I'm glad it never happened to Mr. Palahnuik, but anyone who could write that “hysteria is impossible
without an audience,” has never had their children stolen from them.
Everything is hysteria-flavored after that.
Everything is hysteria-flavored after that.
As you walk through a ghost house that was once brimming
with the sounds of make-believe and giggling, any vestige of their presence
could set you off. A leftover toy is at once both your solace and antagonist,
as you clutch it close to you for the night, lost in your own world of pathetic
sobs and curses. You aren’t even aware you’re making a scene, until you’ve been
at it for hours. And then you still don’t care who’s there to see or hear you.
The audience can stare and eat their popcorn and make their comments, or just
go ahead and be absent. It doesn’t matter. Either way, a part of you will be
dying, and you will be hemorrhaging unearthly wails and tears.
Once you’ve made it through the initial shock, the
next memory is waiting around the corner to knock you on your ass again.
Catching the wrong cartoon as you flip through the channels is, from out of
nowhere, a blow to the gut. The way someone says something can easily set your
heart imploding. A smile. Children’s laughter. Baby clothes. Any of these could
lurch you into a crushing place of total emotional delirium.
It doesn’t matter who is there, or isn’t, to
empathize. Empathy doesn’t count for anything when you’re shuddering on the
floor in the fetal position with your insides torn out. Sure you appreciate it
later, but at that moment all you really want is painkillers, and a surgeon to
put things back the way they were before.
But lawyers aren’t surgeons. And they’re definitely
not painkillers.
If you are a mother that had the unfortunate birth
defect of not being born female, the government will gladly sanction the
kidnapping of your children. Any lawyer will advise you of this. Maybe not in
so many words. Instead the words will be mediation,
and take what you can get now, and dirty divorce.
Really, divorce is already dirty for anyone and
everyone involved. I’m not sure how much dirtier it can get without mud or
rotten eggs being involved in some way or another.
But percentages of time sharing are supposed to make
it all ok and ever better. People say you should be happy that you at least get
to see them twenty percent of the time.
Twenty percent.
Googling “20 percent” reveals that 20 percent of the
world’s children suffer from mental health disorders. Thank you World Health
Organization.
Twenty percent is how much cooler everything needs to be. Thanks Bronies.
Twenty percent is the amount of text you’re allowed
in a Facebook ad image before it’s removed. Thank you Facebook.com.
Twenty percent is the causes attributed to 80
percent of all effects. Like the way 80 percent of the world’s wealth is owned
by 20 percent of the population. Or the way 80 percent of problems will be
brought about by 20 percent of your undertakings.
Or maybe it’s the way 80 percent of my children’s
good experiences will come from the parent with only 20 percent influence on
their life. Then again, maybe it’s that 80 percent of their trauma will come
from that same 20 percent.
Thanks Joseph Juran.
And twenty percent is the legal cut-off for being
considered a parent in Florida. Thank you Judge Biggs.
At the end, twenty percent is undesirable. Thanks,
my pattern-seeking brain.
When August took my children, it was the day after
my son’s sixth birthday. It was in the middle of the night. I woke up one
morning and noticed they were gone. I figured she had taken them to the park
for the day. It was her day off. I wasn’t worried. I even slept in.
It wasn’t
until about noon that I noticed things missing in the house. The kid’s toys
seemed pretty sparse. I didn’t even see the Legos I had just bought Jake for
his birthday the day before. Pillows were missing from the bed.
The kid’s bathroom was devoid of toothbrushes. Soaps
and shampoos were nowhere in sight.
Walk to the closet.
Open it.
There’s nothing inside.
Check the drawers.
Nothing.
This here is missing.
That there is missing.
Missing…
Run for the phone.
Dial frantically.
No answer.
Dial again… Same.
Dial again… Same.
Dial again…
“Hello?”
“August… Where are the kids? You guys have
been gone a long time.” I ask as calmly as I can muster, “Where’s their stuff?”
“Oh hey Samantha, we’re in Lake Worth,
visiting my mom. I’m here for a week, I took time off work. Remember, I told you?”
I reply, “Oh. Okay. I don’t remember you
telling me that you were going today. You just said you wanted to go visit
her."
“No I told you.”
“No I told you.”
“August, I’m positive you didn’t, but—“
“Well I’ve gotta go Samantha, I’ll talk to
you later—“
“Wait August, I—“
“Bye."
Beep.
Beep. The call ends without a damn given.
Well
at least I know they’ll be back in a week. I swear I don’t remember her
telling me that, though.
The house is a mess. There’s dishes in the
sink and toys scattered throughout the living room. There’s still sky-blue
birthday cake frosting smeared on the coffee table from the day before. A
Spider-Man figurine is gooped with the stuff, having been the center of
attention on the giant, cherry-filled pastry—second only to the six candles
lighting the top. It had been a good day, despite the tension that filled the
house lately—August with her job and me with school. Both trying to take care
of the kids—we were stressed.
I had asked August if she would pick up
before she went to bed last night. I had an exam I had to do, so I couldn’t stay
for the rest of the birthday celebration. Obviously she didn’t have time
because of her big plans for the early morning. I started to think about all the stresses from the past year. I don’t
blame her. Whatever, it’s the weekend
and I have plenty of time to clean now.
I start with the toys on the living room
floor. As I pick up stuffed animals and toy trucks and a couple of Suzie’s
little baby dolls, smaller trinkets and scraps of wrapping paper are revealed.
There are a few pieces of Jake’s new
Lego set scattered here and there on the floor. Great August, not even one day and he’s going to lose part of his
birthday present and not even be able to play with it.
Suddenly I come across a bill addressed to August Robadolos. I make my way to put it
with the rest of her paperwork. I go to the closet and reach to the top shelf
on the right, for the shoebox where August keeps all her important legal
paperwork and bills. It’s…
Missing…
Run for the phone.
Dial hysterically.
It rings.
“Yes Samantha?”
“You quit your job, didn’t you? You don’t have
vacation. Or you’re looking for a job there aren’t you? And you’re gonna stay
if you find one, am I right?”
“I don’t know, Sam. Yeah. I have a few interviews
tomorrow. That’s what I’m going to do. You need to use this time to find a job.”
“You told me to quit my last job, watch the kids,
and go back to school. I said, ‘No, I’m not going to do that—you’re going to
just suddenly up and leave me.’ And you kept on telling me it would be okay.
You got me to believe I could trust you.”
“I can’t talk about this. You’re stressing me out. I’ll
be filing for divorce soon.”
“You need to give me an address for where the kids
are staying. If I don’t have one by tomorrow, I’m coming over there.”
“You better just look for a job.”
“Where are you going to live? You give me an address for where the kids are or I
am coming over there tomorrow. And if you’re at you’re brothers, you better
believe I don’t give a fuck about what he’ll do if I show up. I hope he tries
something because I won’t be alone.”
Beep. Beep.
I feel so
alone.
My children are across the state. Probably living in the dirty trailer of a duggie-felon. I have no money, no job, and no way to help them.
Hysteria.
Hysteria.
I need a surgeon, a
lawyer, and painkillers.