My Story, Part 2: The Day Mom's Fiance Died

This is a long post, so get comfortable. You might want to grab a cup of coffee or go to the bathroom first. I'll wait. :)

First, a bit of background information. My mom dated a wonderful man named Karl in the mid 1980's. He was a divorced father of 3 grown children. He fit right in with Mom and me. He made us laugh with his easygoing personality and charm. In 1987 they got engaged. However, Karl had a secret problem: he was an alcoholic. I never saw him drink. If he was ever drunk around me, I never knew it. With Mom's support he entered into rehab and stayed sober until they went to his office Christmas party and he unknowingly drank spiked punch. A relapse followed. Then in early March she told me she broke up with Karl because he relapsed and needed to hit bottom. A week later, he was dead.

The Day Karl Hedges Died

It was March something, 1988. Mom and I were at home in our 2-story townhouse apartment. It was morning, one of those mornings where the sky is gray and the day is slow in dawning. Mom was lying in bed, which was where she spent most of her time in those days. I was in my room doing 15-year-old girl things like listening to the radio and playing with makeup.

The phone rang, which was not unusual with my mom's many friends. What was unusual was that it was a man I never heard of before, asking for Mom. I called out, "It's for you. It's a Dr. Alinah." Mom looked surprised. Out of curiosity, I stayed at the foot of her bed and listened to her side of the conversation. "Hello? Yes, this is Pat Mapes... Yeah...? What?? NO! OH, NO! NOT KARL! OH, NO-O-O-O-O!!! Mom started sobbing and hung up. (I later found out that Dr. Alinah was the Whitley County Coroner.)

"Mom! What happened??" Listening to her half of the conversation left me with a sense of deep foreboding and alarm. "Karl's dead!," she wailed, continuing to sob. I'll never forget hearing those words, seeing the pain in her face, and feeling totally helpless. My knees went weak and my stomach fell through the floor. Karl, gone? It couldn't be! I tried to comfort my mother, but I every time I put my hand on her shoulder it felt so awkward. I was relieved when she picked up the phone to call someone (probably Grandma or Aunt Margo) to tell them the news and probably to receive the comfort which I was too young to give. It was then that I heard the horrible details of his death. He died of carbon monoxide poisoning in his garage. A suicide note was found on the kitchen table along with a check to my mom for one hundred dollars. (It ended up being no good -- his assets were frozen.)

I went back to my room and sat on the floor to think. When was the last time we saw Karl? I couldn't exactly remember but I knew it had been at least a week, because a week ago Mom told me that she was breaking up with him. I could tell she still loved him and expected him to hit bottom eventually, get rehabbed again, and to pick up their relationship where it left off. There was no way she could have foreseen the disastrous events a week later. It was a nightmare. Karl's death was only the beginning.

A couple of days later we travelled about 150 miles to Karl's hometown for his funeral. As soon as we got out of our car, we were asked to leave by Karl's sons. I hung back, but Mom was determined to see Karl's body and to say goodbye. She marched past them; I followed timidly. I was surprised to see only Karl's immediate family: his three grown children, his five sisters, and even his ex-wife. The atmosphere grew very cold when we entered the room. Again we were asked to leave. How dare we show our faces here, they wanted to know. Karl's sons Dean and Troy and his daughter Stacey were downright hostile. All three of them were yelling at us, accusing us of being responsible for his death. Stacey and I literally stood nose to nose while she yelled in my face. I was too shocked to move (or to cry, thank goodness!). She was bigger than me and I wasn't about to upset her further. I was puzzled to say the least. Blaming us for Karl's suicide was ludicrous, but they were angry. Looking back now, I can see that it must have been too painful to blame their own dad for leaving them. I was relieved when the funeral director came in to restore order. He let us approach the casket for a minute, and then we had to leave. Mom took out the wedding band they had chosen together and placed it on his finger. Karl's kids were scandalized; one of them snatched the ring away while we were still standing there. Mom turned to me and whispered, "He moved. Did you see that? He moved!" I didn't see what she was talking about. I was just eager to get out of there in one piece. We whispered our emotional goodbyes to Karl and left.

It was during this trip that I first noticed Mom acting strangely. She told me that as she put the wedding band on Karl's finger that he moved and that it was a sign. I think this was where she began to believe that he was coming back from the dead. (There's a whole other story in there that I'll save for another post.) Mom became very afraid and wary. She thought that she was being watched and that our phone lines were bugged. She thought Karl's sons were "after us." Then she thought the Welfare people were "after us." One time she stopped at a pay phone and called a local news channel to tell them she had a big news story. Something about Welfare and that it was going to be BIG.

Mom became increasingly more fearful. We even stayed in a motel for a couple of nights. I must say, it was weird to have your mom drive you to school from a motel. After two nights, she ran out of money and we went back to our apartment. Then Mom's behavior took a really strange turn. The scariest part was when she looked down her nose at me and told me she was God. The way she stood there with her fingertips together and the ethereal whispery voice she used gave me the creeps. I went to my room and blocked the door in case she tried to come in. I couldn't be around her when she was like that. Clearly, she wasn't herself. What would she do next? Was I safe? I wished I had a sibling to ride it out with. I felt anxious at school, knowing that Mom didn't want me to tell anyone about our situation. I felt isolated. I couldn't tell my dad, I couldn't tell my grandparents because Mom said they were against her, too.

So imagine my surprise when our dinner was interrupted by a knock at the door. A look through the peephole revealed a strange sight: Grandma, two police officers, and, in the background, an ambulance and two police cars, including a K-9 unit. I told Mom who it was. She yelled, "Don't open it!" But it was too late. As they rushed past me, Mom tried to make a break for it out the back door. I watched the officers tackle and handcuff my mother. I was so confused. Why was this happening? Was Mom right about her parents being "after her?" I went to my room and refused to leave with my grandparents who insisted I go with them. How could I? Mom said they were the enemy. I couldn't betray her...I was so confused.

There was only one person whom I would trust, and that was my dad. I tracked him down by phone and he dropped everything and drove forty miles to get me. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I got in the car with him. I felt safe. Surely Mom would forgive me for telling Dad everything, since he's my Dad for goodness sake. I was glad to be able to get it off my chest, like how everyone was "after her" and that she said she was God and that we even stayed in a hotel because she thought we were being watched... Dad was stunned. He had no idea what I had been through since Karl's funeral, which was only two weeks ago. The most curious thing happened to me on that car ride. It was like a veil was lifted from my eyes and for the first time, I understood -- we weren't in danger, there was never any danger -- it was all in Mom's head. I could hear how absurd everything sounded as I told it to Dad. Exhausted, I lay my head in Dad's lap and wept as he drove to my new home with him and to a normal teenage life.

Incidentally, in my first week in English class in my new school, we studied "Julius Caesar" by William Shakespeare. In the story, an oracle appears to Caesar to warn him of danger, saying, "Beware the ides of March..." (Be careful around the middle of March.) After the trauma I went through, I was a little freaked out. I thought, the ides of March indeed! The next few years I was always nervous around mid-March, thanks to that story.

My story isn't done. There is more to this adventure. To be continued...

(Dad, if you ever read this, I'll always be grateful to God for you. Grandma and Grandad, your intervention possibly saved my life. I try not to think about what could have happened if her psychosis had been allowed to continue. My deepest thanks and love.)