My Prison

The lessons began years before the lessons began. Lost in the everyday. Maybe lost is not the right word. It’s more like living without sight. Consumed with the everyday.

The biggest lesson I have learned is to slow down enough to see. See how my relationship with my body, my community and my God defines and gives meaning to this life on this planet in this time. What we say and do matters. Who and how we love matters. We matter.

A story must begin somewhere. So today in this moment, I pick a spot and step forward. One step after another. I will also take some backward steps to find juicy morsels as required. Even as I write that, I question whether backward is even possible. Time is circular. Everything happens again and again and again. Our stories are repeated, which is why this personal story, my story, is not just mine. It is yours.

Ready?

Smoke seeps through cracks in the bedroom door, and the familiar sting of Marlboro Lights overwhelms my senses. Not again. I squeeze my nose together. That smell means so much more. Focus. Block it out. Your Orbital Dynamics homework will not do itself.

Great grandma’s quilts are still rolled up and stacked in the corner from the last time. I press them up against the bottom of the door, but it’s already in the room, assaulting my senses. Pulling at my…

Focus.

To repair the satellite’s telemetry system, Dave readies himself for another spacewalk. The spring loaded launching device gives him an initial speed of one meter per second and the satellite is drifting away from the space station at two meters per second.

He’s smoking. A lot. That means he’s also drinking. If I just focus on my homework, it won’t affect me this time. Maybe if I stay locked in this room, I can ignore what’s going on downstairs.

Mom and I love to be together, so this room is where we work. Mom set up her sewing machine on one side, while I have my desk on the other, but it has changed hands many times over the years as one-by-one we all moved out to attend college. It’s the smallest of the three bedrooms, so it started out as the kids’ bedroom. That’s what we call Ursula and Micah, the youngest of us four siblings. Teressa and I each got our own. Ursula moved into mine when I left for college. Three years later, Micah followed suit.

I wind my way through the quilt pieces from Mom’s latest project, blanketing the floor, to the window. Looking down into the backyard, the half-frozen waterfall trickles over the rocks into the swimming pool. Lights bounce through steam rising off the black pool mimicking one carved out of the Rocky Mountains. The idyllic scene distracts me for a few seconds, until I imagine the scene playing out downstairs.

No. No. No. Closing my eyes, I don’t need to imagine. I know. I’ve lived it many times over.
My homework! Returning to my desk, I rub my eyes in an attempt to scrub out the knowledge.

The total mass of Dave and his maneuvering unit is three hundred kilograms. What is the magnitude of the thrust required to intercept the satellite?

Sounds are muffled, but mom’s pain still finds its way into my heart.

Focus!

What is his velocity when he reaches the satellite as referenced to the satellite but observed by the space station?

I can’t focus.

Even upstairs behind the closed door, I can’t escape. The house is big enough to hide from the turmoil, but the muffled noises and diluted smells make escape impossible. My stepfather, Steven, is in one of his moods. He brings a heaviness to the house even in his best moments.
This is not one of his best.

With the smoke, my mom’s enduring pain weaves its way up the stairs and through the cracks.

C’mon Gala, tune it out. Instead, I sink deep into my own world. A prison. A prison I love, and I hate. I’m protected, but I can’t breathe. The walls press in. I can’t stay in this artfully crafted prison all night. When Mom’s in here, this little room opens up, warm air rushes and swirls.

To reach her, I have to open the door.

Pushing the quilts away with my foot, I crack it just wide enough to suck through. Holding my breath, I slide out, quickly closing the door behind me in a vain attempt to keep the smoke out. Nothing is filtered or muffled or diluted anymore. My pupils quickly shrink to pinholes as they are hit by the light coming off the chandelier just on the other side of the railing. Every light in the house is on. Like the scene in the backyard, lights mingle with smoke. Not so idyllic.

Looking to the left, then to the right. I reacquired my bedroom when I moved back to finish a second degree. It’s down the hall, and the bathroom to the right.

No, I need to see. My imagination could be worse. The cloud of smoke gets thicker as I make my way down the stairs, winding around the foyer.

Under the stair case, Mom and Steven stand in the cramped hallway leading to the master suite, bedroom and office. With a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of Moët in the other, he demands a copy of her nursing license. Football commentary roars out of the television in the bedroom. Nicotine and alcohol laced sweat seeps out of his pores. My nose crinkles against his noxious body odor.

Pause and breathe. Scan your body. You’re doing great. Stay with me. What do you feel? Where is the tension? Breathe into it. Let it release. Breathe and continue.

He leans in to grab her arm. I can’t watch this, my imagination was spot on. Turning on my heel to the other side of the foyer, which opens into the front sitting room, but I see it all unfolding in my brain as if I had eyes in the back of my head.

Equipped with a Disklavier, Mom’s glossy white, baby-grand player-piano bangs out Bach. Zeek’s fluffy white tail ruffles the sheer curtains framing the bay window. The grandfather clock brings in the ten o’clock hour, switching my attention towards the living room. Walking passed Steven, his alcohol-glazed eyes look through me. Rage spilling out.

Empty beer and champagne bottles litter the living room floor. Tables, chairs, couches, fireplace mantle, kitchen counters. All available surfaces covered with dirty dishes. None of this was here at the beginning of the evening. Partly congealed, orange grease crusts around ashes and half-eaten food. Butts float in half-empty beer bottles and champagne glasses. The living room television belts out another station with more sports commentary.

Looking back, I rest on her eyes. Sadness, not fear or anger.

Drunk-angry, Steven blathers. “Unauthorized entry into the office.” He motions to grab her arm, forgetting the champagne glass in his hand. Moët sloshes over the top.

“I’m your wife. How can you call it unauthorized entry?” Backing away, the wall stops her six inches from him. Champagne splashes down her leg.

“You take things.” He fires back.

She sees me. Her face is red and swollen.

Our eyes speak without words. It’s okay, Gala. I’ll survive.

Survival mode. Her whole life she’s been living in survival mode. Oh, I love when she calls me Gala. Short for Angela, pronounced ahn-GAY-lah.

Did he hit her, knock her around, burn her with any of those cigarettes? With a cursory glance, I can’t find any fresh evidence.

When will she stop? Breathe. Have time for me? But I really don’t expect that.

I believe the lie – I do not need.

Defeat drags down her shoulders. But I do need her. Soon it will change, if I’m just patient. We will get through this. A time very soon, I just know it, she will come out the other side. Her eyes will open. Fresh air will fill her lungs. She will, we will survive. Then she will see me deep down and say, “Precious Gala, I’m so proud to be your mother.”

C’mon, Mom. Fight. I need you to fight. Or leave. Why are we still here? How do we get out?

Preparations began months ago when she told me she wanted to be sure I would be able to stay here until I graduated. Not without her, I can’t stay without her. How can she even think about leaving me behind? The walls press in, sinking deeper into my prison.

A few days later, I found a scrap of paper saying, “For the kids.” It had the few expensive items that belong to her, not Steven. Last week she took me to the bank and signed over her account, explaining she didn’t want Steven to have access. What’s her plan? Does it include me? I put on my brave face and wait.

Changes are coming.

It sits just under the surface – she wants out. To be free of Steven. But she fears the stigma. The scarlet letter. Another marriage ending in another divorce.

I fear she desires freedom from it all. Is she tired of me, too? Do I exhaust her? I’ve tried so hard to be small. Not to need. To carry as much of her burden as possible.

She scoops up a dirty t-shirt to dry off her legs and slips around him. She motions with her head and her eyes towards the living room. At her queue, I turn, leaving Steven in our dust. The eyes in the back of my head see him stumble around, eventually retiring to his bedroom.

We silently clean the endless mess from Steven’s temper tantrum. There really isn’t anything to be said. This isn’t the first time. After thirty minutes, Mom releases me with a hug.

“Go finish your homework, honey. I’ll take care of the rest.”

I tiptoe upstairs. With a thud, the prison bars lock down behind me. I can focus. Now, that I’ve seen.

It takes four pages of green engineering paper to calculate the thrust required to intercept the satellite, the time it takes Dave to get there and what his velocity will be once he makes it. Ah, the safe world of aerospace engineering. Questions number two and three involve a mass on a smooth surface, forces acting with and against it. Each require two more pages of calculations and three plots. I label and number each page, staple it together and load up my backpack for the next day’s classes.

Squeezing out into the hallway, I tiptoe from the bathroom to my bedroom. Lights still shine bright, and the smoke hangs heavy. Behind the closed door, I tune it out, turn on my noise machine and fall asleep. A restless, uneasy sleep, but at least I can’t hear him.
Excerpt: Flying Lessons, Angela Kari Gutwein