Journal entry from Tuesday, August 9, 2011

6:00 a.m., Los Angeles

My eyes open to sunbeams streaming through the bedroom window. Gratitude fills my heart at the sound of Rob's deep breathing. I rise to my elbows and turn to stroke his cheek. For a moment, his skin is golden and youthful. My breath catches in my throat, and I wish for time to stand still so we can stay like this forever.

Then clouds pass over the sun and the illumination vanishes. Rob's skin is grey and taut over skeleton features. My heart sinks.

I throw off the covers, stand, and walk to the window. To the north loom the Twelve Apostles, silent sentinels that watch the endless cycle of life and death in Lake Manor. I'd expected them to crumble in protest when Mom, Dad, and Rhonda died. But they remain the same and look no different today than they did in 1968.

Thursday, August 15, 1968, 11:00 a.m. Los Angeles

White folding chairs encircle three open graves atop a grassy hill. The dirty slashes in Mount Sinai's manicured lawn house simple pine boxes. Murmuring reaches my ears as mourners walk from their cars. This morning's memorial service was a blur. A tearful Rabbi Schumer spoke of my parents as community legends, having owned the only Jewish deli in the Simi Hills. Mort's Deli, home away from home. Mom worked the door dressed in flowing silks with her blonde hair piled high atop her head. Her beautiful smile and warm presence made everyone feel welcome, like family.

My older sister Sharon bends to scoop a handful of dirt from the mound at the head of Rhonda's grave. She's a younger version of Mom, with long blonde hair falling in a curtain around her face. Perfect creamy white fingers curl around the dark earth. As she rises, she flings the dirt over Rhonda's casket.

I'm frozen and staring at Sharon's back as she moves from our little sister's grave to Mom's grave. The summer sun is blazing hot, but I'm shivering. I want my big sister to run back to me and wrap her arm around my shoulders. Tell me everything's going to be okay. But Sharon's avoided me all morning. She won't even look at me. I may as well be dead for all she cares.

Aunt Margaret puts her hand in the middle of my back and pushes me toward Rhonda's grave. I bend, grab a handful of earth, then reach over her coffin and open my hand. The dirt makes a soft plop as it drops. How many times did I tell Rhonda to buzz off, to stop tagging along when I went out with my friends? I should be a sobbing mess, but I'm numb inside.

When Aunt Margaret reaches to shove me to Mom's grave, I turn and swat her hand away. A sudden flood of grief washes over me. I fall to my knees and then drop to all fours.

The smell of damp wafts from the freshly dug grave. In my mind's eye, I see skin peeling and clothes forever welded to her body. Blinking hard, the horrible image disappears. I scoop another handful of dirt and toss it onto the pine box.

Aunt Margaret's disapproving clucks don't stop me from walking on my knees to Dad's grave. My dress is now filthy, and I don't care. Neither would Dad, always encouraging me to put down whatever book I'd be reading to go outside. He was so proud when I made the JV Cheer Squad. So proud he got Mom and Rhonda to ride along when he drove to meet my bus.

The truth I've been avoiding hits me in the chest and snatches the breath from my throat.

My fault. My fault. My fault. I squeeze my eyes shut and claw the dirt pile at Dad's grave. Tears seep from under my eyelids to run down my cheeks.

A soft voice speaks in my ear. "Betty, it's me."

Opening my eyes, I find my tearful best friend on her knees. Mary throws her arms around my neck and pulls me close. Choking back a sob, I bury my face in her shoulder. From behind us, I hear Sharon groan at the spectacle I'm making of myself.

After a few minutes, Mary helps me to my feet and into the nearest white folding chair. She squeezes my hand before moving on to allow others to pay their respects. Sharon's sitting to my right, and Aunt Margaret to my left.

Uncle Frank skipped this morning's service, and I hoped to avoid him, but a wave of disapproving murmurs crushes my hope. Uncle Frank shoves his way to the front of the line and stops when he reaches me. With a yank, he pulls me upright to a tight embrace. My face is pressed into his chest. Old Spice assaults my nostrils and I struggle to breathe.

Movement below his waist pokes my stomach. Feeling like I'm going to puke, I twist from his grasp to fall back into my seat. My mind's whirling with memories of things he's said over the summer. One comment jumps out.

You've developed into a beautiful young woman, Betty.

I'm frozen as the endless line of mourners passes. Everyone except the cheer squad throws dirt onto the coffins. Most tell me they're sorry for my loss. They pass in a tearful blur of perfume and cologne, and condolences.

Suddenly, it's over. Mourners shuffle back to their cars, and then I'm alone with Sharon, my aunt and uncle, and the rabbi.

Rabbi Schumer gives me and Sharon a warm hug. "Don't be a stranger."

I think this is for me, but something tells me he's reminding Aunt Margaret and Uncle Frank about their responsibilities.

We rise to stand and follow Rabbi Schumer down the grassy hill. When we reach the car, I turn to look at the gravesite. An orthodox man with long, curling sideburns hefts a shovel over his shoulder. He's wearing a crisp white shirt and black pants. White fringes stick out from underneath his black vest. Digging the shovel into the nearest mound, he hefts dirt into my sister's grave. His movements are graceful and rhythmic. Mesmerized, I watch him shovel the last of my sister's mound before he moves onto Mom.

Behind my back, Uncle Frank grumbles about needing to get back for lunch. A shush from Rabbi Schumer silences him.

The orthodox Jew silently shovels dirt into Mom's grave. An icy chill surges up my spine as he finishes and moves onto Dad. The finality of his actions tells me there's no more denial. No point in daydreams. My family is dead.

Thursday, August 16, 1968, 6:00 p.m., Los Angeles

My older sister Sharon sets her suitcase down in the doorway of aunt and uncle's house as she waits for her cab. I clutch her elbow and lean in. My words tumble out in a rushed whisper, "Don't leave me with them. You're an adult. We can live at home!"

Sharon turns to look at me with cold eyes. "I have a life. I'm not leaving Columbia to take care of you."

My heart's pounding so loud I can hear the blood flow in my ears. I squeeze her biceps in desperation. "I'm not a little kid! And you can go to college here!"

She shakes me off as a yellow cab pulls up to the house. As Sharon grabs her suitcase and storms out the door, she takes my last shred of hope with her.

Sunday, August 18, 1968, 8:00 p.m., Los Angeles

Heaviness settles in as I drag myself through the motions of living. Everything's a blur, and I can't tell the difference between sleep and wakefulness. I forget to eat.

Aunt Margaret orders me into the shower. I haven't bathed since the funeral. She slams the bathroom door shut and I stare at the water streaming from the showerhead. With a sigh, I take off my clothes and let them drop into a heap on the floor.

A spray of water rushes over my head as I step into the shower. Dirt flakes from my knees to wash down the drain. I rest my forehead against the cool tile and squirt some shampoo onto my scalp. Soapy bubbles drop from my hair and onto my chest. My hands go through the motions of washing and rinsing.

I lose track of time and steam fills the bathroom. The walls, mirror, sink, and toilet disappear into white haziness. Breathing the heavy wet air, I wish for the mists to swallow me.

Pounding on the door brings me back to the present.

As I turn off the water, the bathroom door opens. Cool air rushes into the room and the mists part. The glass shower door is flung open, and I see Uncle Frank holding a towel. The bright florescent lightbulb reflects against his rat-like eyes.

"C'mon out and I'll dry you off."

Snatching a washcloth, I cover my privates with my right hand and my bare breasts with my left arm. "I'm fine. Don't need help."

His bulbous lips spread into a grin. "You will, eventually." Holding up the towel with one meaty hand, he releases it to drop onto the floor.

My head's spinning in panic as I wait for him to leave the bathroom. When I can no longer hear his footsteps in the hallway, I open the shower door, snatch the towel from the floor, and cover myself. I poke my head out of the doorway and into the darkened hallway. Finding it empty, I sprint to the guestroom. As I enter, I kick the door shut, then drop to the floor in front of my open suitcase. In under a minute, I'm dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.

The guestroom door opens as I'm rising to stand and slipping my bare feet into sandals. Aunt Margaret's expression is sour as she stares at me through the open doorway. "You take too long to shower. We're not made of money."

My heart's still pounding, and my instincts scream, run! But the God of Abraham and Issac urges me to trust my elders, so I blurt out, "Uncle Frank walked in on me, naked!"

Aunt Margaret's cheeks flush red and her nose and mouth scrunch like she's smelling something bad. Raising her right hand, she slaps me. "You're a whore!"

I stumble backward onto the windowsill as she advances and slaps me again. "How dare you tempt him!"

Fists pummel my back as I turn from her. With fumbling fingers, I lift the window open. She's screaming and grabbing my clothes. I lean to thrust my upper body out the open window, then kick her in the chest to free myself.

Thorny rosebush branches scratch my arms and legs as I tumble to the ground. Leaping to my feet, I run across the lawn and into the street. Aunt Margaret's yelling for Uncle Frank. I've got to get away!

The neighbor's houses are silent. No one's coming to save me. Decided, I dash into the darkness between two houses. The quiet of the street is disrupted by Uncle Frank's angry voice.

A quarter mile away is the grocery store and a payphone. I slip into an alley behind the houses and run. I don't look back.

By the time I reach the market, I'm breathless and panting. The harsh glare of the parking lot lights stings my eyes. I stumble across the asphalt to the pay phone.

The double glass doors slide open with a whoosh and a gaggle of teenage girls exit the market. Their slender bodies sport cut-off jeans and colorful tube tops. As a group, they move away from the market entrance and toward where I'm standing by the pay phone. A pretty brunette with long, straight hair reaches into her jean pocket and removes a dime. She raises her eyes to meet mine. "Are you using the phone?"

As I shake my head, I realize I don't have any money to call Mary.

The other girls nudge each other and giggle as the brunette walks to the pay phone. She lifts the black earpiece from its cradle, pauses, and turns to me. "Got somewhere to go?"

Her words sound like a threat, but her voice is kind. Blinking back tears, I shake my head.

"Got anyone to call?" Not waiting for me to answer, the brunette extends the black earpiece in my direction.

I exhale the breath I've been holding and accept the phone. The brunette inserts the dime and leans against the wall to watch as I punch in the phone number for Mary's house.

My heart's pounding as Mary answers on the third ring. When she realizes it's me, her words come through the phone in a rush. "Where are you? Your aunt and uncle said you ran away."

I struggle with the right words. "It's complicated. I can't go back there." My eyes flick to the teenage girls. They're eerily quiet as they listen to my side of the conversation.

In the background at Mary's house, her father speaks, so loud I move the earpiece away from my head. "Find out where Betty is so she can go home to her family."

The brunette raises her eyebrows and snatches the phone from my hands. She smashes the phone in the cradle and grabs my hands. As she pulls me in for a hug, she whispers, "You're safe with us."

Her reassurance punches me in the chest. I unleash a wail, then break into heaving sobs. Warm hands stroke my hair and shoulders as the teenage girls surround me in a murmur of comforting words.

Grief washes through me in a wave, and I collapse in their arms. Without judgement, the girls hold me upright.

After several minutes, the brunette grabs my shoulders and leans away to look at me. "We need to get you out of here before they find you."

Sniffling, I nod. "I'm Betty Morton."

The brunette breaks into a wide smile. "I'm Lynette Fromme, but my friends call me 'Squeaky.'"

AUTHOR NOTES:

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Playlist Sacrifice by Lisa Gerrard & Pieter Bourke

https://youtu.be/BoXsxYf2UMA