The Calling. Kim O'Neill

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       Chapter 4

       Tangible Proof

      I looked up from the paper in total disbelief. What I had witnessed was real? It had actually happened? How could that be? I grabbed the front page and read further:

      . . . the killer left 32 fingerprints in the bloodstained townhouse where he methodically strangled or stabbed his eight victims after casually sitting on the floor and chatting as they lay trussed up on the floor. Speck was also was identified thru a photograph that was shown to Corazon Amurao, 23, the Filipino exchange nurse who escaped death only because she crawled under a bed and remained quiet and because the killer apparently lost count of the number of women.

      I was stunned! I had dreamt about an actual event? I could feel Speck’s cold blue eyes boring into me from the front page, and it made me shudder. As an all-powerful killer, couldn’t he break out of jail? If he escaped, would he be able to find me? I was the only one—besides his victims—who had firsthand knowledge about the unspeakable events that had taken place. Shivering in fear, I stared down at his paper image. He had seen me—last night—in that apartment. He talked to me. I needed to share all of this with someone . . . and right away!

      “You shouldn’t be reading that,” said my father, startling me. “It could give you nightmares. I’m going to start locking the front door. And I don’t want you going outside anymore without adult supervision.”

      I was concentrating so hard on the newspaper story that I hadn’t heard him come downstairs. I looked up at him. Because his behavior was so ugly, it made him ugly in every way to me. His hair was sticking up in every direction, he had a growth of beard, he wore his thick, nerdy glasses with pointed edges, his old bathrobe hung partially open, revealing his baggy boxers and skinny legs, and his brown slippers were faded and shabby. My dad looked ancient to me. He smelled bad, too, like bad breath, body odor, old booze, and stale cigarettes. I prickled my nose in distaste as he folded the front page section under his arm and searched through the rest of the Tribune. He pulled out the funnies and placed them in front of me. He patted me on the back.

      “I’ll make Swedish pancakes for breakfast,” he called over his shoulder as he trotted double time to the toilet. “It looks like a beautiful day!”

      The irony did not escape me. My father doesn’t want me to have nightmares? Does he realize the trauma he creates every Saturday night? I hated him for what he put the whole family through. And he was acting like nothing had happened the night before. He tried to kill my Mom! At ten, I already recognized that I could never, ever go to my Dad with my spooky nightmare about the killings. From the first time I saw him abuse my mother—when I was five—I lost all of the trust and respect I had for him. What he had done the night before had chipped away at any remaining semblance of love or affection I once had. Emotionally, he was dead to me. I still needed a dad, but the kind of father I really yearned for just wasn’t meant to be. I decided that I would have to father myself.

      A few weeks before, I had made the mistake of asking my Mom if she was ever going to leave my Dad. Very surprised, she responded defensively, “Leave this house that we got just for you kids? Do you know how I have to sacrifice for us to live here? You want to live in the inner city—in a horrible apartment? That’s all I could afford on my own, with my job! Is that what you want? You want to give all of this up? And move away from your friends? To go to a big, dangerous inner city school . . . where they bring knives to class? Is that what you want for your brothers? See—you’re crying! This is why I could never consider it!”

      Neither of my parents ever talked about what happened in our house on Saturday nights. My mom just always gave my dad the cold shoulder for days—erasing him from her emotional universe—like she did when she was mad at any of us kids.

      Mom shuffled into the kitchen. “Good morning, honey,” she wearily sighed, approaching to give me a light kiss on the cheek. Her face wore a dark expression. “Oh, God, I need a cup of coffee.” I watched her go to the cabinets and grab the big tin of Folgers. As she measured the grounds, she turned to look at me. “Where’s your father?” I gestured toward the powder room. She grimaced and turned away. She wore her robe over her nightgown, and I guessed that she must have been sporting a number of angry bruises from being slapped and choked. I knew then that I couldn’t burden her with my creepy nightmare. She had her hands full with my father.

      It was going to be a typical Sunday, with her giving my Dad the cold shoulder as punishment for his bad behavior. Of course, I could readily understand why she didn’t want anything to do with him that day. It was a miracle that she was still alive! I thought that it was too bad that she didn’t whip out the big wooden paddle she carried in her purse when one of us kids was naughty . . . and spank him. Even as a kid, it was apparent to me that she was hiding from what needed to be addressed—as if the relationship might magically get better on its own. Why did she allow herself to be his victim . . . over and over again? Perhaps, as a Catholic, she considered a disemboweled marriage her fault . . . like an unspeakable flaw? By disparity to some of my friends in school, no one in our family had ever been divorced. It was apparent that my Mom preferred to be in the marriage as it was . . . than to be on her own. Any relationship was better than none. Possibly, she felt that being a martyr every Sunday was the only way to really get my Dad’s attention? Then again, maybe it had something to do with the fact that my Dad had a girlfriend. I overheard my Mom crying over the phone about it, and she was really upset. Evidently, he had taken his secretary bowling and then out to eat. I figured they must have bowled for an exceptionally long time, and that the restaurant must have had some pretty late hours, because he didn’t come home until early morning.

      My thoughts returned to the nightmare. My beloved, practical Swedish grandparents would never understand, and I predicted that my favorite Aunt Vera would be quick to tell my Mom, fearing that there was something terribly wrong with me. And who would blame her? Not even my closest friends would understand, either. I realized that I’d have to keep the dream carefully concealed—like an oppressive, traumatic secret that was mine alone to shoulder—just like my Mom kept the secret of my Dad’s abuse from the rest of the family. My nine-year-old brother came downstairs.

      “When’s breakfast?” he groused.

      “I’ll start the bacon in a minute,” answered Mom. “This is your summer vacation—you should enjoy it. You’ll never have this carefree time back again.”

      My brother scampered into the family room. The TV sprang to life with noisy cartoons.

      I glanced out the big kitchen window. The soft early morning sun caressed the budding roses in my father’s garden, monarch butterflies danced among the petals, birds chirped busily, and just beyond the flowers, the sprinkler sat on the lush, green lawn holding the promise of another day’s cavorting in our bathing suits.

      The peacefulness of that Sunday morning utterly contradicted the brutal carnage I had witnessed the night before. In the course of a single night, my life had changed forever. I had learned that even a grownup’s life could be shattered at any moment by events that were completely out of one’s control . . . because of a stranger! It wasn’t only family members who could hurt you.

      Both events struck a sudden, unexpected death knell to my childhood innocence. It was gone forever, almost as if it never existed in the first place. There was no way for me to retrace my steps and reclaim the mindset of the little girl I was—just the day before. And there was no one in my life with whom I could share this chilling new reality.

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