The Cave
Although wolves don’t live in caves as often as movies would lead us to believe, I still love the imagery of the rocky walls and dirt floor of a cave protecting cubs from rain, cold, and predators. The pack settles down together at night to keep warm and dry in preparation for the next time they venture out. Perhaps it’s cozy and warm, comforting to the wolves as they settle in. But at dawn they stretch and go out to greet the sun, sniff the fresh air, stretch their legs, and run. The cave is their respite, but their home is much larger and includes the whole outdoors.
My mom’s bedroom, in the back of the basement with little to no natural light, always reminded me of a cave. Mom often stayed there all day and all night, only emerging for brief periods when her husband came home from work and she had to make dinner. We, the children, were unsupervised and sometimes unsafe during the long days while she dozed or watched TV in her king-sized bed, surrounded by piles of clothes covering the entire floor four feet deep. Visiting her in bed when I got home from school always felt like visiting an underground animal den. I had to let my eyes adjust to the dark sometimes before I could see her. Her bed was a lonely island surrounded by an ocean of the debris of mental illness, chaos, and neglect. She didn’t live the way other mothers did. She was simply different, and thus, we, as a family, were different.
A few times during the long summer days when we ranged free, Allison* and Ian* didn’t come home and the police had to be called to help find them. They were once found in a field near the mountains miles from home; another time Ian was in a neighbor’s house where he had strolled in to eat their snacks and play with their toys while no one was home. He was six.
One summer weekday when I was 12 years old, I was in charge of my younger siblings for the day while Mom holed up in her cave. They wanted to go for a walk. So I set out with 7-year-old Allison and 5-year-old Ian to walk a few miles and get some fresh air. As we walked on the sidewalk near a church about a mile and a half from our house, I noticed a man get out of a pickup truck across the street and start to cross the road on foot behind us. He walked slowly, perhaps a little crookedly, but instead of walking toward any of the houses on the street, he seemed to just want to walk on the sidewalk about 20 feet behind us. He was dressed in dirty overalls and looked like either a handyman who had just been working hard all day, or someone who didn’t have a steady place to live and shower.
A man walking down the sidewalk in the middle of the day wasn’t unusual, and there was no concrete reason for me to be as nervous as I was, but something in my intuition was noticing things my conscious mind wasn’t. Like a switch flipping on, I was suddenly terrified and felt an overwhelming sense of dread. Not a single car passed us. No one was out in any of the front yards of the houses down the street. The closest building to us was the church, one we had been inside with our grandparents many times. I didn’t know anyone in the houses past the church, but this being Utah there was likely a stay-at-home mom behind almost every front door who’d be more than willing to help some scared kids. But for some reason I felt we shouldn’t walk as far as those homes. I wanted to get out of the man’s sight NOW.
In fact, I heard a voice say “HIDE NOW. GO IN THE CHURCH AND HIDE.” I understood that the voice was in my own head, but it felt like someone else was controlling my legs as I steered my young sister and brother through the church parking lot. The man followed. He had left the sidewalk and was strolling behind us through the lot. No doubt now that he was following us, and it still seems to make the most sense to run to a house, knock and ask for help, or even run straight in to a house and explain later. But at the time my inner consciousness was saying “HIDE IN THE CHURCH” so that’s what I tried to do.
We turned a corner at the back of the church so even though the man was still following us, we were blocked from his sight by some bushes. I dragged the kids along, who were confused but quiet for once, and tried every door we passed. All locked. Finally a glass door opened and I ushered the kids inside. We were in a small foyer area between two doors. The other door that opened into a hallway of the church was solidly locked. It felt like I had led us into a trap. I pulled the kids so we all crammed into a corner of the foyer area, just out of sight if someone were to peer in from the outer glass door looking for us. But since the man knew we were nearby he would likely try to open the unlocked door and then we’d have nowhere to go! I told the kids to be very quiet, and they didn’t argue or ask why. It felt like whatever deep survival instinct was telling me to hide here was also telling them to follow my directions.
Anyway, we watched his crooked late afternoon shadow as the man walked up to the door and although we couldn’t see him directly, he seemed to peer inside. He tried the door and somehow, even though it had opened easily for me, it didn’t open. He walked away slowly. We stayed, breathing as quietly as we could, for several long minutes until I felt it was safe to leave. Back on the sidewalk in front of the church, it was eerily still just as before - no cars, no people outside - but the pickup truck and the man were gone. We walked home in silence.
“Mom,” I woke her when we made it back to her cave. I wanted to tell her about the adventure her cubs had. I wanted to tell her how I kept my little brother and sister safe. But she was confused, sleepy, and didn't seem to grasp what I was saying. I gave up. I wished that sometimes she would leave her safe, dark den and experience the world with us, and I wondered if she knew what she was missing.
Our childhood streaked by fear and lit by sunlight, our childhood of warm adventures and the chill of neglect, passed by while she slept in the cave.
My mom’s bedroom, in the back of the basement with little to no natural light, always reminded me of a cave. Mom often stayed there all day and all night, only emerging for brief periods when her husband came home from work and she had to make dinner. We, the children, were unsupervised and sometimes unsafe during the long days while she dozed or watched TV in her king-sized bed, surrounded by piles of clothes covering the entire floor four feet deep. Visiting her in bed when I got home from school always felt like visiting an underground animal den. I had to let my eyes adjust to the dark sometimes before I could see her. Her bed was a lonely island surrounded by an ocean of the debris of mental illness, chaos, and neglect. She didn’t live the way other mothers did. She was simply different, and thus, we, as a family, were different.
A few times during the long summer days when we ranged free, Allison* and Ian* didn’t come home and the police had to be called to help find them. They were once found in a field near the mountains miles from home; another time Ian was in a neighbor’s house where he had strolled in to eat their snacks and play with their toys while no one was home. He was six.
One summer weekday when I was 12 years old, I was in charge of my younger siblings for the day while Mom holed up in her cave. They wanted to go for a walk. So I set out with 7-year-old Allison and 5-year-old Ian to walk a few miles and get some fresh air. As we walked on the sidewalk near a church about a mile and a half from our house, I noticed a man get out of a pickup truck across the street and start to cross the road on foot behind us. He walked slowly, perhaps a little crookedly, but instead of walking toward any of the houses on the street, he seemed to just want to walk on the sidewalk about 20 feet behind us. He was dressed in dirty overalls and looked like either a handyman who had just been working hard all day, or someone who didn’t have a steady place to live and shower.
A man walking down the sidewalk in the middle of the day wasn’t unusual, and there was no concrete reason for me to be as nervous as I was, but something in my intuition was noticing things my conscious mind wasn’t. Like a switch flipping on, I was suddenly terrified and felt an overwhelming sense of dread. Not a single car passed us. No one was out in any of the front yards of the houses down the street. The closest building to us was the church, one we had been inside with our grandparents many times. I didn’t know anyone in the houses past the church, but this being Utah there was likely a stay-at-home mom behind almost every front door who’d be more than willing to help some scared kids. But for some reason I felt we shouldn’t walk as far as those homes. I wanted to get out of the man’s sight NOW.
In fact, I heard a voice say “HIDE NOW. GO IN THE CHURCH AND HIDE.” I understood that the voice was in my own head, but it felt like someone else was controlling my legs as I steered my young sister and brother through the church parking lot. The man followed. He had left the sidewalk and was strolling behind us through the lot. No doubt now that he was following us, and it still seems to make the most sense to run to a house, knock and ask for help, or even run straight in to a house and explain later. But at the time my inner consciousness was saying “HIDE IN THE CHURCH” so that’s what I tried to do.
We turned a corner at the back of the church so even though the man was still following us, we were blocked from his sight by some bushes. I dragged the kids along, who were confused but quiet for once, and tried every door we passed. All locked. Finally a glass door opened and I ushered the kids inside. We were in a small foyer area between two doors. The other door that opened into a hallway of the church was solidly locked. It felt like I had led us into a trap. I pulled the kids so we all crammed into a corner of the foyer area, just out of sight if someone were to peer in from the outer glass door looking for us. But since the man knew we were nearby he would likely try to open the unlocked door and then we’d have nowhere to go! I told the kids to be very quiet, and they didn’t argue or ask why. It felt like whatever deep survival instinct was telling me to hide here was also telling them to follow my directions.
Anyway, we watched his crooked late afternoon shadow as the man walked up to the door and although we couldn’t see him directly, he seemed to peer inside. He tried the door and somehow, even though it had opened easily for me, it didn’t open. He walked away slowly. We stayed, breathing as quietly as we could, for several long minutes until I felt it was safe to leave. Back on the sidewalk in front of the church, it was eerily still just as before - no cars, no people outside - but the pickup truck and the man were gone. We walked home in silence.
“Mom,” I woke her when we made it back to her cave. I wanted to tell her about the adventure her cubs had. I wanted to tell her how I kept my little brother and sister safe. But she was confused, sleepy, and didn't seem to grasp what I was saying. I gave up. I wished that sometimes she would leave her safe, dark den and experience the world with us, and I wondered if she knew what she was missing.
Our childhood streaked by fear and lit by sunlight, our childhood of warm adventures and the chill of neglect, passed by while she slept in the cave.
*names have been changed
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