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I began writing a book about it, adding more every day. I had read about Chinatown, where the money had holes, and also about the Golden Gate Bridge, which was red. I knew about the curvy streets and giant hills. So I wrote chapters about each neighborhood where we might live. I wrote in pencil and traced the letters over in pen. The book was long, the longest thing I had ever made.
I sat on our yellow couch for a surprise revelation one night after dinner, with my book tucked up under my T-shirt. I made my dad sit down on one side of me, my mom on the other. They cuddled in close. I pulled the book out and held it up for them to see the cover. “San Francisco,” it said. “A Book by Cristie Beam.” I turned the page and read.
I started with the 1906 ” data-disable-toolbar=”true” data-disable-return=”true”>earthquake, because that was exciting. I felt my mom start to get small beside me and my dad sit up straighter. My mom started sobbing and ran from the room.
“Why are you crying?” I asked her. She was sitting on the bed.
“Because you want to go to California like Daddy.”
I knew then that she would make me choose between them.
My family’s breakdown began when we arrived in California, in the spring of 1979. We had driven from a fading white winter into a sunshine suburb where kids wore flip-flops and terrycloth shorts and girls my age had hair like horses’ manes. The town was called Concord, and it was the last stop on the commuter train from San Francisco, a place of tract houses and scrubby front lawns and the hard racial tensions of the working and middle classes entwined together. About 100,000 people lived there, mostly white and Latino; a few years later, a young black man was lynched at the train station.
We pulled up in front of a tract house painted a dusty sage green. The moving van’s doors yawned open, and our entire Minnesota life poured out. I quietly found my books while my dad bought navy blue loveseats and shiny end tables for the living room. My mom bought a porch swing that reminded her of her childhood in Kansas and swung alone in the backyard.
I started first grade, and I was surprised to discover that my new school didn’t have hallways, because California doesn’t have weather, not like Minnesota. School was easy, and my teacher was boring, but I liked my crossing guard; she remembered my cat’s name and asked me lots of questions. When I got home, my mom was usually ironing and watching her soap operas, and my brother was bouncing around in his baby chair. I would go into my room to put on my play apron and practice being a secretary.
Before California my dad came home for dinner, but once we moved we waited. My brother would eat, but my mom and I watched M*A*S*H while our food slowly dried out in the oven. I tried to snuggle in close to where my mom smelled the best, but she was distracted and didn’t hug back. It was about four months after we’d moved that my mom started her muttering.
“He’s with her,” she’d say, staring hard at the television.
I didn’t know who “she” was. I stared away from my mother, at the white telephone that hung from the wall: I was willing my dad to call.
In my Holly Hobby diary I was a diligent recorder of daily minutiae; every dated page is filled. But in the way of 7-year-olds, I was less careful about my narrative links. I often wrote things like “I made a circus. Mommy hit me.” The line “Mommy hit me” is followed the next day by “I hit Kim.” Poor Kim, a childhood friend, is a running character in the diary, and she unknowingly bore the blunt end of my mother’s instability. There were lines like “Mommy hit me” or “Mommy pulled my hair” or “Mommy diddent love me today” a lot that year, but the funny thing is, I don’t remember any real physical violence. I remember her muttering about my dad and drifting away, deeper into her television and her migraine headaches. The sentences about my father were about absence, especially as the year progressed: “Daddy left for work at five p.m.” or “Daddy diddent come home tonight.”
Some months later, when I was 8 years old, my father moved out.
After that, my mother fragmented. I used to blame my father more, suspecting that his leaving was what snapped the delicate thread between her head and her heart. Later I would come to believe that my father only strummed the string that had really broken long before, launching her back into a madness she had tried so long to block.
After my father left, men streamed in and out of our house. There was the carpenter, who had a retarded son I was supposed to play with and one day flashed me from his bathrobe. There was the man who fixed toilets and swore. There was that dancing guy, and the man with the gun rack on his truck, and the one who sat on the edge of the chair staring when I played the piano.
Maybe my mom really was a prostitute. She said she was. She claimed to work on Wednesday nights from a bar near the BART station. That was her shift. This she told me calmly when she said she was already working five jobs and couldn’t possibly work any harder, right before she shuffled upstairs with one of her migraines.

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