little Annie. She was too young to work then, only in school at Springer Junior High. Even so, she wanted a more exciting job than as a waitress. She had wonderful dreams for her future, and her dreams helped her make it through the present.
When Anne Marie was in the seventh grade, Robert Fahey married again. His new wife, Sylvia Bachmurski, had a son and a daughter by an earlier marriage. And so, in 1980, Anne Marie had a stepmother, and far from resenting her, she was delighted. It was comforting to have a grown woman in the house looking after things, and Anne Marie was so happy when she saw their dining room table covered with a white tablecloth and set with nice dishes and candles. It had been so long since they had eaten at a pleasant table the way other people did.
But her fatherâs second marriage lasted only a few months. Sylvia had believed that Robert Fahey was working, and it was a terrible jolt when she found out he had lied. Too late, she realized that he was a practicing alcoholic and that she had walked all unaware into the chaos and deprivation his children had known for the last few years. She really cared about Brian and Annie, but Sylvia knew she couldnât stay once she found out how things really were. She pulled Annie and Brian aside one day and said, âIâm so sorryâbut weâre leaving. We just canât stay.â
Anne Marie was so sad. Sylvia had assured her she could call to talk, and she did a few times. But she knew Sylvia wouldnât be coming back. The house quickly reverted to the way it had been, with everyone eating wherever they felt like eating, and no more pretty tables or flowers or candles.
In a vain attempt to change her fatherâs downward spiral, Anne Marie hid his bottles and poured his drinks down the drain. She dreaded the sight of him sitting on a chair in the kitchen, drinking the evenings away. She would hide in her room until she heard him stumble off to bed. Her friend Beth Barnes later summed up Anne Marieâs ordeal. âAnnieâs had the shittiest life,â she said. âA lot of people who had what she had would fold, but she was strong.â
A NNE M ARIE could talk to her grandmother and drew a great deal of comfort from that relationship. Later she would write, âShe was the most reliable, stable, sober adult person in my life.â
She had needed someone like that desperately. She had lost her mother, and her father underwent a complete personality change when he was drunk. Anne Marie was the one who bore the brunt of the rage that swept over him, although both she and Kathleen had come to loathe and fear the man their father became when he was drinking. There was no explaining why he chose Annie to be his verbal punching bag. She was, perhaps, a reminder that he still had responsibilities and he could not simply abandon his life. She was the most vulnerable of his children, and yet she was feisty, too. Although she told herself that the man who shouted insults and obscenities at her wasnât her
real
father, his words did more damage than a physical blow could. He told her she was fat, that her legs were fat, that she was ugly, that no one would ever want such a fat, ugly girl for a wife. Sometimes he called her a slut. Terrible words that evoked terrible feelings.
Sometimes, caught unaware when she heard the front door open and the heavy steps that meant her father was drunk, Anne Marie escaped his vitriol by scrambling under the dining room table to hide. She made herself as small as possible, repeating Hail Marys in her head, praying he wouldnât find her. But he usually did, leaning over and shouting cruel words at her. Her fear as she hid under the furniture may have been the cause of her lifelong claustrophobia. For whatever reason, Ann Marie would grow up with an almost pathological fear of the dark and of closed-in places.
As she grew older and more able to fight back, Anne Marie fended her father
When Anne Marie was in the seventh grade, Robert Fahey married again. His new wife, Sylvia Bachmurski, had a son and a daughter by an earlier marriage. And so, in 1980, Anne Marie had a stepmother, and far from resenting her, she was delighted. It was comforting to have a grown woman in the house looking after things, and Anne Marie was so happy when she saw their dining room table covered with a white tablecloth and set with nice dishes and candles. It had been so long since they had eaten at a pleasant table the way other people did.
But her fatherâs second marriage lasted only a few months. Sylvia had believed that Robert Fahey was working, and it was a terrible jolt when she found out he had lied. Too late, she realized that he was a practicing alcoholic and that she had walked all unaware into the chaos and deprivation his children had known for the last few years. She really cared about Brian and Annie, but Sylvia knew she couldnât stay once she found out how things really were. She pulled Annie and Brian aside one day and said, âIâm so sorryâbut weâre leaving. We just canât stay.â
Anne Marie was so sad. Sylvia had assured her she could call to talk, and she did a few times. But she knew Sylvia wouldnât be coming back. The house quickly reverted to the way it had been, with everyone eating wherever they felt like eating, and no more pretty tables or flowers or candles.
In a vain attempt to change her fatherâs downward spiral, Anne Marie hid his bottles and poured his drinks down the drain. She dreaded the sight of him sitting on a chair in the kitchen, drinking the evenings away. She would hide in her room until she heard him stumble off to bed. Her friend Beth Barnes later summed up Anne Marieâs ordeal. âAnnieâs had the shittiest life,â she said. âA lot of people who had what she had would fold, but she was strong.â
A NNE M ARIE could talk to her grandmother and drew a great deal of comfort from that relationship. Later she would write, âShe was the most reliable, stable, sober adult person in my life.â
She had needed someone like that desperately. She had lost her mother, and her father underwent a complete personality change when he was drunk. Anne Marie was the one who bore the brunt of the rage that swept over him, although both she and Kathleen had come to loathe and fear the man their father became when he was drinking. There was no explaining why he chose Annie to be his verbal punching bag. She was, perhaps, a reminder that he still had responsibilities and he could not simply abandon his life. She was the most vulnerable of his children, and yet she was feisty, too. Although she told herself that the man who shouted insults and obscenities at her wasnât her
real
father, his words did more damage than a physical blow could. He told her she was fat, that her legs were fat, that she was ugly, that no one would ever want such a fat, ugly girl for a wife. Sometimes he called her a slut. Terrible words that evoked terrible feelings.
Sometimes, caught unaware when she heard the front door open and the heavy steps that meant her father was drunk, Anne Marie escaped his vitriol by scrambling under the dining room table to hide. She made herself as small as possible, repeating Hail Marys in her head, praying he wouldnât find her. But he usually did, leaning over and shouting cruel words at her. Her fear as she hid under the furniture may have been the cause of her lifelong claustrophobia. For whatever reason, Ann Marie would grow up with an almost pathological fear of the dark and of closed-in places.
As she grew older and more able to fight back, Anne Marie fended her father
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