I remember it was snowing.
The cold stung my face as Mom packed me, my baby sister, and a bag overflowing with clothes for the three of us, my Chatty Cathy doll on top, into the car. I remember worrying that Cathy might fall out of the bag.
I think we had the Ford Galaxie at that time. Big upholstered seats, swallowing up me and my sister as my mother swung the car out of the driveway. My sister was in her booster seat, I held onto the handle on the passenger side with both hands as my mother drove, fuelled by her fury.
The next thing I remember is arriving at Terminal Tower. We must have been driving for a while. Downtown Cleveland was about 35 miles away. My mother parked the car, gathered up the bag and my sister and told me to hurry up and grab her hand as she already walked away from me. I wanted to stop and put on my mittens, but I was afraid I would lose her, so the mittens just dangled from the sleeves of my new winter coat. I ran to grab her hand as she didn’t miss a step, marching to the elevator.
Once we stepped out into the arcade of the Terminal Tower, crowds surrounded us. I held on to her hand even tighter.
I finally asked, “Mommy, where are we going?”
“We’re leaving. We’re getting train tickets. Just hold onto my hand,” she answered.
A wound to my heart opened wide.
“What about Daddy?” I started breathing harder, my voice got higher. My steps started to slow against her fast pace.
“He’s not coming. We’re leaving him,” she said, jerking my arm a bit to keep me in step with her.
I started to cry and shake as the realization hit me. My mother was taking me and my baby sister away. Who knows where. My father was still at work, closing up the bait store, oblivious to the fact that his wife was leaving town with his two daughters.
I tried to remember if there was a huge fight or blowup that preceded this action. Nothing out of the ordinary. My four-year-old brain couldn’t figure out the reason for this drastic decision.
I stopped in my tracks and started to sob.
“I don’t wanna go! I want my daddy!” I cried.
“Eileen, come on, now. We have to go,” she said.
“Nooooo,” I wailed. “I want my daddy!” I wouldn’t budge.
I could barely breathe, I was crying so hard.
My mother was only 5’4” tall. She was already carrying my baby sister and a bag that was weighing her down. She was probably at a loss to add a stolid wailing four-year-old to her load.
She tried to talk to me but I wouldn’t hear it. By this time, the passersby were looking at us and wondering what was going on with this woman and her two shrieking children. My sister decided to join in the crying once she heard me.
My mother grabbed me by the arm and marched me away from the ticket counter.
She must’ve taken us to the hotel right there at Public Square. The next memory I have is sitting at the end of the bed at the hotel watching television. My mother was sleeping, my baby sister sleeping next to her.
I couldn’t fall asleep, still stricken by my mother’s attempt to take us away. I sat at the edge of the bed, holding Chatty Cathy. The late, late show on TV was The Man With the Golden Arm. I always had a soft spot for Frank Sinatra after that.
In the morning, my mother called my father. They had their usual profanity-laced I-hate-you-how-could-you-I-can’t-live-without-you-either-I-love-you-too-you-son-of-a-bitch conversation.
She packed us up into the car and drove home.
That was the start of my increasingly frequent allegiances with my father. My mother took it personally and I don’t think she ever forgave me for it.
