Purloined Innocence

By

Larry Buege

“What’s that?” Tammy asked. Sitting on her dinner plate next to the punctiliously placed napkin and silverware was a self-sealing bag containing fragments of dried leaves mixed with a few small seeds. The crumpled leaves had turned grayish brown with age, but like a fine wine had lost none of its value in the process. Drying the leaves had only concentrated the desirable biological resins making the merchandise all the more potent. Including the bag, it only weighed two ounces, but it was top of the line.

“I thought we might start the meal with a tossed salad. Maybe it will give us something to talk about.” Karla Dykstra sat facing her thirteen-year-old daughter at the dinner table wondering where the conversation would take them. This was as far as she had planned the confrontation. From this point on, she had been hoping for divine guidance or perhaps a bit of spontaneous inspiration; none was forthcoming.

Motherhood wasn’t supposed to be an endless confrontation between parent and child; yet, over the last two years, the quality time between Karla and her daughter had degenerated into a weekly testing of wills. Her degree in elementary education had not prepared her for such encounters. Her expertise was with seven-year-olds. Those she could handle. She would gladly take twenty unruly second-graders over one moody teenager capable of transforming the most mundane conversation into an ugly scene replete with uncontrollable emotional outbursts and pointless rantings. A rational discussion with her teenage daughter was asking a lot these days. It would have been easier if her father were here.

“You broke into my room and went through my things? What ever happened to privacy?”

Tammy’s reply evinced anger, noticeable only by the tremor in her voice and a tightening of facial muscles that made the small birthmark on her upper lip quiver. Karla had seen that quivering lip frequently over the past several months—too frequently. Tammy could project a good front—as if she were in control of the situation—but the quivering lip always gave her away.

“I don’t rummage through your damn stuff. I respect your privacy. Why can’t you respect mine?”

“For your information, little lady, you happen to be my daughter and your room happens to reside in my house.” Karla hoped her voice was calm. The line between firm and argumentative was thin. She had a habit of crossing that line when her patience was challenged. “You may think you’re the cute little princess, but I’m still the queen, and I’ll go through your room any time I please until you earn my trust.”

Karla waited for a response, but was met with silence typical of her daughter’s passive-aggressive behavior. Given a preference, Karla would have preferred an emotional outburst, anything that would qualify as a response. But her daughter had signaled the end of the discussion and was now staring vapidly at her plate as if the bag of marijuana no longer existed.

As was her habit under stress, Tammy twirled her right index finger around a strand of naturally blond hair that hung well below her shoulders—too long for Karla’s taste. If truth were known, Tammy was a princess. At age thirteen she already had a model’s figure that could pass for sixteen. And despite her poor grades, she was not the stereotypically dumb blond. Karla had no doubt Tammy could bring home straight A’s with minimal effort if she were to apply herself. Unfortunately, academic activities were spurned in the pursuit of social acceptance. The desire for popularity dominated Tammy’s existence. This was where she excelled. With her sharp wit and ingratiating conversational skills, she easily made friends. It was the integrity of those friends that concerned Karla.

“You promised you wouldn’t do drugs anymore,” Karla said, unwilling to let the matter rest. “Sooner or later you’ll be caught by someone who may not be as understanding and forgiving. That won’t be a pleasant experience for either of us.”

“It’s only a little pot. Give me some credit. I have enough sense to stay away from the heavy stuff.”

“What’s this then…vitamin pills?” Karla tossed a pill bottle toward her daughter. It rolled across the table coming to a stop next to Tammy’s plate.

“I think it’s like speed. It clears the mind and helps me with my homework. They’re not harmful.”

“You think it’s speed? You’re taking drugs, and you don’t even know what they are? At least you’re not overdosing on them. With your recent grades, your mind can’t be too clear.” Karla regretted her words before they left her lips. Sarcasm was never helpful. Her frustration should not dictate the course of the conversation. “What would your father say?”

“He’s not going to say anything,” Tammy replied, her anger now palpable. “In case you haven’t noticed, he’s not here. He’s not coming back. Remember that man we buried three years ago? The guy filled with cancer? Remember him? That was your husband. My father’s gone. He’s dead. Live with it.”

“Tammy, that’s no way to talk about your father.”

“I’ll say anything I want about my father. He’s no longer a part of this family. Maybe smoking a little weed would do you some good. Maybe it’ll help you accept his death.”

Karla paused to collect her emotions. The truth was she did have trouble accepting Chad’s death. Life had been simple while Chad was alive.

“Tammy, I love you too much to watch you destroy your life like this. For the next month you’ll remain in the house, except for school. You may have friends over only when I’m home. If you can bring your grades up, I’ll reconsider.”

“Pleeese…Give me a break. You don’t love me. I’m just an embarrassment to your middle-class values, an inconvenient speed bump in your precious social life. Admit it: You hate me and I hate you.”

“I don’t hate you, Tammy.”

Breaking into tears, Tammy stood up and threw the bag of marijuana at the wall, bringing the conversation to its ineluctable conclusion. “Well, I hate you! I wish you weren’t my mother.” Tammy kicked at her chair causing it to fall against the table. A second kick sent it tumbling to the floor. Satisfied that she had won her battle against the chair, Tammy ran to the sanctuary of her bedroom and slammed the door behind her.

With Tammy’s departure, the dining room became engulfed in silence. Karla sat alone at the dinner table watching steam rise from the neglected meatloaf. Her three-bedroom ranch on the north side of Grand Rapids now seemed so empty, exacerbating Karla’s feeling of loneliness. There had never been such silence when Chad was alive. Parties were frequent and boisterous. When not entertaining friends, there was always someone watching TV or bouncing a basketball on the driveway. Evening meals were accompanied by pleasant discussions, not acrimonious altercations. They were a real family, three musketeers: one for all and all for one. Perhaps the relationships were not totally equal; Tammy had been a daddy’s girl. In Tammy’s eyes, he could do no wrong. Chad had an ineffably charisma that charmed girls of all ages. At times, Karla was almost jealous. Then Chad would scoop her up in his strong arms, and she would be putty in his hands. Maybe that was what made his death so painful, watching such a strong man waste away. The cancer was inoperable when they found it—lung cancer and he didn’t even smoke. They gave him chemotherapy, but all it did was destroy his beautiful brown hair and sap what remaining strength he still possessed. Pain was constant and relentless despite the medication. Just before he died, he was down to one hundred and twelve pounds of ribs and excess skin. His eyes had sunken into their sockets like some hideous Hollywood ghoul. That dying man was not the man she married. As Karla became more depressed, Chad became more upbeat, as if he needed to endure the pain for both of them. What hurt him the most—even more than the cancer—was when Tammy refused to visit him in the hospital. He said he understood her feelings, but Karla sensed his pain.

After Chad’s death, Karla’s friends—finding no niche in social circles for a single mom—drifted away. She still spoke to them occasionally at church or the supermarket, but they no longer shared anything in common. That was when Tammy began to drift away. Karla had been hoping it was a teenage phase Tammy would outgrow. At the moment that did not look promising.

Karla considered eating a slice of the meatloaf while it was still warm, then decided against it. The meatloaf would have to be resurrected on another day. Her appetite was gone, and it was unlikely Tammy would venture out of her bedroom before morning. In cases like this, Karla had found it best to give Tammy some space, at least for now. Tomorrow—when, hopefully, Tammy would be in a better mood—the subject could be revisited.

Who was she kidding, Karla wondered. Tomorrow, Tammy would be the same surly Tammy as today. Tammy was never in a better mood tomorrow. The truth was Karla was not up to further confrontation with Tammy. Postponing the confrontation was for her benefit, not Tammy’s.

Karla cleared the table and washed the dishes. She resisted the temptation to clean house; that was what she normally did when angry. There were times when she almost vacuumed holes in her rug venting her anger. Tonight, she was rapidly approaching that point. She retrieved the bag of marijuana and placed it on the table next to the pills. She didn’t know why. The room seemed tidier with the drugs in some semblance of order.

Karla stared at the contraband lined up on the table. The marijuana would have to be destroyed; the pills she could take to the drugstore for identification, not that it would make any difference. It surely didn’t make any difference to Tammy; she used the pills on faith alone. Tears filled Karla’s eyes and then cascaded down her checks. She cried until the tears no longer flowed. Then, she wiped them dry with Kleenex. Tomorrow was no longer an option: this could not wait.

Karla was not surprised to find Tammy’s bedroom door closed: Tammy cherished her privacy. Karla knocked on the door twice with no response; then she opened the door and stepped into the room. “We need to talk.”

“You’ve said everything. There’s nothing more to say.” Tammy lay on her bed facing the wall, feigning interest in a magazine. She was not about to make it easy. Karla did not find that surprising.

“This has to stop.” Karla paused hoping for a response, but heard none. “When the police catch you—and they will, they’ll refer you to social services…assuming you’re not arrested.” Tammy continued staring at her magazine, giving no indication that she had heard—except for the quivering lip. “The people at social service won’t play your silly games,” Karla continued. “They’ll take your behavior seriously. Neither you nor I will call the shots once they’re involved. You could be placed in a foster home for two or three months with rules far stricter than you have here.” Karla again paused waiting fruitlessly for some reaction. “Is that what you want?”

Tammy put down her magazine and looked at her mother for the first time. “If you’re worried about embarrassment, you can relax; the police won’t catch me. I don’t store drugs at school or carry them with me, and the police need probable cause to search the house. After tonight, you can rest assured they won’t find anything in your house. I’ll keep everything outside.”

“After tonight you won’t have access to outside. You may call it house arrest or whatever suits your fancy, but you’re not leaving this house.”

“You going to put bars on the windows? I can crawl out my window whenever I want. In fact, I may be out late tonight. Don’t bother waiting up for me.”

“Drug pushers do it for the money. What are you going to use for money? You’re going to be hard pressed to find two coins in your pocket to jingle. I’ll buy your lunch tickets, and if you need anything else, let me know and I’ll make the purchase for you. Without an allowance or other money, there’ll be no drugs. Do I make myself clear?”

“There’re ways a girl can earn spending money.”

Karla knew Tammy was right. Tammy had a figure that could easily be traded for cash. She had already learned the attention-getting value of a tight-fitting sweater. Her youth would only increase the value of her merchandise.

Karla returned to the dining room, placed a CD in the stereo, and sat at the table. Despite efforts of restraint, more tears began to flow. She was not normally a crier. She hadn’t even cried when Chad died. Maybe Tammy was right. Maybe she hadn’t accepted her husband’s death. She still felt like Chad would some day come bouncing through the door with a smile on his face. If he were here, the two of them would surely find a solution to Tammy’s behavior. When they worked together, insurmountable problems did not exist. But Chad was not here. He would not come bouncing through the door to save the day.

Karla picked up the bag of marijuana and the amber bottle of unlabeled pills. The marijuana might be no worse than alcohol, but even alcohol can be potent for a thirteen-year-old. What she worried about was the pills. Tammy didn’t even know what they were. Terry Barton’s daughter overdosed two years ago. As far as Karla knew, the police never caught Terry’s daughter with any drugs—not until they found her body in that abandoned warehouse surrounded by empty pill bottles. Tammy was as street-wise as Terry’s daughter. The odds of the police catching Tammy were remote.

The stereo played softly in the background. She had chosen a CD of ballroom dance music for it soothing effect. Chad liked ballroom dancing. That was how they met: at a college dance class. She had wanted nothing more than a no-sweat phys. ed. class. Instead, she was swept off her feet by a tall, slender engineering student. Shining armor could not have made him more enticing. The stereo faded as the current piece came to its end and segued into the “Blue Danube.” That was Chad’s favorite waltz. Karla closed her eyes and allowed Chad to waltz her around their living room. His hand felt strong against her back as he guided her through the steps. After a few minutes, the waltz faded into a slow dance. Chad pulled her close, pressing Karla’s breasts against his chest. Karla placed her chin on his right shoulder and leaned her face against his. She could smell his aftershave. It was English Leather; he never wore anything else. The hand on her back slowly slid up until his fingers were combing through her hair. She felt so strong in his arms. If only he were real.

“I am real,” he said.

“But only until I open my eyes,” Karla replied. “I’m so alone. I wish you were here to help me.”

Slowly, they danced across the floor. When the music was about to end, Chad placed his lips next to her ear and whispered, “Karla, you don’t need my help…you know what to do.”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.”

“It will be painful,” Chad said.

“I know,” she replied.

“Do it.”

The music faded, and Karla opened her eyes—he was gone. All that remained was the faint smell of English Leather. Karla wiped her eyes dry, picked up the phone, and dialed 9-1-1.

Return to HomePage