A Grave for The Devil: A Warrior's Memoir

By Ann Marie Conklin

At 10 years old, Ann Marie was living in an orphanage. At nine, she'd been breaking and entering into homes, shoplifting from stores, and scaling two-story buildings just to spit on the people below. She is the Devil's errand boy. Except she's a girl. And her brother is the Devil.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Warriors United
• Release date: Jul 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988745204

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A GRAVE for the DEVIL

A WARRIOR’S MEMOIR

Ann Marie Conklin

A Grave for the Devil

A Warrior’s Memoir

Copyright © 2021 by Ann Marie Conklin

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in a printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Cover Design Copyright © 2023 Andrew R. Conklin

All rights reserved.

The following is based on actual events. For the comfort and healing of the author’s family, the names of certain people and places have been changed.

ISBN: 979-8-9887452-0-04

SECOND EDITION, July 2023

To my loving husband, Andy, for believing in me.

And to my children, Dakota and Anja. I thought I knew what love was and then I met the two of you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

    It’s impossible to remember everything exactly as it once was. Memory is imperfect and becomes consolidated, compressed, and diminished over time. When I began writing the manuscript for my memoir, my memory was aided by the records I received from the orphanage that I lived in. Notes from case workers, teachers, and other care providers spoke to me over the years, reinforcing the things I did recall and enlightening me on the things I didn’t. As a child, many of my experiences were so traumatic that they imprinted themselves on my brain like a typewriter key on thin paper. Traumatic events tend to be more easily remembered than the mundane ones, which fade into the background of everyday life.

    My diaries, which I started keeping at the age of fourteen, also provided details about events that would have been otherwise lost. At the same time, I discovered I could remember conversations almost verbatim.  Maybe it was a survival mechanism, a means of passively controlling at least one aspect of my environment.  Or maybe it’s just an odd wiring aspect of my brain. Either way, there are thousands, perhaps millions of trauma-specific conversations housed in my brain.

    As I delved more deeply to uncover the past, I had to learn to sit with my memories until they came into sharp focus, and I could see the faces of the people I once knew, hear the sound of their voices, their words, even the color of their clothing, which I had all but forgotten. The greatest challenge was accessing not just the memories, but the feelings associated with those memories that had been buried long ago. I had to bury the feelings to protect myself.  This book is the result of opening myself up to the pain and heartbreak caused by those memories, and the means by which I can now leave most of that pain behind.

Growing up, I wasn’t aware of what was going on in other people’s lives; I was just a child, barely aware of what was going on with mine.  This book is about the life I experienced and is not intended to negate, rewrite, or overlook anyone else’s.  My brothers and sisters have their own stories that, at times, intersect with mine.  They carry their truths with them.  This book is mine.

Table of Contents

Preface

Chapter 1: The Voices

Chapter 2: The Vampire

Chapter 3: The Least of My Brothers

Chapter 4: Camp Hell

Chapter 5: All-American Handout

Chapter 6: Roller Skates and Razor Blades

Chapter 7: The Orphanage

Chapter 8: Retardo Rabbit

Chapter 9: Home for Good

Chapter 10: Wink. Smile. Inhale.

Chapter 11: Running Away

Chapter 12: A New Home

Chapter 13: Waiting for the Sun

Chapter 14: Learning to Fly

Epilogue:

Diagram Description automatically generated

Themes in this book include, but are not limited to child abuse, drug and alcohol use, violence, rape, mental illness and suicide attempts, which may be triggering for some people. Please take care of yourself and seek help if you need it.

Preface

1991

    It's winter in Chicago, the 31st year of my life. I start work at a new job this afternoon, a dream job as a counselor at a psychiatric hospital.  In preparation for my first day, I’ve showered, dressed in my most professional outfit, applied a subtle amount of makeup, and completed my final mirror check. It will do. With a few moments to spare before my departure, I make a cup of herbal tea and linger in the warmth of my little cottage a bit longer before braving the bitter January cold. Andy, my husband of three years, left for his morning shift at work hours ago. I dunk the bag in a hot mug a few times, stir in a dollop of honey, and turn towards the living room, when the phone rings. It’s Georgie, one of my younger brothers.

    Hey Ann. How are you?

    I’m good. How are you? What’s going on?

    I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. My mind reels with the possibilities.

    Michael is dead.

    I can’t begin to process the information. The name ‘Michael’ has been associated with terror most of my life.  Whenever I heard his name, even in passing, my body went cold. An unexpected death, no matter whose death, causes a shock against which there is little defense. But this person, this death, leaves me stunned beyond words. I hear the sound of onrushing wind in my mind, a storm of such power that it at first leaves me unable to grasp the meaning of what I’ve just been told. And then, slowly, a single piercing red spike of thought surfaces behind my lips:

The Devil is dead.

    These solitary words reverberate in my brain like a gong. Georgie is saying something to me on the other end of the telephone line but I’m not listening, my mind is in a timeless vacuum. Inaudibly, I reiterate the words to myself in utter disbelief, thinking if I say them again, I can wrap my mind around their meaning. The Devil is dead. I feel the tectonic plates shift beneath my feet, the earth trembles.  I'm not afraid.  I'm not actually sure how I feel; numb, maybe. I don't feel what most people do when they receive the devastating news that their older brother has died.

    Georgie takes a deep breath, and comes out with the awful, miraculous truth: Michael was murdered. A door pries open in a dark recess of my mind and in that instance, I feel more alive and freer than I ever have before, and yet so removed from reality; I wonder if I can fly. Until this moment, I hadn’t grasped that I’d been numbly living in constant, unmitigated fear for 30 years, long after Michael fled the authorities from our dilapidated home while the rest of us were sentenced to an orphanage; long after I left home myself to escape my controlling father and my paranoid schizophrenic mother; long after I became an adult, got a car, a degree, a job, a house, a husband, a dog, a cat; long after I could fend for myself. Deep inside, I was still a frightened, helpless child. His menacing presence was a universal truth, a given, as constant as the blackness in the throat of a cave. I never truly believed it could just come to an end.

    I collapse into my lounge chair, absently careful not to spill the tea still clutched in my unsteady hand, its blessed ordinariness a frail link to what had moments before been almost a normal world. A hurricane screams in my head, sending shards of the past flying up from their stratified heaps to crash into the corners of my brain. Against this chaos, Georgie’s voice sounds vaguely muffled as he goes on:  Michael got caught up in a car deal that went bad in Miami, and he was beaten with a baseball bat and stabbed to death by two guys.

    In my mind, a self-righteous rector whispers, He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword. I was not at all surprised to hear that Michael died violently. Although few can control the way or time of their death, it was never in the cards for Michael to go quietly into the halls of hell.

    I look down at the ripples in the tea caused by my trembling hand. I tell myself it's because of the cold outside so I don't have to acknowledge the sharp pang of fear I feel at the sound of Michael's name. Georgie continues:  The Miami Police Department flew his body back up here and me, Jamie, and Luke identified the body. It was in bad shape, but the police said that the two guys that they charged with his murder didn't look too good either. Michael put up a fight before the final blow to the head took him out.

    My siblings had stayed in relatively close contact with each other since we became adults, while I worked overtime to remove myself from the world they occupied by burying myself in college, moving to the other side of the country, and pursuing a field other than car mechanics, to which, at one point or another, my father, all six of my brothers, and even I, had devoted ourselves. I left my family to find a new life, a different life, a transcendent life in which people loved one another and respected each other's rights.

    Still stunned to the point of being nearly mute, I sit in silence trying to absorb this extraordinary turn of events. The Devil is dead. How do I live my life now that the thrust of my existence - staying alive against all odds - is no longer what impels my every breath?

    So the reason I'm calling, Georgie continues diplomatically, ever the family peacemaker, is because I was wondering if you would be willing to pitch in so we can have him cremated and give him a proper burial?

I’m incredulous. Are you fucking kidding me?!

Georgie waits in silence for a full minute for my answer, while the vortex in my brain circles recklessly. I love Georgie and there isn't much I wouldn't do for him, but doesn't he remember what Michael put us through?  Didn’t he live in fear for his life like the rest of us? Has he forgotten the beatings, the abuse, the intimidation, humiliation, destruction, and utter corruption of life under Michael’s tyranny? Why would he care what happened to his corpse? Does he honestly think I would sacrifice a dime to make anything better for Michael, in life or in death?

    My mind snaps back to the present and I inhale deeply, not realizing until that moment that I had virtually stopped breathing when I’d first heard Michael's name.

    Georgie, I hate Michael for what he did to us, and I would never contribute anything to him, I utter cautiously. As I'm saying these words, I forbid myself to feel the pervasive guilt that always causes me to cave to the will of others. Growing up, I was groomed to please other people, regardless of the toll it took on me physically or emotionally. Michael taught me well. He taught me that my feelings were of no consequence, my pain was for entertainment purposes, my body a plaything for the pleasure of others. I had no rights but only obligations to do the bidding of others, regardless of how crushing it was to my spirit.

    Georgie, I'm sorry, but I can't. I know you don't really understand, and I can't tell you everything right now, but I don't think I can ever forgive Michael for what he did. I force the words out, pushing past my feelings of regret for disappointing him, for not being the ‘big sister’ he deserves, and for failing to love him any better now than I did when we were children. I know I can never forgive Michael and that to help him, even in death, would be a betrayal, not just to my own sense of justice but to the memories of those people I watched him destroy, the people I loved, to the life we could have had, to my lost childhood.

    Georgie pauses, then, dejected, That's cool, I understand, don't worry about it. I feel broken.  I know in his heart he is trying to do the right thing, to move on from the past, to forgive and forget. I don't know what to say.  I can feel the wall between us grow taller, impenetrable and insurmountable. Georgie is family, but the gulf between us, as far as Michael is concerned, is unbridgeable. Michael nearly destroyed my life. To this day, every day, I fight to keep myself from drowning in depression, or hiding in my house overwhelmed by anxiety, or giving in to hopelessness and taking my own life.

    I'm glad he's dead, I dare to acknowledge to myself.

    My hand trembles, and the tea spills. Okay, Georgie.  I'll talk to you soon.  Love you. My last words sound hollow. When I hang up the receiver, I still can't believe my ears. Michael is dead.  The Devil is dead. What will change?  Is this a beginning or an ending? What do I do now?

    I put on my coat, step out into the bitter frost, and drive blindly to work. Deep within me are a thousand un-cried tears caused by Michael's brutality, a thousand unanswered screams for help to be rescued from his attacks, my arms, legs, flailing to fight him off. I’d always feared that if I opened Pandora’s box and exposed the whole truth about the past, I'd either kill myself or go insane.

    I open the heavy glass doors at the psychiatric hospital to start my new job. 

    Hi. I’m Ann Marie.

CHAPTER 1

The Voices

A group of children standing next to a tree Description automatically generated with low confidence

Ann Marie, Jamie, Georgie and Joan.

Autumn, 1965, Age 6:  Ridgecrest, Illinois

    The frosty autumn air nipped at my bare knees as I sat on the crossbar of Michael's bicycle. I tried sitting on his handlebars once, but I was too afraid of falling off from such a height. I also tried standing on the wing nuts of the front wheel, tense as a tightrope walker, but I was terrified that if we hit a pothole, I’d go flying. So Michael put me back on the crossbar, disgruntled because his knee bumped my leg with every rotation of the pedal.

    Looking down at the ground whizzing past, I was mesmerized by Michael's feet, clad in girl's leather strap shoes, spinning furiously. The kids at his school teased him, calling him a girl because of his feminine shoes and curly brown hair. Once a year, dad piled us all in the car and took us to K-mart for new shoes. If we outgrew them in less than twelve months, we had to stuff our protesting feet back into them anyway and walk with our toes curled.  When our older siblings outgrew their shoes, we’d adopt them as our own, if we had to.  We all wore hand-me-downs. 

    As he pedaled, Michael puffed warm air onto the back of my neck as I held on tightly to the handlebars, making sure my feet didn't go near the spokes, as they were prone to do. I idly looked into the houses as we passed by, trying to see what they looked like inside. I quietly sang a Halloween song I’d learned in my kindergarten class, and made paper-plate pumpkin masks for:

"Who’s behind the false face? Nobody knows but me!

Who’s behind the false face, nobody knows but me"

As we got closer to my school, Michael steered his bicycle to the right-hand side of the road, trying to avoid the flurry of activities:  car doors opening and closing; children tumbling out of back seats with their projects, books, and lunch boxes; parents scolding them, Don’t run! Cross with the crossing guard!  Michael was in a hurry: after he dropped me off, he had to ride to the other side of town to his sixth-grade class at St. Andrews, and he was already late.  As he maneuvered around the parked cars, a door opened suddenly into us, knocking us onto the pavement in the middle of the road. The car behind us screeched to a halt. Michael picked himself up and steadied the bike as the driver stepped out of his car, pale as a ghost. Oh, dear god, I'm sorry, he exclaimed. He looked at me on the ground, where I sat dazed and crying, and reached out to help me up:  Are you all right, sweetie?

    Irritated, Michael snapped at me, Get up.  I saw blood dribble from a gash on my littlest finger and I cried louder. We're fine, Michael told the man. He patted the crossbar: Climb up. Still whimpering, my knees skinned and almost too stiff to move, I climbed back onto the crossbar.  The biting October wind crystallized the tears in my eyes when we took off again. 

    Stunned, the driver of the car called out after us, Are you sure I can't call someone for you? It looks like she’s hurt!

    I squinted so I could see the road ahead and keep a watch out for more car doors opening and closing as the man’s words disappeared in the wind.

    Michael stood on the pedals to build up speed and didn’t look back.  He dropped me off on the cold concrete steps of my school. Just stay here. Your teacher will be here soon. He turned the bike around and left.

    It was early; the doors of my classroom hadn’t opened yet. Sniffling, I wrapped my arms around my cold skinned knees, working up to a full bawl from time to time, while I waited for my teacher, Mrs. Johnson, to arrive. When she walked up the steps, she greeted me with a concerned smile and examined my hand and knees with her kind eyes.  Inside, she gently washed my ragged finger and wrapped it in a Band-aid. She always made me feel better. I planned on telling mom about my finger when I got home.

    Mrs. Johnson told me to sit for story time, where a few other children were already seated in a restless semicircle in front of her yellow classroom chair. I joined the group, holding my finger.

    Gary, with a head so big and round, it looked like a basketball, giggled playfully when he sat down in the circle next to me. He was nice to everyone, especially the girls.  I wanted Gary to sit next to me every day at circle time, but he was so popular, he had to devise a rotation system to assure that each girl had a turn. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do or say when he sat next to me; I was just happy he was there. Lily, a fragile girl in a lavender sweater, peered at Gary from under her eyelashes, her lips quivering, until she unleashed a long wail. With a broad smile that went from ear to ear, Gary shrugged his shoulders at me apologetically, then turned to Lily with extended arms, giving her an open invitation to sit next to him. She sniveled and wormed her way right into the crook of his arm on the day that was supposed to be my turn. I wished I knew how to use that trick of crying to get my way. In my family, we didn’t get what we wanted by crying; we got yelled at.  Or hit.  I didn’t like Lily one bit.

    Mrs. Johnson sat down and read The Little Engine That Could, holding up the book to show us the illustrations with her gentle smile. When I wasn’t looking at the pictures, I studied the girls in the circle, like Lily - who I was still mad at - wearing flowered dresses and shiny shoes, with colorful ribbons in their silken hair. My clothes were wrinkled and dirty and my hair was a tangled mess. I was told that I was a girl, but I didn’t feel like one. I wasn’t whatever she was, I was sure of that.  I decided that I wanted to be The Little Engine That Could, because he was strong and fast, and never gave up. I heard myself say, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can! over and over again in my head.

    At noon, dad and Michael surprised me by picking me up from school.  When they came into my classroom, Mrs. Johnson showed them the picture I’d painted of a house, displayed on my easel.  They both gushed over it. Michael said he was going to hang it on his bedroom wall. Dad, in a civilized tone that he reserved for strangers, added, Yeah, that's really nice, Ann Marie.

    When we got home, Michael took my picture up to his room – I was so proud.  Dad used a rusty can opener to remove the lid from a can of Spaghetti-Os and went searching for a spoon; he settled for a dirty fork foraged from the sink.  He plopped it in the can and handed it to me.  I sat on the hardwood floor with my coloring book and can of noodles. Dad warned me not to bother mom because she was resting, but I told him I needed to show her the cut on my finger and the mask I’d made at school. Be quick about it and don’t make a lot of noise, dad said. Your mother isn’t feeling well today, and she doesn’t need you kids upsetting her.

    Mom rolled over in bed and greeted me warmly when I opened her bedroom door. I showed her my pumpkin mask and sang the Halloween song, holding my mask in front of my face. I watched her smile grow through the triangles I’d cut out for the pumpkin’s eyes.  I then showed her my finger; although she was a nurse, we could never find a Band-Aid in the house, so after she examined it closely, she told me, Just keep it clean. She rolled away from me, making the mattress springs grind in protest, and asked me to close the door.  I did and went back downstairs to my coloring book.

    Knock, knock.

    A well-attended lady stood at the door when dad opened it, without his teeth in.  She wore cat’s-eye glasses and a sage cardigan sweater over her plain long-sleeved dress. She introduced herself to him as Mrs. Zilla, her hand briefly shaking his.  Dad returned a gummy smile, his teeth soaking in a cup upstairs. Dozens of small fleshy bumps – neurofibromas - covered his face and neck, making him look much older than his 39 years.

    Mrs. Zilla was the social service agent that had been assigned to our family’s case after it was determined that mom was mentally incapacitated and unable to care for her nine children. The school reports described us as undernourished, unkempt, and in rags.  Mrs. Zilla wrinkled her nose at the stench of the shabby couch that dad invited her to sit on. The previous winter, our couch had been put outside in the cold to kill the vermin, but the smell had returned after the spring thaw.  I dragged a wooden chair into the front room for her, tripping over our threadbare rug. I kicked a pile of unwashed clothes out of the way and roaches scattered in every direction. I looked up to see if Mrs. Zilla had noticed, but she was busy talking to dad. I didn't call her attention to it because she looked like a proper lady. I placed the chair next to the couch where dad was sitting, facing the wrinkled sheet that we used as a curtain for our picture window.

    Before Mrs. Zilla had a chance to sit down, I held up the picture I had colored in my Mickey Mouse coloring book: Look what I did!

    Mrs. Zilla smiled. Very good. You must be an artist. Are you old enough to go to school?     

    I’m in kindergarten. I swiped my crusty nose.

    That’s wonderful. And what’s your name?

    Ann Marie.

    She smiled and watched my little sister Joan, eleven months younger than me, scribbling in her coloring book behind me. She wanted to color a picture for Mrs. Zilla, too. Joan was shy; when mom wasn’t in the hospital or recuperating in her room, Joan hung onto her apron while mom cooked and cleaned. At the end of each day, when mom collapsed on the couch, Joan sat at her feet and absently played with dolls. She barely looked up when Mrs. Zilla bent down to say, "How old are you?"       

    She’s four, I told her. My younger brothers, Georgie and Jamie, released from their highchairs by dad, bounded into the room, looking as if they’d been reared in the backwoods without soap or water. Mrs. Zilla became animated with them, hiding her face behind her hands and squealing Peek-a-boo! each time she flung them open. The smell of Jamie's cloth diaper was second only to the stench of the house. Mrs. Zilla covered her face again and said Peek-a-boo! to Jamie's delight. 

    Georgie said with a clever smirk, I already see you!

    While Mrs. Zilla sat and talked to dad, I quickly colored another picture. Do you like this one? 

    Very good! she said, with an ‘O’ shaped mouth and raised brows. I felt heady from all the positive attention.

    Dad gently reminded me, Ann Marie, we don't leave crayons on the floor. People might step on them, and they’ll get broken and then you won’t have anything to color with. Mrs. Zilla didn’t know that Pretend Dad was talking, but I did. I liked Pretend Dad better; he didn’t yell or hit us.  I picked up the nubs of crayons off the splintered hardwood floor and placed them in a small cardboard box decorated with pink and purple flowers. I colored the petals while I listened mindlessly to Pretend Dad and Mrs. Zilla talk.

    So, after the school year is over, I understand you'll be sending the children to live with relatives while Celeste recuperates? Leaning in, she said, If you can’t get things sorted out with family or friends, we’ll have to explore the option of foster care…or an orphanage.

    The house was filthy, the laundry was piled high, he had nine hungry mouths to feed and get off to school, and his wife was laid up again, ‘not feeling well’, as he always put it. Dad had already used a month’s worth of vacation time to stay home with the children after mom was admitted to the hospital for hypertension a month before. During her stay, she had a nervous breakdown. She told her psychiatrist that her neighbors were always watching her and threatening to harm her children. She said, I feel like I want to take an axe and chop down their door and chop them, too. So, the doctors gave her a stronger dosage of antipsychotic medication to silence the voices in her head. At thirty-nine, dad had a schizophrenic wife who was in and out of psychiatric hospitals, nine children that he didn’t want in the first place, a mortgage he could barely afford, and cars that broke down every other week. He smoked two packs of Camel filters a day and guzzled Maalox at meals to settle his peptic ulcer. He was at his wits end; he always told us so at the tail end of his shrieking tirades.

  He looked warily at Mrs. Zilla. Yes, they'll stay with family until it’s time to begin the next school year. Without his dentures in, he slurred his speech as if he’d had too much to drink.  I'm sure their mother will be well by then.

    Mrs. Zilla said, "Have you found homes for all nine children? I’m worried that Celeste won’t be able to handle very much right now.  Social services had visited the house last year when mom wasn’t feeling well, following school reports of gross neglect and suspected abuse."  There were many days in winter when we went to go to school without jackets, hats, gloves, or even underwear.  Our hair was dirty and knotted and we were always in need of a good scrub.

I think Celeste was just overwhelmed by the responsibility of taking care of nine children.  She's never been sick like this before. I'm sure she'll be better soon. He stretched his lips into a false, toothless smile to assure Mrs. Zilla that everything was going to be all right.

  Is she well enough to help with the kids before you get everything sorted out? Mrs. Zilla inquired.

She isn't able to get around much.  She’s improving every day, but we have no extended family nearby to help. He’d said the same thing to the agency workers that cleaned our house last month. Deplorable, one of them had said out loud as she toured the house, not thinking I understood, but from the sour face she made, I knew that it meant something bad. Handymen had come and removed all of the debris from the basement, the front porch, and in the backyard. An electrician repaired our washer and dryer. A plumber fixed the clogged drains, which had caused our basement to flood every time we did the wash, soaking the mildewed piles of clothes on the floor. An exterminator, brought in to get rid of all the bugs and rodents, had remarked to his co-worker, I haven’t seen anything like this in years.

    All right then, can I visit with Celeste?

    Dad directed Mrs. Zilla to the upstairs bedroom where mom was still sleeping. We scampered up the steps behind her like a pack of puppies, then led her to mom's bedroom where our dog Tammy, a German Shepard mix, barked out a sharp warning. Mom was lying on her side, facing the opposite wall. She rocked her hefty body back and forth to gain momentum, heaved herself over, and greeted her visitor with a weak smile.

Mom removed her spongy earplugs; she wore them so all the noise we made wouldn't disturb her. She placed them on the cluttered nightstand, littered with medicine bottles and half-filled cups of water. Dead cockroaches floated upside down in some of them. Mom noticed Mrs. Zilla looking into one of the cups and said, That always happens. I don't know why they go there in the first place if they can't swim. Mrs. Zilla gave mom an uncomfortable smile.

    Mom fiddled with her rosary beads under Mrs. Zilla’s penetrating gaze. She kept them wrapped around her wrist at all times, unravelling them only to say her prayers.  Ann Marie, go get a chair for Mrs. Zilla so she can sit down, she told me in a faint whisper.

    I was proud that at the moment, I was the oldest child around and had been charged with the responsibility of getting something important for a grownup. I ran to find a chair and dragged it into mom’s room.  Mrs. Zilla asked if she could help. I’ve got it! I puffed:  I wanted her to see how strong I was.  Mrs. Zilla smiled again and said, Thank you, Ann Marie, sweetly, like she thought I was a good girl.

    Wanly, Mom said, You kids need to go back downstairs now. When we stood our ground, not wanting to leave the nice lady, mom propped herself up on her elbow, pointed her finger at us, and said, Do as I told you and go now.  We slowly backed out of her room but hung just outside, within earshot. When Tammy nipped at Georgie, mom snapped, Get over here, and the shepherd mix slunk under mom's old trundle bed. Good grief! mom said, just like Charlie Brown.

    Mrs. Zilla turned back to mom.  How are you feeling, Celeste? Although it was obvious mom was not doing well, she squinted her nose and said lightly, Everything is fine. Mom never wanted anyone to ask too many questions. It wasn't until mom’s recent breakdown that anyone was able to penetrate her shield of protection over the family secrets.

    Prodding a little further, trying not to upset mom in her fragile state, Mrs. Zilla gingerly asked, How are the children doing?

    Mom sensed the clock was ticking; losing her children would be the death of her, and time was running out. Mom’s face turned splotchy, and she cried out, They're all I have, I don't want them taken from me. When mom cried, I felt like crying too.  I always got mad at anyone who made her cry, especially The Voices.  I started to feel mad at Mrs. Zilla for making her cry. Maybe she’s trying to trick mom like The Voices do. I looked at Mrs. Zilla’s short greying hair with the neat pin curls and I thought about how stupid they looked.

    Celeste, we don't want to take your kids away, we just want to make sure you get the support you need to care for them properly. I know it's been hard for both you and Warren, and we’re here to help you.

    Mom cried and moaned, like a child on the tail end of a tantrum, until she tired herself out.  With longing in her voice, she admitted to Mrs. Zilla, I always felt better when I was carrying a baby around.

    Mom’s father had died of tuberculosis in the middle of the Great Depression, when she was three years old, leaving her mother to raise three children on her own on the south side of Chicago. Her mother never remarried, and she grew cold and stern as she struggled to make ends meet. She favored mom’s two older brothers, potential breadwinners who could help support the family, giving them the meager amounts of meat and fish the family could afford, while mom was served potatoes.  Mom steadily gained weight, despite the gnawing hunger that kept her up at night.     

    Straight out of high school, mom had enrolled in a nursing program.  She studied hard, earned good grades, and looked forward to the future. One day, riding the bus into the city for her anatomy class, she heard a voice inside her head. The voice told her she was fat and a failure; she’d never amount to anything. It left her feeling scared and devastatingly sad; she hoped she’d never hear the awful voice again.

    Halfway through her second year of nurse’s training, she dropped out to marry a man she’d met on a blind date, my father. The Voice came back and brought friends. Mom didn’t tell dad about The Voices. She was ready to start a family of her own and was only too happy to marry a man with a steady job who promised to love her and feed her for the rest of her life.

    Dad's voice cracked through the air from downstairs, You kids, come downstairs and leave the grown-ups to talk.  Mom sniffled breathlessly and Mrs. Zilla touched her shoulder.  I wanted to stay and listen, but I knew dad meant business and we’d be spanked if we didn’t hurry. I decided that I didn’t like Mrs. Zilla anymore for making mom cry.

    Mrs. Zilla joined us downstairs shortly afterwards and greeted my oldest brother Johnny with a smile when he walked through the door, home from school. Pretend Dad turned to Johnny and said, I didn't have a chance to do the dishes from this morning, do you mind doing them?

Johnny said, Sure, putting down his schoolbooks and rolling up his sleeves. On his way to the kitchen, Johnny boasted, I do most of the cooking in the house.

    Really? Mrs. Zilla replied, genuinely surprised.

    I don't mind, Johnny assured her. Johnny was fourteen. He was like a grownup to me.

    Dad told Mrs. Zilla with shining pride, Johnny does very well in high school.  I want all of my children to graduate from high school. He lamented, Maybe I wouldn't have had to work in a steel plant for eighteen years if I had graduated; it held me back. Pleased to hear that dad had higher aspirations for his children, Mrs. Zilla nodded in agreement and followed Johnny into the filthy kitchen.

    When Michael walked through the front room, Pretend Dad vanished.  Michael was twelve and in the 7th grade. He wasn't at all like Johnny.  That day, like most days, he was angry because dad wouldn't let him leave the house.  Michael already had a bad reputation for wandering into town and stealing from stores.

    Why can’t I go? he shouted. There’s nothing to do around here!

    Dad looked towards the kitchen to make sure Mrs. Zilla couldn’t hear them arguing. Lower your damn voice! Real Dad said in a hushed tone. Michael grabbed a shoe from the haphazard pile inside the front door and threw it violently across the room, then pounded the wall with his fist all the way up the stairs, muttering obscenities with every step.

    When the school had reported that Michael was having disciplinary problems, mom admitted that he’d started having temper tantrums at a very early age, but she was always too busy having and raising children to deal with his issues. There was a time when my parents would scold Michael when he hit us, but it did no good. Michael just dances to the beat of his own drum, mom started saying. Eventually, she told us, Don't upset your brother and he won't act that way. 

    Mrs. Zilla emerged from the kitchen with Johnny to see what the commotion was.  Dad told her Michael was just a little upset because he couldn't go out and play until he got his homework done.  It was what he always did, downplaying the seriousness of Michael’s problems.  My older sister Grace and my other two older brothers, Phil and Luke, walked through the door and politely introduced themselves to Mrs. Zilla before they ran upstairs to their rooms. Dad used the distraction to sweep the remaining tension under the rug.

    Mrs. Zilla handed dad a written schedule detailing when to feed the children, get them off to school, and ready them for bed while mom recuperated.  She encouraged him to ask for help from the older children to make dinner and complete the chores. She said that the goal was for mom to return to her duties as a mother as soon as possible.  If not, the children were at risk of being placed in temporary custody. Mrs. Zilla promised she’d send a homemaker for two weeks to assist mom until she got back on her feet.  At the door, she told dad she'd be back soon to follow up and then chirped out a pert Goodbye! to all of us.  I forgot to not smile at her, and I waved goodbye as she walked out the door. 

1965, Age 6: The Norris Household

    The incessant commentary by the voices in mom’s head tormented her all day, every day.  It didn’t matter how many decades of the rosary she prayed, or if she got up before the sun to attend early mass, or if she tithed more than we could afford; The Voices never quit.  Although mom had been diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic five years earlier, she believed that the voices in her head were demons torturing her, so she reached out to the Catholic Church. 

    On a particularly stormy Saturday night in spring when I was six years old, the elders from St. Andrews set up a vigil in our home: a three-foot statue of the Virgin Mary, cloaked in powder-blue robes and surrounded by votive candles that flickered and danced in the dark of our living room. I watched from the top step of the staircase, hidden from view behind Grace, so dad wouldn’t see me and yell at me to go to my room. Among the nine children, I was one of the little kids and was always being told to go to my room.  Along with my other siblings who lined the staircase, peering between the balusters, Grace and I didn’t dare make a sound for fear that we would break the spell and invoke the wrath of God. Or worse, dad.

    I watched as Mom knelt in front of the glowing sacred statue. The ceremonial bench creaked under her weight.  She laced her fingers, bowed her head, and sniffled. The lead elder, Mr. Fischer, wearing a well-tailored suit, salt-and-pepper hair, and a serious brow, presided over the ceremony while dad stood in the background with his grim face and folded arms. He’s a protestant, mom once told us.  From her tone, I gathered she didn’t approve. Neither did her mother.

    Mr. Fischer prayed beseechingly for mom, one hand on her shoulder, the other extending upward, Dear Lord, please deliver our sister, Celeste Marie, from all evil. Grant her thy forgiveness and grace and protection.  Mom was racked with sobs by the end of his prayer.  That wasn’t unusual: she normally cried a lot, because The Voices wouldn’t leave her alone. The other attending elders who stood behind mom mumbled Amen in unison.

    Dad turned on the lights and we scattered like roaches up to our rooms. Mr. Fischer installed a stoup of holy water, blessed by a priest, just inside our front door and invited mom to join him. They both dipped their fingers in the water, made the sign of the cross, and mom bowed her head while Mr. Fischer prayed, By this holy water and by your precious blood, protect all who dwell here from evil, O Lord. Amen. He sprinkled holy water from an aspergillum into each downstairs room before entering, repeating the words inside every door.

    When the solemn proceedings were coming to end, Mr. Fischer shook dad’s hand with a mirthless smile. Our Holy Savior will protect the faithful. Praise be to God.  Dad didn’t believe a word of that nonsense, but he forced a sobered smile and acted like he did.  The leaders of the church gathered their raincoats that were slung over the banister and headed out into the light drizzle, leaving the Blessed Virgin Mary on top of the table to preside over and protect our home in the days to come. 

    By the end of the night, mom looked like she’d been lost in the woods all day. She blew out the rest of the votive candles and told those of us who’d crept down the steps to go right back up to our rooms. Dad barked, The show is over. Go to your beds! You weren’t supposed to be down here in the first place. Mom retreated quietly to her room while dad stayed downstairs, turned on the TV in the den, smoked a Parliament, and guzzled a Pepsi from a glass bottle.  As I laid in the darkened silence of my bedroom, the steady hushed clacking of mom’s rosary beads and the murmuring of her devotions lulled me to sleep. Mom always prayed before bedtime. She said that it was at night that the demons came to try to take possession of her soul.

    Ann? Ann Marie?! I bolted awake.

    Yeah, mom?

    Would you like to say the stations of the cross with me? Bleary-eyed, I found my way to her room where she was laying on her bed, her bible opened. When I sat on the edge of her bed, my eyes fell on the colorful illustrated plates depicting the devil as a vile, green-horned demon with a pointed tail and pitchfork, jeering at sinners from across an ocean of lava, egging on their fall from grace into ultimate doom.  Before I even realized it, I impulsively blurted, I think Michael’s the devil. Michael always laughed whenever people got hurt, especially when he caused their pain, just like the devil.  With humorless gravity, mom said, "Your brother is not the devil. You can’t see the devil.  He’s invisible but he’s all around us, driving us into temptation and sin. She added, as though it was a secret between us, Tonight, when Mr. Fischer sprinkled the holy water throughout the house, I could hear the devils who were hiding in the rooms hissing when the water landed on their flesh.  They all ran from the house, screaming!"  She smiled with satisfaction.

    Mom led us into prayer.  I prayed with mom because I, too, was worried that the devil was all around us. Sometimes, I felt like the devil was so close, I could reach out and touch him. Although I still believed God would protect me if I prayed hard enough, I kept one eye open for the green demon until we finished, just in case.

    "Glory be to the father, and to the son and to the holy Spirit.  As it was in the beginning, is now and ever

shall be, world without end, Amen."

    Thank you for praying with me honey.  Go straight to bed.

    Okay, mom.  Goodnight.

    The next morning, mom dipped her fingers in the sacred water, made the sign of the cross, and whispered a prayer to herself. I did the same just to be on the safe side. Mom said I could.  We all need protection, she warned.  As an added measure to guard against demonic possession, mom wore a scapular, an assemblage of small cloth squares bearing religious images, around her neck.  The priest who gave it to her said, Take this scapular, it shall be a sign of salvation, a protection in danger, and a pledge of peace. Wear it always. After she bathed at night, she patted the scapular dry with the same care she would a baby’s bottom.

    Let’s get going. I don’t want to hit heavy traffic mom called as she walked out the door. You kids should have been dressed by now. We’ll be late for church. Let’s go! On Sunday mornings, mom dragged most of us - kicking and screaming - to mass, promising us ice cream afterward if we behaved.  Dad, being a Protestant, offered us the sacred ritual of spankings if we didn’t get a move on.  He said he’d stay home and watch the dog, chuckling lightly to himself. 

    Joan, Luke, Phil, and I climbed into the back of our old Chrysler station wagon while mom scrounged in her purse to find an ornate metal cross locket containing a piece of cloth blessed by a priest.  She clutched it tightly.  She wound her plastic rosary beads tightly around her wrist, made the sign of the cross, and petitioned Saint Christopher, venerated by the Roman Catholic church as the patron saint of travel, St. Christopher, holy patron of travelers, protect me and lead me safely to my destination.  She put the car in reverse.

    Where’s Michael and Grace?

    They said they didn’t want to go, I volunteered.

    Oh, brother she said, just like Charlie Brown.  Mom rolled her eyes and slowly backed out of the driveway.  Suddenly, she jammed on the brakes, throwing us out of our seats, and shouted, Put on your seatbelts!

    At church, we dutifully stood, knelt, and bowed our heads in prayer, but by the time the priest said, You are dismissed, go in peace, we were already waiting for mom in the parking lot next to her car, demanding to know what took her so long and can we go home now?!

    When we got home, I played in my room with Joan until the shadows grew longer against our yellow walls.  I nearly tripped down the stairs in my haste to get outside and play before dinner, at which time mom would yell for us to come in and stay in.  As I headed out the door, I noticed mom slumped over on the couch, hitching and moaning, ineffectively consoling herself by rocking back and forth. I touched her arm.  Mom?  Mom, what's wrong? I said quietly, not wanting to upset her more.  Why are you crying? Her lips tightened as she shook her head from side to side, unable to speak. I felt a strong tug towards the door, my escape to the outside world, where I didn’t have to worry about voices or yelling or the devil possessing my body. I waited for a reply, but none came.

    Is it The Voices?

    As if a spigot had been turned off, mom suddenly stopped crying, stood, and walked briskly to the kitchen. My heart stopped. I straddled the arm of the couch, dumbfounded.  Mom stormed out of the kitchen, grasping a yellow broom in her hand, a fierce resoluteness in her eyes, and started clubbing the top of her head with the broom handle. The sound of a wrecking ball demolishing a building filled the static air while she shrieked, "Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!"  Her face contorted in pain with each violent strike against her skull. My stomach twisted into knots. The other kids filed into the room, creating a ragged semi- circle around her, dazed and helpless, all of us.

    Luke, who was two years older than me, grabbed the handle of the broom to stop it in mid-air.

    Mom, stop. Stop doing that!

    Without looking at him or speaking, she pushed him away, screwed up her face, and resumed hammering her head.

    Luke grabbed the broom again, wresting it away from her.  The fury suddenly drained from her body, and she walked over to the couch, collapsed, and wept inconsolably.  Between gulping sobs, she said, The Voices won't leave me alone. Groan. Inhale. Tears streamed down her swollen face. They tell me I'm too fat and that I don't deserve to eat. Groan. Inhale. They tell me that if I eat tonight, they'll kill Jamie. Groan. Inhale. Joan put her arm around mom’s shoulders and stroked her gently while she rocked. Soon her breathing slowed and her crying became as soft as a forlorn puppy. We waited and wondered if she would pull out of it, or if the crying and moaning would go on the rest of the night as it had so many times before.

    Mom looked up at Joan and gave her a wan smile through her tears. Joan hugged her. It’s okay mom, she assured her. The golf ball-sized lumps on top of mom’s head were inflamed and bleeding. Luke found a dirty dish towel and filled it with ice. Mom held it on top of her head, wincing.

    Mom, who are these people? Phil asked.

    Yeah, Jamie interjected. I want to go punch them in the wiener! The heaviness of the atmosphere was momentarily lifted by our laughter.

    I don't know who they are, mom replied. They're just voices.  I can't see them.

    I wanted to make mom feel better, but I didn’t know how.  The outside world tugged at me with the promise of happiness, like a dog pulling at the end of a knotted rope.

    Luke asked, Is it a man's or woman's voice?

    Sometimes, it's a man and sometimes it's a woman. It just depends.

    Do you hear their voices all the time? Phil asked.

    When I was at church today, a woman greeted me at the door with a smile. I smiled back and said hello, but as soon as I walked away, I heard her voice in my head, ‘For you to be so fat when there are starving children in the world.’ And then I heard other voices after that, too. The tempo of her sobs picked up.

    "Which woman was it? Phil asked.  I felt incensed that someone would hurt mom.

    I don’t know her name. She’s just someone from town.

    Phil said, God, she sounds like a bitch. Mom tried to conceal her grin. She didn’t condone swearing or taking the Lord’s name in vain.

    Yeah, that woman was a real S.O.B, mom said. We laughed conspiratorially because mom never swore. Even dad had a chuckle.

    Well, I’m tired after all this, mom said. She heaved her weight to stand and climbed the stairs to her room. I gave in to the tugging and bolted out the door. 

    I ran down the street a few blocks away where our neighbors were playing outside.  Eleanor, a neighborhood friend, had an extra Footsie and we twirled it around and around until we tripped and skinned our scabby knees for the hundredth time.  At five o'clock, the bells tolled at the Lutheran church next door to our house, signaling that it