The Night My Childhood Ended

A treatise on go-go boots, thunderstorms, and growing up too fast.

Mom is dressed in her white go-go boots. The ones I wear whenever she’s not looking so I can feel grown up.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Dad and I are going dancing with the Bertrands.” She reaches to fasten the clasp of her necklace. After struggling for a moment, she says, “Help me.”

Mom sits on the edge of her bed so I can reach. I deftly fasten the delicate clasp of the antique necklace my great-grandma gave her.

“Will you be far away?”

“Just Milwaukee.”

Mom shrugs like it’s no big deal, but I know that’s far away. It takes almost an hour to get there when we go to the museum or zoo.

“Are we still having dinner?”

I want to eat dinner with my family tonight, but I already know it’s not likely. I see the far-off look in Mom’s eyes, the one adult me will eventually recognize as quiet desperation from a woman who started a family at 18, sacrificing her youth to raise children and support a man whose dreams were as big as his social drinking habit.

But in this story, I’m 10 years old, and I want Mom to stay home. I want to eat a dinner she’s prepared and be responsible only for the cleanup. I want to curl up next to her on the couch to watch M*A*S*H. I want her to tuck me in and whisper, “Sleep tight.”

But I will have none of these things tonight. Mom is wearing her go-go boots.

“You get to make dinner!” Mom says with cheerful enthusiasm, as if she’s awarding me a prize. It’s the same voice she uses when she tells me I’m the absolute best at doing the dishes or browning the ground beef.

The voice is a con, a sales pitch. I’ve known that for forever. Mom tells me I’m good at things so I’ll keep doing them and not complain.

I don’t blame her. She needs my help. And I like it when she tells me I’m good at things because mostly I feel like I’m not.

“What am I making?” I hear the whine in my voice and instantly hate it. I should be good and agreeable, not give Mom a hard time.

“Spaghetti,” Mom answers, putting her earrings on. “There’s sauce and noodles in the cupboard. You know how long to boil the noodles, right?”

“Ten minutes,” I mutter. “Nine for al dente.”

“Al dente!” Mom crows, laughter coloring her voice. “Where did you learn that? I swear I birthed a 40-year-old in a 10-year-old’s body.”

I haven’t quite reached the preteen eye-rolling stage, so I answer earnestly: “I was born with an baby’s body.”

Mom musses my hair. “Well, a 40-year-old’s brain, then.”

As Mom and Dad prepare to leave, I watch the Channel 6 news. The weatherman points to a map and speaks in excited tones.

“We’ve got some wild weather in store for your evening forecast,” he says. “A powerful storm system is moving rapidly into our area, bringing the potential for severe weather. Large hail, damaging winds, and even isolated tornadoes are a real possibility across much of the region tonight. We’re under a Severe Thunderstorm Watch for all Southeastern Wisconsin counties including Jefferson, Waukesha—”

I used to be afraid of thunderstorms.

When I was very small, thunder and lightning caused me to creep into my parents’ room in search of comfort. Because their full-sized bed was too small for me to share, Mom put my blankets and pillow on the floor beside her. She would reach down and hold my hand through the night to help keep me calm. She jokes that one of her arms is longer than the other as a result.

I want to call out to Mom that there are thunderstorms coming. I want her to stay home with me. But I also intuitively know she needs this night out.

The adults leave me in charge of a flock of children. My brother Scott is seven and Dustin is just one month old. My friend, Becky Bertrand, is eight and her brothers Mike and Doug are six and three.

I’m okay with being the boss. Mostly, the younger kids listen to me.

We eat spaghetti while Dustin fusses in what Mom calls his “bouncy seat.” I feed my baby brother his bottle of formula — heated up just right under hot running water and tested on my wrist like Mom does.

When it’s dark outside, I change Dustin’s diaper and put him in his crib, letting him cry for a few minutes until he soothes himself to sleep. Then, I gather the rest of the kids onto the couch and read Where the Wild Things Are and Go, Dog. Go!

Finally, I tuck everyone into bed. The boys share Scott’s room. Becky sleeps with me. I have to get up a few times to tell the boys to quiet down and go to sleep, but eventually they do.

Becky and I whisper our secrets and dreams to one another. She will get married to a rich man and become a model. I will live on my own ranch and raise horses, probably Arabians. Maybe I’ll marry a movie star, but I’m not sure which one yet. Or maybe a singer, like Shaun Cassidy. We both swoon over Shaun Cassidy.

In a while, Becky grows quiet. I hear her breathing fall into the slow, steady cadence of sleep.

I’m the only one awake.

Lightning illuminates my room, turning the hideous cabbage rose wallpaper into a gallery of gremlin faces, all waiting for me to close my eyes so they can spring. When we moved here not long ago, Mom swore she would tear down that ugly wallpaper. I wish she’d had time to before Dustin came screaming into the world.

Thunder roars. Lightning flashes again.

One Mississippi … two Mississippi … three Mississippi … four Mississ —

Boom! Flash!

One Mississippi … two Mississippi … thr —

Blam!

The storm is getting closer.

I sit up, gazing through the darkness out the large bank of windows in front of my bed. The thunder rolls with a steady rumble punctuated by resounding cracks as lightning strikes close by. In the flickering strobe of constant lightning, I see the trees in the woods flailing wildly.

I shake Becky awake. She rises, loggy with sleep, but when she takes in the scene outside my windows, her eyes grow wide.

“We have to go to the basement,” I say calmly. You should stay calm even when you’re afraid because it helps keep others calm.

“I’m scared!” Becky yelps.

“I know. But you have to help me wake up the boys. I’m going to get Dustin.”

Becky is immobile, clutching the blankets to her chest.

“Go now!” I command, and she does.

In short order, we’re all below ground, safe from tornadoes in a windowless cinderblock storage area off the kitchen that Mom calls The Back Room.

Hours pass. I wake with a start. There’s a light on in the kitchen. It wasn’t on when I shepherded the kids into The Back Room.

I wipe grit from my eyes and look around. I’d plugged in my bedroom nightlight so the little kids wouldn’t be afraid of the all-consuming blackness of an underground room. In the subtle glow, I see everyone asleep with their pillows and blankets. Even Dustin is sprawled on his back, a pacifier tucked firmly between his lips.

Two shadows appear in the doorway. I am not afraid. Even in the dim light, I know it’s Mom and Micki Bertrand. They stand there, looking at us, talking in low voices.

“ — was so panicked with the flooding and all.” Mom’s voice.

“The lightning was unreal! And that tree down in the Watson’s yard! What if — ”

“I can’t believe she brought them all down here. She’s — ”

I feel like I’m eavesdropping, which is wrong. So I clear my throat and say, “Hi, Mom.”

Mom and Micki swoop in, and Mom hugs me fiercely. She marvels yet again at how mature and responsible I am. How lucky is she to have a daughter who’s so grown-up?

Forty-eight years have passed since the night of that storm. My actions became family legend, something Mom proudly told anyone who would listen to demonstrate how mature and wise I’ve always been.

What she never realized, right up to the day she died, is that I’d appointed myself family manager from that night forward.

And the burden I laid on my shoulders was a heavy one.

It meant taking on a huge share of household responsibilities when Mom decided to stop being a “housewife” and start working at Kmart.

It meant I had a significant hand in raising my brothers, particularly Dustin.

It meant that, as a teenager, I recognized Mom wasn’t so good at arguing with my Dad, so I’d step in as her proxy, eloquently pointing out how unreasonable and demanding he was being, and enduring the brunt of his frustrations.

I still don’t know how to accept help from others. Because I manage things. That’s what I’m good at.

And I’m tired. But this is who I am, who I’ve become.

I’ve told my kids to have four words carved on my urn when I die. The stubbornly independent person’s motto:

“I’ll figure it out.”

And I will. Not because I want to — not anymore — but because I have to.