I don't know when the lying started. The first lie I can remember was when I lied about eating a container of chocolate icing when I was 8. Now it's just become a way of life for me. I tell myself I have to. I live on the streets. And the stuff I say is partly true...I DO have two kids. It's just that they live in foster care and someone else feeds them every day. And I AM hungry. Lying is a way of life, isn't it? People lie to me all the time...they clutch their fancy handbag close to their nice warm jackets and tell me, "I don't have any money," as they practically run to their car.
Today, Marla's with me. Usually I find people give me more when I'm alone, and they feel less afraid. But I can't say no to Marla...she's saved me more than once. She calls me her sister, and I guess it's close enough. I never had a sister before, so I'm glad she thinks of me like that. If I did have a sister, I doubt she would take care of me the way Marla does. She nearly ripped that guy apart trying to save me from his grimy hands two weeks ago. She calls me Sissy, which isn't my real name, but I don't care. Alyssa is too fancy a name for a woman on the streets anyhow.
The corner we're on is near a convenience store. Marla holds up the sign that says, "Hungry kids to feed. Please help." Every so often someone will toss some coins at us, or call out to us to get some paper money. So far today, we've got 15 dollars. Pretty good for a Wednesday. Sunday and Monday are better days, Wednesday, not so much. I figure Sunday and Monday are good because folks who go to church get to feeling all high and mighty, thinking it's their duty to help us. Not that I'm complaining. I even say "bless you" when people give us money, just to make them feel good. A little positive reinforcement, you know what I mean? I just figure God didn't take much note of me in my life, and I'm just returning the favor.
Well, we're just standing there, not much traffic. A woman gets out of her car and heads toward us, big smile plastered on her face. I tap Marla's arm, and she wakes from her napping. I never could figure out how she can sleep standing up, but she does it all the time. This woman comes up, smelling like flowers and baby powder, dressed in casual but nice clothes. No sign of a purse. "Hi, I'm Beth. What are your names?"
I'm not feeling inclined to answer right away...she doesn't have a purse, right? But then, maybe there's some money in her pockets. "I'm Sissy and this is Marla." I stick my rough hand into her soft one and return her radiant smile with a half-hearted one of my own. She asks me if we have somewhere to stay that night. That's when it dawns on me...this is one of those shelter folks.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
I immediately felt as if all the air had vanished from the room. This shouldn't have been a big deal. I'm a grown woman. I hadn't done anything wrong. And yet, standing there in front of my father, all six foot one of him, I felt panic, a panic like I hadn't experienced since I was about 14 and my dad threatened to leave me on a street corner naked, just to prove to me that he could.
Part of me, the rational part, reminded me that it was just the disease talking. I looked past his thick, furrowed eyebrows and watched his eyes, normally grey and confused, suddenly become sharp and alert. "I know you've been stealing batteries from me, girl." He raised his arm and stuck one finger out toward my face, an inch from my nose. Memories flooded over me from my childhood. I remember when he used to do the very same thing when I was a kid, and how so many times, I had just wanted to bite that finger off.
I took a deep breath, and opted for distraction. "I think I remember seeing those batteries in the livingroom, Dad. Let's go look for them." It took everything in me to smile and step toward him. He looked uncertain for a moment, then turned with me and began to walk slowly down the hall. He was saying something under his breath that I couldn't understand. I was grateful that the television was on as we entered the room, because it drew his attention away from me. He shuffled to his chair and sat back, hands folded across his stomach, eyes half-closed, just like the old days.
_____________________________________
Staying overnight with my dad became more challenging each time. He had trouble sleeping at night, and would get up and wander all over the house. We had removed the handles from the stove so he couldn't turn it on by himself, and all doors leading outside had deadbolts. I kept the key around my neck so he couldn't find it. I was a light sleeper, so I usually woke up when he began to move around.
Not this time. I awoke to find him standing over my bed. "Dad! You scared me!" I said as I sat up.
"Be quiet!" He yelled at me. I quickly switched the light on, and discovered that he was even more agitated than usual. "Where's Lori?" He demanded.
"She had to step out to the store," I lied deftly. My mother had died three years ago, but my dad couldn't remember that. He was always asking for her. If I told him she was dead, he would sob and be heartbroken for hours, forgetting after a while why he was crying, but still inconsolable.
I got up carefully and reached to pat his arm. "What do you need, Dad?" He had that half-angry, half-scared look in his eyes again. His fists were clenched. I had learned to keep my distance. He had been a marine in his youth and a heavy duty mechanic before he retired, and those arms were still powerful enough to do serious damage. It was hard to know what would soothe him when he was like this.
"I want ice cream." He looked like he was about to cry. "I can't find it." He stepped closer to me, and it was then that I caught the scent of urine. Apparently, he had had an accident.
It was pointless to tell him that it was the middle of the night. It was also pointless to remind him that he had diabetes and shouldn't have ice cream. "Okay, Dad. I'll get some for you. First, let's go change your clothes. You want to look handsome when Mom gets home, don't you?"
He relaxed and nearly smiled at the prospect of seeing Mom. He shuffled after me to his room, where we wrestled with his clothes and got him rinsed off. Even just getting him into the shower these days was tough, but tonight he was unusually cooperative, eager to be ready for his wife to come home. Of all the caregiving duties I had assumed after my mom's death, washing him was the hardest. There was nothing comfortable about bathing my dad, who at his nicest had been gruff and awkward most of his life. I tried to do it quickly and efficiently, but that was getting harder and harder. I usually let the daytime attendant take care of that. Thank God for the veterans benefits my dad qualified for. I couldn't have cared for him 24 hours a day.
It was especially hard as the disease diminished his inhibitions day by day. I had to buy clothing that zipped in the back so he couldn't take his clothes off himself, otherwise he would take his clothes off over and over. Soon I wouldn't be able to care for him at home at all. Already my business was suffering from my exhaustion and inability to concentrate.
By the time he was dried off and dressed, he had forgotten about both my mother and the ice cream, and had slipped back in time to an early memory of being bathed and dressed for bed by his mom. He climbed into bed without a word and within a few minutes, had fallen asleep again.
Part of me, the rational part, reminded me that it was just the disease talking. I looked past his thick, furrowed eyebrows and watched his eyes, normally grey and confused, suddenly become sharp and alert. "I know you've been stealing batteries from me, girl." He raised his arm and stuck one finger out toward my face, an inch from my nose. Memories flooded over me from my childhood. I remember when he used to do the very same thing when I was a kid, and how so many times, I had just wanted to bite that finger off.
I took a deep breath, and opted for distraction. "I think I remember seeing those batteries in the livingroom, Dad. Let's go look for them." It took everything in me to smile and step toward him. He looked uncertain for a moment, then turned with me and began to walk slowly down the hall. He was saying something under his breath that I couldn't understand. I was grateful that the television was on as we entered the room, because it drew his attention away from me. He shuffled to his chair and sat back, hands folded across his stomach, eyes half-closed, just like the old days.
_____________________________________
Staying overnight with my dad became more challenging each time. He had trouble sleeping at night, and would get up and wander all over the house. We had removed the handles from the stove so he couldn't turn it on by himself, and all doors leading outside had deadbolts. I kept the key around my neck so he couldn't find it. I was a light sleeper, so I usually woke up when he began to move around.
Not this time. I awoke to find him standing over my bed. "Dad! You scared me!" I said as I sat up.
"Be quiet!" He yelled at me. I quickly switched the light on, and discovered that he was even more agitated than usual. "Where's Lori?" He demanded.
"She had to step out to the store," I lied deftly. My mother had died three years ago, but my dad couldn't remember that. He was always asking for her. If I told him she was dead, he would sob and be heartbroken for hours, forgetting after a while why he was crying, but still inconsolable.
I got up carefully and reached to pat his arm. "What do you need, Dad?" He had that half-angry, half-scared look in his eyes again. His fists were clenched. I had learned to keep my distance. He had been a marine in his youth and a heavy duty mechanic before he retired, and those arms were still powerful enough to do serious damage. It was hard to know what would soothe him when he was like this.
"I want ice cream." He looked like he was about to cry. "I can't find it." He stepped closer to me, and it was then that I caught the scent of urine. Apparently, he had had an accident.
It was pointless to tell him that it was the middle of the night. It was also pointless to remind him that he had diabetes and shouldn't have ice cream. "Okay, Dad. I'll get some for you. First, let's go change your clothes. You want to look handsome when Mom gets home, don't you?"
He relaxed and nearly smiled at the prospect of seeing Mom. He shuffled after me to his room, where we wrestled with his clothes and got him rinsed off. Even just getting him into the shower these days was tough, but tonight he was unusually cooperative, eager to be ready for his wife to come home. Of all the caregiving duties I had assumed after my mom's death, washing him was the hardest. There was nothing comfortable about bathing my dad, who at his nicest had been gruff and awkward most of his life. I tried to do it quickly and efficiently, but that was getting harder and harder. I usually let the daytime attendant take care of that. Thank God for the veterans benefits my dad qualified for. I couldn't have cared for him 24 hours a day.
It was especially hard as the disease diminished his inhibitions day by day. I had to buy clothing that zipped in the back so he couldn't take his clothes off himself, otherwise he would take his clothes off over and over. Soon I wouldn't be able to care for him at home at all. Already my business was suffering from my exhaustion and inability to concentrate.
By the time he was dried off and dressed, he had forgotten about both my mother and the ice cream, and had slipped back in time to an early memory of being bathed and dressed for bed by his mom. He climbed into bed without a word and within a few minutes, had fallen asleep again.
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