The Shadow I Remember

By C. Ruthe

What would you do if you found out there was a horrible, shameful secret within your own family? Cyndi thought she had it rough by trying to get her emotionally distant father to pay any attention to her, while at the same time attempting to fend off an overanxious and domineering mother--a rather frustrating and difficult struggle, indeed. But what Cyndi learns about her father years after his death completely shook her to the core.

It's been said that chaos brings people closer together. "The Shadow I Remember" presents a brutal tale of emotional distance, sexual and psychological abuse, and mental instability within a family that merely wanted to live a simple life, but unexpectedly ended up imploding.

 

216 pages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Ruthe
• Release date: Feb 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201284701

C. Ruthe

C. (Cynthia) Ruthe hails from Chicago, Illinois.       A former poet, Cynthia’s work had enjoyed a moderate level of success in various underground online and print magazines, until she finally burned out in late 2011. She has now favorably taken to creative nonfiction, a genre she feels allows her much greater scope and freedom in which to accurately convey personal struggles and complex emotions, a feat she has considerably accomplished in her first book, “The Shadow I Remember.” Cynthia views her passion for writing as the best way to deeply connect with other people; inviting them into her world and welcoming them with a warm and friendly handshake. She lives in Sacramento, California, with her husband and two fur-babies, and is currently working on her next book.

Book preview

THE SHADOW I REMEMBER

The Father I Forgot

––––––––

A MEMOIR

C. Ruthe

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

Although the author has made every effort to ensure that the information in this book was correct at press time, they do not assume and hereby disclaim any liability to any party for any loss, damage, or disruption caused by errors or omissions, whether such errors or omissions result from negligence, accident, or any other cause.

Adherence to all applicable laws and regulations, including international, federal, state and local governing professional licensing, business practices, advertising, and all other aspects of doing business in the US, Canada or any other jurisdiction is the sole responsibility of the reader and consumer.

The author assumes no responsibility or liability whatsoever on behalf of the consumer or reader of this material. any perceived slight of any individual or organization is purely unintentional.

The author will not be held responsible for the use of information provided within this book. Please always consult a trained professional before making any decision regarding treatment of yourself or others.

Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Copyright © 2021 by C. Ruthe

WARNING!! Reader discretion is advised. This book contains  adult content.

Contents

Preface

Prologue

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

chapter fourteen

chapter fifteen

chapter sixteen

chapter seventeen

chapter eighteen

chapter nineteen

chapter twenty

chapter twenty one

chapter twenty two

chapter twenty three

chapter twenty four

chapter twenty five

chapter twenty six

chapter twenty seven

chapter twenty eight

chapter twenty-nine

chapter thirty

EPILOGUE

Preface

There are two distinct moments I can recall from my infanthood. The first, sitting at the top of the stairs, clutching my older brother in terror, watching the floodwaters rising from the basement of our cold water flat in Chicago while our parents furiously attempted to bail it out. The other, my brother teaching me to stand up in my crib. I took his tutoring a little too far one day when I managed to climb up and fall out, smashing the left side of my face onto the hardwood floor, leaving me with a permanent scar on my cheek.

Although these events made quite an impact at the time they occurred, they  pale in comparison to the memory I dredged up just a few months ago—the most poignant one to date— the one which turned out to be the gateway to my father’s mysterious past.

When my father passed away in 2002, I didn’t shed a tear. A fleeting twinge of what might have been sorrow went through me, but disappeared as soon as I attempted to grasp it.  I felt a quiet heaviness where the emotions should have been, but weren’t. 

It wasn’t that I didn’t care—I couldn’t care. I hardly knew the man.  He was my father, I lived with him, but I didn’t know who he was.  I had shut him out of my life for so long that his death had become somewhat of an afterthought. Actually, I didn’t really know myself, either. I was a scared and lost little girl, who turned into an insecure young woman, seeking affection from practically every man I bumped into in order to get the attention I so desperately craved.

The writing of this book finally brought my father and I together. What had originally started out to be a personal journal ended up being an intense and lengthy therapy session, wherein I eventually discovered not only myself, but finally found the shadowy figure  I called Dad. 

Throughout that journey, I encountered particular people and memories along the way that intrinsically shaped my life. Some were good, some horrid, yet which all in some manner affected both my and my father’s lives in a way that would eventually lead me full circle to the very beginning of it all.

This is my story.

Prologue

It never occurred to me to look back at the house we had lived in for 22 years, until my mother turned from the front seat of the car to steal one last glimpse and whispered quaveringly, Goodbye, House. She turned back around, sniffling and shaking her head in the process.  My father, silent as usual, steered the car out into the street with nary a backwards glance.

Out of respect, I turned around for one last look at the pale-green stucco one-story that my brother and I had grown up in—the house I imagined we’d be in forever, happy ever after. The home my mother had dearly cherished, but decided to end up selling in order to search for a better life...and the one place where my father could lead a relatively ‘normal’ existence before his impending mental illness took him completely away from us.

chapter one

My father was a very quiet man—I never knew him. He was there; he lived with us, provided for us, but I didn’t really know who he was.  Extremely distant and reserved, his wiry, tall stature lent an additional air of intimidation to me, complete with a shock of black hair topping chiseled features, with bushy eyebrows framing piercing blue eyes.  Intense, yet guarded eyes that always appeared to flicker right past me, but falteringly back again, as if he had forgotten I was there. 

He frightened me. Quiet and daunting, he would rest in his armchair after work, shielding himself with the Daily News, and spitting bits of loose tobacco off his lips from the unfiltered Lucky Strike cigarette he always brandished.  Present but absent; oblivious yet cognizant of our voices whenever we spoke to him, to which he would usually reply with a simple grunt.  The only times I ever recalled him speaking to me or my brother in full sentences was when he was angry; he’d come home after a bad day, and woe if Steve or I left our toys in his path, or scuffled around during one of our trivial battles, he would bark a heavy stream of warning threats in our direction, always stunning us into silence. Mind you, he was a very gentle man; had never hit any of us, but his booming outbursts always packed a giant wallop, a cacophony of boisterous bombs from the depths of the stillest waters.  But it was Dad’s silence that frightened me more; I didn’t understand it. Tucked away like the Boogeyman under the bed; unseen and unsettling, yet knowing it was there, somewhere, just waiting to emerge.

Born on May 25, 1934 in Chicago, my father was the last of 4 children; Larry, Lucille, and before my dad, there had been a sister named Rose who’d died only moments after birth due to complications. My dad had pretty much grown up by himself, as Larry and Lucille were already in their teens by the time my dad came along. My grandfather had passed by the time Dad was born. 

Except for Grandma, I don’t remember much about the rest of my father’s family, because Mom dragged us all out to the west coast when I was barely 4. The only relative of Dad’s that came to visit us in California, was Lucille when I was around 10. My mother’s family was far more sociable, and there were several visits from 2 of her older brothers, her niece, and an aunt.  My mother had never really been close to Dad’s family; she always harbored thoughts that they looked down on her because she came from the ‘wrong side of the tracks.’  My father’s family was far from well-off,  but had always held themselves on a higher social level than my Mother, who had been married once before and had acquired a broken nose from a bout of drunken driving when she was younger (both of which were deemed abominable in those days).

They’d pretty much regarded her as unworthy of my father’s affections, but had finally

‘accepted’ her when my brother and I hit the scene.

The four of us drifted out to California when I was 3. Apparently my father had many moments of not wanting to get up and go to work on random days, and would remain in bed until Mom left the house in frustration. My father simply claimed his back was hurting him.  Financially, they were struggling, and my father’s occasional shunning of responsibility only made things worse.  Mom had eventually threatened to pack up her things, along with me and my brother, and head out to California, where her eldest brother currently lived. She didn’t believe in divorce; especially when there were children in the picture, so one day when she was completely fed up, she’d thrown as much as she could fit into the car and told my father she was leaving, and that she’d write to him when she settled.

As obstinate as Dad was, he knew he couldn’t let his wife and young children drive across the country alone, so he insisted on driving us...and that’s how we came to be in California. Mom and Dad rented an apartment in Redwood City (where my Uncle David lived) for a couple of years, 1970-72, as they couldn’t yet afford a house. My uncle was single, and barely had room for himself at his own place, but knew of a vacant apartment my parents could grab up. I can still see the dents in the bedroom windowsill from my Fisher Price Play Family father, which was my favorite toy at the time (I wonder if that was symbolic?).  If I was bored or having a tantrum, I don’t recall, but I can still feel the dull echoing clacks as my fist pounded the tiny toy into the cheap, wooden frame, resulting in a sporadic trail of random crescents. 

Our apartment was on the top floor, and I can still recall the layout of the place, oddly enough: family room to the right; beyond that the dining room and kitchen. Hallway on the left, with our kids’ room, bathroom and parents’ room, respectively.  There was a full-length mirror at the end of that hallway, which I spent a lot of time in front of, making faces at myself (when I wasn’t denting up windowsills).

By the time I was old enough for kindergarten,  I discovered I had a fascination for the wooden enclosure where the apartment building’s trash cans were housed—it had a great big fig tree within, and I used to pretend it was my house. Directly after Mom picked me up from school, I always made a beeline for my secret hideaway. I can almost smell the figs even now when I close my eyes;  that delicious, sweet and syrupy aroma, almost reminiscent of marmalade.  I thought it was the most comforting, perfect smell I ever encountered, and that wooden corral was my private paradise.  Mom found me asleep in it, once, my cheek resting on the tree trunk, clutching a bunch of leaves in my tiny fist. She shook me gently. Sweetie, Daddy’s home early;. let’s go greet him.

I had grown up with a fear and distrust of men. When I was little, they frightened me; as I got older, the fear turned to hate.  As a young woman, I sought their physical attention, but other than that, I wanted nothing to do with them.  I didn’t care to engage in conversation or form any kind of relationship with them; sex was all I wanted. In my confused mind, physical intimacy was all I needed to replace that cold, dark cavity that raged within me; the part that yearned for affection and attention...love me or hate me, but don’t ignore me. That was my motto. 

But basically, I had pretty much given my father the shaft most of my life...yet, in my defense, I was rather immature, ill-informed and blindly biased from the start. I grew up with a chip on my shoulder, so I sought men out, substituting physical closeness and intimacy for ‘love;’ sex for attention. It was all I knew. 

chapter two

In the summer of 1972, my parents purchased a newly-built home in San Jose, California (just 23 miles from our apartment), for $23,000—which, back then, was a fortune.

They were able to swing a loan because of Dad’s Veteran status. It was one of many houses in a new tract section; except for the fully-constructed abode to our right, the surrounding homes were still in the early building stage, wooden skeletons perched patiently on acres of empty land.  Back then, San Jose was rapidly becoming the cultural and economic center of

‘Silicon Valley—we’d arrived during the startup of the software industry boom, back when it was still  considered a relatively agricultural city.  Today, San Jose is touted as one of the wealthiest regions in the world where the cost of living is rather astronomical.  But, thankfully, Mom and Dad managed to squeeze in while it was still affordable....although their common lack of technological interest left me clueless as to why they chose that particular region. All I remember was that Mom fell in love with the house at first sight.

The house, itself was a beautiful  4 bed-2 bath, with a big backyard my older brother and I would boisterously romp through in the remaining summer months, raising hell until Mom threatened to punish us.  My brother was usually the instigator in our bouts of mayhem, often teasing me to the point of tears and ear-splitting shrieks, which Mom could never tolerate. 

Night had fallen by the time we’d all arrived in the brown station wagon, stuffed to the gills with various boxes—the moving truck was due next morning. Mom and Dad began to unpack some of the things we’d be needing for that night, while my brother Steve went inside to claim his bedroom.

Dad had retrieved my baby doll buggy from the trunk of the car, crammed with several of my favorite stuffed animals, and I proceeded to entertain myself on a casual walk around the side of the house to the backyard.  What I didn’t know, was that someone had recently used our garden hose and left it running; the gangway between the fence and the lawn was grassless, and the ground, a soggy, muddy mess. 

I pushed my carriage out the side door, and out into the gangway...and panicked as I noticed my bare feet sinking into the earth, the mud cold and slimy between my toes. I began screaming; startled neighbors poked their heads over the fence while I continued to shriek in fear of being buried alive.  I was now ankle-deep in mud, and just as I began to cry hysterically, Mom, Dad and Steve came running to the rescue. 

I sat on the garage stoop quietly sniffling while Mom cleaned off my feet and Dad attended to the hose. It was weeks before I dared to access the backyard through the garage, even after the ground had hardened. 

My parents’ room was at the front of the house.  The kitchen was next to it (on the other side of the entryway) then the dining room, which opened into a step-down living room area that I absolutely refused to enter.  The floor was covered in tile that crackled whenever it was stepped on—I thought it was electrified and was afraid to walk on it, not understanding why it was making that noise upon contact.  Steve insisted on teasing me, while Mom paced the

‘scary’ floor herself, trying to convince me that it was entirely safe to do.

Steve’s chosen room was in the back corner, and next to his, mine.  The forest green carpeted hallway separated us from the 2nd bathroom and fourth bedroom, which abutted the master bedroom. 

Mom had decided to fill the front yard with colored rocks and cream-colored plastic flowers—the flowers she’d placed in a single row beneath the master bedroom (the space between each one measured out to be exactly 3.5 inches). These were walled in by a row of decorative cement blocks. She had chosen plastic flowers because she said the ‘real’ ones died too quickly (Mom had always preferred plants to flowers).

The rocks she’d selected to cover the ground were called lava rocks, which were brickred  and relatively lightweight. They had a rough, gritty texture which, for some reason, I found entirely fascinating. These stones actually turned out to be a nice, complimenting color to the house, and Mom was rather pleased with herself.

The backyard she didn’t much fuss with—Dad had planted grass seeds, and after about a month we had a luscious, green lawn to romp around in. I remember sitting out there every day for hours