CHAPTER 1

Dad looked dead. I wished he was. Instead, he was passedout on the sofa, his snoring blaring louder than the sportsprogram on television. I snuck past the green velvet rocker.A heavy brass floor lamp was big enough to hide behind, and I slippedby without disturbing him. I knew he would get mad if I woke himup. It was the weekend.

Friday nights through Monday mornings, Dad lived on the sofa,only getting up to stagger to the bathroom and stagger to the kitchentable for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He ate well at every meal andin doing so maintained his health. If he hadn't eaten well, he wouldhave sunk much sooner than he did. I overheard some grown-upssaying this one day when they didn't realize I was listening. Afterdinner he did what he usually did, guzzle down his precious SunnyBrook whiskey until he passed out.

My name is Allyson, and when I remember my dad, even nowwhen I am much older than he was then, I wish I had given him moreslack, but back then I couldn't. Before I learned to tie my shoes, thedelicate laces that held my life together began to unravel. To keep thefrayed drama a secret, I pretended. Lost to fantasy, I hid my sorrowfrom the outside world. I had no idea just how crazy my own lifewould become.

Whenever Mom reminded me to stand straight, my mind rejectedher instruction. How could I be perfect when my whole world seemedto be crashing down around me?

Outwardly normal, we lived in an upper middle-classneighborhood. Sprawling sycamores lined the streets, and flowersbloomed in sculpted yards. We were just twelve miles outside of SanFrancisco. I dreamed of the day I could live in that city. It seemed fullof promise, and it was far away from Dad.

Our upscale sandstone home sat on a quiet, unassuming corner.Eastern sunshine flooded the roomy kitchen, adding more coziness toour deceptively lovely family. Ironically, our impressive living roomappeared bright and cheery with white walls, expensive furniture, anda fireplace that sported an oversized picture of a collie dog above it. Areligious painting hung over the couch where Dad always lay. A verylight spot in the house, the painting gave me a sense of strength.

Mom kept the windows covered with Venetian blinds. She pulledthe heavy draperies when she wanted extra privacy. We had thick rosycarpet. I had to take my shoes off every time I came in the house.

I convinced my scant circle of friends that I was living thedream life with perfect parents, two older brothers who were away,a big allowance, and no worries. All that dishonesty accomplishedwas having no one to talk to. I couldn't turn to my friends withoutadmitting the truth, so I turned inside myself.

Mom pretended too. I didn't blame her for avoiding the cruelrealities of life. After all, I was following her lead. She overlookedDad's complex and emotional disconnection. I couldn't stop thinkingthat she was giving up. I didn't consider myself a quitter. I justwanted out. Following an imaginary path, I became more lost in myinterwoven imagination.

My two older brothers didn't seem to care that our parentscarried on an unending feud in private. A decade stood betweenLarry and me while James was three years older still. By 1950, mytwo big brothers had left home. We were not close because of our agedifference, but Larry had a comfortable place in my heart. I never gotclose to James.

I blamed my dad for every misery I felt. I had to blame someone,and Preston Joseph Smith was it. A large man with deep-set eyes andno sense of humor became my target. Watching his daily habit andMom's constant frustration, I pretended I was the daughter of a hardworker, not a hard drinker.

I was about ten years old when I first noticed Dad talkingto people nobody else could see. I had gone outside to play in theneighborhood. At first, I thought he was talking to a neighbor, butI knew Dad wasn't that friendly with the neighbors. Whoever thisperson was, Dad really liked him.

He was on the other side of the sycamore tree so I was sure hecouldn't see me.

"Oh, don't you just wish." Dad teased his friend in that boomingvoice of his that always carried the sound of gravel being hit by tires.

I stopped outside the front door and held still. At that age, I triedto make myself unnoticed by Dad. I didn't want his friend to see meeither because he'd say something like "Well, Preston, who do we havehere? It can't be little Ally. She's much bigger than the Ally I know."Adults were always talking like that around everyone my age.

Suddenly, Dad roared back and convulsed with laughter. In themidst of it all, he was saying things like "Oh, you got me that time.Yes, you did" and "That's the funniest damn thing I've ever heard.Did he really say that?" and "Better not tell the boss or we'll both bein trouble."

I suddenly realized Dad was alone, that his friend was imaginary.Looking back, I wonder why the realization didn't scare me, but itdidn't. I just chalked it up on my parental scorecard as one morething, in addition to his drinking, that made him the worst dad in theworld.

I quietly stepped off the side of the front porch in the oppositedirection and ran silently through the neighbor's yard to my friend'shouse. I made a decision that day to do everything in my power notto end up like my mother. Why didn't she feel as trapped as I did?

Late that afternoon I returned home for supper. Dad was passedout on the sofa. All was normal again. After so many times ofwitnessing his odd behavior, it didn't bother me to be around himwhile he was visiting with unseen friends.

Sadly, I kept his secret. My dad was a crazy drunk, and I didn'tknow what to do besides ignore it. I could only hope my friendswouldn't ever find out.

My parents worked at Prime Premium Foundation, a companythat produced bathtubs, sinks, toilets, and faucet fixtures. Dad was astock clerk, and his job demanded most of his time. His being gonewas fine with me; however, weekends were his own. Mom workedin a different department. Even though she worked all day, dinnerswere always on the table every evening at six o'clock. She managedthe entire house as well as her job, impressing me with her skills andpreciseness.

I stayed outside or in my bedroom during Dad's weekend benders.A small RCA radio provided more comfort than watching television.My room was safe. I had a double bed and two large dressers. Dozensof games spilled across my closet floor, and I had lots of trinkets andtoys to keep me occupied.

I was happy and secure in my room even though Mom's ideaof interior decorating didn't match my style. She didn't seem tounderstand me. Her idea of a bedroom was frilly and just toofeminine for me. I was a tomboy despite Mom's girlish persuasiontoward lace and taffeta. A large bag of marbles lay in plain sight onmy dresser. I was proud of them. I had won most of them from myneighbors, Sharon and Ben. I was especially proud of my steelies. Abox of plastic soldiers guarded my collection.

If I wasn't hiding in my room, I lost myself in the downstairscloset beneath the staircase where Mom kept my big brothers' oldclothes. I loved wearing James's yellow corduroys. They were a littlebaggy but that didn't matter because I loved wearing them. Theywere comfortable. Girls' clothes were restricting; and I couldn't getdirty, climb trees, or relax. Mom didn't understand me. I wasn't sure Iunderstood myself. I wasn't into girlish things.

My mother, Roberta, was an attractive woman with perfectposture and a pleasant smile....