I went back to Minnesota the summer after eighth grade with the secret resolve that I was going to stay. I didn’t tell my mother, of course, or she would never have let me leave. I didn’t even tell my brother, though he might have wanted to be included in the plan.

But when my father met us at the bus station, the first thing he told us was how sick he was and how disabled he’d become. That night, in the tiny back bedroom of his latest apartment, I cried myself to sleep, feeling my last hope blasted.

My father complained of a fiery pain throughout his body whenever he exerted himself—his doctors had diagnosed arthritis. He was now an invalid—bedridden except for the few hours he still taught at the university; he’d had to cut back on his classes and relied heavily on his TA’s.

When I think of that summer, I don’t remember any real contact with him at all—he sequestered himself in his bedroom, as distant as my mother had been in the two years after the divorce—but even colder. It was as though he’d walled himself off from my brother and me so he could never be hurt again. (Years later he would tell me that the day we’d left for California was the bitterest day of his life.)

I remember trying to engage him in intellectual conversation, asking on one occasion if time could exist without movement, but he dismissed my question, saying a discussion of time would be beyond my comprehension.

Another time I told him about a program I’d seen on mountain lions. “When they’re cubs—even when they’re nearly full-grown—the animals that will become their prey aren’t afraid and will play with them,” I said. “But when they start hunting for themselves, the same animals flee, knowing that they’re dangerous now.” At which point my father laughed scornfully at me. “Your statement is absurd,” he said. “You don’t have the slightest idea of the philosophical complexities of the word ‘know.’ To claim that animals can ‘know’ anything is preposterous.” That’s when I began to feel there were hidden booby traps in language and that I had to be careful of every word I spoke.

In the meantime, my brother and I were left to fend for ourselves; we bought the groceries, cooked the meals, cleaned house—I wound up doing the lion’s share—and played with our cousins, who lived a few blocks away. Sometimes we took the bus to St. Anthony Park to see our old friends. But to me, there was even a sadness about that—they’d gone on with their lives, I felt, and left me far behind.

At the end of the summer, I decided to go back to California, after all. I wouldn’t have been able to go to Murray High with my friends, anyway, since my father now lived in another part of the Twin Cities. I’d fantasized that he would be willing to move back to St. Anthony Park, but now I realized he wouldn’t. I suppose I was proof of the tenet that children will choose negative attention over no attention at all.

Years later I wrote:

“By the end of eighth grade, three years after my parents’ divorce, I felt I’d lost everything: St. Anthony Park, which would always be home to me, as well as all the people I loved—first Wolfy through distance and circumstance, then Kathy, who rejected me, my father, who withdrew emotionally, and my mother, who turned on me. I lost my belief in myself—in my own goodness, intelligence, talent, and ability to cope, as well as a childish belief in my own indestructibility. And I lost my faith in people—their goodness, constancy, and their ability to triumph over adversity. I lost my belief in love itself.”

In California, my mother became someone I didn’t recognize. She was alternately hysterical and wrathful, haranguing and disparaging and blaming both Doug and me, though most of what she accused us of, I eventually came to realize, were things she mistakenly thought we’d done or imagined we were going to do.

In Minnesota, my father had always been the disciplinarian in the family, and I can honestly say I don’t remember, in all the years before the move, my mother ever even scolding me. In the first place, I was a well-behaved child who naively believed that it was possible for a person to be perfect—and that’s what we all should aspire to be.

On the rare occasions my dad “disciplined” me when I was younger—for what, I no longer remember—he stripped me, put me in our old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub, and using a hose, showered me with cold water. Years later, when I heard about how Estelle had stripped his brother Ray and put him in the bathtub, where she beat him with an iron cord, it occurred to me that my father was repeating what he’d seen as a child, but since he wasn’t beating me, he imagined there was nothing abusive about what he was doing. Actually, I think there was—because I came to associate nakedness with shame. And I think for a father to strip a female child to punish her is a violation that borders on the incestuous. (My brother he spanked with a belt.)

But if my dad had shamed me physically, it was my mom who resorted to shaming me verbally. I was thirteen years old and, never having been treated this way before, I knew that I didn’t deserve her vitriol, and I felt outraged by it. She verbally abused my brother too, calling us both “selfish,” “manipulative,” and “exploitative.”

What’s more, she flew into violent rages and would chase one or the other of us up the stairs of our little apartment, so frenzied that she could only make grunting noises like a wild animal, and try to claw at us with fingers like talons. Fortunately, we were old enough to outrun her and would lock ourselves in the bathroom until she calmed down. Later she would weep and apologize.

The last time I saw my father, he told me he’d seen this rage in my mother once during their marriage and never felt the same way about her again. But I’d never so much as glimpsed this side of my mom before. If I had, as miserable as I’d become in Minnesota, I would never have agreed to move to California. In fact, it wasn’t long before I’d made up my mind that when my brother and I went to visit my dad the following summer, I would stay on and live with him permanently. I kept this resolve a secret, even from my brother, for fear he would let the cat out of the bag. Even a father who intimidated me was better than a mom who used her children as scapegoats.

And perhaps I should mention before I go any further that in California my mom had become a marriage and family therapist.

What I remember most about the two years after the divorce is my loneliness.

When I was in seventh grade, Mom was diagnosed with uterine cancer. She had a partial hysterectomy—they’d removed her uterus but left her ovaries—and her cancer was never mentioned again. But by then, she’d already become a shadow figure in my life. First Jane, a friend of hers, had moved in, along with her husband and son, to help pay the rent. The only two things I recall about them was that Jane’s husband put up a calendar of obese “pin-up” girls—drawings, not photos—wearing things like daisies on the their nipples as pasties, a new concept to me. And one day their little boy, Davy, knocked the butterfly case with the magnificent luna moth off the wall, breaking the glass and shattering the moth’s wings.

When they moved out, Mom took in two boarders—college girls who had the upstairs bedrooms across from my brother and me. My mom would often talk to them behind closed doors—about their problems, apparently—and I remember thinking wistfully, “she spends more time with them than she does with me.” The one conversation I remember with my mother during this time was when I got my first period. “You’ve become a woman now,” she said. But all I felt about it was a kind of bleakness.

I also recollect having a bladder infection that I never told anyone about. Sometimes, when I walked home from school, I had to stop to twist and tighten my legs, trying to stop myself from “urinating,” as my dad would say. He always used formal terms like “defecate” and “feces.” If memory serves, I had the infection—not that I knew what it was—for most of the winter, and eventually it cleared up on its own.

Out of sequence, I’m also remembering my new little striped kitten dying of distemper on the day he was supposed to get his second distemper shot. We laid him on the door of the stove and turned the oven on low to keep him warm. I called him Archie, short for Archimedes, which was my father’s idea. But that happened before my dad left.

Doug and I did see our dad some weekends. The routine was he’d pick us up in the late afternoon, we’d play cribbage and have popcorn, go to a movie, then spend the night. But there was an empty perfunctoriness to these evenings together. One of my father’s apartments was near a railroad track, and I’d hear the lonely, mournful sound of train whistles throughout the night. Once, when our dad took us up to a northern lake, he stayed up playing the harmonica after Doug and I went to bed—and his playing reminded me of those whistles; I ached with sadness for him, feeling that he’d been forced into a kind of exile by the divorce, pushed out into the cold.

Sometime during that first year in the Doswell house, I started wrapping one arm around myself in bed at night, trying to find comfort in the fantasy that someone was holding me, something I would do for years to come.

So when my mom started talking about moving to California, she painted such a rosy picture that I got caught up in the idea of a fresh start, surrounded by affectionate relatives that I’d only seen on the few trips we made, and maybe even, eventually, with a stepfather nicer than my own father. Naively, I imagined I could leave my failures behind—the humiliations I’d suffered, the loss of friends, of prestige and self-respect, as well as a sense of belonging. In my new life, I decided, I would tell everyone that my nickname was “Sunny.”

While my father had no fear of death, I did—though I’ve come to realize that it could be more accurately described as a death “despair.” And I know the exact day in my life that it began—Valentine’s Day of my fateful sixth-grade year.

By then I knew two children who’d died, Peter Wright, my crush in first grade, who’d drowned in a lake, and my cousin Michael in California, who’d been buried alive. He’d been playing in a trench where new sewer pipes had been laid down when a dump truck came and dropped a load of dirt on him.

For my Valentine’s Day slumber party, I’d decorated the dining room, where my friends and I would sleep. I’d strung red crepe paper streamers from an old light fixture in the middle of the room—like spokes—taping them to the walls, then I’d hung large red paper hearts from them with thread. Sometime in the night, under this festive canopy, I woke up and looked around at my sleeping friends and thought, “One day we’ll all be buried and decaying in coffins in the ground.” Immediately I was overwhelmed by a feeling terrible beyond words to describe it—an agony so deep that my mind immediately closed over it like water over a dropped stone, and I was left with my heart pounding wildly in my chest. (This was only a few months before Mr. Main would call me “an arrogant little snot.”)

Since then I’ve experienced other feelings painful beyond words to describe them—anger and grief so intense, it has felt as though my mind must crack irrevocably. This emotional trove of pain was the legacy of my childhood, I understood at the time, which didn’t come unlocked until I was betrayed by a boyfriend who impregnated a younger woman—I was in my forties by then and too old to have children. I remember a night when I woke up repeatedly, feeling such anguish that I scrawled messages on sheets of paper and hung them from drawers so that I would see them the next time I woke up: messages like “They are only feelings, they can’t destroy you”—because it felt as if they must—and “They are only feelings, they will pass.”

My death despair was in the same category of seemingly unendurable emotions and was to revisit me often throughout my adolescence. In the moments it did—usually at night—I was liable to throw myself against a wall before my mind could close over it again and blot it out.

When my brother, as a child, asked my father what happened to you when you died, he said, “They put you in the ground and you rot.” I don’t remember the moment I asked my father the same question, but, of course, that’s the answer he would have given me too.

Above is another of Kathy’s entries in my Bluebird autograph book after we’d learned cursive. It’s written so lightly on a blue page that I had to use Photoshop to make it legible.

As I wrote in “Cheater, Cheater…” in the fifth grade I had a teacher who didn’t like me. And in the spring, while we were taking a standardized reading test, she admonished me, “Cathy, why do you feel the need to cheat?” But Mrs. Koehler didn’t stop there. She also, apparently, convinced the principal to remove me from the class I’d gone all through elementary school with and place me in the “other” class for my sixth-grade year, taught by the only male teacher in the school, Mr. Main. At the time I believed this was because I wasn’t smart enough to remain in the gifted group with my friends Wolfy, Margie, Mary and several others. Actually, there was a range of abilities among the kids in my class—but, to me, they were all my school family.

My sixth-grade year I would work so hard not to fall into further disgrace that I soon became visible as the best student in Mr. Main’s class. The second semester I was even elected class president…and wound up teacher’s pet— something I never wanted and that made me uncomfortable; all I wanted was not to fail. And, anyway, none of this was enough to make me feel smart again or restore my confidence—I simply believed that I worked harder than all the other kids. Though I had one friend in the class—Kathy—I still felt like an outcast, a feeling that has never entirely left me.

Nevertheless, I gave a little lesson on drawing cartoons in class one day and held a cartoon contest. I had learned to hide my feelings, intuiting—correctly, as it happened—that my parents’ “love” was conditional and depended upon me being a model, trouble-free child: mature, independent, and seemingly well-adjusted. (In my father’s case, he was so judgmental about “weakness” that I strove to avoid any behavior that would invite his scorn and derision.) Mr. Main also allowed me to head up a team to draw, in pastels, the sorcerer’s house—scenery for the school musical. And for the space of a few days, I felt like I was in my element.

All the while, my parents were going through an acrimonious divorce. Because my dad considered himself the primary parent, he bitterly resented the fact that mothers were generally awarded custody of their kids at the time. Actually, he only agreed to the divorce—this was before no-fault divorces—on the condition that my mother never take Doug and me out of state. For her part, Mom resented all the money he started spending on himself, including buying a new car while she was left to drive our old one, which was freezing in winter because the floor had rusted through.

In school that spring we were assigned to do a comprehensive report on a country of our choosing. I chose Australia, and I still remember poring over books in the library and drawing meticulous maps for hours—another exercise in obsessiveness.

In addition to the written report, we had to give an oral report. On the day I was supposed to give my presentation, I was beside myself because I hadn’t managed to memorize it all yet. I asked Mr. Main if I could do it the following day, but he said no—whereupon I went and hid in the girls’ bathroom. So he sent Kathy to bring me back. But I was so afraid of humiliating myself that, not knowing what else to do, I walked out of the school and home. The next day I delivered my report without a hitch.

But Mr. Main wasn’t about to forgive me for defying him. A week or two later he used an inadvertent mistake I made to reassert his authority. He called me an “arrogant little snot” and told the class he was keeping them inside for recess that day because of me.

Then two things happened: The first—Kathy dumped me. As I said in “Bub,” we’d gone to camp together every summer, to Lake Cheewin as Bluebirds, then Lake Ojekita as Camp Fire Girls. We’d planned to do the same thing that summer after sixth grade, but when we filled out the registration forms at a meeting, I found out that she’d signed up to be cabin mates with my friends Margie and Mary instead of me. I was necessarily excluded because you could only choose two cabin mates. I was so hurt, my mom called Kathy’s mother—to no avail. Forever after that Kathy kept her distance—with one exception that was years in the future.

Also, shortly before the move from the Raymond apartment, WoIfy and I had gone down to Margie’s house to play one day, and for the first time in all our outings, I’d had to walk home alone. Wolfy had a crush on Margie and wanted to stay behind. What’s more, because my family had been evicted by Davona and Lou, Wolfy and I no longer walked to school together, nor were we in the same class, now that I’d been transferred. I lost my two best friends that year and wouldn’t have another best friend until I was an adult.

The second thing that happened was that I would go into hiding in seventh grade and beyond—at school, at least. Never again would I seek recognition in the classroom, sit near the front of the room, raise my hand when I knew the answers, demonstrate my knowledge. Instead I would hunker down at the back, trying to be as invisible as possible. (I proved so adept at this it took my French teacher in California two years to realize I was the best student in her class.)

In the end, I didn’t manage to finish the written part of my report on Australia by the deadline—and forever after that I was haunted by doubt that I could complete any kind of ambitious project.

As for cheating, if Mrs. Koehler had hoped to cure me of it, she didn’t succeed. I have a vivid memory of sneaking back into my English classroom after school in seventh grade—to change the “can nots” I’d written in the Gettysburg Address to “cannots.” That I would take such a big risk to correct such a small mistake speaks volumes, I think, about my precarious emotional state.