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D
A D D Y ' S G
I R L S
Chapter One
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ForeWord Magazine's Book
of the Year Award
Gold Medal Winner for Fiction
DADDY'S
GIRLS
is a bittersweet tale of love, spirit and redemption in a dysfunctional
family.
A mother and her two
daughters tell their own stories in overlapping vignettes that create
a vivid patchwork
of life's defining moments to reveal the dark forces lurking beneath
their middle-class
veneer. From her dual perspective as therapist and survivor
of a dysfunctional
family, Suzanne Gold sees difficult circumstances as opportunities
to discover meaning
and purpose in our lives, to deepen our capacity to love,
and to make a difference
both personally and in society.
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C H
A P T E R O N E
A Mission From God |
*
Allison
thirty-one years old
*
THE LAST TIME I saw Cherie
she was still beautiful.
I used
to envy her perfect nose, her perfect teeth. Even her artificially- straight
artificially-blonde hair flattered her. I dread seeing her now.
Mom says
Cherie's mental state deteriorated fast after her boyfriend/cocaine connection
dumped her, and soon she was seeing black helicopters following her, international
conspiracies spying on her. When she ran out of money and tried to get
the boyfriend to take her back -- yelling on his doorstep, threatening,
and frightening the neighbors -- he called the police. They threw her into
Egg Harbor State Hospital, where she's been for over a year, court-committed,
with reviews every six months.
Lost
in memory, I stare out the airplane window, barely registering the dull
roar of the engines or the attendants rolling carts down the aisle.
Thirty thousand feet down, barren waves of earth undulate. Probably mountains,
but from up here they just look like random abstract patterns. The plane
hits an air pocket and I'm falling but my stomach stays behind, leaving
me that much more nauseated than I already was about making this trip.
I remember Mom calling to tell me about Cherie's hospitalization. Guilt,
shame and outrage mingled in her voice.
"The
New Jersey State Police, no less. A crowd came to watch." I could picture
the way she slits her eyes in disapproval. "Can't say I'm surprised. Cherie
always was difficult. But a nervous breakdown in public on a quiet street
in Cape May. It's so humiliating!"
Mom sounded as if she'd taken Cherie's psychosis as a personal affront,
and maybe it was. It was a long time coming, although
Cherie was twenty-six when the first bona fide symptoms appeared. Late
onset adult schizophrenia, the diagnostic manual calls it. Now Mom's torn
between tying to fix Cherie and just wanting to forget she ever had a second
child.
She'd asked me to come right away, as if I could do anything about it.
Too busy, I said, but really I couldn't face it.
The aroma of burnt coffee penetrates my contemplation.
"Like to try some
of our special Starbucks brew?" A woman in a friendly-skies uniform lifts
a carafe at me.
"No, thanks." I gaze disconsolately at the landscape below. We're crossing
a river that looks an inch wide, but is likely the Mississippi. I glance
at my watch, already set to Philadelphia time, which tells me we'll land
in about an hour and a half. Even with a year to get used to the idea and
as many psychotics as I've worked with, I still don't feel like I can face
this. It's different when it's your own sister. Maybe I should meditate.
I lean my head against the seat back and realize I'm sucking my tongue.
Mom broke me of sucking my thumb all those years ago but not of the need
to suck when I feel threatened. I sigh and look for a place of peace within
myself.
* * *
I can
hardly keep from crying at the sight of Cherie being led into the visitors'
area.
A parody of her old self, she's gained at least thirty pounds. Her eyes,
outlined heavily in royal blue, peer out of her round face like a trapped
animal cowering in a cave. Blood ed lipstick smears way past the outline
of her mouth; her tentative smile reveals receding gums and a couple of
lost molars. Her peroxided hair is a rat's nest with dark roots, thinning
around its center part. Here and there a lock is wrapped in foil. Dressed
in clothes she would never choose for herself, too-short red plaid pants
and a badly pilled lime green sweater that clashes with every color in
the plaid. She couldn't look more like a lunatic if she tried.
I take a deep breath and stand. We embrace. I feel myself sink into her
pillowy softness, so different from the strong solid body she used to have.
"What are you doing here?" she asks. "They lock you up too?"
"No, I came to visit you."
"Did you bring cigarettes? Can we go outside so I can smoke?"
"Let's wait till Mom gets here. Then we'll go out together."
"Mommy's coming? Is she bringing presents?"
"Probably, but I brought some too. Want to see?"
Cherie claps her hands like an overjoyed toddler at her first birthday
party. It breaks my heart. I think of times as kids when I refused to play
with her and wonder if I'd been more open, more supportive, would it have
changed anything? But we were programmed from day one to become competitors,
enemies. Encouragement was unknown in our house. My eyes sting with bitterness.
As if she can read my thoughts, Cherie's face turns dark. She mutters about
curses and devils and the wrath of God, punctuated with unearthly giggles.
If it weren't for my experience working in mental hospitals and halfway
houses, I'd probably run from the room screaming at what's become of my
little sister.
I offer a distraction. "How about we sit down and I'll show you what I
brought?"
I extract treats one at a time, cigarettes first. Cherie tears open the
cellophane wrapper, sniffs one like a fine cigar. "Please can we go out
now so I can smoke?" she begs.
"As soon as Mom gets here," I say, and hand her the bagel and lox sandwich
I brought. I glance at my watch. "Which should be any minute. We
arranged to meet at two."
"The wicked witch still lives." She scowls and looks away, then her face
brightens as she catches sight of a tall lanky guy coming into the room.
"James, my sister's here and she brought me stuff. Want some bagel and
lox? Or some cigarettes?"
"Not now." He scoots quickly out the door.
"Is that a friend of yours?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"What's his name?"
"James Stevens. He lives on the men's side of the ward. He likes me. Can
I have that?" She points at my wrist.
"What, my watch?"
Cherie nods eagerly. It's a transparent Swatch, not expensive, but beloved.
"Will you be able to hang on to it?"
"God will guard it as He guards my life," she says. "I'll sleep with it,
I promise. I'll never take it off. Can I have it, please?"
I think about the time she dumped all my clothes in a pile in the middle
of my bedroom floor and stomped on them because I wouldn't lend her a skirt
she wanted to borrow. I feel myself flush with embarrassment at how I bought
into our mother's rules about whose clothes were whose and what rituals
we had to go through to borrow anything. Cherie never did stick with the
program, any program. I unbuckle the watch and hand it to her.
"Really?" She grabs it and quickly straps it around her wrist as if I'd
take it back if she waited another instant.
"Really," I say. "It's yours."
"Jesus told me all good things come to those who wait. He wants me to bear
his child, and this watch is his promise. He doesn't care about my scar."
"What's the aluminum foil in your hair for?"
"It helps block the surveillance so the helicopters can't find me. The
Anti-Christ hired the CIA to monitor me. To separate me from the Almighty."
It sounds so stereotypical it's almost trite, like a bad movie. If only
it were. One of my more disturbed clients once told me outright that his
daily mission was to erase the memories of where he'd come from, of what
he'd done. Could Cherie have unconsciously chosen going insane as a way
to avoid taking responsibility for herself?
The psychologist in me understands her mental state as the product of a
distorted family dynamic combined with a chemical imbalance in her brain.
The explanation buffers my despair at seeing her like this, but still,
it scares me. There but for grace go I.
I notice I'm sucking my tongue again and force myself to let go. Cherie
was always a devil, and overly sensitive, in the good and the bad way,
susceptible to nuances that everyone else in her life ignores. And so am
I. I feel guilty for being the sane one, assuming that I am. I may not
hear voices, but I have plenty of delusions of my own. The fundamental
difference between us is that my story is more socially acceptable than
hers, for which I'm embarrassed to realize I'm thankful.
She examines the watch on her wrist, moving it around to admire from different
angles.
"Thank you very much, sister, for this generous gift," she says. "I love
you."
"I love you too, sweet thing."
"I know. Let's play gin."
*
Ruth
fifty-five years old
*
Turning the car into the lane that leads to Cherie's depressing hospital,
I thank the powers that be for the taxes from gambling in Atlantic City
that pay for New Jersey's mental health system. If it weren't for that,
Cherie would probably have landed in my lap.
I hope Allison's here by now. It's about time she made it to visit her
sister. Cherie will be her responsibility when I die, although I'd love
to be free of her while I'm still alive. I'm tired of worrying about her,
but I can't just abandon her. A mother has to protect her children, like
when they were in the womb.
The spacious and grassy hospital grounds aren't bad, if it weren't for
cigarette butts and foam cups everywhere, but the buildings look like a
prison. What did I do to deserve this?
Better lock the car. With all these crazies around you can't be too careful.
My head aches as I drag myself up the ramp to Cherie's building. I ring
the bell and wait for one of the grumpy, lazy psych techs to open the door.
I'd rather turn around and go home but Cherie needs me.
It seems like an hour before the door swings open. A very fat woman in
stretch pants and a white lab coat glowers at me.
"I'm here to see Cherie Krazny," I tell her.
She shuffles down the hall to the elevator and I follow. Rifling through
a bulging ring of keys, she chooses one and inserts it where the call buttons
would normally be.
"Second floor, left to Ward B. Ring the bell next to the door at the end
of the hall."
She sounds like she's angry at me. Does she think it's my fault that Cherie's
crazy?
The elevator clanks and rattles its way upward. Alone in the compartment,
I wonder again if I did anything to make Cherie the way she is, and what
I can do to fix her. Allison seems fine, sane enough to be a therapist
at least. I'm an ordinary everyday person. And even though Warren could
be infuriatingly obnoxious, he wasn't certifiable.
Abruptly, the elevator stops but the doors don't open immediately. I start
worrying about being stuck here. When they finally slide apart, the cold
gray hallway hits me with the smell of piss and disinfectant.
There's another bell at the locked door to the ward. I push it, and peer
through the chicken wire-fortified window. A psych tech, a man this time,
sporting a lush handlebar mustache, answers my ring, using his overly muscled
body to block the entrance. I tell him who I am.
"What's in the bag?" he asks, reaching for the goodies I've brought Cherie.
I surrender it, knowing he has to rummage through everything to see for
himself.
He pulls out the tube of lipstick, inspects it to make sure it's still
sealed.
"Nail polish okay, no file though. Too dangerous." He pockets the Revlon
nail file, inspects the cigarette pack for forbidden matches, opens deli
containers of food and sniffs them. Does he think I stashed a gun in the
potato salad?
It seems like days pass before he hands the bag back. Why are all these
people so slow?
"In there." He nods toward the entrance to the visitors' lounge.
Inside, people are gathered in scattered clusters, a patient with family
or friends.
Allison and Cherie are playing cards at a table by the window. Junk spreads
out around them, most of it looking like the same kinds of things as I
brought. Damn it. I wish I'd known what Allison was bringing so my stuff
wouldn't pale in comparison.
I force cheerfulness into my voice. "Hi, girls."
"Mommy, Mommy. Mommy's here," Cherie chants.
Allison stands to greet me. She looks comfortably elegant in faded jeans,
boots and a cable-knit sweater. Her hair is shorter, curling gently around
her face. Cherie's still sitting, grinning at me. I can tell another tooth
is gone. She's fatter than ever, and sloppy, in shabby mismatched clothes.
I accept Allison's hug, then lean to press my cheek on Cherie's head.
She shrinks away, like she can tell what I've been thinking.
"Contamination!" she shrieks. "The Lord Jesus Christ our Savior will condemn
you for Eternity for defiling his Chosen One!"
I sit heavily. "Cherie, honey, be nice. We haven't all been together in
years. Let's try to have a good time."
"Don't take it personally, Mom," Allison says quietly, as if I had a choice.
This is my child we're talking about, flesh of my flesh. Tainted.
"It is her fault," Cherie roars. "God knows. She has never treated His
Servant with proper respect. For that, she'll burn in Hell!"
"What else can I do?" I ask. "I've been trying to help you."
"Repent, sinner. Let the Evil be cast out from your blackened soul."
"What's in the bag, Mom?" Allison interrupts in a bright tone. "Offerings
for the chosen one?"
"Cigarettes?" Cherie wants to know. "Red licorice and M&M's?"
"All your favorite stuff." I clear a space to empty the contents onto the
table, glad to be in familiar territory.
"Oooh, lipstick, eye shadow, Marlboros, nail polish, Oreos! Jesus'll cut
you some slack for that."
Why does she have to do this Jesus routine? She's Jewish, for God's sake.
Is she crazy because I sent them to Vacation Bible school at the Presbyterian
church around the corner when they were little? Was it too much to ask
to have a few minutes to myself once a day for two weeks?
Cherie swivels the lipstick out of the tube and touches up her already
scarlet lips, scraping unnoticed bits onto her front teeth.
I pull a mirror and tissue from my pocketbook. "Here, let me help you clean
that up."
"Be gone, heathen! Away!" She jumps up, knocking over her chair.
Allison studies her, then turns to me. "Sometimes I think she's speaking
metaphorically."
Cherie stops mid-tantrum, looks interested.
"You know, like poetry," Allison says. "You say you want to help but she
doesn't appreciate you. Maybe, through the filter of her delusions about
sin and evil, she's saying she doesn't want what you're trying to give."
"You're talking as though your sister isn't in the same room. Is this some
new psychological theory?"
"Just an experiment. What do you think, Cherie?"
Cherie giggles maniacally. "I think, um..." She makes a deep buzzing sound.
"I guess she doesn't want to talk about it," Allison says. "But you could
try not nagging her for a while and see if she relates to you any better."
I refuse to answer the little snot. Thinks she's so smart because she has
degrees in psychology and I had to drop out of college after one year.
Cherie takes a quick breath, renews the buzz.
Nurse Humphries appears at the door to see what the ruckus is about. I
look helplessly at Allison, afraid that if I try to say anything, I'll
make things worse. Allison takes her sister's hand, pulls her down to her
chair, smoothes her tangled hair.
"Sorry about the noise," she says. "Cherie's okay now, aren't you, honey?"
Cherie eyes the nurse suspiciously, then nods emphatically. "I'll be good,"
she promises sweetly.
As the woman retreats, Cherie cocks her head like she's listening to her
voices, then mumbles back at them.
"I just wanted to help," I repeat. "I didn't mean to upset you."
It galls me to have to apologize to Cherie's sickness, but if we don't
keep her calm they'll throw us out and lock her up again.
"You used to be so pretty," I tell her. "Maybe if you parted your hair
on the side, went to the dentist and got a partial plate..."
Cherie snorts. She looks like she's gearing up for another fit. Allison
shoots me a warning look, changes the subject.
"Now that Mom's here, why don't we go out? Cherie wants to smoke. Maybe
we can take a ride, do a little shopping?"
Cherie beams. "Can we go to WalMart and buy clothes? They steal all my
clothes here."
"They don't steal your clothes," I say. "You put them in the communal laundry
and they get sent to other wards."
"Mom, please," Allison says.
I hate Allison acting like she knows more than I do about how to treat
my own daughter. But it does seem that everything I try backfires. Since
the day she was born,
Cherie never understood how hard I tried to put her on the right path.
Sometimes I think she went crazy just to spite me.
*
Cherie
twenty-eight years
old
*
They're stealing my stuff. Everyone here is in on it. Even the air here
is poison. Hate, fear, death floating around. Don't breathe it. Don't breathe
it. Why am I here? What did I do wrong?
You
are not the cause. It is my will. Everything is of that.
Me too?
Everything
is filled with my holiness.
I am You? Not a loser any more?
You
are. Only those who scorn me lose. They are those you see as living dead
--pretending, stumbling, blind.
Then fly me to your Heavenly Palace. I'm an alien in this world. Why am
I locked up with these zombies? Why am I still here?
Remember...
*
Cherie
minus nine months
*
"I have
an assignment for you, dear one, if you agree to accept it. A physical
manifestation."
"I don't know, Boss. I don't see the value in this individual consciousness
stuff. I like it here where it's all one."
"I
know you do, angel. But I have a job waiting there for you."
"Why me?"
"Only
you have the particular combination of skills and quirks to carry off this
assignment."
"Flatterer. So what do I have to do?"
"Nothing."
"What do you mean, nothing? Am I going to die being born?"
"Oh, no. You will have a relatively long life, although you will not enjoy
most of it because of the state you will be in."
"What is it? Brain damage? Will you render me paralyzed? Some great deformity?"
"Not
exactly. But you will never amount to anything by that world's standards.
You will choose what seem like dead ends. You will spend time in a mental
hospital."
"Why? What have I done to deserve it? What do I need to learn?"
"This
one is not for you, angel. It is a life of service. You will show people
parts of themselves they refuse to look at. By opening to themselves,
they will learn to love others."
"And I get nothing out of it?"
"To
the contrary. You get the satisfaction of being a great teacher, and of
returning to me with expanded wisdom and compassion."
*
Cherie
birth
*
Boss? Can you still hear me? I don't think I like this job already. It's
getting weird in here. I'm crushed and battered by endless squeezing. I
want to go Home. Isn't there another soul who can take over?
Ow. Pressure on my belly, sliding across. Then an opening above me, and
warm wetness. I'm lifted out. No, please, I don't want this life.
Bright lights, cold, cold air, and hands all over me, moving me around,
slapping, rubbing...
"WAAAHHH!" I scream as chest and vocal cords engage. I don't want to be
here!
I'm slipping into an alien realm, out of control. Please, Boss, take me
back.
No answer.
My awareness of Before is fading fast, but I still remember enough to realize
that the Boss knows best. Much as I hate it, I'm born now. I surrender
to my fate.
*
Cherie
twenty-eight years
old
*
"Thank you Mommy and Sweet Sister Ally. I'm so excited you're both here.
Can't we all just go home now?"
"Right now we're going to WalMart," the queen of spades says. Cockroaches
crawl all over her.
"What would you like to buy?" asks the crown princess.
Through the magic doors. Lights sparkle, colors, products of every variety
for your home, and the smell of...
"Popcorn! Extra large! With lots of butter! Please, please can I have some
popcorn?"
I follow the delicious smell, pushing through piles of boxes in my path.
Make way, make way. Jesus's chosen, the Empress of Heaven, is coming, trailed
by pretenders to the throne, the ladies-in-waiting who conspire to overthrow
her.
They will not succeed. The Empress is on a mission from God.
***
(End of Chapter
One)
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