side by side, gravy running down our arms and the comfort of spicy meat in our mouths, we felt a wave of peace that no amount of conversation could bring. It was comfort, jump-started by smelling, chewing and just being together. It lasted about fifteen minutes, every week. Our happiest times together.
During this same period, my mother took a part-time job as a saleswoman in a department store. An odd choice for a woman who wasn’t particularly interested in fashion, but maybe that showed how desperately she wanted to get out of the house. Afterward, however, when the store was closed and locked for the night, instead of coming home to my sister and me, she’d go to the American Legion to meet my dad and socialize for an hour or so. I continually visualized my mother and father in terrible car accidents or being mugged and killed. I could see them lying in pools of their own blood and was terrified every moment they were gone.
To keep them safe, I developed a new ritual and performed it until my anxiety subsided. It wasn’t planned. Like the others, it just popped into my headand stuck there. Unfortunately, it was a very odd, obvious and humiliating one.
Aching with embarrassment, I dialed the telephone. The phone rang and rang and rang. I considered the rings a personal rejection.
Pick up! Pick up!
Finally, on the ninth ring, a voice I knew barked into the receiver.
“Legion!”
“Hi, Mr. Spivac. Um, this is Martin’s daughter Tara. Can you page either my father or my mother?”
“Sulliivaaann! Your stalker
is calling again!” Actually, he pronounced it STAW-ker. I waited for what seemed like forever, hating Mr. Spivac and listening to the rest of my father’s friends laughing at me in the background. Finally I heard my father’s irritated voice.
“What now, Tara?”
“I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Come home.”
“I already told you I’d be home later on.”
“When exactly?”
This went on and on, sometimes four calls in two hours. Both of my parents were patient. But they were mostly glad to be out of the house. No matter how many times I called, I hung up with a lump in my throat and walked down the hallway to my parents’ room. I said a prayer to the Virgin Mary plaque that my dad kept on his dresser.
Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to Thy protection, implored Thy help,and sought Thy intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly unto Thee, O Virgin of Virgins, my Mother! To Thee I come; before Thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word incarnate! Despise not my petitions, but, in Thy mercy, hear and answer me. Amen.
I’d say it five times. Every word perfectly pronounced. Then I’d carefully set the prayer plaque back on the dresser, walk back down the hallway to the kitchen and stand directly in front of the clock on the stove.
Directly in front of it.
And read the time. From there I’d walk to the living room and stand directly in front of another clock.
Directly
in front of it, and read the time. Then I headed for the front door.
First I’d turn the doorknob carefully with all ten fingers … equal pressure on each one. Then I’d walk down the front steps, across the lawn and into the middle—the very middle—of the street. Sometimes it’d take me a while to make sure I was exactly in the middle. Then, when I was satisfied that I was balanced, I’d look both ways twice. Left and then right and then right and then left. Then I’d go back inside. If I was still nervous, I’d start over. Prayer, clock, clock, street. If anyone interrupted me, a neighbor, my sister, a car, I was enraged, because I’d have to start over.
That inner rage was always a surprise and scared me the most. I didn’t know I had it in me, and only saw it when I was being thwarted from completing a ritual. Part of it was the frustration of having to do the
During this same period, my mother took a part-time job as a saleswoman in a department store. An odd choice for a woman who wasn’t particularly interested in fashion, but maybe that showed how desperately she wanted to get out of the house. Afterward, however, when the store was closed and locked for the night, instead of coming home to my sister and me, she’d go to the American Legion to meet my dad and socialize for an hour or so. I continually visualized my mother and father in terrible car accidents or being mugged and killed. I could see them lying in pools of their own blood and was terrified every moment they were gone.
To keep them safe, I developed a new ritual and performed it until my anxiety subsided. It wasn’t planned. Like the others, it just popped into my headand stuck there. Unfortunately, it was a very odd, obvious and humiliating one.
Aching with embarrassment, I dialed the telephone. The phone rang and rang and rang. I considered the rings a personal rejection.
Pick up! Pick up!
Finally, on the ninth ring, a voice I knew barked into the receiver.
“Legion!”
“Hi, Mr. Spivac. Um, this is Martin’s daughter Tara. Can you page either my father or my mother?”
“Sulliivaaann! Your stalker
is calling again!” Actually, he pronounced it STAW-ker. I waited for what seemed like forever, hating Mr. Spivac and listening to the rest of my father’s friends laughing at me in the background. Finally I heard my father’s irritated voice.
“What now, Tara?”
“I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Come home.”
“I already told you I’d be home later on.”
“When exactly?”
This went on and on, sometimes four calls in two hours. Both of my parents were patient. But they were mostly glad to be out of the house. No matter how many times I called, I hung up with a lump in my throat and walked down the hallway to my parents’ room. I said a prayer to the Virgin Mary plaque that my dad kept on his dresser.
Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to Thy protection, implored Thy help,and sought Thy intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly unto Thee, O Virgin of Virgins, my Mother! To Thee I come; before Thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word incarnate! Despise not my petitions, but, in Thy mercy, hear and answer me. Amen.
I’d say it five times. Every word perfectly pronounced. Then I’d carefully set the prayer plaque back on the dresser, walk back down the hallway to the kitchen and stand directly in front of the clock on the stove.
Directly in front of it.
And read the time. From there I’d walk to the living room and stand directly in front of another clock.
Directly
in front of it, and read the time. Then I headed for the front door.
First I’d turn the doorknob carefully with all ten fingers … equal pressure on each one. Then I’d walk down the front steps, across the lawn and into the middle—the very middle—of the street. Sometimes it’d take me a while to make sure I was exactly in the middle. Then, when I was satisfied that I was balanced, I’d look both ways twice. Left and then right and then right and then left. Then I’d go back inside. If I was still nervous, I’d start over. Prayer, clock, clock, street. If anyone interrupted me, a neighbor, my sister, a car, I was enraged, because I’d have to start over.
That inner rage was always a surprise and scared me the most. I didn’t know I had it in me, and only saw it when I was being thwarted from completing a ritual. Part of it was the frustration of having to do the
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