The Longest Road: Finding Peace With the Past
Author: Maureen Lyttle

CHAPTER 1—THE PRIMAL WOUND

My father died when I was six years old. My mother, eight months pregnant with my father's tenth child, buried him and never spoke of him again. What I did not realize that day, nor would I fully comprehend for the next thirty-four years, was that she also buried all nine of her surviving children. We were just too close to her pain. We would all survive, of course, but the damage would be, for the most part, irreparable.
I remember the day as if it were yesterday.

It was a hot, sunny day in June. We had driven to the hospital, a neighbour and my mother in the front seat, and my younger sister Kathy, then four years old, in the back with me. My mother and the neighbour got out in a hurry, leaving my sister and me alone. As time went by, I felt anxious and overly warm in the back seat of the old car. I did not understand, nor could I possibly comprehend, the tragic event that had just taken place within the confines of the hospital. My little sister squirmed beside me, wanting to get out. We were both restless, and I began to feel very uncomfortable and distressed, waiting for mother to return. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, they reappeared. Slumped over and weeping uncontrollably, my mother stumbled towards the car, supported on either side by a stranger. I was terrified seeing my mother like this and desperately needed an explanation as to what had happened. Not a word was forthcoming.

She stooped to enter the car and smashed her head against the door frame. I sat there, dazed, thinking how much that must have hurt and why didn't she cry out in pain. My younger sister whimpered beside me, and I held on to her tightly. Something very important had just happened, and I had to try hard to remember this. It would affect me the rest of my life. Try as I might, I cannot remember the car ride home.

We were gathered in the living room, and everyone was deathly quiet. My brothers and sisters had been taken out of school, and we all stood awkwardly about, confused and not knowing what to do. There was a neighbour in the room with us, which was heavy with gloom and semi-dark. No one thought to turn on a light. There were none of the usual sounds of supper being prepared coming from the kitchen. A strange and eery silence permeated the old house as darkness enveloped us. We huddled with the two youngest children, who cried in vain for their mother. She was weeping in the next room, but we were restrained from seeing her. I wandered from room to room, talking to myself, numb with shock. Still no one comforted me.

A few days later we were dressed in our Sunday best, bonnets and all, and taken to the funeral home where my father was laid out. He was pasty looking, and when I was held up to kiss him a final good-bye, he was cold and stiff to the touch. I didn't cry. Nor did I understand why some of the relatives were weeping and making such a fuss. I was traumatized over these proceedings and remained silent. Perhaps they thought I was too young to understand. In any event, I had been forgotten, and no one bothered to tell me he had died.

The others knew. I stood quietly in the church next to my older sister Patricia, who was eight at the time. She was crying broken heartedly.
"Why aren't you crying?" she demanded of me, painfully jabbing me in the side with her elbow. "You're supposed to be crying!"
I stood there, confused and numb with shock, unable to utter a word.

I do not remember any gravesite service, nor do I remember the days that followed. In fact, I don't remember much of anything else except being very much alone that summer.

I didn't miss him. He was rarely home anyway, and occasionally I witnessed him coming home late in a state of drunkenness, and it terrified me. I didn't know at the time he was intoxicated or what that actually was or why he fell on the floor, unable to get up. I was quickly ushered back to bed with a lollipop for comfort. My mother and older brothers helped him into bed and nothing was ever said about it. I couldn't understand why I got a special treat for witnessing him drunk.

Mostly, my father spent time with his boys working on the old Studebaker in the backyard. He never spent time with me, except on one occasion that I can remember. He was working on an old engraving machine in the basement, making broaches with Royal Air Force inscriptions engraved into them. I watched in wonderment as the swirl of brightly-coloured paint was carefully placed into the carving. I felt special standing next to him, intently watching him work. I did not realize at the time that he was an artist, and later on in my life, I would become one as well. I did not have to have dinner with the rest of my siblings upstairs when mother called down to me.

"She's with me, mother!" he answered. Indeed, those few precious moments would never leave my memory, for he never spent time with me again. A massive heart attack claimed his life shortly thereafter.

Summer came and went. I played alone or with my younger sister Kathy. Mother had given birth just one month earlier and was extremely busy with the tenth baby. All of her time was spent with Josephine. Although I felt very much alone, I never complained. Instead, Kathy and I were free to roam and occupied ourselves running across 17th Avenue, the busy roadway that ran from the city core to the poorer outskirts on the southeastern edge of the city. The road ran right in front of our dilapidated, old house with the run-down, weather-beaten fence. I held Kathy's hand, and we ran across the road, laughing. When traffic cleared, we similarly darted back to the other side, breathless and laughing harder. Many times we did this, each time finding it more exhilarating than the last. We had discovered a new game—playing on the road, in the traffic.

A police car approached.

"Where do you live?" one of the officers demanded of me in a very stern voice.

Afraid to speak, I pointed across the road. Unfortunately, we were caught on the wrong side of the street.

"Get on home and don't run across the road again!" was the strict admonishment.

The blood crept into my face, and for the first time in my very young life, I felt shame. My sister and I scampered back across the road, and as I nervously glanced back over my shoulder, I saw the police car drive away slowly, checking our progress. Time for a new game, Kathy. No, we can't run back across the street. Why not? Just because.

When I was older and recalled this memory I would laugh, but there would come a time when I cried like a baby, wondering why on earth a six year old child was taking care of a four year old. Who the hell was taking care of me? I was, in effect, at the tender young age of six, my own little parent.
Because I had not yet received my First Holy Communion, I would sometimes be allowed to stay home from Sunday mass. I delighted in making the beds and tidying the house, as best a six year old can do. In my young mind, I thought it would make my mother happy. But it never worked.

Those two months after my father's death were the loneliest of my young life.

I looked forward with anticipation to my first day of school and getting away from the sadness that permeated the place called home. Finally, the first day of school arrived. I was able to find my class and approached my grade one teacher, Mother Gemma, with trepidation. I had never seen a nun before and her black habit scared me. She asked me several questions and finally asked me about my father. Remembering my mother's careful instructions of the previous night, I answered her nervously:

"He passed away."

I wasn't even sure what the words meant. I only knew he was gone. After that day, I became the teacher's pet. At least once a week, Mother Gemma would collect all the sweet desserts from the teachers during lunch hour, put them in a white box tied with string and keep me after class. She would give me the treats and tell me to take them home to share with my brothers and sisters. Dutifully, I wouldn't eat any of them but would bring them all home to my mother. I would gleefully present them to her, so very proud of my accomplishment, thinking: This will surely make her happy! But it never worked. She stayed sad.







--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Maureen Lyttle was born in Belfast, Northern Ireland and currently lives in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. A professional artist for nearly two decades, she is a member of the elite Canadian Society of Painters in Watercolour. She has studied psychology, reunification and trauma for the past eight years. As a result of being irreparably and painfully estranged from her son, Maureen wrote The Longest Road in the hope that others could benefit from her story.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------