The Calling. Kim O'Neill

played kick the can, read comic books, consumed endless boxes of root beer popsicles, and watched the fireflies work their on-and-off incandescent magic every night at dusk. In our suburb northwest of the city, the captivating smell of sizzling hamburgers and hotdogs regularly perfumed the neighborhood from backyard barbeque grills, even on weeknights.

      Lyndon Johnson was president. Gas was 32 cents a gallon. Everybody smoked, including our doctor, who kept a metal ashtray on his desk. Radios were tuned to the Beach Boys, the Monkees, or the Cubs if they were playing a home game. While my brother teased me, I danced along to American Bandstand on TV, and developed a secret crush on Davey Jones. I nagged my mother to buy me the latest fashion direct from London. At ten years old, I argued, I was certainly grown up enough to wear the miniskirt!

      Unbeknown to me, that innocent time was going to come to a fateful conclusion by two life-changing events that I would witness in the course of a single midsummer night. First, I saw my father try to strangle my mother. When I succumbed to an exhausted, terrified stupor that night, I found myself—in my sleep—at the scene of what Chicago Tribune reporters had dubbed The Crime of the Century. I watched in horror as a lone assailant brutally raped and then slaughtered seven young women. My psychic destiny had ignited, flared and caught fire. It was only the beginning of my journey.

       Chapter 2

       The Night My Father Tried to Strangle My Mother

      Even as a kid, I knew that my childhood wasn’t normal. Every Saturday night I worried about the abuse my mother would suffer—verbally and physically—at the hands of my alcoholic father. I never knew from one week to the next if we’d be spending Sunday morning watching cartoons and eating pancakes or waiting in the emergency room of the local hospital.

      My father, the only child of Swedish immigrants who were themselves big drinkers, would have his first beer early Saturday afternoon. I would watch helplessly, like a practiced—but unarmed—soldier witnessing an all-powerful enemy mobilizing for the inevitable assault that was sure to come later the same day. Unlike my gentle Scandinavian grandparents, alcohol triggered a metamorphosis in my dad that would abruptly transform him from a sensitive, insecure, intelligent human being into a raging, abusive beast.

      Despite the fact that my father drank beer all afternoon, he’d still be jovial at dinner. He would eagerly fire up his large Weber grill in the garage, and the flames would shoot alarmingly close to the raftered ceiling where our bikes hung along with the summer lawn chairs. Even in the frigid Midwestern winter, my father would patiently wait outside until the flames died down and the charcoal briquettes were properly red and glowing. While my mother made salad, sautéed mushrooms, and baked potatoes in the kitchen, he’d be in the garage grilling his thick-cut, specially marinated sirloin steaks. As they sizzled and crackled, the rapturous smell would perfume the neighborhood. Each tantalizing slab of Angus beef was painstakingly cooked to order for each member of the family. Unlike anyone else, I liked mine bloody rare. Somehow, he was always able to consistently present that to me. With anticipation, he would hover next to my chair as I inspected the heavily-charred piece of meat so tender that I could cut it with my fork. Inside, pale pink edges framed a red, raw center, and I’d squeal with excitement and tell him that it was perfection! My happy acknowledgment gave him a great deal of pleasure. My dad would comically roll his eyes, asking whether the semi-raw piece of meat needed more grill time, and I’d shake my head, already happily munching.

      With the illogical denial of people in the eye of a hurricane whose full strength had not yet hit shore, we’d share a boisterous family dinner where we all laughed and talked over one another.

      When we had polished off the last of my father’s culinary masterpiece, my mother and I would clear the dinner dishes and prepare a hot apple pie or frozen chocolate whipped cream cake for dessert. Then we’d all retire—uncomfortably full—to the family room to watch TV. Besides my Dad’s steaks, watching Jackie Gleason on our brand new color TV was also a Saturday night tradition. My parents loved watching the Honeymooners. My two younger brothers and I would sit with them, never quite grasping why grownups thought the fights between Ralph and Alice were so funny.

      Following a Saturday afternoon of inhaling six packs, my dad would start on the heavy stuff right after dinner, announcing to no one in particular, “I’ve only had one beer!” He especially liked brandy and Greek Ouzo. He called it Firewater. When my father started getting really drunk, he began to imitate Ralph Kramden during the commercials. At the pivotal moment, he’d look at my mother and say, “Bang! Boom! One of these days, Alice! To the moon!” We knew then that the eye of the storm was going to surrender to the full force of the hurricane. My father’s demons were about to be unleashed . . . full force!

      In the flash of a second, my dad would snap and suddenly become unhinged. My two younger brothers and I had learned that when he exploded, we needed to become invisible. With the abruptness of a volcanic eruption, his mindless rage would spew and he’d lash out at my mother. She’d respond with tearful disbelief—as if it was the very first time—and try to escape by running upstairs to get away from him. He would charge after her, yelling, “Don’t you dare run away from me!” They would cloister themselves in the master suite where the verbal tirade would escalate into a physical assault. With adrenalin pumping, we kids would retreat into our individual bedrooms where we’d hear him abusing her for hours.

      “You’re NOTHIN’!” he’d scream at the top of his lungs.

      “No! Stop!” my mother would plead. There’d be the familiar sounds of muffled slaps. Because she was so terrified of him, I knew that she didn’t dare fight back. That would have made him angrier.

      “I’ll see you and those kids in the GUTTER!” he’d threaten.

      With my knees drawn up close, my whole body shaking, stomach heaving, I’d cower in my white provincial canopy bed, angry that the neighbors didn’t come to our rescue. I was always certain that his demented, drunken raving could be heard echoing throughout our middle-class subdivision.

       Why did he want us in the “gutter”? What did that mean? Why was he so mad at her?

       Would Daddy come after us? Was he mad at us, too?

      “No!” would come the muted voice of my mother. “Stig—no—please!”

      “You’re NUTHIN, you bitch! Nothin! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

      My anger at the neighbors fueled a growing self-hatred. Why wasn’t I already a grown-up? I would fight him! I would save her! I fantasized about grabbing him and throwing him to the floor, screaming at him to leave her alone! Get out and never come back! We hate you!

      On Saturday nights, the unaffordable colonial house that my parents had acquired “just for you kids” became an inescapable prison. My brothers and I were literally trapped inside with no place to hide. From the time I was five years old—when I had first witnessed the abuse—I kept praying that my Dad would stop drinking, or that my Mom would somehow turn into a superhero and save all of us . . . or involve someone who could. But as the weeks slowly turned into months, and the months unfolded into years, it became apparent that no one was going to come to our rescue.

      One particular Saturday night, after consuming a whole bottle of Greek Ouzo, my father went berserk. No more Ralph Kramden . . . he literally snapped. I had never seen such a look of hatred on anyone’s face as he lunged at my mother. Bellowing and cursing at the top of his lungs, he tore after her as she tried to get away. Like a madman, he thundered up the curved staircase in close pursuit, and we heard them disappear into the inner sanctum of the master bedroom. As a terrible commotion ensued, we kids sought the little refuge open to us in our rooms. Unfortunately, mine was right next door to theirs.

      As time dragged on, his explosive, throaty blustering went from aggressive to downright ferocious, and it struck an ominous chord inside of me. Although this kind of melodrama was typical for a Saturday night in our household, on this particular occasion I was truly worried for my Mom. I was too scared to