The Money

The summer of 1992 was tough. My hamster died and my friend passed away from cancer. The true trauma of that summer did not come from either of those situations as something much worse eclipsed the gravity of both losses. Now, what could have possibly happened that would overshadow loss of two beloved companions?

The money went missing. It was $60 in cash from my mother’s wallet. Of course, the children were to blame, one of those children was me. The reason this situation was the predominate tragedy that summer is because it happened to Sandy. Anytime Sandy was wronged, the kids suffered for it; it mattered not whether the actual offense originated from the children. Textbook displacement. The outrage had to go somewhere, but it always landed where it did not belong. Appearances were paramount and so justice was served on the backs (and backsides) of the children. Three of them, ages six, eleven, and thirteen.

Both my parents suffered from debilitating tunnel vision. Their perception of truth was immovable, and any other possible interpretation was out of the question. The world was out to get them, and that world included their own progenies.

It was in the car on the way home that Sandy noticed the missing cash. She looked in her wallet and *gasp* it was not there. A little background about Sandy. She was (and still is) an undiagnosed conglomeration of ADHD, OCD, Depression, and Narcissism. Losing things was an everyday occurrence. Her purse and wallet were as disorganized as her mind, but she was *SURE* that the money was there. Someone with devious intentions entered the guest bedroom, opened her wallet, and removed the cash. Since it was a family reunion, it had to be someone from the family. And so, the anxiety continued the entire trip home. Up interstate 81 from the bucolic mountainside of Elk Creek and all the way to the ever-expanding suburbs of Springfield, my mother presented each candidate for suspicion, as my father gave noncommittal grunts in response. He knew better than to decidedly agree with her because he dare not say anything against her family.

“I bet it was Little Everett. You know he just got out of prison.”

“Oh, that new boyfriend of Kelly’s. He’s white trash, I can see him sneaking in and taking that money. Can you believe how OLD Kelly looks? She’s lived a hard life.”

On and on it went.

We returned to our house on Apple Tree Lane and settled back into our usual summer routine. The missing money was concerning, but not something we (the children) had to worry about. That is… until Sandy went through her purse and wallet again and *found* the money. Right where she was *SURE* it had been. Three crisp twenty-dollar bills nestled in the folds of her wallet. By some miracle, the money had reappeared.

In most cases, this would be a classic case of misplaced or overlooked cash. Perhaps the money was in another fold of the wallet. Perhaps the cash she was *SURE* was in one pocket happened to be in another adjacent pocket. Whatever the case, the money was there when just hours ago, it wasn’t. It’s like Marvin Acme’s magical "Disappearing Reappearing Ink" from Who Framed Roger Rabbit, now you see it, now you don’t, no… wait, there it is!!

When you are a child raised in trauma, you do not question the reality presented by your parents. You learned long ago that, to argue led to suffering and it was easier to accept things as you were told to accept them. Go along to get along and you won’t get hurt… as often.

Instead of chalking it up to her own carelessness, Sandy drew her own conclusion. One of the children took the money, felt bad about it, and guiltily returned the cash. Now, why would a child do that? If we did take the money, we were in the clear. The blame was safely situated on the cousins from the farm. My brother and I would have known well enough that returning the money was risky and we were not apt to take such a chance. My sister was six- enough said.

Thirty-two years later, I look back on a hinge moment as my mother sat in the living room staring in disbelief at her magical money. I still see her sitting there, knees bent awkwardly beneath her, mismatched socks on her feet, navy blue purse and matching wallet (probably from Avon) in her lap.

It baffles me that the ONLY connection she could make was that it was one of her children. Sandy’s subsequential decisions created a hellscape that lasted for weeks. The response I feel in my body is visceral as I revisit this memory. I still do not feel safe when something is missing, even after years and years of therapy.

She immediately turned on us. She presented her reasoning and evidence to my father. I don’t remember if he offered any other possible solutions, but if he did, they were dismissed with a quick, “That’s the only way it could have happened!” and Bobby knew better than to push back with logic and reason. So, the inquisition began.

Was it Kevin?

Was it Laura?

It had to be one of the older two.

Samantha is just a baby.

Who knew the money was there?

I’ve seen many episodes of Dateline where people admit guilt to crimes they did not commit. I find myself asking how they could be so stupid and wonder why they would admit to something they did not do. But, when I recall that summer, I DO know why.

Investigators must close the case quickly and so, instead of fully examining all the evidence, they go with the most obvious choice and apply pressure until that person cracks. When we didn’t give my parents the answer they wanted, they injudiciously handed down suffocating punishments that would only be removed with an admission of guilt.

We were grounded. No friends, no TV, no video games. We had to clean our rooms. Growing up in an ADHD and Hoarding household, our rooms were a disaster. Clothes, toys, trash, food, and other debris littered our floors. Clothes did not reside in drawers and finding a place to start was astronomically difficult. No guidance, no support, just “Clean this mess!” When this tactic did not produce a confession, further measures were applied. Washing the dishes, cleaning the kitchen, screaming and hair pulling. Still no response.

Our friends would come to the door and were quickly turned away. We were in trouble and would not be allowed out of the house until someone fessed up.

The final straw was when my parents brought up every single mismatched sock from the bottom of the laundry pile and dumped them on the kitchen floor. We were tasked with the impossible- finding a mate for each and every sock. There were hundreds of them. Different sizes, colors, textures, and stages of decomposition. Many were riddled with holes and most of them smelled of mold. As the laundry was my regular burden to bear, this task proved to be my undoing.

I confessed. To something I did not do. “I took the money. Please please please let us go.”

It worked. The task was lifted and we were free. Well, Kevin and Samantha were free. I was subjected to additional questioning. Why did I take the money? Why did I put it back? When did I put it back? Why didn’t I say something earlier? Why did I lie? Etc. Over and over, both parents asking questions about my motive and method. I took the money because I wanted it. I put it back because I felt guilty. I put the money back in the wallet right before my mom found it.

They had achieved their goal, someone confessed, but then what were they to do with me? I’d already been punished. Kevin and Samantha as well. We three were punished together and their bank of creative punishments was depleted. If I had known what would follow, I would have stayed on that floor matching rogue socks until my fingers fell off.

Then she placed the phone calls. Of course, my grandparents, aunt, and uncle were all aware of the stolen money. Now that she had a culprit, Sandy then called to report that Laura was the thief. I could hear them all lament their disappointment in me. Why would I do such a thing? I had them all fooled. They thought I was such a good kid, but now? Maybe it was Laura who had stolen those items that went missing long ago. If she could take cash from her mother’s wallet, what else could she take? I became the default suspect for all past and future crimes. Any trust I had earned was gone and I do not think I ever fully earned it back.

Reminder… I was eleven. I also did not take the money.

As a child, I grew up managing everyone’s emotions and felt responsible for any discomfort in my house, especially for my mother. Because she did not know what to do, I tried to solve the problem for her. In doing so, I sacrificed my own reputation and well-being to make my mom happy, or just a little less volatile. It never worked, no matter how hard I tried, and I would not see that truth until many years later.

I admitted guilt because I thought that would calm the storm. Because my solution shattered her (and that of my other relatives’) opinion of me, it caused more chaos. The next thing I did was to try and take back my confession. I wanted her to be proud of me again. I was the good girl, and I was perfect. If she could only recognize the selflessness behind my confession, I would again be in her good graces.

I confessed to something I didn’t do to bring peace to our house, but my confession only brought more destruction. A confession, even when false, is not something that is easily reversed. I’m a liar either way. I lied about not stealing and about stealing the money. Not good for my reputation, not good for my future survival and safety in my house, and now my grandparents, aunt, and uncle knew I was a liar and thief.

As with the first confession, the rescinded confession followed with questions. Why did you confess to something you didn’t do? How do we know you’re telling the truth now? Now we know you’re a liar, so that is what you will forever be. How can we ever trust you again? No gray area here, folks. Strictly black and white.

We never solved the mystery of the missing money. When it finally ended, my parents decided to punish all three of us equally and then we would never speak of it again. Our final punishment (because our pre-punishments were null and void), was for our dad to spank each of us. Think traditional “Bend you over my knee” spanking. Pants down, bare butt, dad’s hand. Not mom’s, did you notice? She couldn’t bear to do that to her children. Ten smacks on the ass. I know Samantha and I gritted our teeth and took our spankings. I like to think that my dad didn’t hit us as hard as he could have, but he had to have some emphasis to truly close the book on this nasty chapter. The humiliation haunts me to this day. My brother fought back. He was stronger and he fought tooth and nail. I think my dad was only able to get a couple of whacks in over Kevin’s jeans before he gave up.

I am hopeful that I will know the truth about this situation during my life review after I die. Maybe then I will see how this trauma shaped my story. It comes up every now and again and Kevin, Samantha, and I all remember just how awful it was. After all this time, not one of us has admitted to taking the money from Sandy’s wallet. Perhaps the “Only way Sandy could see it” is not the truth of what happened.

After over thirty years of rumination, I have come to the less-than-hasty conclusion that the missing money was never stolen. It was in my mother’s wallet, perhaps a flap or two over from where she swore she put it. If she had been able to see it any other way, this might not have become the traumatic core memory that my siblings and I share. Always the optimist, I hope the experience made me a better parent.