An Illusion of Normal: The True Story of a Child's Survival in a Home Tormented by Mental Illness (Volume 1) by Schoonover Linda

Author:Schoonover, Linda [Schoonover, Linda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Memoir
Publisher: RockyRoadPublishing LLC
Published: 2016-12-08T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

IT HAD STARTED like all the Sundays before. Dad’s knock at six thirty and his warning that it was morning. Even at my age, I could figure that out.

Good grief. “I’m awake.” The knocking continued. I yelled, “I’m awake. Just give me a minute.”

“Aren’t you ready for breakfast?” He shouted through the bedroom door.

I threw back the sheets and put my feet on the terrazzo floor. “What would you like Dad?”

“Some waffles would be good if you can figure out how to make them.” He yelled the dig through the bedroom door. Dad’s vocabulary was void of words meaning love, peace, or tenderness.

Since Mom left, a feeling of dread had replaced chaos. I didn’t miss her pancakes as much as I missed her. Even if they called her crazy. Without Mom, we were without a referee or coach to teach us how to behave and I couldn’t duplicate her kindness.

I grabbed a pair of shorts and a top. “Well, they won’t be as good as Mom’s but I’ll try‌—‌without the bacon in the middle.” Mom always had a strip of bacon in the center of her waffle. He would be lucky to get breakfast food resembling a waffle. I couldn’t cook much, but with his prodding, I attempted to duplicate the photos in the cookbook.

I opened the door.

“Try not burn up the kitchen‌—‌I’m still trying to get the soot off the ceiling from your cooking last week.”

I nodded. “I know. Sorry about that. I haven’t had much experience cooking fried chicken.” In the kitchen, I pulled out Mom’s Betty Crocker Cookbook and turned to page 38, Pancakes, and assembled the ingredients.

I heaved the white Sunbeam mixer to the kitchen table and placed the metal bowl under the beaters.

“Two cups of flour, one half cup of sugar, a pinch of salt and a teaspoon of soda.

Beat on high.”

I poured in the carefully measured ingredients and turned the mixer to high.

Suddenly a tornado of flour found its way on the kitchen walls, the kitchen floor, and the kitchen chairs.

Dad ran into the kitchen. “Turn it off, turn it off. What are you doing?”

“Making pancakes.”

Dad surveyed the damage. “My God, what a mess!”

I stopped the mixing and tried to wipe down the chairs and the wall with a wet towel. “Will you help me?”

“Okay, make me a waffle and I’ll help you clean it up.”

After replenishing the flour in the bowl and stirring in the remaining ingredients, I managed to cook a waffle. I lifted the lid on the waffle iron before the green light came on, leaving the first waffle undercooked and deformed. I put it on a plate and took it to Dad in the dining room table. His eyes didn’t look up from the front page of the paper.

“Larry wants one too‌—‌right, Larry?”

He looked up only half-awake. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay, the next one is yours,” Dad announced.

Before I returned to the safety of the kitchen, Dad’s rage about the problems within the good ole USA began. He backhanded the newspaper and let the curse words rip.

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