Cassie's Struggle

It was a few days before Christmas. This year was worse than other years, my brother and I would usually get at least one new store bought gift, but not this year. Mom hated the holidays, she refused to buy Christmas wrapping paper. It was a waste of money and trees, she said. She wrapped everything with newspapers. I didnt mind, it seemed like a waste of money to me too. Mom did the christmas shopping at good will this year, she took us with her so we could make sure the stuff fit. I received a worn pair of tennis shoes and my brother got a used coat. I picked the out the shoes myself. They were a pretty worn and the laces were frayed at the ends, but I knew how to fix that. A lighter and some tape, they would be as good as new. I had wanted to fix them before she wrapped them but, Mom said “ no they are fine” and she snatched the lighter out of my hand and lit a cigarette. I didn't argue. I knew better than to argue with her, especially around Christmas. “Your Grandpapa is in the hospital” she said, with the dangling cigarette between her thin lips. It bounced with each syllable she pronounced.

“why?” I was suddenly flushed and felt sick. “is he alright?” I choked out the words;afraid of the answers. My Papa, was a gentle giant. His voice as deep and grumbly as you might expect from a giant. He was my favorite person in the whole world, and I was his. There were other Grandchildren that he easily could have chosen to be his favorite, but he chose me. Little Darlin' thats what he always called me. I was his little Darlin'

“yeah, I forgot to tell you, he had a heart attack yesterday.” "Dont worry, He will be fine. He is coming to stay with us as soon as he is released."

She finished wrapping the yellow and red packages and tossed them under the tree. My gift hit the floor with a thud. I sat there and stared blankly at the gift. Reading the words Ground Chuck $0.89 cents per lb. Over and over. that was the top of my present read, Ground Chuck 0.89$ per lb. It had a picture of hamburger against a yellow star. My eyes raced over those words a million times. Though I was reading each letter and number one by one, in truth I was a million miles away. In my mind I was with him. I was with Papa. I was reliving a memory of staying with him one weekend last summer. He and my Grandmother had divorced a few years before, so it was just he and I at his tiny apartment beside the I 70 interstate.


Papa came to stay with us right after his open heart surgery. He had a hospital bed brought to the house along with a lot of medical supplies. The three of us shared a long narrow room. My mom hung huge roll up blinds as dividers. Each section was large enough to house a twin bed and a night stand. My section was all the way in the back. Papa had the middle section and my brother had the front section, closest to the door.

I remember feeling a huge relief knowing Papa would be in the middle. This meant my dad would not be able to get to my bed in the middle of the night. To get to me he would first have to cross through my brothers and my Papas sections. I was protected.


Papa was a giant man. He stood almost six foot six inches tall. Wide broad shoulders and a thick neck supported a large head. He had a full head of dark black hair. He always wore his hair in a crew cut. His face was broad and his wide mouth was framed within a gotee beard and mustache. His voice was deep and loud which matched his body type. His grey blue eyes and large nose sat squarely on his face. His skin was darker than mine, years of sun damage gave him a year round tanned and leathery hide. His face was scared from bar room fights, including the most noticeable was his nose. It was flat across the bridge, he had been hit with a tractor chain in the face during one of his brawls. Papa was the only man I could trust. He would never hurt me the way my dad did. I knew this without a shadow of a doubt.

Even while connected to drip lines and monitors in his hospital bed there was fierce presence about him. I knew that despite the large gaping 3” hole in his chest he would be able to protect me from my father. I imagined if my dad tried to sneak into my room, Papa was so close would hear my cries. I pictured him jumping out of his hospital bed, ripping off the cords and wires and racing into my room to save me. I pictured him beating my naked father with his fists, kicking him until he screamed. I imagined his face bloody and beaten lying there crying in a fetal position. I wanted Papa to kill him, to stop him from ever hurting me again. I thought through things like, my bruises would heal and I would never again have to hide the hand and thumb prints on my inner thighs. I would never again have to sneak my mothers cold cream to ease the friction burns between my legs. I would be able to sleep with out tucking my blankets securely around me, to prevent someone or something from sliding underneath to reach me. I would be free from the demons that haunted me.

Papas surgery was the best thing that had ever happened to me. I did not want him to get better, because that would mean he might leave. I had to find a way to keep here, with us, in my room. Day by day he grew stronger and better. He began to get out of bed and walk around the house, making conversation with my mother and father. I watched and worried as I knew he was gaining strength. Soon he would want to go home. Leaving me to fight off the wolf by myself. I couldn't bare the idea that this good fortune was coming to an end. I had to find a way to make him want to stay. I had to find a way to keep him here, to keep guard at my bedside, though he didn't even know he was doing it.



It was the end of Christmas Vacation, I had to return to school today. Mrs. Bear was my fourth grade teacher. She was of Cherokee Indian descent. On the day we returned she wore a traditional Indian woman's dress, complete with braids and feathers in her hair. She was a very tall woman. Taller than my mother and prettier too. She always spoke with a whisper, I never once heard her raise her voice. She always smiled too, and I thought that was odd.

All the other children were busy during lunch talking about all the wonderful gifts they received for Christmas. They talked about Bikes, and Cabbage Patch Dolls, new boom boxes and video games. I only sat quietly, during this chatter. I did not receive all the things the other children did for Christmas. I even knew that there was no Santa Clause, most of them probably still believed. Suddenly without even thinking about it I shot up out of my lunch chair
"What a crock" I shouted.
right in the middle of all their chatter everyone turned to look at me. Standing there with my face all red, and my little hands balled up in fists at the sides of my body. All their chatter about toys, and Christmas, and Santa, and how good life was. It just burned me up. I had bigger things to worry about. I hated all of them.