I am sick to my stomach.  In a Probate Court, surrounded by relatives, I speak out and tell the judge that I would like to know who brought my Uncle Pippi to the bank to make changes to his account.  The change that lost Mom’s inheritance as a beneficiary on his will.

He is quiet for a moment.  Everyone turns to him.

The judge looks at me and says that in America, every person has the right to appeal a court’s decision.  We can appeal our case.

He doesn’t answer my question.  He makes a judgment with the power he’s granted.

We take our case to the State of Connecticut Superior Court, where the judge denies the defendant’s motion to dismiss because there’s no precedent indicating that the matter should be dismissed.  Our case is about elder financial abuse, the illegal or unethical exploitation of funds, property, or other assets of an older person for personal gain.

One thing about America is that money’s needed to fight in the court system.  After a while, our attorney advises that Mom and the other beneficiaries withdraw from Superior Court, due to the expense.

“It’ll take a long, long, long time to develop the case.  The material fact to be discovered is an open book.  The discovery may or may not show evidence and there’s a slight chance of evidence.  Very slight,” said our attorney.

Most of all, it’s hard to prove undue influence.

# # #

“Someday, we’ll be rich, Jeanne,” said Mom.

Words I’ve heard and believed since I was a kid.  Words that Mom told me at bedtime, as she left my sisters and me alone, to go work the night shift on a manufacturer’s assembly line.  She doesn’t tell me that the money will come from Uncle Pippi back then.  It’s a relief to hear those words when I’m a kid.  It lifts a burden.  It’s a chance to get out of our hell-hole.

The loss of an inheritance from her brother strains Mom, physically and mentally.  She has no place to put the hurt and anger that crushes her heart.  Me, too.  It kills me to see Mom’s crushed face.  I run like a nut case and push our story to the State of Connecticut’s Elder Abuse Unit Office of the Chief State’s Attorney, only to find there’s no sufficient evidence to bring criminal charges.  Case closed.

# # #

It has taken Mother Mary a long, long, long time to rescue me.  Finally, she proves to God that He should give me grace, and grace he has.  I forgive.  I forgive Mom.  I forgive myself.  It got through my thick head that if I can’t forgive, then God won’t forgive me.  My heart is open to let mercy enter.

Mercy on those that commit elder abuse.  Mercy on those that commit domestic violence.  Mercy on those that commit physical abuse.  Mercy on those that commit emotional abuse.  If I have to say it a million times, every which way, then I will.  Abuses that affect generations and that are so, so, so hard to stop.  Mercy on the poor sinner.

Even though I believe that abuse crushes souls, I would take Mom’s wooden spoon, the flying pink hairbrush, the hated, wicked witch’s hands, the threat of the black snake a hundred times over, if it only stopped the crushing of Mom’s heart.

God is far, far away when the wooden spoon’s in Mom’s hand.

Mom slides the spoon in between the two metal handles of the cabinet over the sink in our kitchen on Jefferson Street.  The spoon locks the doors.

“If you don’t stop that, I’ll get the wooden spoon,” said Mom.

“You girls behave, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“Clean your room, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“Hurry up and get ready for school, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“Get in the kitchen right now and eat dinner, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“Do the dishes, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“You girls stop that yelling, or I’ll get the wooden spoon.”

“You girls stop that fighting and hitting, or I’ll get the wooden spoon!”

The wooden spoon has a friend, Daddy’s black, snaky belt, that slithers on a nail near the kitchen back door.

After the divorce, the wooden spoon has a new spot on a cabinet over the fridge in our kitchen on Seaside Avenue.

After we move to Darien, the wooden spoon travels with us and reigns over the fridge in our kitchen on Noroton Avenue.

The wooden spoon has a new friend here, Mom’s hard, pink hairbrush, that likes to rush through the air and slam into my back.

Worst of all, in all three homes, are the witch’s hands.

I hate the witch’s hands.

Locked into a corner, there’s no escape even though I try to figure a way out as the witch’s wicked hands come at me.  I flatten, protect my head with my arms and take the slashing hands that hit every which way as Mom’s sharp screeches lash at me.

If God’s too busy to get close to me, maybe Mother Mary will help me forgive Mom.  Blessed Mother, do me a favor and please, please, please, ask God to give me grace.

The treasure of my teenage days is hidden inside the dirt of relationships.  I dig for a bit:

“I’ll tell you the dirt on her,” said Mom.

“Get the dirt, Jeanne,” said Donna.

“What’s the dirt on that?” asks Barb.

“The dirt on what?” asks Maria.