An Absent Life (excerpt)

The events of my childhood are a strange and complicated mystery. I don’t mean the type of mystery a person can unravel later in life through therapy, painstakingly identifying antagonists and protagonists and psychoanalyzing past experiences into something that can be celebrated, forgiven or simply accepted. I mean that my memories do not exist in a manageable form.

My childhood comes to me in flashes. Not a moving, continuous reel of history, but a loosely connected series of visual snapshots, random sounds and smells, and a haunting sense of loosing touch. The story of my life dances awkwardly in front of me as though I lived in a world intermittently and unpredictably lit with strobe lighting, still images depicting precise moments but lacking context - often nonsensical, frequently frightening and sometimes supernatural. Imagine the internal narrative of your youth being accented with something similar to the psychedelic transitional sequences in an Austin Powers movie. Groovy baby. It was the 70s after all.

My first actual memory is of browsing in a greeting card store with my mom. I loved the card store. Everything was linear - straight lines up, straight lines sideways, equidistant spaces between. I felt calm when everything had a place and everything stayed still. With just a few customers, all reading silently and walking slowly, it was quiet like the library – another place I loved to go.

As we wandered, there was a slow rhythm to our movements. A reader’s pace. My mother was holding my hand guiding me through the towering aisles filled with graduated rows of rectangular greetings. There was a pause at the end of each row followed by a predictable reverse in direction bringing with it the need to shift me from her left hand to her right so that I would continue to be pulled, as opposed to pushed, down the same aisle. She was careful to bring her right hand around and grasp my alternate hand before releasing the other.

As my mother focused in on the teaser line of a card, she released my hand in order to pick up the card and inspect the conclusion of the sentiment inside. I immediately and instinctively wrapped my arms around her knee maintaining the most vital component of my existence - the essence of life as I knew it - constant physical contact with my mother.

I’m not exactly sure how old I was. Given my mother was 4’10”, the angle of trajectory as I glanced up to her face, with my arm wrapping just above her right knee but my head below her hipline, I can guesstimate my age to be 3 or 4.

Suddenly, the comfort of her leg disappeared. My mother had simply vanished. I was instantly alone, the skin of my arms tingling with the unexpected sensation of cool, empty air. The loss of touch was physically palpable to me. I could, however, still hear her voice even though I’d lost the sight and feel of her. She was shouting my name. My eyes searched the vacant space next to me as the panic in my chest started to burst through my ribcage. Where did she go this time?

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she hissed. She hadn’t vanished, just transported herself further down the aisle without walking. She did that sometimes. I wasn’t sure when I was going to develop this handy, but terrifying, travel skill, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

“Why did you stop there? You were following me to the register. Come on. Pay attention.” I popped my thumb in my mouth to stifle my cries and put a vice grip on her trousers.

When I asked my mother if she remembers this incident (I often double-check memories with family members), she replies, “Yes. It was so frustrating to take you places. You would be so quiet and content and then would suddenly erupt into a full state of panic. You acted as though I’d abandoned you or something. I was only 10 feet away and you could still see me.” I may have been able to see her, but I never knew where to look.