The Song of Sirens

Rheeeeeeeeee, Rhooooooo, Rheeeeeeeeee, Rhooooooo, Rheeeeeee!

First, come the fire trucks … Red lights flash.

My mother veers our pea-green 1976 Pinto to the right while I, age eight, sit in the back seat.

The sound of excitement is palpable. "What's, what's happening?"

"Oh, nothing. It's a fire truck," my mother says.

Rheeeeeeeeee, Rho, Rheeeeeee, whoooP, whOOOP, WHOOOP!

Now the reds and blues flash. A cop car whisks by us.

"What's going on?" my adrenaline pumping.

"It's just a police car."

"Where are they going?" I turn backward at the speeding cars and forwards, looking for confirmation in the rear-view mirror.

"Oh, they're going to work. See how fast they're moving. They're late, late for their job."

Rheeeeeeeeee, Rhoo, Rheeeeeeeeee, Rhoo, Rheeeeeeeeee, Rhoo!

Now the ambulance.

"Are they late for their job, too?" I peek out the window.

"Yes, honey, they're running late for their job," she affirms.

My mother cushions every life blow with a thick layer of protection, never mentioning everyday scary situations, out-of-control fires, or mauled people in twisted cars—to shield me from the true-life realities unfolding minute by minute. To see an occurrence warrants a bevy of questions.

"What's going on?"

"How did that happen?

"I don't understand."

"You mean" and more …

When the litany begins, she uses elusive words to cover my eyes from evil undoing. In the meantime, my confusion brews.

***

My mother, father and I live in a large city half the size of Los Angeles. The song of sirens looms everywhere. Something in my gut troubles me, but not having the proper vocabulary proves difficult. My antenna shoots up as I sense an uneasiness in the air, sometimes daily, incrementally, with certainty.

First school, then home, a quick dinner, and a shower: every day. Playtime—alone in my room—is the best, saved for last. As an Only, I know how to entertain myself, be it by tucking in my dolls before bedtime, watching The Sound of Music, or dancing to my records. Free to Be You and Me, a hit on everyone's list, is popular, but I prefer my favorite record of whale sounds. Placing the needle on the swirling turntable, they trill underwater, and I find their calls soothing, almost meditative.

[To hear the beautiful sounds of Humpback whales, I recommend Jason Lewis's YouTube Channel; please subscribe. It's available under the title, Underwater Whale Sounds - Full 60-Minute Ambient Soundscape or 8 Hours of Whale Sounds Deep Underwater for Sleep and Relaxation.]

A chatter brews on the other side of my walls. My parents argue daily, so I turn up the whales. One Humpback calls out to another as they communicate with such peace. I love how they travel as a family, keeping each other close by their sides. The yelling intensifies—mainly about hospital bills—and my parents rattle on about a lack of resources.

Doctors discover my body is attacking itself, and my blood isn't doing its proper job. This craziness will continue in and out of the hospital until I am ten. Meds, weekly blood tests, and visits to the specialist equal more debt, mindless uncertainty, and festering anxiety.

My worry resides in my gut, keeping me up at night. And as an 8-year-old, I'm not ready for adulting while the sirens scream close by, my parents argue in their bedroom, and my white blood cells fight the war on my insides.

***

At nine, my father outs himself as Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny. Please clarify. "How can you be four people at once?" The fog begins to break apart. He saddles my childhood with a truth bomb before bedtime. "They're all fake. It's just Mom and me." The bad timing of his announcement stings. For the record, my father is notoriously cheap, so I know he's delusional about this Tooth Fairy thing. It's 50 cents under my pillow; not like we'll have to sell the proverbial farm.

He believes I need to grow up—I am nine and in fourth grade. While my mother is at night school, we hit up the cheap movies. He buys tickets for Grease. For one hour plus, Danny postures away, Sandy aches for Danny, and Frankie Vallie serenades the beauty school dropout on the big screen. Everyone hand jives. On the sideline, Rizzo laments. Her distress draws everyone's attention. I whisper, "What's wrong with her?" He replies, "You'll understand when you're older." I think, maybe her father told her Santa wasn't real either, so that's why she's crying.

I learned about the human body and its necessary systems in fourth grade. My quick presentation is next, where I yammer on about the heart.

"The heart has four chambers ….," I announce.

The door swings open. A school administrator shouts, "The President has been shot, the President has been shot, turn on the television!"

My heart sinks. Someone shot our President, the most important person in the nation. How can this be? I think. Everyone scrambles, and all twelve of us sit on the floor and watch the small T.V. In color, we rewatch President Regan being shot in his left underarm, and Mr. Brady shot in the head. The news replays the short clip while newscasters table-talk about the drama. The commotion solidifies the thorny feeling in my heart: fear.

***

As an adult today, I know what a distorted view of F.E.A.R. resembles:

• False = It can't be so if I can't verify it with facts. Opinions don't count.

• Evidence = The truth emerges with solid proof.

• Appearing = Sometimes life looks distorted. Know facts from fiction.

• Real = Real or imaginary? With research, I can discover the truth.

***

This unfortunate series of events opens my eyes. The shooting leaves an imprint on me and solidifies the idea that the world isn't always pleasant, fair, or certain. We ask our teacher, "Why did this happen?" She replies, "Sometimes bad things happen." The truth rips away the coddling blankets that once blinded us from reality.

The remainder of the afternoon runs short since hearing the disruptive news. The footage in my head auto replays. Our neighboring room rehearses for an upcoming Fiddler on the Roof musical, and we listen to "If I Were a Rich Man" again and again.

On the ride home, I hear the chatter on the radio. The sirens rhe-rho by, and the "yaddle deeddle daddle doodle dums" swirl in my head. I look forward to my whales singing to me, wading peacefully in their calm waters.

Little by little, my naivety begins to vanish, leaving me sentient to the good and the bad. I discover bad people exist. Some do evil things just because. Flashing lights and shouting sirens may mean people need desperate assistance. Both ugliness and beauty coexist in life. Gathered input in my mind begins to line up: the flashing lights and the loud horns, the nightly arguments and the white bills, the red blood and blue waters are now in focus.

***

New life prevails. At ten, after a few medical procedures, things remain quiet. The fifth-grade results in new friends. Men at Work, the Go-Go's, and Phil Collins rank high on the charts. We begin construction on a new house, and my mother is expecting. Things are on the up and up.

***

My mom taps me to be her Lamaze coach while my father works hard. I am eleven and sit in a large circle with neighboring expecting mothers watching a coach demonstrate breathing exercises. I am nervous about the upcoming changes, but the excitement of being a Big Sister surrounds me. There, sitting in the birthing circle, I imagine sharing so many firsts with her.

The day arrives, and my Little Sister is coming. She's ready to be here. After many labored hours, while I sit in the waiting room, our lives change forever. She is here! I hold her in my arms and see her radiance. My heart overflows with love. The whales sing. This tiny bundle of joy brings me so much happiness. And I finally understand that from that day onward, she's the one solid person who always makes me feel safe in this noisy world.