Dreams, nightmares, and reality are all mixed together ---and have to be sorted out. As the mind orders up these events, as usual, the memory begins with childhood:

                                                                                               

Other children call their caregivers "Mom" or "Dad", but I think I'm special because I am the only one who has a "Nanny".  My Nanny appears to love me, but she also appears to love something else.  You can tell just by the look in her eyes.  Her hands are on cleaning or cooking, but she moves about in strange ways.  She is the curious sort ---always trying to find something out.                                                                                                    

Of all the people in my life, she impresses me, and her ways are sure to create a great impact upon my young life ...as I begin hiding around the house, always near to where she is.  I will not be left out of this game. I will find out what she finds out.    

                                                                             

Soon, Nanny and I hear something I'm certain we are not meant to hear.  Nanny gets caught listening and gets fired.  I fear I'm going to get fired with her, but my hiding place is good and I'm not about to let anyone in on it.  Apparently, this family loves secrets and there is much they haven't let me in on.   

                                                                                           

I'm confused and concerned.  I overhear something they obviously wish to keep secret. According to them, I do have a Mom like the other children.  But they talk like my situation is different than that of the other children.  From what I hear, my mom  is supposedly diagnosed as having a severe case of retardation ---mentally handicapped, they say.   

They say her name is Callula. The strange thing is that I know this person.  I see her a couple times a year, during the holidays.  I don't know why they don't let me know this is my Mom.  Everyone else I know has moms who aren't kept secret.  

I decide to talk with her during the Christmas gathering, while everyone else is busy talking.  She says I am her son ...she has overheard them talking about it.  The way I figure it, they either think that she can't hear, or that she can't understand.  I think it's ridiculous of them to think that way …just because she is retarded.   Sometimes it's difficult to tell who are the slow ones.   

                                                                                 

But I hear that's common for normal people too.  So many times, parents talk in front of children and think they can't hear.  Or they talk in bed at night …thinking those little ears are asleep,unable to hear in the quietness of the night. 

                                                  

I have a very difficult time dealing with all of this. I guess I made it difficult for them too, not having Nanny around to take care of me anymore.  They had probably initially hired her to help keep me out of trouble.   And I could have still managed that if not for something they'd left lying around.  It is a telephone number …Callula's number.  They must think children can't hear or read.                                                                                          

The rest is simple.  I call the number and ask for directions.  I take a bus.  The bus driver is very helpful also.  I tell her I'm lost and I'm looking for my Mom. She drops me off right in front of the mental institution.  Mom doesn't appear happy, at all.  But when she sees me, she is happy.  And I stayed with her all day. She says it is the best day of her life.  It's soon night though, and I'm tired.  I curl up at the bottom of her bed and fall asleep.  When they find me there, they are not happy.  Mom is not happy that I have to go, but I promise her that I'll be back.   

   They make it difficult for me to keep that promise.  They make some arrangements through some church people.  I do not like my new home.  I don't know much about foster care, but what I do know I don't like.  I know I don't like all this shuffling around and being away from Mom.  And I know Mom doesn't like being away from me.                                                                                                

   I know it didn't go over too well the last time I visited Mom, so this time I decide to sneak her out to visit me.  The key to it all is that I do it at night, and I always make sure I sneak her back by early morning. 

   I know Mom isn't happy at the mental institution, but I should have just stuck with my night-time unauthorized visits. I got away with it for a couple years …until I began thinking she'd be happier at the foster home and that they'd accept her there.  That is my big mistake. I bring her back with me one night and she falls asleep at the foot of my bed.  After that it is shuffling time again.                                                                                           

   This time I'm moved to a group home. That's when the fearful things enter into my life. The man in the group home spends most evenings in front of his television. He always has it on his sports station, and he has it on real loud. He'd also drinks several cans of something, and belches really loud. The woman in the foster home does not appear the least interested in any of this. She puts earplugs in and goes to bed early.  

   It is really loud …but I like loud. It makes it easier to slip out at night. It is easy for a while anyway …until  this man begins to visit. He is certainly no stranger to me. This man is part of that group who spends time together, only during the holidays. 

 They say his visits are necessary to maintain funding for the home ---something to do with State regulations.  I see State regulations to mean a regular beating.  But that is nothing compared to the treatment one of the older girls in the home receives.  She is no stranger either ...only the situation became stranger.                                                                                                                                                                                      

This Khaki Mae is only eleven, yet older than me. She has been at the holiday gatherings also.  But she must have been kicked out just like I had been.   

                                                                                                                          

Not long after that, I find out from Mom that the man who beat me is actually my father.  I am the only one who felt Mom was not crazy.  She said my father was the sick one ...preferring to keep all his eggs in one basket.  And he doesn't like anyone to be well. He prefers his eggs to be cracked ones.                                                                                                                

No one will believe Mom ---she is just cracked.  And of course, being her son, I befall the same judgment.