It was summer and the house smelled of french toast. The good kind made from Challah bread floating in a river of real maple syrup from Vermont. A long month spent at sleep away camp left me hungrier than normal but with a lessened capacity for overeating. After thirty days of subsisting on jelly sandwiches (I hate peanut butter) and watered down Kool-aid, I could not put down the three hamburgers, two pizzas and one funnel cake that were the norm in those days (and pretty much these days as well). I was only on my sixth slice of thick eggy goodness when that familiar sated feeling began to settle in.
I finished off the last bite and glanced over at Memma as she reached for another slice. French toast was our favorite food. It was the only thing our mother made well and we demanded it at every meal. Memma, two years my senior, had the eating speed and dexterity I lacked. While I slowly licked my fork and fingers after each bite (lest I miss the teeniest drop of syrup), Memma moved with a hoover like speed that ensured she got to all the good pieces first. Yet where I lacked speed, Memma lacked the endurance and girth that came naturally to me. Memma might finish her third piece while I was just slurping the syrup out of my hair after only my first piece-but while she was watching cartoons an hour later, I would still be working. Slow and steady wins the race, at fat camp anyway.
My father, normally absent from these mid-morning feasts as he enjoyed being physically active and would go for long runs on the weekends before smoking a couple packs of cigarettes, was present this particular morning. He sat across from me reading the paper and attempting to hide the look of disgust on his face as he watched me clog arteries and develop love handles before his very eyes. My mother, clad in her Sunday best of an over sized "It's a Woman's Right" t-shirt and stirrup-ed stretch pants, puttered about pretending to clean the kitchen. Instead she simply shifted mounting piles of dirty dishes and papers from one spot to another (this is a keen skill of my mothers, cleaning without actually producing any sort of sanitary, organized, or otherwise worthwhile result). Baby Mannah, barely two years old, was off traveling the world with a well-trained dog (a long held dream of the toddler).
"Girls." My mother moved towards the table. I began to pour syrup on my now empty plate, covering the ceramic surface before lowering my head and slurping the sticky sweetness into my mouth. "Girls there is something your father and I would like to talk to you about." My thoughts were covered in sugar and maple and my attention was not immediately drawn to the perceptibly dour, limp tone in my mothers normally shrill and commanding voice.
"Mephie," my father abruptly pulled the plate away from my syrup covered face. Something was up, my parents knew that nothing got between me and my syrup. "Listen, there is something we need to talk to you about."
My mom continued, "We both love you very very much."
Shit. This speech could end one way and one way only. Adoption. I was being given up for adoption. I knew that eventually Mannah would edge me out as the youngest and cutest. I shouldn't have eaten so much syrup. I should have learned to wash my own clothes or done some chores. Why didn't I listen when my dad told me to clean my room or when my mom told me that if I kept eating all the cheese before anyone else had some she was going to stop buying it. Life was so unfair. Just because I didn't shower every day or contribute in any tangible way to my family, I was being kicked out?
I had long feared potential relocation to Australia. Relocation marked by familial abandonment and the use of outhouses instead of bathrooms. After watching the Meryl Streep "The Dingo ate my baby" movie and a couple lifetime made for tv movies on orphans forced to turn tricks and strip, I was pretty sure that my cushy suburban life was the purgatory stage on the journey to Australian homeless hell.
"And nothing that happens will change that," my mother continued, unaware that I was in the midst of an inner soliloquy on the inherent unfairness and cruelty of giving your nine year old daughter up for adoption.
Memma grabbed my hand under the table. This surprised me. Why was she worried? She was the favored child. She was "of normal height and weight" and "brushed her hair every night." She wasn't going to be shipped off to Australia. No that was me.
"Your father and I have decided to have a trial separation." The words reverberated in my ears. Separation, separation, separation. Australia vanished from my thoughts and I realized they weren't getting rid of me, they were getting rid of each other, I would be starring in a different lifetime movie altogether. The tears came came quickly, thick sticky tears mingling with maple syrup residue on my sunburned cheeks. The rest of my parents rehearsed speech was swallowed by the wails now erupting from the children of this newly minted broken home.
"You're UGLY." I screamed at the top of my lungs. I intuitively knew, even at this young age, that people are most affected when you attack their looks. "You're ugly and I hate you." I ran upstairs to the sanctuary of my room, slamming the door and dramatically throwing myself on the bed. I was the star of my own melodrama. I was upset, devastated, inconsolable. I was going to get two wardrobes! My parents were horrible, miserable selfish people. People were going to feel so bad for me, I would get extra attention! I was abandoned, forgotten, collateral damage. I wonder if there would be a pity trip to Six Flags!
A lot of crying and screaming ensued. I broke things. Mainly my own things in my own room, which looking back was a pretty stupid way to punish my parents. My father, it turned out, had already rented an apartment in the next town over, a town I had long considered to be haven for trashy divorcees and convicted sex offenders. He would be moving out in less than one week at which point we would begin the dreaded every other weekend rotation. My mother would stay with us in our house and be our main caregiver during this trial separation.
All of this seemed to come out of no where. Maybe it's because I was too busy trying to convince everyone to go to The Sizzler all the time, but I hadn't noticed any tension between my parents. I was also 9. Sure they weren't affectionate like on TV and maybe they never laughed together like my friends parents, but they never fought and we didn't live in a trailer, so how could they be getting divorced? Later when my sister and I compared notes I learned that while I was away at summer camp my father had started sleeping in the spare bedroom. Memma thought this was normal, I guess we know now its not.
Over the next few months I realized that divorce was not quite what I imagined. I would not, it turned out, be getting a new set of clothing for my Dad's house. My parents had the audacity to tell me to "pack an overnight bag." On the upside, I was a novelty. My friends, all products of functional families, showered me with attention. When I told a group of girls during a sleepover party, everyone started crying and hugging me. I was a tragic star! There was no pity trip to Six Flags, but there were quite a few pity trips to breakfast buffets (which are kind of like my own version of Neverland).
The trial separation turned into real separation and then divorce. My dad started dating my sister's best friend's mother, my mom started dating everyone else. I acted out, lit some things on fire, knifed some kids at school - the usual - and blamed it on my parents' divorce. I had excuses for forgetting homework and school books. It was great, you know, beyond the whole my parents got divorced, essentially ruining my young life and shattering my belief in love thing.
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