That's Enough

By Katherine Evers

Katherine Evers bears her soul in this captivating story that will draw readers into her experiences growing up with an alcoholic and abusive father. Readers’ hearts will break as they experience the trauma Kat endured through her childhood at the hands of a man who was supposed to love her unconditionally.

In this memoir, the reader will witness critical inflection points that led to the creation of a formidable mental construct—the Committee. This coping mechanism will intrigue readers with its inception in childhood allowing her to find strength and protection from the abuse around her. The story twists as the Committee, once a source of comfort, became an enabler of self-destruction.

That’s Enough is ultimately a story of hope. Kat continued to move forward despite the hardships, exhibiting extraordinary strength, resilience, and vulnerability. Her openness and honesty in this awe-inspiring journey will resonate and touch readers’ hearts, inspiring them to continue forward through their own struggles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662406751

Book preview

Chapter 1

Born Liar

I was three when I was first branded a liar. I was playing in the yard, much more interested in my games than being interrupted for a toilet break. When playtime was over, my five-year-old sister came to get me.

You’re gonna be in big trouble, my sister scolded, grabbing me forcefully by the arm, her long blonde locks glinting in the sun. Jana pointed at the wet spot on my pants. You know it makes Daddy mad. A glint of fear showed in her blue eyes.

But, but…I didn’t… I was now in tears. I was terrified. I knew the wrath of my father.

I was supposed to be potty trained. As we went inside, Jana marched me over to our mother. Mom asked me what happened.

I sat in a mud puddle, I nervously explained. It sounded plausible to me. Unfortunately, it hadn’t rained in days.

My mom’s already sunken blue eyes were further burdened showing exasperation. "You’re a born liar, just like your father," she gravely whispered as she shuttled me toward my room. Mom had bright red hair, just like mine. She was short and plump, making her comfortable to cuddle. Today there was no snuggling. The realization that I was like my father pained her.

Fear took over from disappointment as we tiptoed, looking toward the master bedroom in hopes the door was still closed. Hurry! she whispered urgently. Get inside and change before he wakes up. Thankfully my parents’ bedroom door didn’t open as I silently scurried to my room.

That day I learned who I was expected to be. I wasn’t a good girl like my sister. I was a born liar like my dad. It became my identity, something I believed was as unchangeable as the red hair on my head. Over the coming years, my behavior reinforced this belief as I continued to disappoint everyone around me.

* * *

Mom, can I please have these? I really want to color, I pleaded, showing her the small box of crayons.

No, baby. We can’t afford anything extra today. Maybe you can borrow some from Sarah? Now go put those back, she replied.

I slowly dragged my feet down the aisle to put the crayons back. This wasn’t the first time I was denied toys and trinkets. We were poor, so luxuries like crayons were rare. I saw my friends with crayons and markers and coloring books. I got hand-me-down toys from cousins or garage sale bargains. As I was returning the crayons to their shelf, I realized the small box would mostly fit in my coat pocket. Maybe there was a way to get them. With my mom and sister walking away down the aisle, I slid the box in my right coat pocket and covered the exposed corner with my tiny hand.

As we were leaving, my mother put my sister in charge. She had older-sister duty when we walked into the parking lot. She tried to take my hand, as was her responsibility. As luck would have it, she chose the right hand hiding the crayon box. I attempted to skirt around to the other side. My stubborn sister refused and pulled at the hand still carefully conceiling the loot. She gasped. She dragged me toward Mom, tattling loudly through the busy grocery store entrance, Mom! Kat stole crayons! People stopped to stare. My mother was mortified.

What do you think you’re doing, young lady? she screeched, snatching the crayons from me. "You know that stealing is wrong. We do not do that. For no reason should you ever take something that is not yours. You get back inside immediately and ask for the manager. You will give him the crayons and tell him you’re sorry and won’t ever do anything like that again." She shoved the crayons back toward me.

Once inside, I hung my head, guilt-stricken. I hurried to the counter and asked for the manager, who was standing nearby. Mom and Jana followed, my mother’s face beet red with embarrassment.

May I help you, young lady? asked Mr. Turner.

I laid the crayons revealingly on the counter. I’m sorry, I barely managed to mumble, my tear-filled eyes locked firmly on the floor. I turned to my mother and buried my head in her coat, sobbing. My mother sheepishly finished the story. I heard Mr. Turner accept my apology and thank my mother for her honesty.

* * *

Our family was dealt more than its fair share of trauma. At age five during a routine checkup, a physician noticed a heart murmur. Further investigation indicated that I needed open-heart surgery to repair a congenital defect. With very little money and no insurance, we were fortunate enough to receive financial support from the American Heart Association to pay for the surgery to repair my heart. The closest facility for pediatric open-heart surgery was the St. Jude Children’s Hospital in Memphis, Tennessee, approximately eight hours drive from my home. In 1975, we left Illinois for the road trip and subsequent surgery.

Can you be a big brave girl and show me how you can count backward from ten? the anesthesiologist said as he rubbed my arm gently. I was staring into my mother’s eyes, scared because I could see her concern. Ten…nine…eight… Darkness.

I was surprised to later learn of the excitement during my recovery. While in ICU, my mother in the waiting room next to the nurse’s station and my father at the local bar, my remote heart monitor flat-lined. The entire floor responded, shouting, "Code blue!" My mother ran, pushing everyone out of the way to get to me.

Oh my god. No! My baby, my baby! she was yelling frantically. She was terrified. The young doctor on duty acted quickly, unzipped the oxygen tent, checked my breathing, and listened for a heartbeat. With a look of confusion, she checked the leads on my heart monitor. The pediatric crash cart arrived with more staff.

Okay, everyone, panic over, she announced, holding the loose end of a lead in her hand. This is what caused the problem. Easily fixed, she said, reaching across the bed to reattach the offending wire to one of several probes covering my tiny body.

My heart was still beating. Vitals were stable.

Thank you, oh thank you so much, cried my mom, visibly shaken.

Thank God it was so simple, said one nurse to another. Tension etched on the faces of the collected staff eased into broad smiles and deep sighs. Happens all the time, one caring nurse told my mother as she soothingly patted her shoulder.

I woke in an oxygen tent several hours later. I was groggy and the plastic obstructed my view. I saw my parents sitting in the room.

Mommy? Mommy? I managed to whisper. There was no response. I didn’t think they could see or hear me. Mommy? I tried to speak louder, to no avail.

I decided to unzip the strange bubble over me. Sitting up was a mistake. I felt the unyielding stab of a flaming hot sword piercing through my left shoulder blade. I screamed.

After a week, I was well enough to be discharged. The nurses had become very fond of my mother and me.

One day when I grow up, I announced to the nurse removing my IV, I’m going to be a doctor too. I want to save people. My mom smiled proudly. I could swear even my tough old dad wiped away a tear. That’s my girl, he mumbled.

My dream was born.

Chapter 2

Garden Girl

Glass perfume bottles were very popular with little girls. When I was six, Avon marketed a collection with various figures and beautiful designs. I spent hours paging through the worn and tattered catalogs, memorizing the figures, and fantasizing about playing with them. I dreamed of one day being rich enough to buy one. Dare I dream of two?

Even though Sarah was two years older than me, we were the best of friends.

I’m so excited! Sarah squealed with delight as we played jump rope in her yard one sunny afternoon. Mom just got me the latest bottle for my collection. It’s the most beautiful girl from a garden, all covered with flowers. My eyes sparkled with interest. I’ve got the whole set now. I love them! Want to come up to my room, and I’ll show you?

Yes please! I exclaimed, dropping my end of the rope and racing toward the door. I look at them every day in the catalog. I want one more than anything in the whole world.

We hurried to her room. I stared in awe as she opened her bedroom door displaying a neat row of the most beautiful perfume bottles on her dresser, glinting in the bright sunlight.

Oh, they’re so beautiful! Can I touch one? I started to reach for the Garden Girl.

No way! cried Sarah, stepping between me and the perfume bottles. She nudged me away, back toward the door. They’re way too fragile. Mom would kill me if one broke. No one can touch them except me. Come on, race you back to the yard. I couldn’t take my eyes off the beautiful collection. The real ones looked so much better than the pictures in the catalog.

Come on, she urged. I pulled myself toward the hallway, finding it difficult to peel my eyes away.

Sarah shut the door, and I trudged down the hall behind her.

I wish I could have one, I muttered under my breath.

Sarah threw herself back into the games in the yard, but all my enthusiasm was gone. My mind was with the perfume bottles. I couldn’t stop thinking about their beauty and how unfair it was that I couldn’t have at least one.

Maybe Santa, I told myself. Or one day when I become a doctor and get rich.

A few days later I was playing with my sister in the basement when my mother urgently called us upstairs.

You girls get up here. Now! she yelled.

Obediently, we hurried into the living room where Sarah and her mother sat. There were grave looks. We quickly learned Sarah’s perfume bottles were missing—presumed stolen.

Something very bad has happened, my mom said, her face pale and stern. I knew that look. She was angry. Sarah’s perfume bottle collection is gone.

Someone must have stolen them, said Sarah’s mom, shaking. Then silence. I could feel everyone’s eyes burning into me. I could see deep sadness on Sarah’s tear-stained face. Sarah and her mother were convinced I’d stolen the bottles.

After an excruciatingly long, uncomfortable silence, my seething mom lifted her head and looked me directly in the eyes. Was it you? Did you take them? It was more of an accusation than a question.

No, Mommy. I didn’t take them. I never touched them. Sarah wouldn’t let me. I was scared. The emotions were high, and I knew I was being blamed.

Sarah’s mom sat, shaking her head. Funny how you were the last person in the room with Sarah, she growled.

But…but…no. I couldn’t stop the tears from dripping. It wasn’t me. I promise.

You little liar, she shouted as she darted out of her seat toward me, arm raised as if to slap me across the face.

Sarah muttered in the background, I know you did it! I hate you.

Mom jumped up and stood between us. My mother may not have believed me, but she wasn’t going to let Mrs. White lay a finger on me.

I think you’d better go. Now. If my daughter says she didn’t take them, then she didn’t. My mother glared at Sarah’s mother, warning her not to challenge.

Sarah and her mother did not believe either my mother or me. They stormed out of our house, never to return. Once they left, my mother and sister searched my room. No perfume bottles.

My mother and I both lost a friend that day.

* * *

My sister and I played and did our best to enjoy our tiny back yard. We were fortunate enough to rent a home from my grandparents keeping us out of the worst part of town. Many children in the neighborhood had gym sets. We desperately wanted one. I thought more kids would want to play with us if we had one.

Please, please, please can we have a gym set? my sister and I begged our mom for months. We would have so much fun. Pretty please.

The summer before I entered first grade, our dream finally came true. My father won a gently used set in a bar poker game. It had two swings, a slide and monkey bars. We were so excited when my father put it together!

Hey, girls, come see what dear ol’ Dad made for ya’, he called with pride.

It’s got swings and monkey bars and a slide and everything! I exclaimed.

It’s the best I’ve ever seen! said my sister, a broad beaming smile lit up her face.

We flung our arms around him and nuzzled against his chest. The hands we knew could be so brutal had done something good and brought happiness into our lives.

We played on the gym set from dawn until dusk. When I sat on top of the monkey bars, I felt like I was on top of the world, invincible. Nothing could hurt me up there.

Once first grade started, I was quite social and loved school. It was a place to learn and escape the tensions at home. I wanted to share my new gym set with my friends. I couldn’t understand why my classmates wouldn’t come to my house. I always thought it was because we didn’t have anything interesting to play with. Now that we had the jungle gym, I thought they would certainly want to come over.

Why won’t they come over, Mommy? I asked my mom as another girl shook her head and ran off when I asked her to come over after school.

It’s the best jungle gym in the world, and they won’t come play. Why? Mom struggled to find an answer a six-year-old could understand.

Before she found the words, I concluded, They just don’t like me.

Don’t be silly, Mom said, hugging me gently. They’re just busy, and their mommies and daddies don’t have time to bring them over. They’re the ones missing out. You’re the lucky ones, now go and enjoy it. Her words were hollow. I didn’t understand why kids wouldn’t play with me or come to my house. All I knew was they didn’t. And that I was a born liar. Nobody likes liars. Maybe that’s why they didn’t want to play with me. The seeds of lifelong self-loathing had been sewn.

My father’s excessive drinking continued, and he became increasingly violent. He was unable to hold a job and disappeared for days or weeks at a time. He eventually turned his anger from my mother to her extended family. He threatened my aunts, uncles, and grandparents, saying he’d kill them when they challenged him about the contusions and abrasions they saw on my mother, sister, or me.

My mother was raised Nazarene—an extremely strict Protestant religion. They were allowed no TV, no makeup, and wore nothing but long, mid-calf length skirts. Her parents made it clear that my mother made her choice by marrying my father; now she had to live with it.

I told you it was a mistake, my grandmother told my mom repeatedly as she cried on the phone. He is always going to cause heartache. But you wanted him. You made your bed, now lie in it.

My parents met on May 18, 1964, my mother’s twentieth birthday. She was previously engaged to a Catholic boy named Frank. Nazarenes were expected to marry Nazarene or at the very least a Protestant. My grandparents forbade my mother to marry Frank. They told her if she married a Catholic, she would be disowned. She went to Kansas City, Missouri, to stay with her brother and his wife to mourn the breakup. My mother had completed her associate’s degree in accounting and needed to get away from her parents.

On that rainy Monday, my mother was driving home from her new job when her car broke down. She opened the hood with no idea what she was doing. She stood under the hood, drenched, distraught about the state of her life. Along came a young man. He was tall with dark hair and brown eyes. He had a James Dean look with slicked back wavy hair, a white undershirt and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He tossed his spent cigarette to the ground as he approached.

Hey, darlin’, can I offer you a smoke? he mumbled, offering protection from the rain as he held his jacket overhead, offering the pack of Winston cigarettes to her. Need a hand fixin’ this thing?

Um…sure. Smoking was strictly forbidden. She took the cigarette. Thanks. She hadn’t smoked before and fiddled nervously with the cigarette as she tried to make conversation with the handsome, helpful stranger.

Name’s Billy. My friends from back home call me WR, but I prefer to go by Billy, he announced. Why don’t you hop in while I take a look. I’m pretty good with cars. He opened the driver’s side door for her.

I’m Paulette, she said, astonished that this James Dean look-a-like was helping her.

She was mesmerized. He was dark and mysterious. Different. He was nothing like Frank or her previous suitors. He set about his work in near silence, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him, and he knew it. She was grateful for his help but soon found her thoughts wandering, wanting to know more about this slim, heroic figure.

Billy was a beacon on that dreary day. He fixed her car and offered to take her to dinner on her birthday. My mother was immediately smitten. She finally understood the term love at first sight. There was no going back. She was determined to let her heart guide the way, throwing caution to the wind and allowing this man into her life.

My charismatic father continued to pursue her feverishly over the next two weeks. My mother never had this much attention, and certainly not from someone as handsome as my father. She was learning how to be cool, adding smoking and drinking to her social habits. She was in a state of bliss.

My parents eloped on June 1, 1964, exactly fifteen days after they met. On the way to the courthouse, a newly released song was playing on the radio (Chapel of Love by the Dixie Cups):

Goin’ to the chapel and we’re gonna get married

Goin’ to the chapel and we’re gonna get married

Gee, I really love you and we’re gonna get married

Goin’ to the chapel of love

My mother thought it was a sign. She met the man of her dreams and would live happily ever after.

Soon after their nuptials, my father took my mother to meet his parents in Tennessee. His young bride was thrilled to meet her new family.

The fantasy quickly shattered. Her first surprise was meeting her new step-daughter, a beautiful two-year-old girl, the spitting image of her new husband. She was unaware he was previously married or that he had a child. My dad’s mother, believing it only right to tell the truth, invited Billy’s ex-wife, Shirley, and their daughter Janet, to visit. My mother learned a lot about my father that day. She learned my father had been married before, three times. Theirs was his fourth marriage. My father was twenty, only nine days older than my mother.

She was devastated, feeling betrayed and trapped. But she knew there was no way out. Divorce was a graver sin than marrying a Catholic. My parents moved to Illinois near my mother’s family to make their marriage work. My mother wanted to be as far away from Tennessee as possible.

Over the following decade, my sister and I were born. Relations between my father and my mother’s family deteriorated rapidly. To protect her family from her violent, alcoholic husband, my mother decided it would be best to move. Texas was as far away from Illinois as she could get. With the 1970s oil boom in full swing, she helped my father get a job in an oil refinery in Southeast Texas.

Why do we have to go, Mommy? I don’t want to move away. I’ll miss Julia and Johnny, I wept. Julia and Johnny were my first cousins and best friends.

Your dad got a really good job, and we have to go, baby. We’ll come back to visit, I promise. She couldn’t let her parents and siblings be the targets. We were moving away from the family I loved in Illinois to a small town in Texas.

On moving day my uncles lifted my mattress to put it on the moving truck. Between the mattress and box springs they found a beautiful collection of Avon perfume bottles. On that day, several months before at Sarah’s house, I had indeed found a way to take the bottles. I made an excuse to go back into the house to use the bathroom. I quickly stuffed them under my shirt, snuck back home, and hid them under the mattress, planning to take them out to play with at every opportunity. Guilt-ridden and terrified of the consequences, I never took them out again. I’d forgotten they were there.

"You get straight over there now and give them back with an apology," my mom seethed into my ear while my dad was preoccupied in the basement.

I knew it was the last straw. I’d lost my mom’s trust forever. I proved her right—I was a liar. No matter how disappointed she was, it wasn’t bad enough for her to tell my father. We all knew he was neither tolerant nor forgiving. Even in her anger and disappointment, she wanted to protect me.

Chapter 3

Double-Edged Sword

We moved into a trailer park in Southeast Texas in a town accustomed to few newcomers. No jungle gym. No yard. No cousins or grandparents. No friends.

I entered the new school in second grade. The children had been together their entire lives. Their parents and grandparents grew up together. Cliques were long established.

Like my mother, I had bright red hair and freckles. I was the only redhead in my class. This made it more difficult to fit in. I didn’t look like the other children. I talked funny. I was a Yankee.

Hey, Yankee—say y’ur name ag’in! Y’all talk funny, teased one boy in the schoolyard at recess.

Yeah, carrot top, joined in his pal. Why don’t you go back up north where you belong? You know the difference between a Yankee and a Damn Yankee don’t cha? A Yankee goes back home. A chorus of laughter followed from the rest of the crowd.

Leave me alone! was all I muster before my voice cracked. I was embarrassed. I didn’t know how to respond. The pain quickly turned to anger and frustration. I escaped back into the school building.

No longer having the influence of extended family, my parents were my only early role models. Mom was a kind, gentle person with low self-esteem. She embodied the role of victim. My father was an angry, abusive alcoholic. When he was around, things went his way without question.

My father taught me a few pivotal lessons. One was that when you get knocked down, you must get back up, no matter what. In the rare instances he played with my sister and me, he attempted to prepare us to live in the world as he knew it. He taunted us to attack and hit him in rough play.

Harder. Go on, hit me harder, he’d say, rising to his full height of 6'2, pumping his fists on his trim 155 pound frame. I can take it. Right there. He pointed to his abdomen. Hit harder. Try to hurt me. Are you big and strong or little wimps? he’d goad us. Show me how strong you are."

When we did as he required, he pushed us onto the floor. He wanted us to get angry and fight back. For me it had the desired outcome. I became furious. Every time I was knocked down, I got up and fought back—a fundamental life lesson and a double-edged sword. Tenacity and resilience served me well, but at times the unwillingness to back down threatened my demise.

Take that! I yelled, running up to him and landing a punch in his stomach. He barely flinched, but in my head, it was revenge for all the times he hit us.

That a girl. Keep goin’. Hit ’em hard, he demanded.

And that, and that. I kicked his shins and punched frantically with all my might. For a split second, I felt better. Then I realized who was in front of me. I worried he’d forget it was a game. I looked up, and he was smiling proudly at me. He picked me up and spun me around.

You’re my strong one, aren’t cha? I smiled, confused. I learned to fight, and the most important element was winning. You had to hit with as much force as you could muster. Anger was the best fuel to increase strength. Anger meant power. Fury kept me safe.

I became hardened. I learned that if I was hurt, I needed to retaliate with the intention of inflicting more pain on the perpetrator. Strike to kill, Kat, or at least make sure they can’t get up. Don’t give them a second chance, my father said.

I knew if I went down the path of my mother, people would take advantage of me and inflict pain. They would exploit my good nature and treat me poorly. I watched as my mother was severely beaten. She never got up and fought back. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be like my father—terrorizing those who cared about me. But of the two choices, I would rather be the aggressor than the victim. I couldn’t imagine any other way to protect myself.

One weekend my mother bought matching bath towels bearing images of horses for herself and my father. She was quite pleased with the purchase. This type of luxury was rare. She chose one black and one blue so they could tell them apart. When my father came home, she showed him the towels with pride.

Hey, honey, look what I picked up? Nice, aren’t they? Black for you, blue for me. What do you think? Her enthusiasm and pride shifted in an instant. The room turned cold.

The glare in his eyes said it all. He was furious. He growled in a tone we knew meant trouble. He was angry she picked different colors. He took the gesture to mean she didn’t want to share the same towel or give him his favorite color, which was blue.

Differ’nt colors? he spat. Why?

My mom looked terrified as she dropped the towels on the yellow Formica topped kitchen table. I watched the color drain from her face. She’d heard this tone so many times. She knew what would inevitably come next.

I thought it would be nice to have them match but easy to tell apart, she pleaded.

You don’ even wanna share the same goddamn towel as me?

No, I just—

"You know goddamn well blue’s my favorite color, but couldn’t even get a blue one for me? And they’re not the same. They’re different fucking colors!" He went toward her in a rage.

First, he shoved her backward, knocking her to the floor. He swung and landed his fist near her eye. She doubled over. He punched until she fell and curled into a ball to protect herself.

I stood frozen, staring at the episode unfolding before me. My heart thumped uncontrollably. I heard myself screaming: No! Stop! Stop! My more experienced sister grabbed me and dragged me to the closet. She told me to hide under a pile of dirty clothes.

Go, Kat! Hide! Hurry! she pleaded in a loud whisper.

We couldn’t see much between the gap in the closet doors, but we could hear. We heard her whimpering. We heard him shouting at her to shut up, or he would give her something to cry about. We heard the thuds as he hit and kicked her and the muffled bellows that followed from overwhelming pain. We hid for what seemed an eternity. I shivered as cold sweat rolled