Auld Lang Syne

My hair flew back, following the crisp wind that was stinging my face. I felt the thrill of adventure shuddering through me and causing my shoulders to hunch more deeply into my coat, half from the cold, half from the fear. I had never felt so free, so reckless, so...bad.

The morning had begun at my father’s house with hushed whispers and an air of conspiracy. I couldn’t quite comprehend all of it but I knew something grand was about to occur, and I couldn’t let the grown-ups in on it. They, on this day, were the enemy. That’s what my stepbrother and stepsisters told me, and my own older brother was following along with sparkling eyes and barely suppressed excitement. Since I took any cues I needed from him, I clamped my seven-year-old lips shut and reveled in the comradery.

It wasn’t often that my brother, Freddie, and I felt such comradery with our step siblings. At least on my part, I wasn’t always clear about their places in our lives, the places of people we lived with for a week or two once or twice a year. They seemed to occasionally harbor hostility towards us for reasons it was beyond my scope to understand. I only knew that we had an uneasy truce with them on this day, New Year’s Eve, 1972. And it felt good. It felt right.

My stepmother made us tuna salad sandwiches for lunch. She talked to us about the night because she and my father would be going out to celebrate the new year with other adults. My older stepsister, Carrie, would be in charge of us, which was just fine with me. Carrie was my hero, the one I looked up to and felt a certain kinship with. She was full of energy and ideas, and she had some wonderful plans for our evening, the New Year’s Eve that my father and her mother were not to hear about. I don’t know how the parents in that house failed to pick up the vibes running through us. We were fairly humming.

At last the hour came to stand at the door and wave goodbye to the parents. They were leaving early, before sunset, because they planned to “make the rounds” with their friends. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it meant something good for us, the kids. When the door shut the bustling began; furniture was pushed back and lists were made. And then Laurie, the next oldest of my stepsisters, was delegated to ride her bicycle to the nearest Piggly Wiggly for supplies. It was all so exciting to me-my mother, the overprotective, always vigilant one- would never have let my older brother and I ride a bicycle to the store. She would never let us feast on junk food or stay up past midnight, even on New Year’s Eve. I was so thrilled I could hardly stand it! And then the ultimate adventure happened for me: I asked Laurie to let me ride with her. I begged and she relented, although Carrie was unsure. She knew my mother was overprotective and knew my father would literally have her head if anything happened to me on her watch, but I think she felt sorry for me. She knew my life was unbelievably sheltered, and so she, too, relented. There I was, flying along on Laurie’s handlebars, clutching the treasured list in my hand while Laurie whizzed through the darkening streets.

When we reached the grocery store I half expected some adult to ask us what we were doing there all alone. But no one really cared, a fact that both startled and heartened me. People were hurrying, rushing to pick up their last-minute items before the store closed for the holiday. I saw black-suited gentlemen and jeweled, gowned women with their hair shellacked to their heads or piled high in fancy sweeps. My wide eyes attempted to take in everything at once while Laurie was busily scooping candy necklaces and sugar babies into a basket. We also picked up potato chips and small plastic toys. Laurie paid the cashier with wadded bills from her jeans pocket and we were off.

The return ride was more scary, more sinister. Night had closed in on us while we were in the store. I took my place on the handlebars and shut my eyes tight. My breath was coming in gasps, as if I were running. I couldn’t slow down my thundering heart as we flew through the streets. Once Laurie narrowly missed a huge pothole and the swerve drove us into an oncoming car, which thankfully moved to the side as we sailed by. The driver yelled something at us that wasn’t very nice but I couldn’t quite make it out. Laurie and I exchanged strangled words, hoping the games were set up at the house and wanting the ride to end soon. Talking with Laurie felt good, she wasn’t always the kindest of kids in my father’s house. But on New Year’s Eve night, we shared our excitement and impatience for the fun to begin.

Back at the house the games had been started and we joined in with exuberance. We yelled and laughed, ate and drank and laughed some more. We turned the television up and watched the ball begin its slow, ponderous drop. We bounced and danced with joy-even the teenager, Carrie, who’d had to give up her own New Year’s plans to stay with us. I never remembered feeling so joyful or loose. I laughed until my throat was hoarse, and then my eyelids began to droop. While the other kids scrambled to pick up the mess we’d made, I struggled to keep my eyes open long enough to watch the ball reach the bottom of the pole. I lost the fight.

The next time my eyes pried open the room I was in was dark. I heard my father’s voice, but not his voice in a way that I’d ever heard it. It sounded strange, rough and slurry. I struggled up and out of the twin bed I was in, stumbled to the door of the room and stood at it, uncertain of my purpose. I heard that voice again, my father but not my father, and I opened the door a crack, stepping out a bit into the hallway when I couldn’t see the commotion. I watched my father, an angry, blotchy-looking man standing in the doorway of the kitchen, pull the telephone out of its wall socket while my stepmother was vainly trying to reason with him. And then he saw me, and so did she, almost simultaneously. He started to stride toward me, telling me to get my stuff together because we were leaving; my stepmother stepped in front of him and wouldn’t let him get to me. Then she shoved me into the darkened room across the hall, all the while facing him, taking his eyes away from me and focusing them on her. The door to this bedroom slammed shut and I stood, disoriented. The room belonged to Carrie. She tiptoed over to me and pulled me to her bed. I sat and looked at her, confusion paramount in my mind, but she looked beyond me, her eyes leaden.

Suddenly the door opened again and my brother and stepbrother were unceremoniously shoved in. The door shut with a click, to be opened and shut again when Laurie slipped in with extra bedding. All the while screaming and yelling was escalating. I stood and shivered, not afraid, but cold and a little exhilarated. Nothing like this ever happened at my house, the house I shared with my mother, brother, and grandparents. Was this what adults were like after a party? I wouldn’t know, my mother didn’t go to any.

Carrie made us beds on the floor, in the dark, with Laurie’s help. It wasn’t exciting anymore, only tiring and kind of irritating. Then the bedroom door opened again and my stepmother came in. They’d been arguing at the door; she was telling him to leave them alone, they need their sleep, they won’t be coming back if you do this. I knew she was talking about my brother and me. My stepmother lay down beside me and stroked my hair a little. She tried to act like everything was fine, but she locked the door and whispered that we had to play the quiet game and be as quiet as we had ever been, ever. I’d never gone to sleep in a room with so many people and I thought it was creepy.

When I opened my eyes again I was back in the bed I’d been awakened in the night before. I shook my head to try to clear the cobwebs scattered there from so much nightly activity. I went out into the living room and found my step siblings tiptoing around and speaking in hoarse whispers. Carrie told me that my father was sick today and I was not to disturb him, no matter what. I ate breakfast and watched morning activity filled with silence and whispers-it all felt so peculiar. I couldn’t resist it, I finally tiptoed into the room shared by my father and stepmother. I stood looking at them. They were sleeping side by side, as if the night before had never happened. I remembered her being so scared and now here she was, sharing space with him. Abruptly my father opened his eyes. I jumped a little. His eyes were red and bleary, and when he saw me he groaned and turned over. Carrie swooped into the room and spirited me away in a panic.

Later in the day, when the adults were up and moving around, albeit very slowly, we were ratted out. Gene, my stepbrother, began bragging to them about winning games and prizes. My two stepsisters were disgusted with him and actually scared that my father would discover more about the night, especially the tale of my nightly excursion. Carrie was almost in tears at the prospect of my father discovering that part of the story. I assured her that I’d never tell. But later that night, after things were as back to normal as they ever were, my stepmother and father sat my brother and I down and talked to us about what we’d experienced that New Year’s Eve at their house. They extracted the story out of us and my father did seem infuriated, which worried me. I felt powerless to protect my step siblings, and I could feel the fragile bond we’d forged slipping away. My heart welled with regret. They also told us that there was no need to inform my mother about the night’s activities. We surely knew, they said, that family arguments were common and that if my mother found out about their little tiff she might never let us come to visit again. We needed to keep to ourselves, they said, and they promised us that such arguments would never happen again.

But I was confused and my head spun. So much secrecy in this house, I thought, so much to not tell. We went home the next day, home to my mother and her non-drinking family. That night, before my mother put me to bed, I told her everything. She was appalled and upset that my brother had actually planned to keep it all from her. She didn’t blame him, though, which I thought was good.

I don’t believe My father ever forgave me for telling on him. The next time he visited, when and I ran at him like I always had, he pushed me away from him, telling me I was too old to come running at him like that. I was crushed. My father divorced my stepmother a few years later, and sometimes, quite often really, I wonder about those step siblings, think about them, and strangely enough, I miss them; the tenuous ties that bound us are forever locked inside me. Is it the same for them? Do they wonder about me and my brother? Or have they not forgiven us for that one unpardonable sin...the ability to escape.