I listened to the crunching of autumn leaves under my shoes. I walked down the back road under a canopy of trees surrounded by the Adirondack Mountains, hand in hand with my father. We were going to the family lake to meet his brothers and sisters. I couldn’t have been happier. My father was my hero, and fall was my absolute favorite season. In that moment, life was grand.
We arrived at Lake Forest in the morning—RaeLynne, my eight-year-old sister; Abbeygail, who was seven; Christian, my three-year-old brother; and Jemma, who was just one. Lake Forest is close by Painted Pony Ranch, and our family has been going there for generations. My aunts and uncles greeted us with hugs and shot heckles at my father.
“Oh, nice of you to show up, baby Christian!” his older sister Betty jeered.
“Yeah. I love you too, Betty,” he grinned.
I greeted my godparents with a kiss and ran straight to the water. I swam to the twelve-foot by twelve-foot floating wooden dock our uncles had made. It was covered with green lining that felt like moss under my bare feet. A group of kids were already there, playing King of the Lake, pushing each other off the dock one by one.
My father was the baby of eleven siblings, so a family outing was always an outing. Growing up in a large Italian-American Catholic family had its perks and its setbacks, especially because some of the relatives were legitimate gangsters. My grandpa, or “Babe” as he was known, had a terrible gambling problem. He spent his days at the Saratoga racetracks, and his habit caused devastation for the family. As a result of not wanting to grow up to be like his dad, my father was religious and despised gambling. He saw how it had destroyed his father and their family. In fact, the only time he’d take us to the races—and it was the Saratoga races only—was when the rest of the family was going. The focus then became less about the betting and more about our bonding. Thanks to my father, going to the races for me signified good, clean family time. More on that later.
When Babe and my grandmother, Champi, got divorced, the children were split up. When he was just five, my father left home to be raised by my great-grandmother, Christina Lorenzo. She was a loaded pistol. Christina was a full-blooded Italian with long light-brown hair and piercing blue eyes. She was a stern, solid-fisted woman who took over the bootlegging and gambling business for the family when my great-grandfather died. As the newspaper stories could attest, a person couldn’t cross that woman and get away with it.
She raised my father with love, and my father loved her very much. When I was born, I looked nothing like my two older sisters, who were dark like my father, and my blonde hair and piercing blue eyes were a surprise. I looked like my great-grandmother. Whenever my father saw me, the “new Christina,” he was reminded of the grandmother he adored.
“She was a very good lady,” he told me once. “She loved me, and if it wasn’t for her, my brothers and sisters and I would’ve starved to death. She made bad decisions, but she was a good lady. She couldn’t walk down the street without someone recognizing her and coming up to her. Everyone in town respected her. She knew everyone by name. She gave everybody money too. I was the baby, so I went to church and hung around the house with her. I remember helping her hold up her mattress with money just piled underneath; I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I felt so happy swimming at the lake in the early autumn, surrounded by my cousins, aunts, uncles, siblings—and all the delicious picnic food. Anytime we went to the lake to spend weekends with my father’s family, it was guaranteed to be loud and exciting. And you could count on lots of storytelling about our past.
But the bliss faded as soon as we left the lake for our little country house atop a hill in Schuylerville, New York. As we drove, my stomach churned. I knew as soon as we stepped inside, Mother would start picking on me. And it wouldn’t take long for it to get brutal and mean. As much as I tried to prepare myself on those rides home, her viciousness always surprised me.
We lived across from two huge farms that had acres and acres of corn. Our house was a fixer-upper, and my father tirelessly toiled on it when he wasn’t working. He held down three jobs, but somehow, he always managed to make the best memories with us. Our backyard was in front of an old cemetery dating back to the Revolutionary War. Pine trees surrounded us for miles, and so did old tombstones.
The only other house around was across the back field. That’s where Mr. Ashby lived, the old, creepy white-bearded man we loved to hate. His house was dark and spooky-looking, and we scared each other by making up stories about him stealing children or being the crypt-keeper.
“I dare you to go into his house!” one of my siblings teased.
“Go on! I’ll give you a dollar!” another one chimed in.
Anytime we happened to see him, we screamed and freaked out. None of us wanted to be near Mr. Ashby. And you can be sure none of us ever were near him on purpose.
As my father pulled into our dirt driveway lined with huge pine trees, the door locks clicked open. Everyone piled out of the car, and we raced to the kitchen. Mother sometimes had supper ready when our father came home, so it was always worth checking. That day, she was holed up in their bedroom, watching the O. J. Simpson trial. She was glued to the tube during the case. She’d go on and on about a glove and how famous people get away with everything. My father went straight over to greet her, and a few moments later, we heard her laughing. Her laughter was a nice treat to hear. I don’t know how he did it because she was colder than an icebox most of the time.
Why did coming home always cause me great anxiety? Because Mother and I had a downright ugly relationship. While I loved her, she appeared to hate me. She dismissed me, put me down, hit me, and hurt me, and her actions showed me just how much I was despised. My father said she never took to me—that she disliked me from the beginning, even when I was a baby. Looking back, I know it was true. According to my father, she’d leave me in the crib for hours, even if I had a dirty diaper, and then she didn’t care when I got a terrible rash. When I was a toddler, she hit me whenever I was within reach, hiding the bruises with clothing. When I was around five years old, she switched from hitting me with her hands to using a metal pan or belt.
Day after day, year after year, I endured her ugliness and toxicity for no reason other than some sort of negative association she had with me—I assume because I didn’t look like her or my father or any of my siblings. But her laugh could instantly give me a sense of security, short-lived as it always was, and I’d relax just a little. When she was in a good mood, it was easier to breathe. At least for the moment.
Now, after returning from the lake, I rummaged around in the kitchen, and finding no food, I ran to my room. I grabbed my little brother’s Donatello Ninja Turtle and my playhouse Barbie—they were married, of course!—and crawled up to the top of my bunk bed, pulling up the metal ladder so no one could follow. I stared out the window across our backyard into the cemetery with its sea of pine trees. I loved those trees. When I played outside, I’d run as far as I could into the forest and lie under those pines. Sometimes I’d stay there until the sun started to set.
I turned my attention back to Barbie, but within just a few moments, I heard thumps and thuds coming from downstairs. Then a door slammed so loud that pictures came off the walls. Anxiety crept back into my body; my back and arms stiffened. I heard screaming voices. That didn’t take long, I thought. Back and forth went the shouts between Mother and my father.
“I work sixty-hour weeks to put food on the table and to send our girls to the best Catholic school in the district and you can’t even pay the damn tuition bill but can buy a new fur coat? Damn it, Gale!” my father screamed.
My father had found a crumpled-up late notice from our school in their bedroom. Money was often the source of the fighting.
“I deserve that fur coat. I do so much for this ungrateful family, and you can’t even afford to buy me one nice thing. My parents were right!” she shouted back.
It wasn’t unlike Mother to squander the money he sent home when he was away working. One time when my father returned after being away for a few months with the army, the electricity was shut off. We had been living in the dark and eating only when the nuns at school fed us. Mother didn’t seem to mind a bit. She just went out to eat and bought more clothes. But this time, I could tell my father was fed up. He was exhausted from trying to convince her to be financially responsible. While I didn’t understand their arguments until years later, I did understand always being hungry when my father wasn’t around.
“I’m leaving!” my father shouted. “You’re impossible and spoiled rotten. You better have that tuition bill paid by the time I get back!”
And with that I heard the front door slam. My heart sank. What if he doesn’t come back? Will I ever see him again? Will Mother ever be nice to me if he is gone forever? I jumped off the top bunk and ran straight through the hall into my brother’s bedroom. I stared out the window at our driveway below. My father got into the van, slammed the door, and sped off. The road made a funny noise that hurt my ears. I started crying instantly.
He left!
He left us! I couldn’t believe she had really done it this time. She made him leave. As the tears fell from my face onto the carpet, I sank in front of the window. I held on to the Barbie playhouse he had gotten me for my last birthday. Why did they always have to fight? Why couldn’t they love each other like Donatello and Barbie did? Why can’t Mother just do as Father asks? Why was she always angry with us kids? My brain was littered with unanswered questions. I couldn’t understand why things always had to be so hard.
Mother’s voice pierced the air. “Little girl, you get down here right now!”
I immediately wiped my tears, hid my Barbie in my brother’s closet, and ran downstairs. She was in the kitchen, hands on her hips and a scowl on her face. Her presence was mighty, and she was ready to give someone a whipping.
“Yes, ma’am?” I said quietly as I looked at my feet.
“You are as pathetic as your father. Crying like a baby up there. You don’t think we can all hear you carrying on like a screaming banshee?” she said in a fury. I didn’t say anything. I knew any response would be a wrong one, so I chose to stand still and be silent. She grabbed my face and pinched my cheeks together with her hand, forcing my head up into her gaze.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you, little girl! Who do you think you are? You want to cry? I’ll give you something to cry about.” She stormed off to her bedroom and came back with one of my father’s belts in hand. “Pull your pants down right now!” she yelled.
I started crying and held my pink elastic britches up so tight that I gave myself a wedgie. I hooted and hollered as she whipped me from end to end. She tried to take my pants off herself, but that proved more trying than she had anticipated. She gave up and just hit me wherever she could. When she was finished, I was confused and exhausted. I looked up to see my brother and sisters huddled around with fearful faces just a few feet from us.
“Let this be a lesson to all of you. If you want to act like a spoiled brat, I’ll make sure you are treated like a spoiled brat with your father’s belt! Do you hear me? I don’t want to see any of you crying like little babies, or I’ll give you something to cry about!” she proclaimed.
Eyes swollen, nose running, body bruised. All I wanted was my father. He had just left, and I didn’t know when he was going to come home again. I didn’t know if he would ever come back. I was sent straight to my room after my beating, and I was grounded until further notice. As I made my way past my brother’s room, I thought about sneaking in to grab my Barbie. It was too risky, so I decided to rescue her in the night when everyone was sleeping. I finally fell asleep, dreaming wild dreams of faraway places and dashing young princes who swooned over me. I was safe in my dreams. I was free to run wild beneath the pines.
A few days later at my school, St. Clement’s Catholic Elementary, I was sitting at my desk when the nun teaching the class called on me to read off the chalkboard. Stunned, I lowered my head and mumbled letters that I recognized. Chatter among all the students was plentiful. So was the laughter.
“Now, children, not another word. Silence! Christina, are you having trouble seeing the chalkboard?” Sister Mary asked. I didn’t understand what she meant because everything had always been blurry to me. Trees, clouds, letters, and anything far away or too close-up had always been moving in twos and threes, wobbling about in front of me.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, unsure of myself.
“Grab your things and move here,” she said as she pointed to the desk next to hers.
Oh, no! Not the bad desk. I don’t want to sit at the bad desk! What did I do wrong? As I made my way up to the bad desk, my classmates made snickering noises. I placed my books on my new desk, and I hurried to sit and be quiet to keep from disrupting the class any further.
“Now, Christina, try to read the sentence again,” Sister Mary ordered.
Afraid I was going to get in more trouble, I quickly made a try at the sentence now that I could see a little better.
“Ttttt—hhh–sss pee-mm-ma-ma-kkk-aann gg-rrr-oooo-sss on a vvvv-nnnn.” I sounded out each letter.
“Who would like to give this another try?” Sister Mary asked the class. My classmates shot up their hands faster than lightning. “Yes, you. Tiffany.”
Tiffany quickly stood up next to her desk. Her hands smoothed out the creases in her jumper, and she began to read. “The. Apple. Is. Red,” she said with little interference.
“Very good, Tiffany! You may be seated now,” Sister Mary said with great delight. I felt so much shame. I kept my head down for the remainder of the day. I even kept my head down during Mass, which I usually enjoyed very much. The pretty glass and big echoes as the priest spoke his funny language were calming to me. There was so much quiet in that big cathedral. So much peace.
As we were leaving to get on the bus to go home, Sister Mary pulled me aside and put a letter in my backpack addressed to my parents. Oh no, this is not good. What did I do wrong? Why did she make me sit at the bad desk and why was she giving me a note to take home? I was going to be in so much trouble. I would be dead if Mother read this letter. If my father were home and he read it first, then I had hope. I wondered why he wasn’t home yet from the fight they’d had a few days back. Was he working a job, and that’s why he wasn’t home yet? I prayed in my heart, “Dear our Father in heaven, please let my father be home today and read the letter before Mother does. I promise to listen during Mass every day if you will just let him be home when I get off the bus. And I’ll give my sisters my dessert at dinner. Amen.”
As I got on the bus, my two older sisters were already sitting next to each other near the back. I sat close to the front to be sure I was far enough away from them to ward off any questions about the letter. We got off the bus and began our mile trek up the very steep hill in the deep snow to our house. The hill was lined with quaint country houses from the bottom to the middle. RaeLynne and Abbeygail led the way.
It was full-blown winter, so the climb was a bit more trying than usual. It was crystal clear outside. The scent of pine trees filled the air, making everything smell like Christmas. It was colder than cold, and a light snow was blowing. It was still truly magical the way everything was covered in glistening white. I distinctly remember the vivid, crisp white all around. All three of us in our snow clothes were quite the sight! I was wearing my baby pink snowsuit, the kind like the kids wear in A Christmas Story. It was so big and thick that I couldn’t put my arms all the way down. I looked like a miniature sumo wrestler. Then suddenly, I had to go to the bathroom. I hollered at RaeLynne, “I have to pee!”
She stopped as she turned around to face me, gripping her backpack on both straps. “Well you can’t pee out here. You’re gonna have to hold it till we get home.”
“But I really need to go. I can’t hold it. I have to go!”
She and Abbeygail just kept chirping and walking and paid no attention to my complaining. Just as the last houses on the sidewalk were coming up, I sat down in front of someone’s house. I just couldn’t help it. It hurt so bad that I had to go. I started crying as snow turned my dry clothes wet. Right there on the snow-covered lawn, a sharp yellow color bled around me. My sisters were well ahead of me, and they probably didn’t think to look back because I was usually quiet.
I sat there crying for a good while in the yellow snow before a woman came over from her front porch and picked me up. She was wearing an apron high on her waist that was covered in flour. Her hair was in a high bun, and she was wearing her house shoes. Her feet must’ve been cold. I didn’t know her from Adam, but she knew us kids and said her name was Mrs. Lark. She called my father right away. She took off my wet clothes and gave me dry ones, and then she made me some hot chocolate. She was so nice and comforting. I was delighted to have peed on her front lawn.
I was still at Mrs. Lark’s house a few hours later when the prayer I said at school was answered. My father knocked on the glass front door, and I answered with great joy. If I had known wetting myself would bring my father when I needed him, I would have probably wet my pants more often. I hugged his neck as the snow from his big boots made the floor below me wet. He apologized profusely to Mrs. Lark. I told him not to worry. She gave me hot chocolate and colored in my coloring books with me. Mrs. Lark graciously calmed my father, and we were on our way home. It wasn’t until we got in the van that I remembered the dreadful letter Sister Mary had put in my backpack. Grief swarmed over me as I anticipated what it said. But that would have to wait. My father was angry about the yard.
“What would possess you to use the bathroom while you were wearing your snowsuit and sitting in someone’s front yard?” he shouted.
“I’m sorry, Father. I couldn’t hold it. I told RaeLynne, but I just couldn’t wait. I had to go. And before I could keep holding it, it just came out,” I cried.
“Well, young lady, you had your mother and me worried sick. You are so lucky that nice woman found you! Do you know what could have happened to you? Don’t you ever pull a stunt like that again, do you hear me?”
I shook my head yes as I started crying again. “I’m really sorry, Father. I love you.” He looked over at me as his stern expression turned into one of compassion.
“I love you too, honey. That’s why I don’t want you to leave your sisters while you’re walking home from school ever again. Do you hear me?” I nodded and got up out of my seat and hugged his arm as he drove home.
But the warm, loved feeling wouldn’t last. As I walked over the welcome mat and into our doorway, Mother was standing in the hallway. She looked furious.
“How could you be so stupid?”
There was only silence from me and my father.
“You’re always looking for attention. Just begging to get into trouble. You could’ve waited until you got home to go pee. You’re not fooling me, little girl. I ought to smack your butt so hard you won’t be able to sit down for a week. You’re making this family look like a bunch of fools!”
As she continued her rant, my father walked past her calmly into their bedroom. I stood like a deer in the headlights. I was sure any movement would infuriate her further. She followed my father as he brushed past her. I felt relieved as they closed the door behind them. I went straight into the kitchen to see if any food was lying around. RaeLynne and Abbeygail were playing Hungry Hungry Hippos in the TV room. After I grabbed a half-eaten Little Debbie oatmeal creme pie—Mother’s favorite treat—off the counter, I sat next to them as they played.
As I relaxed and let the warmth of the kitchen cover me, I suddenly realized I’d placed my backpack on the floor by the front door. Thank goodness I could see it from where I was sitting, and I rushed to put it in my room. The rule was to never leave any of our things downstairs. I couldn’t afford to break any more rules. If we left anything downstairs—shoes, snow boots, book bags, toys—Mother would become angry. And if she got angry enough, there’d be a beating too. Even my dad knew the drill. If he noticed we had left something, he’d warn, “Go pick that up before your mother sees it.” That was all he had to say.
After I dropped off my backpack, I strolled into Christian’s room to play. Even though he was younger, he was my very best friend. We’d play with his Ninja Turtle toys, pretend to be Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, or make colorful designs with our Lite-Brite. Lite-Brite was my favorite toy because I loved to plug the multicolored plastic pegs into the board and watch them light up. I could make anything I wanted—balloons, happy faces, stick figures of my family. Left to ourselves, Christian and I would play for hours and not bother a soul. We were good like that.
That afternoon when we were in his room, I jumped at the sound of my father calling out, “Christina, come down here please!”
I hurried downstairs, shuffled past my two sisters, and met him in the kitchen. “Yes, sir?”
“Did Sister Mary give you a letter to give to me this afternoon?”
Oh no. The letter. I had all but forgotten this letter yet again.
“Yes, sir. It’s in my backpack upstairs.” I anxiously played with the hem of my shirt.
“Please go upstairs and fetch me that letter, young lady,” he said with a fixed brow.
I whizzed upstairs and grabbed my backpack. I rushed back into the kitchen. I placed the entire backpack at my father’s feet and waited patiently for him to give another command. How did he know I had a letter in my backpack? Who told him? Did they call him from school? That can’t be good. Did RaeLynne or Abbeygail know and tattle on me? I was so uncertain that I shuddered. I looked around for Mother. Was she about to come out of the room and spank me? Oh, boy, I was in a heap of trouble!
My mind raced as my father unzipped my backpack. He reached his hand inside to grab the letter. He used his pocketknife to open it up and pulled out the neatly folded note. He started reading. I stared at his face, trying to decipher his thoughts. Did Sister Mary tell him she moved me to the bad desk? Why did she even put me there to begin with? Did she tell him I didn’t do any of my homework correctly or that I didn’t read the sentence on the chalkboard right? His face was concerned as he lowered the letter from his view.
“Christina, come here please,” he asked. I walked toward him, shaking. “I want you to look out the kitchen window and tell me what you see. How many trees are by the sandbox I built for you kids?”
Staring out the window, all I could see was a bunch of blurry pine trees with white all over them and a sea of white snow covering the ground. I wasn’t sure what to say. What was the right answer? I couldn’t tell if there were two pine trees or four. They just all blurred together. I chose the number four. It seemed like a good number, plus I could say that number well. “Four, Father. There are four pine trees by our sandbox,” I said convincingly.
“You are not going to school tomorrow, young lady. I’m taking you straight to the eye doctor,” he said.
“Eye doctor? What is an eye doctor? Am I going to have to get another shot? What is he going to do to my eyes? I don’t want to go, Father. What did I do wrong?” I pleaded with fear.
“Christina-beana,” he said with a soft reassurance, “you need glasses.”
Glasses! That’s why I couldn’t see the chalkboard or the two pine trees that blurred into four. Then Mother opened their bedroom door.
“Christian, what did the school say about her this time? Does she need me to tear her hide from end to end?” A smirk of satisfaction was on her face.
“No, Gale,” my father said flatly. “She’s blind. We must get her glasses immediately. I’ll take her first thing in the morning before work. That’s why she isn’t doing well in school. Sister Mary noticed it today and moved her close to her desk so she can see better. She didn’t do anything wrong.” He turned to me. “We’ll take care of this, won’t we, Christina?”
I nodded as I thought about how the bad desk wasn’t bad for me, as I didn’t do anything wrong after all. That was a relief! I didn’t know what having glasses meant exactly, but I was sure glad that Mother didn’t have a reason to whip me with my father around. The next morning, I went to the eye doctor with my father. A few days later, I would see the chalkboard for the very first time.
The LORD sets prisoners free,
the LORD gives sight to the blind,
the LORD lifts up those who are bowed down.
Psalm 146:7–8