The summer that I turned 17, my parents wanted to make me a ward of the state. A foster child. They had each tried to deal with me, in their own way, independent of the other. Shrinks, family counseling, alcohol, threats, violence–none of it worked, because they wouldn’t work together, wouldn’t put aside their problems with each other to overcome me. Somehow, their mutual hate was renewed, and I as the cause was forgotten. Don’t get me wrong; I spent a lot of my adolescence sleeping in other peoples’ beds. I had enough friends who would put me up for a night or two. And I could always rely on my grandmother.
That’s where I went on the night that my father kicked me out of the house for the last time. (Everytime was the last time for him; but this time he was right.) We hadn’t been fighting that day–I hadn’t even seen him until mid-afternoon. He had come home from school without my brother–it was the week of final exams, and I hadn’t had to go in that day. We sat around the apartment for several hours, reading, not speaking. I could tell he was in a bad mood, but why look for trouble by asking him the reason? I was sure he’d tell me eventually, if he managed to stay sober long enough.
At six o’clock, I started thinking about dinner, so I asked my father where D was, and when he would be home. Dad erupted.
“Your brother isn’t coming back! He left school without me, he’s been lying to me, he failed English, he didn’t write his fucking term paper–he’s embarrassed me for the last time! Why don’t you get out too! Just call up your fucking mother and go live with her! Just get out of here!”
“Dad, what the fuck are you talking about? Where is D? What happened? I can’t believe you haven’t said anything–why haven’t you said anything?”
“Shut up! Just shut up and call your fucking mother and her fucking husband and tell them to come pick you up!”
“Dad I didn’t do anything! You’re such a fucking asshole! All right, you want me out? I’m gone!”
“Don’t fucking be here when I get back. Say hello to your mother for me, and get out of my fucking house!” With that, he collected his keys and stormed out of our apartment. He was too drunk to drive, but I didn’t even try to stop him. At times like those, I used to wish he would get killed in a drunk-driving accident, or at least arrested for DUI. No such luck, though.
The first thing I did was call up D’s best friend, to make sure he was there and to ask him if he needed anything. Then I called an old boyfriend and sometime knight-errant to come to my rescue once again. Finally, I called my grandmother to tell her that I would be over sometime that night.
I went into my room and started to pack, which was a luxury. Normally, I just got thrown out onto the street in the clothes on my back, and a purse, if I had time to grab it. Once, I had gotten kicked out in February, and had had to walk 5 miles to a friend’s house without shoes or a coat. I tried to hitch a ride, but who’s going to pick up a shoeless girl at 11 p.m. in the dead of winter? Now, I had the warmth of early summer and luggage on my side. I packed everything I could think of, because I wasn’t really sure how long I’d be gone, when K came by to pick me up, he laughed at me. “What are you doing, packing for a vacation?”
Granted, 5 suitcases is a lot, but 2 of them were D’s, and as I said–I packed for every eventuality.
