Читать книгу Trapped In Between - Marilyn Elaine Lundberg Lundberg - Страница 4

Here is a short synopsis regarding my parents. My mom and dad were both from Iowa, they met in Minneapolis, got married in 1949 and there I was two years later, their first and only child, me Marilyn.

Dad was forty years old when he married my mom, and she was thirty. They had both grown up on farms in Iowa during the rough times of the great depression in the 1930s. Their education was limited because they were farm kids, and they were needed to do labor on the homestead. Dad was the oldest of five children, and mom was the youngest of five. There wasn’t a lot of money and times were very tough for both of them growing up, but there was always enough food because they grew their own.

Mom was raised by her older sister Olga, because their parents were so busy milking the cows and plowing the fields. Growing up Mom always wanted to get married and have a family, but as she got closer to thirty, she thought maybe she would be an old maid the rest of her life, but that was not the case. She was very excited when she met my dad and he asked her to be his wife.

Dad was an auto mechanic and Mom was a stay at home housewife and mother to me. When I began the third grade Mom was able to find full-time employment assembling thermostats at Honeywell.

I was sent to the babysitters from the start of third grade until the beginning of fifth grade. I cried every morning as my dad dropped me off at the sitters, I hated it there. I was so thankful when fifth grade came and I didn’t have to go to the babysitter’s house anymore because the oldest daughter would hit me in the head with her hairbrush when her mom wasn’t looking. I was always afraid to say anything to anybody because I felt this girl would increase her bullying tactics toward me if I squealed. For two years I begged my parents to let me stay at home, and I finally got my wish a few weeks before fifth grade began.

I was responsible and mature for my age so I was given permission to stay home by myself, and no longer needed someone to take care of me, I was eleven years old. We practiced a few weeks before school started, to make sure that I was comfortable with the new situation, and to see if I could prepare my own lunch. My mom set up the electric skillet and I made myself a hamburger patty with great success. I enjoyed the peace and quiet of my home so much better than the old babysitters’ house.

The vibrant blonde color of my hair was my best feature when it came to my looks. Most days that I was out and about, adults would give me sweet compliments regarding my hair color. Along with my blonde hair came blonde eyebrows, blue-green eyes and a very light Norwegian complexion. I was one of the tallest in my class and slim. My parents rarely had to scold me because I could see by the look in their eyes that they were upset. I would say I could read body language easily, and was always trying to please adults and my peers. My ugly teeth were my biggest concern as I readied myself for the new school year, which was just around the corner.

My parents and I were fortunate to take a two-week vacation right before school started, which we always looked forward to. We traveled by train and every minute of the trip was planned out so that we could take in as much as possible.

We left Tiger kitty with family friends that were in the neighborhood about three blocks away. When we returned from vacation to pick her up, the cat sitters told us that Tiger had broken out through their garage window and had run away. They said she had been gone for many days. I was distraught.

When we drove the three blocks home, guess who was sitting on our doorstep waiting for me, little Tiger kitty. She was starving and ate two large cans of cat food from me, but physically she was fine. No cuts from the broken window. She had walked three blocks to find me, and all she wanted to do was rub against me, purr and cuddle. I was so relieved that she hadn’t gotten lost or run over and killed.

Dad didn’t seem too happy; I know that he thought my cat was a nuisance. Every day when he pulled his car in and out of the garage, my kitty never tried to escape. He would purposely leave the big garage door open, but she was content to stay in her little paradise. She and I were best friends and she didn’t need to search for a better home.

On the first day of fifth grade I eyed my new teacher carefully. She wasn’t a friendly and happy person like my fourth grade teacher had been. This teacher rarely smiled. She seemed to be putting in the time, but would rather be somewhere else and not in my classroom. I am not even sure if she was fond of children, if I had to guess, I would say no. My desk was located on the back row, and I was as far to the left as you could get. The tall row of windows was right behind me, and every time I stood up, I would glance out and see my little white house with maroon windows across the street. I was uncomfortable in this fifth grade classroom, I didn’t like being confined in Miss S’s room, and I longed to be at home, by myself, where it was safe.

I may have blushed in the past years of school, but I have no memory of it. Blushing became an everyday annoyance for me in the fifth grade. I blushed when the teacher or any other student even glanced at me. I was fiercely self-conscious regarding my protruding teeth. I blushed brilliantly red when Miss S called on me to answer questions, especially if I didn’t get my mouth guard out in time to avoid the lisping. I would try and duck my head behind the classmate in front of me, so that there was no eye contact between the teacher, and me whenever possible.

I developed low self-esteem and felt subservient to my other classmates soon after the year began. The kids would harass me about my teeth, and I would blush, and then they would mock me for blushing. It was a never ending cycle of maltreatment.

Most of the time when Miss S asked a question of the class I knew the right answer, but was too timid to raise my hand. I wanted to excel and be like the other kids, but I just didn’t have it in me. I would watch my classmates talk freely and openly to the class with no observable nervousness at all, and I marveled at them. I wanted to be like them, but I felt odd. I instead kept all the right answers in my head, and forced myself to be invisible, in order to survive the long hours of the school day.

Miss S had a style of teaching that was foreign to me. She would say a sentence and leave out one or more of the words. She would then call on a student to fill in the omitted words. We all had to listen carefully because we never knew when the word would be left out. It wasn’t every sentence, and she may go on many paragraphs and then leave out a word. When she called on us we absolutely needed to know the correct answer. It was a style of teaching that got us students to pay strict attention, but it caused me great apprehension and nervousness. You could never drift off, because that’s when she would get you. I hated her teaching technique. Why scare us, just teach the information in a fun way, I thought.

One morning Miss S announced to the class that she expected us all to start giving oral book reports. We were supposed to read a book; I loved to read, and then go up in front of the class and tell everyone all about the book. OH MY GOSH! That was not what I wanted to do, me and my big teeth in front of all my schoolmates. How was I ever going to accomplish this new assignment? At that exact, precise moment in time, I began to obsessively worry about public speaking. How was I ever going to do what the teacher demanded of me, and survive the aftermath of humiliation from the other kids? I was sick to my stomach. Oh, and it wasn’t going to be just one oral report, she was requiring several speeches during the school year.

I saw no possible way to get out of this assignment other than running away from home, but I was too little. I was cornered, and had to do this darn oral book report!

The first night after receiving the assignment, I had a horrible dream of a gigantic black bear looking at me, and then chasing after me. I had the same dream the next night, and then the next night, and the following night. Every single night the big black bear pursued me. First I would eye this huge creature, and he would look me straight in the eyes and I would start running! I would run swiftly away and the bear would track closely after me, my breath would be labored as I was running full out and then I would come to an area of swampy water and my feet would get bogged down deeper and deeper as I attempted to run! It was like running in slow motion and I would glance back and the humongous black bear would be getting closer and closer as I struggled to free myself from the mud. He was gaining on me! I would then spot a tree and jump, grabbing onto a lower branch swinging myself up into the safety of the tree, and for a second I thought that I was safe, but no, the bear jumped up and grabbed the bark and scurried right up behind me! I crawled from limb to limb to the very tip top of the tree, with the branches swaying dangerously to and fro from my weight, there was no place else to go and I turned my head and the bears eyes almost touched mine and the bear killed me and devoured me! I died in my sleep every night and woke up sweaty and crying!

I knew that those stupid oral book reports were giving me those bad dreams, and it was all because of Miss S. I hated her!

I now was terrified to go to sleep and I loathed school and my teacher. I wondered if all the other kids were feeling like me? Were they scared too? Were the others having horrible nightmares like me? Why was the teacher torturing me like this?

The day soon arrived in which I had to give the stupid oral book report. I volunteered to be one of the first so that I could put that dilemma behind me. I faced the challenge, went up there and just did it. It was so intimidating up in front of all the other students and my teacher; it all seemed unreal, like I was in a bad dream. I barely took a breath during my speech, didn’t look up much, and just said the words and walked back to my desk. I did it! I was glad that obstacle was over until the next time.

In the playground my friends said, “Man, was your face red! It was almost crimson in color, even the part in your hair was red, and your ears were red!” These were my friends. What do you say to that? It is bad enough when strangers make fun of you, but when it is your friends, it breaks your heart. They were supposed to have my back and lift me up, but that was not the case for me. It just made me want to be more inconspicuous.

Due to my new dread and hatred for school, I made a goal for myself, just make it through the week. I couldn’t wait for Friday night, because I knew that I had two safe days before I had to go back to school again. On Friday night I felt fantastic, Saturday was mediocre, but by Sunday morning I had that nauseated and sick stomach, that comes with anxiety, nervousness and worry. I dreaded returning to school on Monday morning. Each week was the same all through fifth grade; just make it to Friday night so I wasn’t trapped in her classroom.

A new anxiety began to unfold around this time, and that was an uneasiness of looking at myself in a mirror. I avoided all mirrors. I didn’t like when anyone looked at me and I also had a queasiness looking at myself. When I gazed upon my own reflection I would see the blush slowly creep into my cheeks, and then cover my face, ears, neck and hairline. The blush disgusted me. The times that I did quickly check my reflection, I used light from a faraway window or would crack open the door to catch light from the adjacent room. I chose to never illuminate my reflection at home, because in the dark you couldn’t see the red. In the school bathrooms I just looked down as I washed my hands. That shows you how serious the shyness and timidity had overtaken me.

My saving grace was still the wonderful school playground and my Tiger kitty. Evenings and weekends my two friends and I would play anything with a ball. Softball, whiffle ball, kickball, dodgeball or fly our kites. I was a natural at sports because it all came easy for me. The playground was my heaven on earth. I had no stress on the grassy fields, I was jubilant and free as a bird in that park-like setting.

My friend and her little sister never teased me; they were true friends and compassionate to me. If we were walking down the street together, and other kids were walking toward us they would say, “Try and close your lips so that they won’t tease you, or quick let’s walk the other way.” They were both kindhearted and gracious to me.

I also adored gym class. If teams were picked, I was the first girl to be chosen. This was the only time at school where I could be myself, free of anxiety and fear. I could run like the wind, nimbly climb a rope or throw a ball as far as any of the other boys. Sports handed me the confidence that I lacked during time spent in Miss S’s classroom, but unfortunately gym class was only an hour a day.

There was only one area of gym class that threw me for a loop. I was terrified to do summersaults. I had a bad experience once in which I pinched my neck and couldn’t breathe, and so now I had a fear of those nasty things. I always tried to wear a dress on summersault day so that I didn’t have to participate. I now had four big fears in my life, and those were being teased about my teeth, blushing, oral book reports and icky summersaults. My little mind worried about these four events continuously, always trying to figure out a way to escape them.

One sunny afternoon after school, I was playing in the schoolyard with my one friend, and two older girls came toward us and started teasing me about my teeth. They dragged us both by our arms to a quiet alley adjacent to the school and began with verbal insults which progressed to beating us up. Towards the end of the encounter, one of them took my arms and swung me around and around. They let go and I was tossed face first on to the pavement. I got away running home as fast as I could with my face and hands bleeding.

Through the blood and tears, I told my mom everything that happened to us and I showed her the damage that those mean bullies had done to me. I wanted mom to storm across the street into the alley, find those girls and punish them. She wiped away my tears, but she didn’t do anything at all. I was so frustrated at her; why didn’t she defend me?

It couldn’t have been more than a couple weeks later, and Mom and I were on the bus heading downtown. Wouldn’t you know, one of the girls that beat me up came and sat down right across from our seat. At first the girl look scared. I whispered to my mom, “That’s the girl that beat me up in the schoolyard!” Again, my mom didn’t do or say anything. After a bit the girl smiled an ugly smile at me. She knew that she could smack me again anytime she wanted to. I thought to myself, the playground is no longer a safe haven for me.

As the nasty girl continued looking at me and my mom, I was just sick and stared only at the floor. I longed for someone, anyone to protect me from all the pain in the world. The pain of getting beat up at school didn't hurt nearly as bad as the fact that mom didn’t defend me. Moms are always supposed to shield their children from harm. My mom didn’t do or say anything at all.

That was actually the second time something like that happened. I had a memory of an older boy that had lured me into his house when I was less than five years old. This happened in the first house that I had lived in on Colfax Avenue. I remembered being too little to reach the latch to get myself out, and was trapped in that house for a long time with that boy. When he finally released me I ran home crying and told mom, but she didn’t say or do anything to that boy either. I thought to myself when I was five, that it wasn’t safe to go outside. Who knows who is going to get you next?

Around the middle of the fifth grade I started to notice some changes in my mom, maybe they had always been there, but I had no memories of the past. As she would wash dishes she would start having a dialogue with herself in an extremely angry and loud voice. It was like she was having a big disagreement with someone in the kitchen, but there wasn’t anyone there with her. It frightened me when she would act this way. I would sit in the tan rocking chair and rock even harder when I would hear her fight. If my dad was in the living room with me, he would kind of wink at me as if to say, everything’s okay.

My way of controlling her outlandish dialogue would be to call out to her saying, “Mom, did you say something to me?” She would say, “No, I am just singing.” At that point she would begin humming a tune and then in a short moment the angry voice would again emerge. This event happened in our kitchen or other parts of the house multiple times each day. This behavior greatly upset me, and I just couldn’t stand the heated battles that she had with the invisible people in the kitchen. It made my stomach sick. I was only eleven years old and I wasn’t equipped to help her, but I wanted to. I rather wished that she would talk to ME, but she was usually very busy with her full-time job, all the housework that she needed to attend to, and those private angry conversations.

Mom was also educating me regarding facts that didn’t seem quite right to me. If I was on the phone, she would tell me to make my phone call short, because people were listening in on my phone conversations. There used to be a time when we had a party line, but those days were over so I wasn’t sure who she thought was listening. She also said that people were watching us through the heat ducts in the living room and from the television screen. She had extra locks installed on the two doors because she thought window peepers were watching her through our windows. I didn’t think that anyone was watching us, but there was no way for me to know for sure. She also told me to never trust anyone because it wasn’t safe, and not to share any of our personal business with others, it was all a secret.

Confusion surrounded me regarding Mom. She had two very distinct personalities. She could be the sweetest most loving person ever at church or when we visited someone. Sometimes she was sweet to me too, but mostly she ignored me. Most of her time was concentrated on scolding the invisible people that lived with dad and me in our house. My dad and I were the only ones that ever saw her angry side. Mom always had it under control when we left the house. I loved the sweet mom, but was deathly afraid of her dark side.

Closeness was what I longed for and craved from Mom, closeness with her sweet personality. My friend and her sister had chores to do at home in order to get allowance and I wanted to emulate them and spend quality time with mom. I asked my mom what I could do around the house to help her and earn money. I wanted to wash dishes but she told me that was her job. She did say that I could dust, so I dusted, and when the task was completed I asked if she wanted to look at the work that I had done. She would examine and then redust the tables, I didn’t like that. That job didn’t take long so I would ask her what chore I should do next. She didn’t really want me to do anything, I could tell that, but I wanted to be like the other kids and work. I asked if I could vacuum and she said all right, so I vacuumed the living room carpet. She would then vacuum again. That totally frustrated me, because I had covered every inch of the carpet carefully, and very slowly. I not only vacuumed north to south, but I also had gone east to west. There was no more dirt for her to find, I was sure of that!

On a different day she was going to make chocolate chip cookies, and I asked if I could help and she said okay. I longed to be close to her and have good mother daughter time. She put the ingredients together and I told her that I would stir it. I mixed and mixed and mixed until everything was perfect, and I handed it to her. I said, “You don’t have to mix it, because it is already mixed!” She mixed it some more. I felt like I just couldn’t do anything that was acceptable to her. I could not measure up to her standards, and that drove me crazy. I was frustrated, but never told her how I felt.

I believe it was at that time in my life that I began to strive to be a perfectionist. I felt that if I could just do things with excellence, and at times even better than that, I would be appreciated and finally loved.

I began to notice that Mom was always cleaning and recleaning the house. Over and over she would wash the walls, ceiling and floors with her favorite cleaning product Tide and water. She would scrub and scrub until she became exhausted. As she was cleaning, her eyes had a faraway look, and I would just watch her. I wanted to help her and just be with her, but it was difficult. She would go into her own world that excluded me, her little girl.

I longed to have Mom stop doing her housework and pay attention to me and only me. I wanted her to hold me and cuddle me. I needed her to sit down in the rocking chair and read a book or play a game with me. I wanted her to talk to me as much as she talked to her imaginary friends. I hated those imaginary friends; they took my mom away from me every day. I was very lonely and I needed her in my life.

I remember the exact moment sitting on the living room carpet, and promising myself that when I had children, I was going to play with them. I was going to hold them, love them and cuddle them. I was going to talk with them and not constantly redo the work that they had done. Also, there was absolutely going to be two kids, no lonely only children for me.

If I had a choice to spend time with my mom or my dad, I always picked my dad, he was my buddy. I was sort of a girly tomboy, so hanging out with him in the garage or the greenhouse was fun, and also my way to escape my mom on those really bad days. We never really talked about Mom behind her back, but we both knew that something was definitely wrong with her. I think that Dad was often hiding from her too in the garage and greenhouse.

One of my favorite things to do with my dad was to play catch with a softball or league ball. He would throw me fast grounders, high fly balls and all sorts of difficult balls to catch, and I loved it. When I practiced with him it improved my catching and throwing skills. I was quicker and better at playing softball in gym class when I practiced with Dad.

One day, after a rousing game of catch, I said to him, “Do you wish that you would have had a boy instead of me?” I thought he would say, of course not, but what he said was surprising and very distressing for me. He said, “Yes, I wished that you would have been a boy to carry on the family name.” That was what he said. He could have added, but I love you just the same, or anything to make me feel better, but he didn’t add anything else, and that broke my heart.

I also recall during this same time period, maybe it happened in the past, but I don’t remember, that my dad would leave the bathroom door open when he was using the toilet. He would call to me so our eyes met as I sat in the tan rocker, and he would do something to his private parts all the while staring at me and giggling. I was uncomfortable, and would look away, or stand up and shut his bathroom door, because it should not have been open. He also made a daily habit to walk from his bedroom to the bathroom naked. I had a robe and always wondered why he didn’t use his. My mom was never in sight when he acted this way. It was disturbing to me and made me uncomfortable.

Dad and Mom never argued with each other in our home, except for one week a year. The loud discussion would begin when we were making plans to go visit my dads’ side of the family in Story City, Iowa. We would visit Grandma Ana, Grandpa Ed, Auntie Lou and Uncle Robert for a weekend. I would hear my mom cry and say things about Grandma Ana not liking her. It did seem like Grandma would say unkind things to her and my dad never stepped in to defend her, and Mom felt picked on.

I personally loved going down there, I was the center of attention. Auntie Lou would always have fun little projects for the two of us to do, and I really liked Uncle Robert, he was my favorite.

Grandpa Ed never said much to me. He just sat in his rocker in the dining room and rocked. When I would walk by, he would reach out and try to grab me. That always scared me; he was my least favorite person in the house.

Uncle Robert was my dads’ baby brother. He and his sister Lou never moved away from home and he was now working a full-time job. I paid a lot of attention to Uncle Robert because I felt sorry for him. Robert was a grown man that barely spoke; he was so shy and inward. He was probably in his thirties but he looked eighty. He walked with his head bent down and kind of stooped over so that he didn’t have to make any eye contact. His bedroom was upstairs, and when we visited, we too slept upstairs in a bedroom down the hall from his room.

At night I would hear very loud screams coming from his room; I believe that he was having nightmares, just like me. I would try to cover my ears to block out the screams, but to no avail. We visited Uncle Robert two times a year every year, and I never remember a night that he didn’t scream from his bedroom.

Uncle Robert worked five days a week, but he told my dad that he didn’t want to work anymore; he just wanted to stay at home and take photographs. I could identify with Robert so much. I felt his pain and knew that something had happened to him. I would cry for him when I heard him screaming. When I looked at Robert, I saw myself. Nobody in the family every talked about Uncle Roberts’ problems. There was never any mention of the loud screams in the middle of the night, even though I knew he woke everyone up. Why weren’t the adults gathering around him to make a plan to remedy the problem? Why did the family just look the other way? I wanted someone to help Robert and to also help me.

I overheard my dad say that my grandpa Ed, his dad, had spent some time in a mental institution. That was all I heard. There were lots of secrets in our family, and many subjects we were just not supposed to talk about. I just observed what was going on around me, but didn’t say anything to anyone.

In the sixth grade I was very fortunate to have a super sweet teacher that was kindhearted to all of us. My situation was the same, but it was nice to have a loving and compassionate person for a teacher. We read numerous books in her class too, and we were told to sign-up for oral book reports. I never signed up and she noticed that. One day she called on me and asked me if I had read a certain book, I lied and said, “No.” She questioned me a little more on another book, but again I deceived her and said that I hadn’t read it. She knew what was going on, but she never pushed it and I never spoke in front of the class that year. I was very grateful that she didn’t force me.

I really liked Mrs. Peterson; she had a beautiful smile, tiny waist and wore stunning pastel dresses. I kind of wished that she had been my mom at times. She loved us kids, you could easily feel that, and she loved to teach.

One really hot day she threw open all the windows in our classroom so the winds could drift in and make us more comfortable. We had no air conditioners back in those days. The female principal poked her head in the door and called Mrs. Peterson out into the hall. My teacher came back in and shut all the windows, I could tell that she had been crying and I felt bad for her. She had just been trying to make the temperature bearable for us kids. We were all soaked with sweat.

One day as I was getting up to sharpen my pencil, I looked out the school window and saw the side door open on our garage. I asked her if I could quickly run home and close it because my kitty was in the garage, and I didn’t want her to run away. She said lunchtime was just around the corner and I could leave then. In my mind I said, “Please, please, please let kitty be okay.”

I arrived at home a short time later to find kitty safe in the garage all snuggled up in her bed. I gave her a few loving kisses, secured the door, ate lunch and headed back to school. I wished that my dad would be more careful when he left for work, and would lock up the garage. After all, he had lots of tools and other things in there too.

There was only one occasion that made me sad concerning Mrs. Peterson, and it happened on the last day of school. Towards the end of the day, we had a picnic, and I was sitting on the ground next to her, I just adored her. She looked at me and said, “You’re an ugly duckling now, but in the future you will grow into a beautiful swan.” I am sure that she had no intention of hurting my feelings, but I was crushed. I wish she would have kept that bit of information to herself.

I thought about a saying that my mom had taught me, “If you can’t say something nice about a person, don’t say anything at all.” Words can hurt a person so much and we need to select our words carefully when we speak to others. Always encourage people, don’t discourage them. Oh well, I needed to forgive Mrs. Peterson, because I adored her.

Every single day I was an avid people watcher. I observed my schoolmates, and they were laughing and having fun and really seemed to be enjoying life. I went to birthday parties and I invited kids to mine, but I always felt tense and never relaxed. I was continually on the lookout for someone that might bully or embarrass me. I never felt at ease in my own skin.

I definitely knew without a doubt at the age of twelve that there was strangeness about me compared to the other kids. I felt odd and flawed.

Looking back at the end of elementary school, I had a laundry list of problems beginning with fear. I had a fear of the dark, I would stand at the top of the stairs and want to go to the basement, but I found it so difficult unless I had my kitty with me. Also closets bothered me and the darkness under my bed terrified me. I had fear of abandonment regarding my mom, fear of rejection concerning the kids at school and fear of any sort of change in my life. I needed no surprises at all. There was a fear of being vulnerable to people, a fear of people in general and lastly, a fear that something bad was waiting to happen to me around every single corner.

My body was always tense along with an unexplained sick tummy. I hated mirrors and felt ugly all the time. I wanted to control people and the situations around me, but I couldn’t and that upset me.

I wanted dominion over my thoughts so I wasn’t worried all the time about those stupid oral book reports and crummy summersaults. I also desired control at home regarding the insanity that was happening regarding my mom. I loved Mom, but at the same time I was afraid of her. She was acting differently than the other moms that I saw.

I needed to be perfect in all areas of my life. I had low self-esteem and felt guilty and shame for some odd reason. I lacked joy, except in sports, and had a need to please people. On top of all those problems, I lacked most of my early memories, and a big black bear prowled around in my dreams every night, successfully killing me. Did the other kids feel like me? I doubted it.

On a Saturday morning, during summer break from sixth grade, I woke up with a start and felt very uncomfortable and sick to my stomach, for some reason.

I looked out my bedroom window towards the garage and saw my dad working out there. Both garage doors were wide open. I had a very ugly feeling in the pit of my stomach. I got dressed and went outside. I peeked in the garage and behind the service door was where I kept Tiger’s litter box. It was gone! Her toys were gone! She was gone!

I said, “Where’s Tiger?” He said, “I got rid of her because I was tired of dealing with the mess of the litter box.” That was a very strange thing for him to say, because he had used the dirt in her kitty box to throw in his garden, and he had the biggest most beautiful flowers you ever saw. In fact, he used to brag to people that cat poop is the best flower fertilizer in the world.

I ran in the house and cried and cried and cried. He had no idea how much that kitty meant to me. She was my rock! She never hurt me, and she was always there for me. Now she was gone. Did he just dump her somewhere? Did he take her to a shelter that kills cats? What did he do to her? I was so angry at Dad. The cat was never mentioned again in our family. I no longer had a little kitty sister.