Ties That Bind

  Ties That Bind

  Debbie White

  Published by Debbie White, 2016.

  Ties That Bind

  Debbie White

  Copyright © 2015 by Debbie White

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 13: 978-1519174802

  ISBN 10: 1519174802

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2015

  Cover Design by Victorine Lieske

  Editing done by:

  Steve Mathisen

  Odd Sock Proofreading & Copyediting

  http://oddsock.me/

  scmathisen98037@hotmail.com

  https://www.facebook.com/steve.mathisen.7

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my husband. He not only stood by me while I cared for my mother, but he also helped me pick up the pieces after she was gone. He encouraged me to write this book, and I will always be thankful he was by my side.

  Mid pleasures and palaces

  Though we may roam,

  Be it ever so humble,

  There's no place like home.

  ~ John Howard Payne ~

  Contents

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  I always said my life began when I met Charles. He made everything better. We had a great life together, and despite my dysfunctional childhood, I’d say my life turned out pretty good. Sometimes, when I’d think back about all I’d been through, I’d shake my head in disbelief. It was hard for even me to believe some of the things I’d been through and discovered. It took me years to finally talk about it openly but once I did, closing those floodgates was next to impossible.

  Those memories blazed brightly and were sometimes hard to put aside. So, I started keeping a journal in the hopes of writing my whole story someday. Like most people, time got away from me. I was thankful that Carole became interested in documenting my story.

  Even though Charles was interested, there came a time when he felt it was water under the bridge and time to move forward. I told myself the same thing, but sometimes it’s harder to do than you’d think.

  When Carole said she’d like to write a book about my adoption and all the craziness involved, I was flattered. It was something we were doing together, and I enjoyed the closeness I felt when I shared my stories with her.

  I knew there’d be a lot of information to cover, and it was hard sometimes to stay focused. Thankfully I had a great memory, and so I was able to give ages, and dates; which totally blew Carole’s mind that I could remember so much. I looked forward to the afternoons she’d visit, and we’d discuss my story. My body might have been deteriorating, but my mind was like that of a twenty-year-old. I could remember even small details that surprised Carole.

  I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get to read the completed book but even if I wasn’t able to, I knew Carole would write it with all the sensitivity it required. I also knew she’d write it in my voice the best way she could. After all, it was my story, as Carole reminded me several times.

  I didn’t want anyone who read it to think I was angry about the things that happened to me. I’d forgiven them all. I had to. I couldn’t carry that baggage around any longer. It doesn’t mean I didn’t still remember things. Carole would tell me I was like an elephant. I wouldn’t forget anything. I could forgive, but forgetting; that was another thing.

  ***

  It was a beautiful day, and although spring had not officially come it was nice enough to take a stroll around the grounds and visit the rose garden. Carole tenderly covered my legs with a lightweight cover and made sure I had my sun visor on. She packed a few essentials in my carry bag and strapped it to my wheelchair and off we went. I loved going outside, and Carole made sure I got out as much as possible. She pushed my wheelchair slowly avoiding the speed bumps in the parking area of my apartment building. She found the sidewalk and up and away we went. Soon we were rolling and talking. I don’t know if I ever told her pointedly how much I enjoyed this, but I think she knew.

  We ended up at the rose garden. It’s where we usually went. It was there or the common area of the building so we could look at the tropical fish. It’s funny, but back just a year or so I would have told you how boring that all sounded–visiting rose gardens and staring at tropical fish, but somehow it works when you’re eighty-six and dependent on others.

  I don’t have any regrets, though. As difficult as life may have been, finding Charles more than made up for it, and the family we made was icing on the cake. My life was pretty ordinary once I met Charles. Well not really. Having your own private investigator’s agency spiced things up considerably.

  We worked as a team finding bad guys and the occasional unfaithful wife or husband–or runaway daughter. Life was fascinating and challenging in different ways, but we were doing it together.

  What were the chances of me, with my background, getting a job at a P.I. Firm, falling in love with the top investigator, and he helping me find out some of the answers to my questions? I’d say pretty slim, but that’s just the way it happened.

  For me to share my story, I have to start from the very beginning. As much as I tried to deny it, it shaped me. It made me who I am. And it starts right here.

  IOWA DISTRICT COURT OF WOODBURY COUNTY

  Office of

  COLLEEN LEE MOLSKOW 101 COURT HOUSE

  Clerk of District Court SIOUX CITY, IOWA

  Dear Mrs. Phillips:

  We are unable to locate the birth record you have requested.

  We suggest that you write to the State Office:

  Iowa State Department of Health

  Division of Vital Statistics

  Des Moines, Iowa 50319

  $4.00 each certificate.

  Yours Truly,

  Clerk of District Court

  Record Room

  P.S.: They have a State-Wide Index so be sure to mention the fact that the birthplace might be Dubuque, IA.

  Chapter One

  I was shaking, tears streaming down my face. I’d had a bad dream. I didn’t have many of them, but this one was a doozy. Carole took me by the hand, “Mom. I’m here. It looks like you’ve had a bad dream. What was it about?” She asked.

  Wiping the tears from my face, I shrugged. “Irma.”

  “Irma?” She repeated.

  I nodded.

  Caroled hugged me for a long minute and then pulled away and locked eyes with me. “Do you mind if I write the details of your dream down? It might be pertinent later on for the book.

  I nodded. “Of course, I’m delighted you’ve taken such an interest in writing my story. Although I don’t know how many people will find it interesting,” I said laughing.

  Carole reached out and took my hand into hers. “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. I’m doing this for us.” She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  I had a lot to be thankful for. Despite a somewhat traumatic beginning, I can honestly say, my life was better for having e
ndured all the difficult times of my childhood.

  I often wondered if it was a mere coincidence I was drawn to Charles or was it part of some larger design. What are the odds of being adopted, moving to California, landing a job at a private investigation firm, and later marrying the best P.I. west of the Mississippi?

  “I’m sorry dear, I struggled for so many years with not knowing who I was. It still haunts me from time to time.” She nodded and smiled. “Your dad was so great about putting up with all the neurotic behavior about my past. I pretended, at first, that I didn’t care. I did that for a long time. But gradually, it became all I could think about. He became determined to help me find answers,” I said, a tear forming on my bottom lid.

  “Mom—”

  “Let me finish, dear. What I was going to say was you all are the most important thing in my life. Your dad would have been so proud of how you all have stepped up and taken care of your old Ma.”

  “Mom, we’d all do it again,” she said leaning over and kissing me lightly on the forehead. “I still want to talk to you about all those years and write it all down. Let’s get the complete story into book form that we can all keep and cherish as a memorial to how you persevered and triumphed over a bad start in life. But, for now, let’s stop talking about it for now. Let’s go look at the roses.”

  * * *

  Adoption was done differently back then. Babies were often adopted with a handshake, not the mounds of red tape that it takes nowadays. I guess I should be thankful that loving parents found me—although that description is a bit of a stretch.

  My dad showed me love and kindness. Mom, on the other hand, was not very warm or kind, and occasionally could be physically abusive. She always seemed to be irritated with me.

  When I was old enough to read, I was given a newspaper clipping about my earliest beginnings with the family. The clipping said I was found lying on a bed and was estimated to be about nine months old. I tried to visualize the look on their faces when they saw this bundle of unexpected joy. I also wondered how on earth a nine-month-old stayed still on a strange bed, in a strange house. It wasn’t until years later that I found my first real clue that maybe Mother wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  I had a half-sister, Teresa, from my dads’ first marriage—at least, that’s what they said. She didn’t like me all that much either. She was about sixteen years older than me, and for the longest time, I wondered if she could be my real mom, and the half-sister story was just a cover. The animosity she showed me intensified over the years.

  My earliest memories were of my years in Iowa. My dad owned a pool hall and on many nights I’d find myself among the adults watching them shoot pool, playing cards and throwing back cold ones. I never thought anything of it. It was normal as far as I knew.

  We were a lively bunch. On Friday nights, the family would get together in our pool hall and party the night away. I distinctly remember that many nights, when I was about four-years-old, I would walk out the back door, climb the steps to our apartment over the pool hall, and put myself to bed. Looking back, I don’t think anyone missed me.

  I had a couple of aunts and uncles who absolutely adored me. They’d fuss over me and take me shopping, and we’d always end up at the ice-cream parlor. I always felt special when I was around them. If it weren’t for them and my dad, life would have been pretty pathetic.

  I had a couple of cousins, too. One, in particular, nicknamed Whitey, was more like an older brother. We rode bikes and played stickball in the street together along with the neighborhood kids.

  It was during one of our playtimes that he spilled the beans about my real mother.

  I ran home crying. Daddy was angry with Whitey for upsetting me.

  Pulling him up by his suspenders, Daddy gave him a stern look. “Look here, Whitey. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t you ever say those ugly things to Patsy again,” he said.

  I still didn’t know what the word meant, but I had a feeling that the word spewed from his mouth wasn’t a good word.

  When the Depression hit, we lost everything. The pool hall my dad just loved, the apartment overhead, and we would have lost the car too if it hadn’t been for Daddy’s sister. She saved the day by making all the late payments, with the stipulation we’d move to California.

  My aunts and uncles had already made the trek out to California, so we packed up the car with the few possessions we still had, and off to sunny California, we went.

  * * *

  The Depression hit all the states, but California had a few programs that allowed the men to earn a little stipend by doing work for the CCC (California Conservation Corps). We moved into what would be considered the projects by today’s standards. I was enrolled in school—which I dearly loved, and we settled into California life pretty easy.

  Food was scarce. We received vouchers equivalent to food stamps to get certain foods such as cheese and bread. We were surrounded by acres of orchards of apples, peaches, and avocados. It was a natural food pantry right in our backyard. However, when fruit was the only choice to stop a growling stomach, you got tired of the taste and texture. I vowed that when I earned my own money I’d buy cookies and cakes and never eat fruit again. Everyone in my family will tell you I have a sweet tooth. Just look in my dresser drawer and you’ll find bags of Hershey’s Kisses.

  Food wasn’t the only thing that was scarce. Money was non-existent, but we had each other for company and entertainment. Whitey would sometimes bring over his guitar, and he and I would put on little skits and entertain the neighborhood, parents and all. I recall one such memory that involved singing a duet called Little Sir Echo. It was a popular song of the times, and to this day, I can recite the words.

  After we had finished our performance, a few adults told us we should enter a local talent show that was being advertised.

  I wasn’t the least bit nervous performing on the stage in front of so many people. I was a natural, they said. It wasn’t too much of a surprise that we’d won the grand prize - a plastic trophy, and a free ice cream cone.

  It was great to see Daddy, my aunts; Toots, Margie, and Annie in the audience. Mother was there too, but as usual, no smile, no reaction whatsoever. Thinking back, I don’t think she even clapped for us.

  Daddy rushed toward us, a wide smile plastered all over his face. Mother was by his side, but only a slight smirk emerged on hers. “You were so good. You should take your act on the road,” he said.

  I had a few friends, but my closest friend was Shirley. We met at school. She didn’t live in the low-income apartments; her parents had a beautiful house in an excellent part of town. She would invite me over to play, and I was so in awe of her. She had her bedroom full of things that I could only dream of having. Her family was very kind to me, and I found myself not wanting to go home.

  With her hands on her hips, Mother said in a disgusted voice, “You sure spend a lot of time over at Shirley’s.”

  * * *

  We’d given up the severe winters of Iowa for sunny skies and warmer temperatures. It seemed like a good exchange. Life was hard, though, especially after Daddy got ill. I was just a young girl, but even then, the word cancer was scary. He tried to remain positive, even though our situation was anything but.

  I didn’t realize just how sick he was until he was on his deathbed. Mother had the priest visit, and he performed last rites. Then the realization hit me and hit me hard. I ran out of the room crying. Life would never be the same. I knew that much.

  Daddy died when I was about twelve. We didn’t know a lot about cancer then. I just knew that one day he was fine, the next he was sick, and then he died. It happened so fast. At least, that’s the way I remembered it. It was one of the saddest days of my life. I lost the only ally I had in the house.

  When Daddy was alive, he acted as a buffer between mother and me. After he passed, my buffer was gone. Until I could stand up for myself, I would endure even more ponytail or arm yanking and a lot of y
elling.

  Mother drank occasionally, and it was after she’d had a few too many she made the revelation, “If only he’d kept his thing in his pants, you’d never been born.” One could take this statement one of two ways, but she was clearly letting me know she wasn’t pleased with the outcome regarding Daddy’s sexual exploits. I thought about that statement a lot, but it would be years before it meant anything to me.

  I kept to myself and planned my getaway. When I turned sixteen, I left home. It was the best thing I ever did. Living with Mother was too difficult. I reminded her of a part of her past she didn’t want to remember. I didn’t know what it was, but I could sense it within every fiber of me. She didn’t even try to stop me. In fact, she held the door open for me as I left.

  After I had left home, my half-sister Teresa and Mother moved back to Iowa. I was glad, as I didn’t want to run into them. They’d made my life difficult enough. I wasn’t stupid. After Daddy died, I could sense they felt I was more of a burden then a family member. I was happier without them in my life.

  * * *

  Shirley’s family offered to let me live with them until I could save up enough money to live on my own. Shirley and I had plans to share a place together anyway, after graduation. Of course, plans don’t always end as you hoped they would.

  I knew that I needed to earn money, so I dropped out of high school and enrolled in secretarial school. Back then, you didn’t have to have a high school diploma to enroll.

  I learned how to type, take shorthand, and various other secretarial duties. I was ready for the workforce.

  I held various jobs around the city where I used my newly learned skills. I was a good employee. I was prompt, courteous, and willing to learn new things.

  Shirley and I had many fun and carefree days at the beach. Young and dumb, we both almost fell for a sailor or two. They were everywhere. Long Beach was a major port for the Navy.

  Shirley and I had big dreams and settling down wasn’t one of them–for that moment, anyway. So after a few close calls involving marriage proposals, Shirley and I decided it was time to leave her parent’s house. Our first place was a small apartment over a mechanic’s garage. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing we’d ever done. Young men were working on cars constantly there. The wolf whistles and catcalls became more than a nuisance.