Robin was now facing possible fraud charges. The truth was that she had lied about her age when she first applied for welfare; she had told the office she was twenty-one when she was actually eighteen so that she would be eligible for help. In her defense, Robin had been sick; she needed the money and didn’t see any other way to get by. She wasn’t receiving any support from our parents, and her frequent illnesses meant she was missing work. Without any guidance or supervision from the adults in her life, my teenage sister was lost.
My father blamed my mother for what was happening with Robin, and in turn, my mother blamed my father for forcing us to come back from France. Perhaps the only advantage of this period of turmoil at home was that my mother was too busy to worry about me, which meant I was able go to school each day. I got up each morning, got on the bus, and went to classes. After school I went to Diana’s house. I had friends and an actual social life. At the end of the year, Diana was voted “most popular” and I was voted “best dressed.”
The seventh grade ended up being the only full year of school I completed while in my mother’s care.
In February 1974, Robin’s welfare case was resolved and she was required to pay the state back the money she had taken. At this point my mother turned her attention back to her youngest child. The school records indicate that Dr. Farley thought I had either pneumonia or the flu followed by possible appendicitis. In April, he signed my application for Special Educational Services, and I started receiving home tutoring again. The notes show I had lessons with Mrs. Ackerman, my English teacher, Mrs. Griffin for math, and Mr. Johnson for science although I can’t recall anything about them. What I do remember is Mr. Finnegan—my young, blond, handsome history teacher—tutoring me while sitting on the edge of my bed. My mother seemed to think it was more important for me to stay in my bed than it was to protect me from having a young male teacher in my bedroom.
Soon enough, my mother started calling the school to cancel my tutoring sessions, because I was “too sick for the visits.”
Once again, I was alone in the house on Long Island with my books and my thoughts. My sisters were away. My parents were miserable in their marriage. I was back to watching my soap operas and the TV news three times a day. That summer, President Nixon resigned after the Watergate scandal. I was thirteen years old, about to turn fourteen. I was still a child, but I wasn’t a baby anymore. I knew the old president was a liar and a new president hadn’t even been elected. I was starting to understand that things were very wrong, not only with the world, but right here in my home as well. Although I would never have dared to voice opinions in my father’s presence, I was starting to question him, his beliefs, and most of all his treatment of my mother.
* * *
IN THOSE YEARS when I still lived at the house on Long Island, I used to have a recurring dream. In the dream, I was standing in the five-and-dime store in Huntington, not far from our home. There was a cash register right in front of me. I knew my mother was near, but I couldn’t see her. I had the feeling that something was very wrong. I knew I needed to let someone know what was happening, but when I tried to open my mouth to scream, nothing came out. I had no voice—no way of letting anyone know I was in danger. When I woke up from the dream, I was shaking, the cries still trapped in my throat.
In reality, it was my sister Robin who came to my rescue. Soon after I entered ninth grade in September of 1974, Robin came out to visit us at the house on Long Island. That afternoon, she asked me to take a walk down to the beach so we could talk privately. I took her hand, and we crossed the lawn out to where the inlet gave way to a small crescent of soft beige sand. We sat down, hugging our knees, the breeze sweeping strands of our hair across our faces, looking out across the green-gray waters of the Long Island Sound. In summer, boats would crisscross the waters here, but now that it was fall, we were perfectly alone.
Robin asked about how I was getting along in this new school year. I told her I was working hard to catch up on the work I’d missed toward the end of eighth grade when I’d been out sick. I explained to Robin that I was miserable at home; our parents were barely speaking to one another.
My sister listened. And then she turned to me.
“Nina,” she said, “you know, you were never sick all those years.”
The meaning of Robin’s words was impossible for me to process in that moment. No one had ever said anything like this to me before! My mother had told me I had internal bleeding. That I had rheumatic fever. She was my mother. Why would she say those things to me if they weren’t true? But at the same time, I knew in my heart that Robin would never lie to me.
Robin explained that she had talked to Jill and that they both felt I should leave Long Island. Our parents’ marriage was over. They had financial troubles; the Dream House was their only asset. The only way our mother and father could afford to separate was by selling the house, and the only thing that was holding them back was me: they were staying together for my sake.
“Nina,
