December 17th

On Saturday morning, I woke up in my own bed. The sun was starting to shine through my bedroom window as my radio alarm clock played whatever the recent hit song was. The familiarity of any other Saturday made the start of the day feel like a lie. It carried all the markings of normalcy, but once I recalled the events of the past two days, the normalcy felt intrusive and strange and false. I was relieved that I had a reason to get out of the house for most of the day.

Right when I turned 16, I got a job working on Saturday mornings at a small boutique on Signal Mountain. It was called Accents, and the owner was a bubbly, charming blonde divorcee, who had started her life over by using her stylish eye and her love for shopping to open a home and beauty accessory shop. It was wildly popular when it opened (still is), and I was in the right place at the right time when I was looking for a weekend job.

On that particular Saturday, it was cold—even with the sun shining—and the traffic of customers had been slow. When it was almost time to close, I began my routine of dusting the glass shelves and returning any moved items back to their original resting place. I flipped the sign from Open to Closed, and walked back to the register to close it out for the day. Just as I hit the button to print the receipt, the shop door opened. The chime reminded me that I had forgotten to lock the door. 

Expecting to see a random customer, I looked up to see my brother, out of breath and with a puppy-dog look in his eyes.

“Hey, what are you doing here,” I asked, not knowing what to think. 

“It’s gotten worse, Courtney.”

“What do you mean?”

“Dad just had Jack arrested.”

“What, why?”

“They got in a fight, Jack slammed him up against the wall, so dad called the police. They came and arrested him. I was just in the car with dad and had to jump out. I knew you’d still be here so I walked.” 

A fight. An arrest. And my brother jumping out of the car. I felt that frozen feeling again. My brother did his best to explain the basic details, but I always knew when he was leaving things out on purpose. He did it so much, I didn’t even try to confront him about it anymore. 

What I came to realize was that my father’s paranoia had become dangerous. Dangerous for him, dangerous for us, and dangerous for anyone in his inner circle. He was standing alone in his house of mirrors, feeling attacked by someone—or a group of someone’s—but he couldn’t decide who to blame. He never divulged any real or logical reason for why anybody would be after him in the first place. He only trusted that they were. Maybe the fox had finally be caught. 

I finished closing up the shop, and drove Evan and me home. When we got there, the house was empty and my father’s car was gone. That was almost to be expected, but it was unusual that my mother wasn’t there. Evan told me to stay home while he walked down the street to my grandmother’s house. I didn’t argue, happy that he suggested it first. After he left, I felt the heaviness of being alone in the house, as if I should be a part of something even though there was nothing I wanted or needed to be a part of. I had dance rehearsal in a couple of hours, and again, I felt relieved that I had a way out; a chance to ignore the storm that was building around us. 

Earlier that fall, I had decided to return classes with the Chattanooga Ballet. It was something I had done for years when I was younger, and something I eventually let go of when schedules got fuller and transportation got trickier. I was already involved in my school’s modern dance company, yet earlier in the year, when I decided I wanted to focus on my own interests, finding more ways to dance was my first decision. Every day after school, I had dance class or rehearsal as part of my school’s modern dance company. Then, on Tuesdays and Thursdays I left from school and went to the nearby university to take ballet class from 6:30-8:00pm. The distraction helped me build some much needed self-confidence at a time when I was really going to need it.   

That following week, I would be performing in the much anticipated production of the Nutcracker. When auditions were held that previous fall, I didn’t have the best audition, so when I was casted for the part as the Arabian princess, I felt incredibly proud. I knew that my technique was nowhere near the other girls who were still there and hadn’t taken time away. I also knew the more advanced roles were out of reach. However, this part was perfect for me. The choreography was a mix of ballet and modern, performed in bare feet (which I was more comfortable with), and as a little girl, it was always one of my favorite dances. Still, despite my sense of pride for following through on a goal I had set, it was hard not to compare myself to the girls I remembered from years before, wondering how much better I might have been if I hadn’t quit. I knew I would have to ignore thoughts like that if I wanted to have a good performance. 

Right before I was about to leave for rehearsal, Evan and my mother walked through the door. There was a weird cloud that hung over both of them. It carried a sense of shock and anger, but the kind of anger that comes from deep, intense despair. They looked as though they were both trying to process what had just happened, but also trying to carry on as if it hadn’t. I stood there completely unaware of what they would never be able to unsee. 

I struggle to verbalize the next part, because there were too many layers that came with too many details that make it hard to fully understand how everything exploded into what it did. To put it plainly, my father’s delusions had become frightening. And not just because of the content or the fact that he actually believed in what he was saying, but because any attempt to rationalize and prove him wrong, was met with explosive, destructive rage. He had become disconnected from the truth of his mind and body, and he couldn’t stand the experience he was having as a result. His delusions of grandeur that had once been so easy for him to confirm, had collided with reality, and he was having to reconcile just how much they didn’t match. 

When my mother walked through the door, I could see by the look on her face that she was in no position to talk. She walked directly back to her bedroom and closed the door. I looked to Evan who told me they had just returned from the police station. He said my father had agreed to check into Valley Hospital. 

“Really? Where is he now?” I asked, regarding my father. 

“He’s outside. He said he would go in the morning.”

“He actually agreed to that?”

“He had to.” 

Evan stopped talking, waiting for me to pry before he was willing to say anything else. I took the bait.

“What do you mean?”

“Remember when I jumped out of the car? Well, I did it because he was beating the shit out of me. He wanted me to admit to something that wasn’t true, and when I couldn’t, he started hitting me over and over again. Something told me to open the door and roll out, so that’s what I did.”

“Okay…” I said in a way that encouraged him to keep talking. 

“So then when I walked down the street, the police were there talking to Amma [our grandmother, my father’s mother]. She had called mom to come down and talk to them about Jack’s arrest. Amma wanted mom to explain what was going on with dad, so they would let Jack out of jail. Once I got there, they asked if we would come down to the police station to make a statement.”

“So how’s he going to Valley?” I asked.

“When we got to the police station, they asked if dad had ever hit us. They saw marks on me, so I said yes. Then they asked mom. She has that bruise on her arm, so she explained that situation. They took pictures of us and basically told dad he could go to Valley or he could go to jail. So, he chose Valley.” 

I was overwhelmed with every emotion, each one more contradicting than the next. Anger; relief; fear; hope; confusion; understanding; sadness; peace. As each and every one blended into the other, my mind was sent into a state of ultimate stillness. The only thing that felt comfortable or safe, was escaping to a place where I didn’t have to know—or be reminded of—what was happening to our family.

My mother came into my room, aware that it was about time for me to go. She encouraged me to stay at Carol’s house that night after rehearsal. My rehearsal would go past 8:00, and she always hated when we had to drive up the mountain in the dark. Since she would be taking my father to Valley in the morning, she felt it would be easier on me if I wasn’t there. I agreed, looking forward to the reprieve of my aunt’s cozy and comfortable home. I packed a bag and added clothes for church the next morning. I had never been to church without my parents, and yet something about going on my own felt not only comforting and safe, but also very necessary. 

Sunday, December 18, 2001

I sat in the back pew and decided to kneel in silence rather than participate in most of the service. In my desperation for mercy and guidance, being still and quiet while others worshipped around me was the only thing that felt natural. After church I went home, and when I pulled into the driveway I took a deep breath, knowing that my reprieve had ended, and I wondered what news awaited me. 

My mother’s car was gone, which meant my parents had already left. Evan had stayed behind. I was surprised by that, but then again, I was happy he was home with me. He didn’t have much to say. The way he sat slouched in his chair, completely disconnected from what was on TV, made it easy for me to see the weight of the world holding onto him; and in a way that took the life right out of his eyes. I became aware of how lucky I was to have been left out of the mix, and I just hoped that Evan would be okay after all this was over.

Later in the afternoon my grandmother called and asked if we wanted to come down for dinner, which we did almost every Sunday. Jack had been released from jail, and he walked out from the back bedroom. We said hello and gave hugs as a way of acknowledging our shared experiences. Evan and I watched tv in silence as my grandmother made dinner.

It was dark by the time my mother got there. She was exhausted and appeared run down from head to toe. Papers and doctor’s notes were spilling out of her already full shoulder bag. I jumped up to greet her feeling relieved and excited to see her, but her current state made it hard for her to smile. We all stood in the kitchen and waited for her to tell us how it went. 

“I’m so glad that’s over,” she said in the breath of her sigh. I noticed her voice started to crack.

My uncle gave her a hug as she started to cry, which opened up the door to more tears. It was uncharacteristic to see my mother and uncle hug, they weren’t particularly close. Yet it allowed us to feel like a unit; like we were all in this together; at least for that moment in time.   

After dinner, the three of us returned home. The sense of peace I experienced when it was just the three of us, led me to secretly wish it could’ve been like that forever; although a big part of me felt guilty for ever wanting it. 

I was left hoping that my father would get the help he needed, and things could just go back to normal.