A Man Named Dave by Dave Pelzer

slapped her hands on her hips and took three steps toward me. Surprisingly, I didn’t back away. I stood my ground. “That’s none of your goddamn business!” she ranted. “Listen to me, you little shit! I’m the one who did you a favor! I didn’t have to phone that – that foster person. I didn’t have to do that, you know.”
    “Mrs Turnbough,” I calmly corrected her.
    “Whoever.” Mother returned to the kitchen table and started to cough, emptying her lungs. She acted as if she were under an overwhelming strain. Hearing her agony, Russell slid closer to Mother, as if she might collapse at any second. With a dramatic flair Mother threw up her hands, tilted her head back, and cried, “I’m fine. I’m all right.” Only when Russell moved behind her again did Mother drop her hands. Then in a vindictive tone she hissed, “ You of all people, you have no right. No right whatsoever to judge me.” Her face went from bright red to ghost white. “No one knows,” Mother sobbed, “no one knows how hard this is … for me !”
    “Now look what you did!” Russell yelled.
    For a moment I stood there confused. Is my direct questioning truly setting her off, I thought to myself, or perhaps my presence is too much for her? This could also be another dramatic performance of hers, trying to shift the focus of sympathy onto Mother and not to the situation at hand. With little to lose I dug further. “I just don’t understand. How is it that Dad’s been in the hospital all this time and you haven’t seen him once?”
    I hit pay dirt. “The pain would be too much for me to bear. Don’t you understand? I’ve known him longer … than anyone. It’s just, it’s all just too much.”
    Outwardly I nodded at Mother, as if I agreed with her statement. But inside I was saying to myself, And the Oscar for best performance – under fake duress – goes to … Catherine Roerva Pelzer!
    Interrupting my thought, Mother went on to claim, “You have no idea. He was never there for me or his children. If he wasn’t at work, he was with his pals out drinking God knows where.”
    Again I nodded, knowing full well that Mother was throwing out whatever excuses she could to justify her lack of common decency and compassion.
    “Boys,” Mother announced, “excuse us,” she decreed, with a wave of her hands.
    “But, Mom,” Kevin said.
    “I said, leave!” she screeched. “Before I really give you something to cry about!” Like magic, the boys scurried from the room.
    As Mother rambled on about her anxiety, my head began to throb from the day’s overload. I didn’t know how much longer I could stay in this house. “So,” I interrupted, “what about Father?”
    “I told you!” Mother roared.
    “No, ma’am,” I said in a soothing tone. I met her gaze, and she knew I wasn’t going to back down. “He’s still your husband. He’s all alone. He’s not doing well –” I caught myself before I lost control. In front of Mother – in her house – I had to maintain total composure. “Dad’s not going to … make it. There’s not much time.” I waited for Mother to respond, to wake up and throw on her jacket and race off to see Father. Knowing that I was passing the point of no return, I stepped toward Mother and said, for her ears only, “He’s the father of your children. Don’t end it like this. Please, I beg you. Do the right thing. See him.”
    By the strain on Mother’s face, I knew I was getting to her. Ever so slightly she nodded her head in agreement. Behind her faded silver-framed glasses I could see her eyes begin to water. The last time Mother had lowered her guard like this was the day before I was rescued in March 1973, when we had both stood in the same room, while she broke down and began talking about her past. Standing in front of her now, I prayed I didn’t lose her … again. My sole objective was for Mother to be with Father. Maybe, somehow, I thought, a few minutes alone might wash away the years of animosity. “Come on,” I softly pleaded, “let’s all go see Dad. Come