Getting It done

Getting It Done

There was no final straw just a carefully considered decision born of need and fostered by a longing for something she could not name. Nor, once the decision was made, was there any wavering or reconsideration—she simply began to make the necessary plans and arrangements. She wanted to do it right away, that very day, but she knew that would be stupid—a virtual invitation to getting caught.  So she chose March13th, a date two weeks away, because it was a school holiday and it would be several hours before anyone caught on to what she was doing. That, with any luck at all, would be all she needed.


She kept on doing things as usual—reading, watching TV, and her main occupation: trying to avoid making him mad. She thought about him more and more as the appointed date approached. It was hard to believe that she had wished him up but she knew she had. She could still see herself throwing a ball against the wall of the apartments they had lived in before he arrived on the scene. Throwing the ball night after night and singing a stupid made up song about getting a father. Well, she had gotten one but he sure wasn’t what she had in mind.


What she had in mind was a guy like the one that was married to Cathy (who had been friends with her mother some years back). His name was Mike and he had taken them all downtown to Foleys for some shopping –his wife and two kids and her and her mother and sister. Mike laughed a lot and teased and joked with all the kids as the two women shopped and she was completely captivated by his presence. Then she tripped over something and fell flat on her face like an idiot. Mike didn’t get mad or even laugh at her; he just picked her up ever so gently and spoke soft and soothing words while stroking her hair. What his exact words were she could not recall (and that was strange because one thing she was good at was remembering people’s exact words) but she could still hear the hushed, deep tones of his voice. Even better, she could still close her eyes and feel how safe and warm she’d felt in that one shared moment with him. Maybe that was where she had gotten the idea that having a father would make her world perfect. Of course, she should have known better since she’d already had one father and she had certainly failed miserably with him. At any rate, she had learned very young the very old lesson of be careful what you wish for because you might get it.


She wanted to say something to her mother, something her mother could remember and feel good about when the thing was done, but she just couldn’t come up with anything that wouldn’t arouse suspicion in a house where nothing was ever said. Even getting a moment alone with her would have been difficult because her mother was consumed with him. It had been like that since the day they were married and maybe that was how it had to be because that was what made him happy and they all knew what happened when he wasn’t happy. So she just kept quiet and spent her time figuring out exactly what she needed to do and exactly how it could be done.

The television told her a lot of what she had to know and her books told her the rest. She took repeated inventories of what she had and measured it against what she needed until she was sure she could make do. As the day grew closer she began to wonder (not for the first time) if there wasn’t something fundamentally wrong with her—something that made her different from everyone else.  Surely, she thought, she should feel some sadness or shame or at least be scared to death. So why didn’t she feel any of those things? In their place was only a slightly nervous anticipation mingling with a great sense of relief. Maybe the thing that kept her from feeling what normal people felt was also the thing that kept her from being what she knew she should be—what he wanted her to be.


The day finally arrived and she began to prepare as soon as he and her mother left for work. Clothes were important; she dressed carefully in the things she had chosen and was glad to find it was cold enough out that she wouldn’t burn up or look too out of place. She could have carried a purse but she didn’t have one and any kind of bag would arouse suspicion. Instead, she put the things she needed into her pockets; checking and rechecking to make sure everything was there. A last look around the room left her drenched in the sadness she thought she couldn’t feel as her gaze fell on the stacks of books she had lost herself in time after time.  Books that taught her lessons that could not be learned in a house of anger and silence, books that transported her to faraway places and books that introduced her to much loved friends.  The sadness caused her to castigate herself yet again; what kind of person felt sorrow for lost books and nothing for lost people? 


She found her sister in the kitchen and a different emotion gripped her by the throat and refused to let go. Not sorrow for what was to come because she and Mary had never been close. Perhaps there had been just too much difference in their ages and their temperaments for any kind of sisterly bond to form.  So it wasn’t a sudden dread of their separation that brought a lump to her throat but an unforeseen wave of guilt as she realized the actions she was taking would also change her little sister’s life. That wasn’t fair at all. She pushed away the threatening sentiment by reminding herself the two of them were as different as night and day and it was that difference that would keep her sister safe with him and their mother. She said the words she had to say, swallowing back the bad taste in her mouth, before moving quickly and silently out of the house.


It was only a short walk out of the neighborhood to the nearest freeway feeder. She stuck out her thumb as she had seen others do and now her heart pounded with fear that somehow she would be caught before she could even begin. It was only a minute or two before a man in a semi pulled over and she felt not the slightest hesitation as she took his outstretched hand and climbed in beside him.  “Where you headed “, he asked, and she responded with the words she had rehearsed time after time, “Downtown—Alan’s Landing. I’m meeting a friend for lunch.” He looked at her kind of funny but said only, “That’s where all the hippies hang out. I can get you pretty close. I’m Bill, by the way.” Now she did hesitate because a name was something she hadn’t considered and she felt quite stupid for missing such an important detail. She recovered quickly and answered him “I’m Cher. Cher Cancel.”  She hoped it didn’t sound phony because she had no clue where it had come from—it just popped into her mind and she spit it out without stopping to think. Bill just grinned and said he was glad to meet her. She smiled back and suddenly found herself feeling incredibly happy. It was 1970, she was 6 weeks away from her thirteenth birthday, and she had a new name and a new life.