Before I continue my story I want to pause and check in. I thought it would only take about a half dozen posts but we are barely halfway there, so I apologize. It’s also taking more time for me to draft each post as we go, as my memories get very muddled in these middle years, and the topics are increasingly complex and painful. But if you are reading this I take it to mean that something here has grabbed your attention enough to get you this far, and I think if you stick with me you will be rewarded. I also want to say that, as dark and hideous as things are about to become, everything I write is from love, compassion, and gratitude. I have reached a place of healing and equanimity, and it is the hope that something I say will help someone somewhere that impels me to write. So, thank you.

My dad and his new bride relocated to the wine country along the Russian River, a couple hours away by car. We visited one weekend a month. He was a reliable ex-husband, always picked us up when scheduled and never missed a support payment. Unfortunately, it was not enough to survive on without my mom getting a job. She was a registered dietician and found work in institutional settings such as retirement homes and Meals-on-Wheels. We got by. She found friends in the Al-Anon groups she had been attending for years and spent many hours on the telephone “talking program.” She eventually started dating one of the men she met at a group.

Not long after my dad and step-mom established their cool hippie lifestyle in a rented cabin across from a Russian River resort, an incident occurred that shifted the configuration of our family significantly. My eldest sister, Stephanie (I have decided to start using first names), was a classic “problem child.” Famous for her outbursts of temper, anti-social antics, and frankly bizarre manners and beliefs, she could be forgiven for two reasons right off the bat. She was a genius, frankly. She told me once that beginning at the age of fourteen she read between one and four books a day. A. Day. And she remembered everything: author, publisher, year, table of contents. She could not only quote what they said, she could explain what was good and bad about it, and what others thought. Amazing. I remember one time not too many years ago discussing a rather thorny topic with her, one that not everyone even knows exists. She popped out with, “Well, have you read [such and such a book] by [three authors]? It’s from the early 1980s, so it’s a bit dated, but in the third chapter they talk about [such and so] and they say [this].” She was not showing off: it was truly helpful to my understanding of the subject. (She passed away in 2016 and I am tearing up writing this: I miss her so.) The other reason was that she was born with a congenital syndrome that required her to have dozens of surgeries over her lifetime. Developing cancer was a side-effect of the syndrome. She lived with post-metastatic cancer for twenty-five years before succumbing. So the second reason was that she had suffered a lot from this malady, and frankly just never really felt well.

In her early teens, Stephanie and my mother would get into arguments on a regular basis. It was like two cats fighting, because my mom was gifted as well. The volume would increase and the pitch would rise as their verbal kung-fu fights soared. On this particular occasion the crescendo was suddenly punctuated by a loud pop, a horrid gasp from my mom followed by a quiet “oh,” and then silence. We all gathered around to find my mom looking down at the floor, a hand held to her reddening cheek while Steph stood there panting, arms at her sides, staring as if she had just come out of a trance. Everyone was in disbelief. Had she slapped Mom across the face?!?! Inconceivable. Silently my mom made her way to the telephone a few steps away, sat down and dialed. “Ed?” she said. “You’re going to have to come pick up Stephanie. She’s going to have to live with you. I just can’t handle her anymore.” Stephanie never lived in our house again. My dad was good with her. It turns out his master’s degree was in working with at-risk youth, drop-outs who were working to finish their high school education. His libertine lifestyle and laid-back vibe turned out to be a good fit for her, since she was already hanging out with bikers and using drugs. He had only a few simple rules for her and she followed them.

So my middle sister, Karen, one year Stephanie’s junior, took on a lead role as Mom’s assistant as we continued muddling through as a single-parent household. In another year, my Mom would remarry, but that is for the next post.