Little Chet on the Beach

My sister and I had what seemed to be a happy childhood. My father's military pension provided us with every modern comfort. My mother liked to dress us up in expensive flowery dresses with crinoline slips that would make them puff out. I never felt completely pretty because my polio required me to wear supportive devices. The puffy dresses just made me feel like a fat little blow fish with supportive devices! No one would have guessed we were anything but a happy little family.

Looking back, I find it very ironic that my mother worked so hard to cause me to gain weight. Yet, she was so critical of my weight. I think once my addiction took hold, she must have realized it wasn't the best thing for me. I believe that in her attempt to right her wrong, she would criticize almost everything about me. "You have such a pretty face, but..." My life was filled with all her "buts". There isn't a day that didn't go by that she didn't ask me, "What is wrong with you, little chet!?"  She called my sister and I names. Her accent made the profanities she called us sound unclear. Little Chet and little Beach were the two favorite names she called us. We knew exactly what she meant to say, though.  I tried so hard to make sure I didn't do or say anything that would offend her. I was the housekeeper. I did the laundry. I did my best to cook for my family. I cared for and pretty much raised my sister. My mother always complained that we didn't have enough money and so I didn't ask for very much.. except food. She was always very willing to give me lots of food.

My father lived with us off and on. He was an alcoholic who did very dangerous things at times. I know this to be true. Nonetheless, I also know that my father was kind to me. He loved me and I felt loved down in the deepest of my hurt. I asked him for a book one day. The next week I received boxes and boxes of every book imaginable. Charles Dickens, Robert Louis Stevenson, and every author you could think of! He brought me flowers and told me I was pretty. Even his pet name for me, "Mi Gordita", translated chubby; made me feel pretty. But, his love wasn't enough to fill my insatiable need for food.

My little sister, on the other hand, had the opposite problem. She was always on the verge of starving. She rarely ate and did all kinds of clever things to avoid having to eat. One day, she took her dinner and hid it under the sofa cushion. Days later the food had started to become rancid and the odor was so strong. My mother found it and brought my sister and I into the living room. "Which one of you did this!" she raged. My sister, who spoke very few words growing up, pointed at me. I told my mother that I didn't hide the food. I know my mother knew I was incapable of hiding food. I ate my food and anything else that was left on the table. Yet, she beat me until I could no longer cry for my sister's mistake.  Years later, she would tell us that she knew my sister had lied, but wanted to teach us a lesson. The lesson I learned was that I was worthless. I learned I had no value and deserved to be treated the way my mother treated me.