I was alone in the house when the electricity went off. It was very dark. Hurricane Agnes. I was eight. In the basement of what was a two-story Duke, the model name. My mother moved us every five years to bigger and bigger houses, told us the names and the builder and then left me to wander bigger and bigger spaces. Shirley construction wanted people to think of Dukes living there, but we weren’t dukes, my mother, my sister and I. I lived in a matriarchy.
My sister had gone to her friends when the winds started raging. She was 13 and mean. I don’t know where my mother was. I never did. My father was alone in his apartment talking to voices, I suppose. I didn’t know then I wasn’t supposed to be alone. That I wasn’t supposed to have to take care of myself. We didn’t have a flashlight. I wasn’t allowed to light candles. I sat in the basement and got scared. So scared, I fought hurricane force winds and rain to get to my sister’s friend’s house, where my sister got annoyed at the sight of me. But her friend’s mother gave me pigs in the blanket. I got to eat real food made by a mom.
One memory sticks with me: I was three, laying on the couch watching my favorite show, “Star Trek.” I wanted Captain Kirk to guide me safely through the universe. He didn’t. I had the flu. Mom tossed me a plastic tub and told me to throw up in that. And then she was gone. I don’t know where. My sister? Gone. Later that night my father barging in and sounds of slapping in the kitchen. There was yelling. “You let my baby get sick.” I smiled. Someone was trying to help. My sister looked at me and cried.
But, mainly, I don’t remember my childhood. I see this as a choice. Like, be depressed as hell and hate or forget and enjoy the day. But there are a couple of things I would like to mention given the chance: No one taught me how to wipe. No one taught me to wash my hands after. I would go hungry. Getting on the school bus, the boys laughed. No underwear. I had dressed myself. I had to learn how.
Maybe no one knew my plight. Maybe somehow the truth of the neglect was never seen. But one thing I could not hide: the mat of knots of hair at the base of my skull. Me, alone, couldn’t get them out.
Carroll Ann Susco holds an MFA from the University of Pittsburgh and has a chapbook on Smashwords.com titled True Fiction: A Pseudo Autobiographical Chapbook in Three Parts. She has numerous publications, including three publications in The Sun Magazine.
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