A Man Named Dave

eyes, I could not imagine how a person, let alone a mother, could concoct ways to dehumanize and torture their own child. As much as I craved closure to my past for myself, now as a father I felt I owed it to Stephen.
    With Patsy and Stephen at Grandmother’s house on a warm late morning, I drove the Toyota to Mother’s and stopped a few houses away. Before getting out of the car, I stopped to collect myself. I checked my watch to make sure I wasn’t late. I ensured every hair on my head was in place so to make a good impression. For the hundredth time that morning, I asked myself if I really wanted to go through with this. Part of me felt it was a hopeless quest. I knew Mother would never come out and tell me why she did all she did to me. After the countless ways Mother had made me suffer and the river of booze she had consumed over the years, she probably had no memory of it all. But, I thought, if I could walk out of there with even some information, maybe that would be enough to make me feel cleansed. As a matter of closure, if I could enter Mother’s house without cowering down to her and display myself as the fair-minded, independent, responsible person that I strive to be, then by the time I left, I’d know in my heart I was no longer looked upon as a child called “It”. After the years of self-doubt, I was beginning to feel I didn’t need to prove myself to Mother anymore. Of all my tests, perhaps seeing Mother was the ultimate one for me.
    Walking up to the house, I noticed how worn and lifeless the grass had become and how overgrown and unkempt the bushes were. Among the well-groomed houses on the street, Mother’s gloomy, rundown home stood out. “And years ago,” I said to myself, “her home was the Camelot of the block.” After knocking on the door, I caught a whiff of a rancid odor. When the door opened, I almost fell over from the smell. Before I could turn my head away, Mother flashed a smile. “Yes … well, right on time. Come in.” Confused, I thought Mother was acting as if my seeing her was an everyday occurrence. Before I could offer a greeting, Mother spun around and made her way up a small flight of stairs. As I followed a few steps behind, an overwhelming stench began to flood my senses. Covering my mouth, I guessed that part of the smell came from the stairs, which were worn to the point there was nothing left but the bare wood. Whatever covering that remained was on the edges, but was layered in what I assumed was cat and dog hairs. The walls gave off an eerie glow from the dark yellow-brown stain from, it seemed, Mother’s constant smoking.
    After my youngest brother, Kevin, who by now I guessed to be sixteen, proudly showed off his bedroom, I returned to the living room to sit next to Mother. Kevin seemed to hover nervously as Mother and I strained to make small talk. After a few attempts, my mouth became dry. All I could do was nod my head as Mother made an occasional remark. An icy tension began to fill the room. For some odd reason, I was not afraid or even slightly intimidated by her. If anything, I could not help but stare at her. Since Father’s funeral seven years ago, Mother had not only gained a great deal of weight, but her face now seemed pudgy and leathery. Her crimson features reminded me of Father’s when I had found him at a bar across the street from the bus station in San Francisco during a visit before I joined the air force. Mother’s fingers were swollen and twitched every few seconds. I fidgeted in my chair while trying to think of something to say. But Mother’s appearance said it all. Her years of vindictiveness had left her a broken and lonely person. Whatever domination Mother once waved over others like a sword, allowing her to hurt anyone whenever she pleased, had now vanished.
    Growing bored, Kevin barged out of the room, down the stairs, and from the house. Before the front door closed, Mother’s head snapped upright. As if making sure the coast was clear, she murmured, “I want you to know it was an accident.”
    Realizing I was alone with Mother for the first time since that day in March before I was rescued – over fourteen years ago – made me feel weak. I couldn’t believe I was actually sitting four feet away from someone who had tried to kill me. Mother’s statement flew over my head. “I’m sorry,” I apologized, “accident?”
    Mother heaved as if she were already impatient with me. Raising her voice, she stated, “I want you to know it was an