A Man Named Dave by Dave Pelzer Page B

status as a wife. Either I was exceptionally lucky or Mother was losing her grasp.
    Kevin broke the tension. “So, you used to live here?”
    Surely, I assumed, Mother must have told him something about me and why I no longer lived with them. She had to justify my going away. As much as she reigned over everything, snippets of the truth must have seeped out. I flashed Kevin a smile and he smiled back. “Yes,” I stated with confidence, “I lived here, but that was a long time ago –”
    “Oh no, he didn’t!” Mother retaliated. “Don’t listen to him! He’s … he’s a liar. He’s not one of us.” To emphasize her point, Mother raised a finger. “Remember what I told you? About … about bad people?”
    I locked into Mother’s eyes, thinking to myself, You’re right. You are absolutely right. I am not like you.
    Before Mother could continue, Kevin broke in, “So, you wanna see my house?”
    An overwhelming sense of curiosity took hold as I passed Mother and followed Kevin into the dining room. I walked around the table before stopping to gaze at the red towers of the Golden Gate Bridge. Distant memories from childhood began to flood my mind. I looked down at the backyard, where I had spent countless hours sitting on my hands on top of a bed of rocks – as a form of twisted punishment for whatever crime I had committed. I remembered shivering in the chilling fog, scarcely dressed, but too terrified to remove my hands and rub them together for fear of being caught. Feeling myself weaken, I turned from the sight. I remembered the good times, when Ron, Stan, and I were preschoolers and played in the sandbox, and how one summer afternoon Mother had taught us all how to catch a lifeline – just in case, she said. Back then Mother seemed so devoted about every aspect of her children’s well-being. I could still picture Mother, on her hands and knees, wearing her gardening gloves, weeding her flower beds that she had taken so much pride in, and how she used to fill the home with the orchids she had meticulously cared for. Even now I could still see the remnants of what had once been.
    “That’s the waterfall Stan built,” Mother pointed out, breaking my trance. I was startled. I was so tired that I hadn’t heard her approaching. “He’s so good with his hands. He keeps everything up and running. He’s such a handyman, you know. And with Ronald serving his country, I don’t know what I’d do. Stan, he’s the man of the house now,” Mother boasted with pride. From behind I could hear Russell let out a sigh of frustration. By the look I stole at Russell, I knew there was a power struggle between him and Stan, who as a baby had suffered a massive fever and was never the same. In the early years Mother had always gone out of her way to shield Stan, by showering him with praise — telling him how brave, strong, and smart he was. But even as a child, Stan became jealous of Ronald, the firstborn, who had Father’s confidence while Father was at work.
    Continuing the tour, Kevin led me through the living room, then down the narrow hallway. As I walked down the passage, an odor from years ago filled my senses. I glanced down at the worn carpet and paused in front of the bathroom. Kevin stopped and gave me a puzzled look, asking, “Gotta go?” I stood transfixed at the tiny room, where I had almost died from being locked in the bathroom after Mother’s lethal concoction of ammonia and Chlorox. I stared at the far left side of the bathroom floor at the vent – where I had prayed that fresh air would come through before I gagged to death. Turning toward the mirror above the sink, I remembered looking at the fresh pink scars on my chin and my tongue that had skin peeled away from swallowing teaspoons of ammonia. As a child I’d usually steal time to look into the mirror and yell at myself for whatever I did wrong – that had made Mother despise me so much. I had hated everything about myself –how I looked, how I stuttered, everything. Back then I so