must have misunderstood my mom. I never brought it up at home again.

 My dad took some of the things on the dresser; a jewelry box, a little locking diary I scribbled in and my pink and green haired troll dolls. I am sure he was just taking anything that looked like it could be fun. I sometimes played with his old computer books he gave me. I would pretend I was doing work. They were kept in large grey folders on my dresser, he took those too.

‘Why does She hate me so much,’ I thought.

As if She was trying to keep me from my thoughts She said, “Maybe if you had better grades, you would deserve to have things. Looks like all you will have are your books.”

I looked up at what was left on the top shelf in my closet. Twenty-four faded yellow Sesame Street books, slanting in a row. The closet doors were removed before the room was mine. It used to be my dad’s office, then we needed the extra space when She had another baby. So the baby got my old room, I got the office and my dad moved his things into the garage.

“Maybe if you read more, you’d be smarter” She snickered.

I looked back at what my dad was doing. There were two large black bags filled with the things I once thought were mine. My dad finished tying the last bag and said nothing. He never looked at me. I kept trying to get his attention with my eyes. Hoping he would see my face and stop her from doing this. I thought maybe he didn’t understand. I had just woken up to them in my room. She would point to things and my dad would put them in one of the trash bags. Instead, my dad quickly picked up the bags and took them straight to the garage leaving me alone with her again.

My dad would go to work every day; go with clients in the evenings and find some work to do outside on the weekends. He was constantly doing things that kept him away, building a patio, a gazebo, cleaning the garage, cleaning the back yard, planting bushes in the front yard, going to Home Depot and helping his friends and clients. I was always alone with her.

“Prove to me that you are smarter than you look and maybe you can get your stuff back.” She said closing the door as she left the room.

I scooted backward on the bed until my back reached the wall. I leaned on the wall and pulled my knees to my chest. I cried to myself. I just kept repeating in my mind what I always thought when She was like that.

‘Maybe they aren’t my real parents anyway. Then it doesn’t matter what they do to me. My real parents are out there and will take me away from here someday. Then I will never have to see these people again.’

I was 8 Years old when those Sesame Street books taught me the alphabet in sign language.

 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked Aunt Sara.

“I said, come with me to the kitchen, we can chat while I make dinner.”

Aunt Sara handed Christopher back to me and pushed herself from the bed to her feet. I held Christopher in my arms and tried to adjust his weight on me while I stood up. Aunt Sara walked out of the room. I held Christopher close to me and carried him on my left side with his head resting just below my shoulder. I put my face close to his head and gave Christopher a little kiss. When I kissed him, I breathed in his scent, his own little personal baby smell, sweet and warm. I tightened my arms around him slightly, hold him close.

‘I can do this,’ I thought, ‘I want to be different, I can do this’.

I followed my aunt down the hall to listen to her stories as she cooked.

“I’m making lasagna tonight,” Aunt Sara called to me cheerfully.

Aunt Sara started to unwrap the meats she had left in the sink to defrost earlier this morning. She always used different meats when making her lasagna. I recognized the ground beef and the sausage, but I was never too sure what else she put in there. She did make the best lasagna that I ever had, so I didn’t ask questions that may ruin it for me.

The dining table was in the kitchen, but it was hardly used as a dining table. It consisted of four chairs, and a tabletop that was stacked with papers, books and knick knacks that Aunt Sara thought were too important to put away or throw away. I sat in the chair closest to the hall and let Christopher slide slowly down my chest and maneuvered him till his bottom touched my thigh. I kept my arms around him, but he was just too heavy for me to continue holding upright. Christopher didn’t seem to realize the change in position. He was already fast asleep from the time it took me to walk from bedroom to kitchen. This little guy napped like a cat. In and out of sleep constantly. Sometimes he slept right through feedings and poop changes.

I looked at Aunt Sara and wondered how she did it. How did she make it through her mother who was just as cruel as mine, if not worse. How did she get through it all and still be able to care about herself and others? Aunt Sara had a successful job as an accountant for an insurance company, raised three children and was on her second marriage. She seemed happy. I would never hear her crying at night. Her and her new husband Jared never fought, or at least not around the house. They did things together and spent time together when they were home. It wasn’t the kind of household I was used to, but I liked it.

Aunt Sara talked to me while she walked barefoot from one side of the kitchen to the other. The kitchen was by far the dirtiest room in the house. Aunt Sara wasn’t much of a cleaner. Most everything was dirty and covered in dog hair. She never seemed to notice when she stepped on crumbs, sugar or a fragment of leftover bones from one of her four dogs. I watched Aunt Sara walk back and forth; her red and black flowered moo moo fitting so loosely that it trapped the air inside the garment and made the fabric billow and flow like the sails of a great ship. I had never felt so much love for an adult or family member and I knew that I needed her to show me everything she could about babies and children and life. If my son’s life was going to be better than mine, then I needed her to help me. I needed her to show me how.

“How did you do it Aunt Sara?” I asked.

“How did I do what?”

“How are you so normal after everything you went through?”

Aunt Sara stopped right in her tracks, turned to me from the kitchen sink with her gooey hands full of hamburger meat and laughed.

“Oh Meg honey, I am far from normal” she laughed, “you and I, we are just the same kind of crazy that’s all.”