Adoption Series: First love
“You mustn’t play with matches, you know that!”
Mom’s lips tighten, eyebrows down, the crease between deepens, and I know she will tell Dad.
Paul was my first love. We were both four that summer, and we played together almost every day. I know it was love because even now, my chest hurts with the memory of losing him.
Sometimes, my parents took me camping. I loved camping; it was one of those times when Mom and Dad were together, and I knew that everything would be right. Dad would chop wood to make kindling for a fire. My job was to gather twigs and dry leaves as the starter while Mom got out the things for dinner. We’re together, I have an important task, and the scent of a campfire still brings back fond memories.
Sometimes, Dad would let me strike the match to light the fire. If my fingers fumbled, he didn’t criticize or berate; he’d give careful instruction and allow me time to get it right. With Dad, close and loving, his thoughtful instructions pushed my fears away.
I felt comfort in the routine and knew that everyone having things to do kept the anger away.
Late one summer day, I convinced Paul to play camping with me. I wanted to share with him the good feelings that camping gave me.
We picked a place deep in the wide, full Laurel hedge that formed the barrier between my yard and the alley beyond. With some clippers found on the back porch, we clipped away the dry twigs between the rooted laurels. In the small, cleared space, we scraped dry fallen leaves into a pile for our pretend campfire.
It was then that I made the decision. It must be a real campfire. I needed to light that fire to get those good feelings I knew only a real fire could provide.
“Paul, wait. I’m going to get some matches.” Even as I spoke, I could see that Paul had doubts. He knew matches were forbidden. Hoping to hold his attention, knowing defiance was attractive, I followed up with, “It’ll be fun.” And, “I’ll be right back,” bolting for the house, afraid even with the appeal of defiance and risk, Paul wouldn’t wait.
Sure, that Mom would be in the kitchen, knowing the matches were on the living room mantel, I entered through the front door, thinking that by being quiet like a mouse, Mom wouldn’t notice.
Even though I closed the door as quietly as possible, Mom called, “Honey, is that you?”
Answering, “Yes, Mom,” I realized the front door had been a mistake. I always used the back door on play days.
“Are you and Paul, okay?” As she entered the room.
“Yes,” I reply, diverting to the bathroom. Closing the door, I pray the maneuver will be enough to keep her from investigating further while hoping Paul won’t leave.
I flush, run the sink, and slip out, drying my hands on my pants. Seeing Mom had returned to her ironing in the kitchen, I head to the big red chair next to the fireplace. First, stepping up on the hassock and then to the arm of the chair, balancing carefully, I reach for the matches, glancing quickly back, not seeing Mom I grab ’em and stuff them in my pocket. Then, I slide silently down and head for the kitchen and the back door grabbing my toy tools on the way as a diversion, passing Mom and the ironing board and on into the vestibule and out the back.
Relief sweeps over me as I softly shut the back door.
Down the steps and across the mostly dry lawn to the waiting hedge, and yes! My Paul is still waiting. Thankfully, he’d found a discarded toy truck and had been making roads between the rooted laurels.
“What took so long,”
“Nothing,” I lied. Squatting down while wiggling the matches out of my pocket, opening the box, selecting a match, Paul watching, I think he’s impressed.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom approaching.
She parts the Laurel and asks, “What are you doing!?” And I know this is going to go really, really bad.
“You know you can’t play with matches.”
Her anger rose, “You’re forbidden! You know better! You know the danger!” Grabbing my arm, she drags me out of the hedge.
Paul runs.
Mom drags me across the bristly grass and up the back steps, saying, “Your father will deal with this.”
“And you know Paul’s mother will never let him play with you again.”
Waiting for Dad, knowing what was to come, I promised myself I would not cry, I would not scream, I would not confess the crime, I would not reveal that he was hurting me, I would not show any pain.
But I couldn’t resist I always gave in. And I always promised I’d never do it again, whatever I’d done to incur his rage.
It was always both. Always both the defiance and the giving into the pain, a betrayal of self and the little fire of resistance within.
I’d resist Mother, knowing I could defi her and get away with it, but also knowing that if I pushed too far, she’d tell Dad. He’d pull out his belt from the loops on his pants, double it, and bend me across his knee, saying it would hurt him more than it’d hurt me. I’d always scream and cry and promise to never do it again, knowing I would do it and it would all happen again.
I only saw Paul once after that. The feeling, the connection, the closeness was gone.
I still remember looking out my bedroom window at the yard and the Laurel hedge below, missing Paul with tears and pain far worse than the punishment from Dad.
