The Strong One

I’ve never been a fan of Christmas. I don’t know any of the movies or songs. I generally just try to hide this time of year, which was a lot easier to do in 2020. But I finally felt compelled to write something, even though I deliberately skipped our last meeting. This is part of the reason why:

The Strong One

Once again, it was Christmas Eve and mom had an urgent crisis. She always had an urgent crisis when we were with our fathers, inevitably trapped in some life-threatening emergency from which only my half-sister Diana and I could save her. 

It could be true this time – we were never sure. Mom was hysterical. “Please come right away! He’s going to kill me!”

I was at my father’s apartment in Washington, D.C.  Diana was at her father’s house in Rockville, Maryland. And Mom was two and a half hours away in Dewey Beach, Delaware.

“Can’t she call the police this time?” Diana asked when I called her. 

“You know Mom. Somehow she always manages to call me, but then stops answering the phone after that. I think it’s to build the suspense or something.”

“And we know Peterson. He’s probably ripped up her clothes and thrown them in the canal again,” Diana observes.

“Remember two years ago, when he threw all our family home movies into the fire? He abolished our childhoods, our birthdays and Christmases, all of it.”

Peterson was my second stepfather, Diana’s first. There would be more after Peterson – Mom would turn out to be a “serial monogamist.” The problem was, she always made really bad choices. Peterson was the most dangerous up to that point. We couldn’t know than that stepfather #4 would manage to kill her and get away with it.

I drove to Rockville to pick up Diana and we headed off to Delaware to save the day… again.

We passed homes decked out with festive lights, and wondered if they were having fun inside. What did their tree look like? Were there lots of presents underneath it? Did they open a gift on Christmas Eve, as we used to do, or did they wait until Christmas morning to open them all? Did they take turns opening presents or just simultaneously rip things open? (We took turns, with Diana in charge of handing presents out one at a time. It was a theatrical production, typical of my family.)  

What did they have for breakfast? Back in happier days – now destroyed by fire – we always had pancakes in funny shapes.

We drove in an anxious, irritated silence. What would it be this time? Would he have hit her again? How badly? What would we have to do to get the situation resolved? Why wouldn’t Mom just leave him? Why wouldn’t she tell the police?  

I was 22 years old, Diana just 17. And yet we were supposed to be the saviors. In 1972, “domestic violence” wasn’t even a thing.

As we crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, I said “You know… I’m really sick of doing this.”

“Me too,” my sister said.

“But you always get to be the sweet little peacemaker. That’s what you’ve always been in this family. You’re Switzerland. And I have to be Godzilla, yelling and threatening to use my martial arts skills on that asshole, while you take Mom off to the kitchen to have tea and cookies.”

“Well…” Diana said, “we could switch.”

“Right,” I snarled. “You’re 5’2”, and really cute with your dark curly hair and pug nose. You can’t possibly be a monster like me.”

“I can try,” she said.

We drove in silence for another twenty minutes.  And then I said, “Okay. Let’s do it. It’ll totally freak them out. But I don’t want you to get hurt. Peterson is well over 6’ tall, and super strong. We need a strategy.”

Diana thought a bit and then said “No. I just want to do it like you. Really be the strong one and just bust in there. We can have a code word I can yell if things get bad.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“I dunno. Raspberry.”

“Uh…. Okay.”

So, we arrived in Delaware, roles swapped and hoping for the best.

Diana marched up to the front door and pushed it open, yelling and charging right toward Peterson. “Listen, motherfucker, we’ve had enough of your shit! Get the hell away from our mother! Who the fuck do you think you are?” and more.  I was in awe. I’d never heard that language coming from my cute little sister. Peterson was totally confused, his eyes bugged out and mouth hanging open. He couldn’t even speak.

Diana went on with her explosive rant, while I quietly said to Mom, “Let’s go into the kitchen, shall we? I bet you’ve got some nice Christmas cookies in there. I’ll fix us some tea,” while holding her arm and leading her away. She seemed to be just as confused as Peterson, asking “Ummm, what’s happening? What are you two doing?”

“We’re taking care of the situation, Mom. Just trying something different. Come along with me.”

I had no idea what Diana had in mind other than being threatening. I was just listening for the word “raspberry,” the word that would inevitably require that I and assume my customary role. Peterson knew I was a tournament fighter with a second degree black belt, so he knew better than to get physical with me. 

However, “raspberry” never showed up. She actually got Peterson to leave the house, stumbling away from her and out the door. 

Mom was bruised and battered, and we’d had enough. We called the police. 

Things were resolved, eventually. And then Mom divorced Peterson and married Chuck. But that’s another Christmas story…