On Abandonment

That soft, steady beep was putting me to sleep again tonight - like every night for the past five years. It was only the very first year that it had kept me awake, when I was paralyzed with fear that it would stop. Now, I was sure that if it did stop I would wake automatically. The sound was an extension of me, a lifeline to my heart, which had aligned itself with the same rhythm over time. I had dissected it many times, listening closely until it was no longer a quick blip to my ears. I traced the rising crescendo upwards, braced myself for the piercing climax milliseconds before its shrill birth, and finally followed its slow descent back down to silence. Some would call it an annoyance; I called it relief " only because after so long it was the one word that hadn’t been worn down by its constancy.

 

While this sound comforted me, it was also a reminder of the burden that I had been carrying since I was eleven. The one my father, if he could be called that, bestowed upon me when he left after my mother’s stroke, one that he guiltily paid me for each month. How a man, let alone a father could leave a child to care for her debilitated mother was beyond me. Though now more than ever I couldn't help thinking that for this struggle I would be stronger because surely there were greater obstacles that life would set upon me " whatever they were, I was ready, that much I knew.

 

Now, at sixteen, it was easy to say that I had almost come to accept the harsh reality that was my life. It, my reality that is, had taken nearly everything from me, mostly my childhood, but a few other important things like innocence and happiness. Having nothing left to give made it almost easier to get out of bed every morning, well that and the mantra that I had told myself time and time again " there were people far worse off than I. I, at least, had a roof over my head and food in the fridge, not so far away, down the road even, there were some that didn’t have either. But it didn’t have to be the worst situation to not be hell " it was still that to me. I tried to focus on the good things that I did have, but some days it just wasn’t enough to pull me from my darkest thoughts.

 

It was a strange thing the way that my life was so different from most everyone else my age, how such insignificant things to me meant the world to others. I noticeably realized that once I got to high school when I sat in class and eavesdropped on the people around me. Hair, phones, and relationships were all topics of drama and debate, things that I couldn’t wrap my head around. For me it didn’t matter what my hair looked like, as long as it was washed and cut semi regularly I wasn’t complaining, as for relationships, that was a nonpoint. The only things that meant the world to me were my mom and the hope that things would get better. That was what I thought about hour by hour, day by day " that’s how I lived my life - on a short term basis because tomorrow was never a guarantee.

 

My next hurdle was one that I had been dreading for too long, it would arrive in two years, on my 18th birthday, when my father's monthly installments would cease. Then I would be left to care for my mother and myself financially as a senior in high school. Two years didn’t seem long enough, I wanted more time to figure out what I was going to do, but life rarely gives you any time to prepare for the bad things " I reluctantly knew that I was lucky in this case to have a heads up. The only good thing was that I could apply for government assistance when that time came, I would no longer need to keep my secret. My life revolved around hiding from the world the shame that I lived everyday because if anyone found out that I was caring for my mother and not the other way around, the consequences would be devastating to our future.

 

A cough echoed down the hall. My mom hadn’t been feeling well tonight, she hardly ate the dinner I made, chicken and mashed potatoes. I prayed that she wasn’t getting sick, a simple cold could turn into something much worse and neither of us needed that. A flutter of panic rose from my stomach and into my chest as she coughed again. My eyes wouldn’t close even as I tried to relax because my instincts were intent on listening to every noise coming from her to determine if I needed to be concerned. For five years it was as if I was caring for a child, one that never got any older and that I constantly had to worry about. I only wished it were scraped knees that kept me up at night.

 

After my mother's stroke, my father couldn't deal " it was as simple as that. He seemed strong in the hospital, at her bedside, but I guess being able to go home and get away from his wife's silent, needy face made it a little easier. Once she was discharged and transported home with all of her machinery in tow, he must have felt trapped - it's the only explanation that made any sense to me. I often saw an expression in his eyes, I couldn't place it at the time, but now I knew what it was. It was the same one an animal gets when it’s trying to decide between fight and flight. Wide eyed, a touch of panic, and too much indecision swam in those pools of honey that had always looked so sure of everything before. Everyday I feared that I would lose my father as well, only I thought he'd go crazy, not AWOL.

 

The day he made his decision I could feel the nervousness in the air around him. He was preoccupied, brushing me off when I asked him what he was doing. From across the room I watched him carefully and cautiously as young children do when they sense an unexplainable change in their parent. For hours he sat writing feverishly at his desk, checking and rechecking what he had written until finally he rose - papers in hand. I was expectant, waiting for his attention to fall on me and it did when he sat next to me on the couch where I had been perched all along. Avoiding my eyes, he tapped the bottom of the stack of papers on his legs, organizing what didn't need to be.

 

"Allison...daddy has to go away for a little while," his voice was grave, like it often was after the stroke.

 

"Where?" I cut in impatiently.

 

His eyes darted around and he shifted uncomfortably. "On a business trip." He held the papers out to me and I took them unsure of their purpose. "I need you to take care of your mother while I'm gone. The nurse will still come while you’re at school.

 

Everything is written here. Make sure you do your homework and don't forget to brush your teeth."

 

"But I can't," I began to protest. My young mind couldn't comprehend why he would leave me alone to go on a business trip. Work had always been a top priority; it gave us everything we had " a nice house and expensive cars. His absence had bothered me a little, or maybe I was more confused than anything else - I was still too young to realize that it wasn’t normal. What does seem normal, years down the road, is the fact that he left - it was what he did, with his parents, with me, and with his wife.

 

"Allison you must do this," he coldly commanded in a tone that I had often heard when he was unhappy with someone like the gardener, but never with me. "I've arranged for a housekeeper to buy groceries and clean up once a week. I’ve left an envelope with money on the desk. If my…trip takes longer than expected I will send you more," he said as if the very idea was not in the least bit odd. My mind was jumbled up jigsaw, trying to put the pieces together before time ran out - a maid, groceries, envelopes of money. None of this made any sense, but as my world spun out of control, so did the meaning of all of information and how his business trip story didn’t feel right. My only concern was trying to understand why he was leaving at all and in such a hurry. I struggled to find the words to make him stay, but to him my silence meant the end of the conversation.

 

He got up and I followed involuntarily, hoping it would show him that I still had questions that needed to be answered, but that didn’t matter because for the first time I saw two suitcases next to the front door. They were familiar, ones that we had used on our vacation to Disney last year. With tears in my voice and close to my eyes I called out to him, "When will you be home?"

 

"When I can," is all he replied, not giving me a second look, or thought, I later realized.

 

After that, the closest I ever came to him was the money he sent monthly and those papers that so clinically described how I should live my life until I was 18, at which point he callously wrote that I would have to become independent. A contradicting lesson I would later learn, since the situation he left me in was both one where I was financially dependent on him, yet independent enough to take over the responsibilities that should have been his. I think at the time what hurt the most was that my father was so self involved that he had completely overlooked that on the day of his abandonment I turned eleven. I sometimes wonder if he ever realized it was my birthday. I never received any indication that he did. For days I waited for a call or a card at the very least, but none came.

 

I couldn’t lie down anymore. I needed to check on my mom. If she was getting sick I wanted to catch it early and try to prevent it from getting too bad. My feet hit the cool tile floor and I walked the dark hall, gliding around the décor that my mom had placed there too many years ago, without the certainty of light. The benefit of living here my whole life was I knew my house inch by inch without sight. As I rounded the corner the blinking lights came into view and monitors hummed just a little louder around my mother’s body. She looked peaceful in the dim glow and I took it as a good sign.

 

Walking to her bedside, I examined her without touching. She didn’t have a cold sweat and she wasn’t awake. I moved on. My hand moved to her forehead and I gauged her temperature with my built in thermometer. She was a little warm, I wished I wasn’t alarmed, but I couldn’t help it. My touch didn’t wake her, but a cough did as it wracked her fragile body. Her gaze was groggy and all I could do was try to comfort her with my words that everything was fine. I didn’t know if she knew what I was saying or if she even knew where she was, but I liked to think that she did, at least for my own ease. That was one of my few indulgences - I took them where I could get them.

 

I'm don’t remember when or how I knew my father wasn't coming back, there wasn't a sudden epiphany, I guess I just got used to living without him - we both did. I had to live with what he had done. I only hoped that the stroke shielded my mom from the pain I experienced, that little bit of mercy I would be thankful for. In the few days that followed my father's disappearance I didn't leave her side for more than a couple of minutes, I was terrified and holding her hand seemed to be my only comfort. Her big blue eyes stared at me, questioning or confused, I couldn’t decide, but what was I supposed to tell her. She had already been through so much, telling her that her husband was on a business trip would have added insult to injury, so I didn't say anything. I spoke of the weather outside and read her books. It only got harder as time passed and eventually I decided that she didn't need to know the pain that I was feeling once I had realized that he was gone for good.

 

I was thankful that I didn’t see either of them in me. Looking in the mirror and seeing my deserting father’s features would have made me despise myself. Seeing my mother’s would have made me sad. I was a mutt, mixed through and through. My bright green eyes came from a great grandparent and my long golden hair had always been indecisive " never choosing my mother’s straightness or my father’s curliness. I take that back, the color of my skin was the only thing I had in common with my parents. Despite their different heritages, their skin was almost identical and that I had inherited. However, it wasn’t enough of a reminder to cause any discernible complexes.

 

The only thing I could do for my mom now was try to alleviate the cough. Opening the cabinet above the stove, I searched for the go-to brown bottle that would do the trick. I found it behind a box of tea, but it felt too light. I still had hope as I poured the thick, red liquid into the clear cap, but it only amounted to a teaspoon " only half of what I needed. I was usually so good about replacing the medicine, it must have slipped my mind the last time I used it. Taking what I had to the living room, I gave it to my mom, it would do for now. I needed to get some more. The clock said five to twelve - it was going to be a late night.

 

While the story of my father being on a business trip seemed plausible enough, it didn't hold up for long. Yolanda, my mother's nurse, began questioning me after he didn't come home the first week. By the second week I was making up excuses about why he was never around, like he was working late or he was visiting his sick parents. It worked for a little while longer and naively, I believed that my lies were fooling the nurse - I should have known better. A month or two into her employment, I can’t recall exactly, that Yolanda sat me down one afternoon after school. I do remember that her face was painted in seriousness and her signature red lipstick, and she talked to me woman to young woman.

 

"Alli," she said, her moderately accented voice filled with the pain of what she thought I must be going through. Her assumption of the situation was right; it was hard not to see what was going on. "Your father is no coming back," she stated boldly and I wasn't sure if she was telling me or confirming that I knew this fact.

 

"No, he isn't."

 

Her arms encircled me and her perfume laced with a chemical taint threatened to cut off my air supply. At eleven I was sure that I was supposed to feel vulnerable or fall apart in her embrace, but I couldn't, not when my mom needed me. Breaking down was easier when my pillow quieted my sobs anyway. From that day on Yolanda made it her mission to make my life as easy as possible, but with two teenage children at home herself, she could only do so much.

 

When I needed new clothes I gave Yolanda money and she bought them. Girls my age are picky, but I had bigger things to worry about than name brand jeans and fancy sneakers. As long as the clothes fit I was happy. When I needed vaccines she took me, it was the only time we left my mother alone and even for an hour, the nurse had to convince me that it would be okay. School supplies, books, puzzles, anything at all Yolanda would pick up for me when she was out. It was more kindness than I could ask for and I was lucky to have her as a confidante and as a parental stand in.

 

Three years later, I was fourteen and a routine had taken a hold of my life. I would wake up in the morning, get ready for school, and I would help my mother eat breakfast. Yolanda would take over for me while I was at school, I would come home, do homework, and she usually had dinner ready. Weekdays were a breeze, it was the weekends that I had always struggled with. I had learned what kind of care my mother needed. I knew how to tell if something was wrong and when I needed to call the doctor. Thankfully there had been few incidents and her doctor was willing to make house calls. I had to turn her so that she wouldn't get bedsores and I needed to keep her mind and muscles that still worked active so that she never got any worse. I had to learn how to cook when Yolanda wasn't around and at some point my father decided to stop sending the housekeeper, so cleaning and grocery shopping were now my responsibilities as well. I prayed for the weekends to pass quickly because I cherished the help that I received from the kind nurse and the time out of the house to keep me sane.

 

It was cool out tonight, the first cold front of October came through the day before and at seventy-five degrees with a slight breeze the weather was perfect. I wished it was like this year round, unlike the normal hot and humid reality. Winding my way through the neighborhood, I walked past the security gate and out onto the quiet main street that lead to all of the other subdivisions of the community. The orange street lights showed the way to the intersection not too far ahead. The 24 hour pharmacy would be on the corner, as it had always been for the last few years. Things in Miami were quick to come and go - life was fast paced outside of my life it seemed. I picked up the pace when I realized that my thoughts were dragging me down, leaving my mom alone and sick was the last thing I wanted and not something I would ever be comfortable with.

 

My house sat on the corner of a quiet street in one of the nicer neighborhoods in Miami. It was your basic cookie cutter house, square with a pointed roof. Its sandy exterior fit in with the palm tree scenery, exactly the cliché that Florida is known for. Beyond the art deco style of South Beach, the rest of the southern tip of the state was basically unoriginal. In the summer large windows let in the warm sun that we are known for and in the winter the cross breeze was spectacular. While I loved my house and its familiarity, it was far too big for the three of us, and with only my mother and I left, caring for the home was a burden onto itself. The second story remained vacant after my father left. I took up residence in the downstairs den to be nearer to the only person in the world who loved me.

 

It would have been convenient and simpler if I had relatives, but both of my parents were only children. My mother ran away from home when she was seventeen and my father dropped his parents off in a nursing home in Boca years ago when they started becoming senile. That should have been a clue. I should have seen that he didn’t stick around for worse, only for better. This situation was never going to get better, so he was never coming back, not that I would want him in my life after all of these years.

 

Monday through Friday I walked to the bus stop twenty feet from my front door where I was picked up for school and then dropped back off in the afternoon. Yolanda would go home, and then I would take her place flitting from my mother's side to doing my homework. The only time I had to myself was when I turned out the lights in my room and lay myself down for bed, yet even then my mother's condition always lingered in the sound of the heart monitor that reminded me of what the rest of my life might be like with each shrill beep. I would never experience the world outside, save for school, and work, when that responsibility came along. Miami was a place of glamour, success, and infamy, only I would never know this fascinating world right outside my door. Any new experiences were long gone with the days when my life was normal - memories of trips to the beach, eating at restaurants, and being apart of a thriving city that the whole world seemed to know were all I had now.

 

These days I read mostly, and did puzzles, but nothing offered an escape like books could. Tales of far away lands, adventure, and fantastical creatures enchanted me and I was drawn into books like The Odyssey and at the moment The Wizard of Oz, imagining that I was one of the characters and tuning out the rest of the world. I often thought that this was what freed me from my caged life, this little bit of happiness and selfishness was all that got me through some days. My heroes, my role models were these writers who gave me the escape I needed from this dull, hard life and I even toyed with the idea of writing my own book one day.

 

I had always loved to read, but after my mother's stroke, it became an obsession. I didn't have to dwell on my lack of attention in school or my always present fear that if I took medicine that I would end up like my mother, paralyzed, unable to speak, and dependent on whoever is around. The phobia became so bad that even a minimal warning of a stroke on a medicine label, in my head, automatically sentenced me to the same fate that my mother's hormone therapy medicine had condemned her to. These things didn't matter as I flipped the pages of a novel and let my imagination build the scenes of what I was reading " that’s where I found solace.

 

I thought that if everything stayed the way it was I could make it without my father's money. I had a reserve that came from any extra cash I didn't use every month. With that and a part time job while I finished up my last year of high school I could make it until I graduated. Then I could work full time, maybe even two jobs and things would be fine. Yolanda and I had even discussed her moving in to one of the spare bedrooms and working something out that would be financially beneficial for the both of us. She often spoke of her loneliness since her husband's passing and her children off living their lives. I began to believe that it would all work out and the dread that had plagued me for so long lifted for a little while.

 

Yolanda's health began to decline a few months after I turned 14. I thought it was sudden at the time, but looking back now it’s easy to see that I was blindly trying to hold onto her and the plans for the future. She moved a little slower than usual, the arthritis made her hands a little stiffer, and the fatigue set in earlier and earlier. I guess I just expected some notice, what I received instead was a shock.

 

My mom had been having a rough morning, she didn't want to eat breakfast and she was coming down with a cold. I waited for Yolanda to arrive like I did every morning before going to school so that I could update her on anything new. She had never been late or missed a day from the time she started caring for my mother, so when she didn’t show the history final that I was trying to be on time for seemed trivial. My gut told me that something was wrong, yet I hoped that I was just being paranoid.

 

I called Yolanda's house and a young woman's voice answered. Explaining who I was and why I was calling, I asked if everything was okay. The woman told that her mother had slipped in the shower and fractured her wrist the night before. They had just gotten home from the hospital and Yolanda was resting. I wanted to insist on talking to her, but something in the daughter’s voice told me that it wasn’t going to happen. Then the young woman delivered the blow.

 

"My mother is retiring. We want to keep an eye on her."

 

The announcement knocked the air from my lungs and prickling tears assaulted my eyes. Instinctively I wanted to fight the decision that had been made, to me Yolanda was like a parent and I felt like I had an equal say " the sensible part of me reminded me that I didn’t. Instead, I told her that I understood, and then I hung up and let the weight of the situation crush my small body. This whole time it hadn't been hard I realized.

 

Yolanda had parented me when my parents didn't and now...now the real struggle began because it was all up to me.

 

Looking back, I know that I had been incredibly brave despite the situation and how overwhelmed I should have been considering my age. I could easily say that most teenagers, and adults for that matter, would have given up. I couldn’t, too much guilt would settle on my sensitive conscious. I had to fight, not just for myself, but for my mom. She would have done the same if the situation were reversed, I knew that much for certain.

 

I missed three days of school that week as I tried to take care of my mother and decide what to do next. All of the dormant anger I had for my father came rushing back, reminding me that the wound had never fully healed. I had no way to contact him to tell him about Yolanda and because he sent her the same kind of unaddressed envelope of money each month he would have no idea that I needed another nurse. At first I believed that Yolanda would bring the money to me, but as time went on she never appeared. In good faith I knew that it wasn’t her that was keeping the money. I was sure that it was her daughter and while I would have loved to be angry with her, I knew that nearly anyone else would have done the same.

 

The cycle of obstacles never seemed to cease and I was left with only one viable option - hire a new nurse with the extra money I had been saving, this was a painful choice. That reserve was supposed to be the safety net that would hold us over after I turned 18. I toyed with the idea of dropping out of school, but that would only make it harder to get a job later on. I felt like that little girl on her 11th birthday watching her father leave, my world spinning out of control and nothing I could do to stop it.

 

The days after Yolanda's retirement were filled with endless classified searches, phone calls, and interviews. One of the calls came from the former nurse herself. It was good to talk to her and I was comforted despite the fact that she wasn’t coming back. Over the phone Yolanda repeated words of wisdom and promised that she would do her best to try to find a replacement using her connections. We kept in touch, but it wasn’t the same. I was okay with that because she had given me so much and I couldn’t be selfish anymore - it was time to grow up.

 

Nurse after nurse, young and middle aged, men and women, came for the job. Some spoke English, others didn’t " no two people were alike, yet they all seemed to ask the same question and I always used an identical excuse to answer it. I said my father was stuck in traffic and he would make it as soon as he could, this seemed to make each person a little more comfortable, or at least just enough to continue answering my questions. It was an exhausting process. I had never known how much my father was paying Yolanda and I didn't know what the norm was for a nurse. Asking each candidate I gauged what the going rate was, even the lowest was over my already too tight budget.

 

While none of the candidates were anything alike, none of them stood out either. All had similar credentials, although I noticed that some looked happier than others. I soon realized that the more pleasant people were new to the industry, while the long drawn faces belonged to those who had been nursing too long. I preferred the more agreeable bunch, I didn't need any more gloom in my life and I figured if I could take care of my mother at 14, then a nurse with only a couple of years of experience would do just fine.

 

A young guy with loose curls and happy brown eyes seemed nice enough and he didn’t mind being paid under the table, a criteria that had narrowed down the pool to five potential candidates. His references checked out and he was far cheaper than most everyone else. That's how Oliver came into my life.