Innocence Lost
My very first memory is of sitting in the back seat of some station wagon or other as my mother drove and hearing the radio broadcast that a babysitter had been arrested for sticking needles into the soft spots of the babies she was being paid to watch and protect. I lived in Anchorage at the time. I was four years old.
I was born in 1968 in Soldotna, Alaska. Infanticide just didn’t happen back then, at least not like it does today. Not there. I look at this old photo of myself, so innocent and unmarred by time and heartache, yet I knew, even then, that the world could be a dangerous place — a place where harmless-looking babysitters plunge needles deep into babies’ skulls.
I lay awake the other night contemplating my irrational fear of heights, a fear I spoke a little about in “On the Road.” “I honestly have no idea where the fear came from,” I told my husband, “but I can’t even get close to the second-floor railing at the mall without feeling an anxiety attack coming on. I’ve never fallen — ” Then I remember.
There was a small crowd, 10 or 15 people, standing at the base of the tree. Some were cheering him on, others (probably his parents) imploring him to please come down before he got hurt. I craned my neck to see, shading my eyes against the afternoon sun. I remember how bright the day was, how blinding the glare off his white t-shirt, making it easier for me to see him despite the fact he was so far up — 20 feet, maybe more. Then the white t-shirt moved, dropped suddenly. Too much, too far. White against green branches, white against blue sky. Falling, falling. A white blur. A brown plume of dust when he landed on his back. Horror caught in my throat and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t scream, couldn’t even cry. I lived in Homer at the time. I was five years old.
How much can a child see, hear, withstand, experience before darkness takes its pound of flesh? Have there been studies? I’m sure the toll depends on the individual, like anything else. Some people can take more than others. Some people are stronger, but at some point there must be negative side effects, mustn’t there?
I don’t remember their names, but they were my friends. They lived across the road from us, them and their dog, Chester. They were brother and sister. She was about my age with long blonde hair. He was a few years older. I remember thinking he was cute. He, too, had long wavy dishwater-blonde hair, and he was always nice to me. Then one day they just stopped coming over. They disappeared. My uncle was a cop back then, and I remember my parents talking to him about it in hushed voices, always careful to speak quietly so my brothers and I couldn’t hear. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned the truth: they’d been kidnapped and murdered, their remains discovered in some remote area of northern Alaska. I lived in Sterling at the time. I was six years old.
Four, five, six, ten, twelve, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, nineteen, twenty-four, thirty-five, forty-seven. I remember how old I was and where I lived each time something traumatic happened around or to me. They are the moments that shape my past, molded me into who I am today, and influence my future. They are mine, for better or worse, and no one can take them from me.
Although sometimes I wish someone would, if only for a little while.
