2.36 I Remember Bobby

1958 • Honolulu, Hawaii ~ I have other memories of Hawaii. I remember Bobby. He was blonde, tan, and handsome, a Georgia cracker with a slow Southern drawl and a boyish, white-toothed smile, a swabbie in bell-bottoms of pressed blues or crisp whites. He was nineteen and in his third year in the Navy, married to my sister who was now pregnant with their first child (Claudia was fifteen), and stationed in Oahu. Mom and I came here because she wanted to be near Claudia. They lived in Waikiki in a small second-floor WWII barracks corner apartment. I had a crush on Bobby. He was cute, he was nice, and he was the only person who paid any attention to me.

Cathy, Bobby, and Claudia in Hawaii, 1958

Cathy, Easter 1957

It was on a Saturday afternoon in April, just before Easter, that it happened. It came up at the psychiatrist’s office. Mom sent me because I’d gotten sick and had to be in the hospital again. When Mom told the doctor about my history of vomiting, he thought it might be emotional, and told her perhaps she should take me to a psychiatrist. I was also as jumpy as a water bug: bumping into furniture, tripping over doorsteps, knocking things over, dropping stuff, falling down all the time. My skinned knees and scraped elbows had scabs on scabs. My stubbed toes were covered with several small Band-aids hanging off. I was also having nightmares.

Sitting in a leather chair next to the psychiatrist, not too close, we looked at pictures: he, carefully handing me—one by one—single sheets from the folder, asking me what they looked like, me carefully handing them back—one by one—saying they looked like moths. Then Dr. Whateverhisnamewas invited me to play with some miniature soldiers and plastic animals in a tabletop sandbox. I did but didn’t see the fun of it nor did they interest me; I no longer played with toys. He asked me to draw my family, which was complicated because Mom and I lived in Manoa and Claudia and Bobby lived near the base, Dad and Irene lived in San Francisco, Carleen, Chuck, and Debbie lived in Whittier, Larry and Marian lived in Long Beach, I didn’t know where Betty lived, I didn’t count Ray because he was no longer married to Mom, and just how was I supposed to figure all this out and fit it on one piece of paper?

The doctor asked me questions. I didn’t say much. What I should have said was: you have the wrong one in here—it’s my mother you should be seeing.

He talked to Mom after my appointment. He told her moving around so much and not having a stable consistent home life might be the cause of my repeated vomiting spells. He also told her about my crush on Bobby, and about my night terrors of a man waiting for me at the top of the stairs with a knife in his hand, and that I couldn’t see the man’s face. Maybe the bad dreams did have something to do with Bobby, but I didn’t tell the doctor about that either. I didn’t tell him because at nine years old I didn’t know what had happened, didn’t even know how to put it in words. Besides, Bobby made me promise. I didn’t say anything to anyone—not for thirty-five years.

to be continued…

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
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