my bloody Christmas

This is my sketch of Mother's third husband, as I remember him anyway.

She referred to him in later years as "Door Number Three".

He always creeped me out. They had a classic non-romantic, codependent alcoholic relationship. They were always loud in the Miami Townhouse. Door #3 was on the couch whenever he wasn't at work. He worked at an art supply store. He watched football or Lawrence Welk at high decibels and mother's brilliant solution to lower the TV volume was to scream over it until he did.

Mother explained to me that he [door #3] is the only reason we had a roof over our head. She had a rocking chair that she'd sit in with me on her lap and rock when she had something she felt I needed to hear. I hated it. She would hold me down in her lap intentionally, but not enough to bruise me. If I tried to wiggle out, she'd constrict enough to hurt.

So, I'd stay, and obey her.

I had many talks in that chair that she would need to re-explain to me how and why I had to call this man "Daddy". Every night before bed I had to be sure to hug and kiss this man and say "goodnight, daddy". Another battle I learned quickly to just do it - and get it over with. His breath was appalling, and it was always a "pop kiss" on his lips. This wasn't the type of person that was natural around kids. Between that and tickling me...

Again, nobody had ever explained anything about drinking and alcoholism to me - at all. I assumed most families were the same way.

Lauren Hill nailed it - "Unaware of what we didn't have" in her song Every Ghetto, Every City.

On Christmas Eve, there was a very loud argument between Mother and Door #3. I think my brother and sister had moved up to their father's in Tampa at this point.

Mother tried to make Christmas traditional and fun. There were more boxes and packages wrapped under the tree with simple (inexpensive) gifts. Every single one was thoughtful though. We had a tree in front of the mirror-squared wall. Back then common -tree -ornament bulbs shattered into shards of glass on tile floor. Constantly.

I was twelve on this extra loud Christmas Eve. Mother was more zealous than usual. She was usually the one hushing him so I could sleep. This time she was egging him on, it seemed. I just wanted to sleep and wake up to Christmas morning.

I must have slept a little because I was awoken by 2 Miami Dade police officers. They startled the hell out of me in their uniforms and gear.

They asked me if I was ok. From what I remember they didn't physically exam me, just asked.

I gathered something bad happened, but I was foggy from sleep and confused. When I went downstairs there was blood everywhere. All over the presents under the tree. The mirror-squared wall, well. It was a scene. A horrible scene.

After this happened I have no memory of a social worker or counselor talking to me at all. I would remember that because I didn't really like talking to anyone, much less a nosey adult. That would have been how I would have seen it, then. It is possible someone tried and mother prevented it(?). But not probable.

This was the beginning of two major changes in my life although I was unaware, on that one day alone. One was, moving forward, Mother was all I had. Two, I was all Mother had. That made her all the more protective of me. And she continued to make me wear shit like this pink argyle vest.

I had no idea how much more change was coming my way next.