It was the summer of '69

This tale is one that borrows from life itself. It is, however, largely fictional.

“I don’t know how many clothes to bring,” Paloma said, digging about in her suitcase. “Do you think there’ll be a washing machine? I can’t fit much more in here.”

She was excited. It would be a summer vacation like none she had ever had. Her best friend’s family had invited her to their cottage for a two-week stay. Paloma was a bit nervous as she didn’t know anyone else in Greta’s family, other than her mother. Greta had more siblings than Paloma could remember. Much as she was incredibly happy to be invited, she had that dread of being with strangers pit-pattering in her stomach.

But she’d have Greta, boisterous and loud. Paloma trusted Greta would make her feel part of the family. She could certainly make her laugh, and when she giggled, no one could help but join her. Yes, Greta was a joy, and Paloma knew this trip away from home would help her find some enjoyment.

Paloma was 15, and had never had many friends, being shy and reclusive. A lot of people thought she was stuck up, not deigning to talk to people unless forced. That didn’t help much with all the people currently living with her family. They’d emigrated from the country of Paloma’s birth and, until they got a job and a bit of money to bring their families to Canada, they all settled in for months, or years, in her family’s home.

The phone rang and Paloma’s mother went to answer it. She yelled up the stairs for Paloma to come talk to Greta. Paloma raced down the stairs, stumbling and nearly falling in her haste.

“Greta, hi. What’s new?”

“Nothing really. Just checking to hear if you’re going to bring that makeup you stashed out of sight. There are Friday night dances on the beach and, if we’re lucky, we can get in.”

“Wow. That’s fantastic, except now I have to repack to make sure I have the proper clothes for that.”

“Don’t worry. It’s just kids in beach wear. You’ll be fine.”

As she hung up the phone, Paloma’s heart skipped a very large beat. Dance. With strangers. Exciting though it was, she suddenly felt nervous. The only dance she’d ever had the nerve to attend was a school event, with all the boys on one side of the auditorium and girls on the other. Eventually, the most courageous of the boys crossed the long distance between them, and asked girls to dance. Finally. It wasn’t until the dance was nearly over that a boy asked Paloma to join him. She wanted to sink into the ground, she was so nervous. But she mustered enough bravery to accept, and was very glad of the dim lighting because she knew her face had turned bright red. Paloma wondered if the people at beach dances took as long to get dancing with each other.

In the early evening, Paloma took a bath and washed her hair. Greta’s father was picking her up for the trip at 8 a.m. to get an early start. Not wanting to waste a second the next morning, she got into bed fully dressed. She needed everything to be just right for her first time away from home.

Her wavy tangles smoothed and toweled dry, Paloma gave her mind over to imaginings of what the next two weeks held in store for her. She wanted to get to sleep quickly and make the morning feel faster in coming. But she was too excited to relax her mind and, so, lay awake for hours. She finally decided to read for awhile in hopes of tiring herself. As she was turning to the third chapter, she heard a very loud, frantic-sounding moan, then a stream of hysterical cries and sobs. What the hell?

The noise scared her and, when she heard footsteps stomping by her door, got up and cracked open her bedroom door. She saw the tail end of one of the men staying with her family disappear into her parents’ bedroom. Not right. This is not right.

Paloma wasn’t sure if she should follow him, but worry and curiosity won out. As she reached the door to the room, she saw her mother lying on the bed, shrieking that she was going to the cemetery to be with her parents. Nobody wanted her, she cried. She couldn’t stay. Standing on either side of the bed were Paloma’s father and the other man, both of them yelling at her mother to go ahead, to get up and out. Between her mother’s agonizing shrieks, Paloma heard her scream that she was getting her car keys and would be out of everyone’s way soon enough.

Curiosity turned to panic. This wasn’t anything Paloma had experienced before. She’d heard her parents arguing often enough, but this was far, far worse. She didn’t know if she’d be rebuked for trying to intercede, but more than that, she knew she had to do something. Her heart pounding madly, she raced to the hallway stand where her mother kept her handbag, and rustled through it until she found the car keys. She may not have known what was going on with the grownups, but she was terrified by her mother’s voice – nothing she’d ever heard before – and was determined her mother wasn’t going anywhere that night. Not knowing where to hide the keys so they couldn’t be found, she momentarily panicked and threw them into the toilet. Then flushed.

Racing back to the bedroom, she heard the two men continuing to verbally abuse her mother. She went to the bedside and, at a loss for what to do, punched the other man on the arm, yelling “Stop it. Stop it.”Before the words were out of her mouth, she felt a sharp blow bury into her left cheek. The bastard had punched her back.

Stunned, but furious, she heard herself screaming repeatedly. “Get out. Get out.” She went to her mother in an attempt to shelter her from further abuse, but she was nonresponsive. Paloma didn’t know if she were dead, or merely unconscious.

Time passed. Paloma didn’t know how long it had been since she had joined her mother in the bedroom, lying beside her in hopes of protecting her from the men, and ensuring she didn’t look for the car keys.

She didn’t have to worry. Her mother remained unresponsive, though breathing, until the first light of day filtered through the curtains. In the hours between, Paloma wasn’t sure, but she thought she had begged her father to call an ambulance. To no avail. The two men eventually passed out on the living room chairs, still drunk and, she thought, disgusting.

And now what? She was 15. What could she do? Paloma wondered if she should call a doctor her parents had met socially, but was certain they wouldn’t want an acquaintance discovering what had happened. She had no option but to sit and wait.

It was 5:30 a.m., and Paloma was sitting, head in her hands, on the front steps. Tears streamed down her face and onto the new t-shirt her mother had bought her for the beach trip. She was exhausted, she was terrified, but she had found her way back into her ability to reason and plan. She walked past the sleeping hulks and back to where her mother was still lying, somewhere in between conscious and unconscious.

No. This wasn’t happening.

The Carters would all be up early getting ready for their trip, Paloma knew so, at 6:30 a.m., she went to the kitchen and took the wall phone from its cradle. Slowly she dialed Greta’s number, a pit deep in her stomach. Through intermittent sobs, she told Greta she’d be unable to go to the beach. “Why?” Paloma wasn’t sure what to say, so answered, “My mother got really sick during the night. We’re waiting for the ambulance.”

Greta was indignant. “You’re not going to the hospital. You should still be able to come.” Her tone was angry.

Paloma was torn. She didn’t want to let Greta down, or insult the Carters by backing out, but her heart and soul were cuddled on the bed beside her sleeping mother, and they knew what was best.

She apologized over and over again, but Greta could not be convinced that their plans had to change. In the end, Paloma could only ask, “What would you do if it were your mother?” No response. Just the sound of Greta’s phone clicking off.

Before she lost the tiny bit of nerve she’d managed, Paloma picked up the phone and dialed again. Just

three numbers.

When her call was answered, she said quietly, so as not to interrupt the resolute silence with which the world had encumbered her.

“Hello,” she said, between tears, into the receiver. “We need an ambulance here. For my mother.”

Had she done the right thing? Years later she still didn’t know.

Her mother spent the rest of the summer in hospital, where Paloma visited her every day. She was released in September, two days before Paloma started 10th grade.

Greta never spoke to her again.