The first page of Monica Holloway's memoir is labeled, "Note to Reader." Uh-oh. Disclaimer. The author confides that the incidents in her book are "portrayed to the best of my recollection" and all names are changed "with the exception of my first name," as are "identifying details and place names." Then: "Some individuals are composites." Composites? When a writer distills real people into a new entity, the term for that entity is fictional character. I wonder if future memoirists will expand the disclaimer: "Many events are made up."Nevertheless, I read on. The clarity of Holloway's voice soon dissipated my skepticism. In Driving With Dead People, Holloway tells the terrible tale of her cruel father, a man who turned his wife into a functionless robot and raped little Monica regularly. For many years, Holloway did not remember any of it. To read this memoir is to understand the mechanics of life-long repression.
When we first meet Holloway in Galesburg, Ohio, (presumably, she did not actually grow up there) she is a befuddled 8-year-old fascinated by death. Her father is always on the lookout for auto accidents, camera at the ready to take shots of the dead and injured. He also takes pictures of his perfect family. Infuriated with Monica when she fidgets, he says, "If you blur one more picture, I'm going to blister your ass." Within their large extended family, there is no one who stands up to the man. But Holloway manages to find other adults to show her the kind of caring affection necessary for a child to thrive. Neighbors show interest in her, particularly the town mortician and his family. His daughter gives her a crash course in embalming. And the mortician himself gives the teenage Monica a job driving his hearse. (Hence, the title.) As she grows up, Monica's life is a series of failures -- school, jobs, relationships, an unwanted pregnancy. But at the same time, having received love outside her treacherous home, Holloway is able to bestow love, too, and manages to save her suicidal sister, JoAnn, from self-destruction. JoAnn, in turn, rescues Holloway by daring her to face up to what happened to them as children. "I held my breath," Holloway writes. JoAnn "was describing the tidal wave of dread. 'What is it?' I asked, knowing the answer would cause me to immediately turn and look directly at whatever had been threatening to obliterate me all these years." Finally, she knows she has the support necessary to put together the million-piece jigsaw puzzle of memory that will free her. Painful reading, but the author's belief in human goodness despite evidence to the contrary is inspiring. In addition, she achieves an irresistible narrative style.
I hope Holloway writes a second memoir in which, empowered by the reception of Driving With Dead People, she presses charges against her father and the mother who chose to ignore the abuse. They belong in prison. And this time, maybe she will be ready to skip the composites and tell us her name.
Copyright 2007, The Washington Post. All Rights Reserved.
Chapter One It changed everything: a school picture printed on the front page of the Elk Grove Courier, the newspaper my father was reading. I was eight. Sitting across the breakfast table from Dad, I pointed. "Who is she?"
"She's dead."
He kept reading.
"What happened?" I asked.
No answer.
I leaned forward to get a closer look. She looked like me: same short cropped hair with razor-straight bangs, same heart-shaped face, same wool plaid jumper. I looked at Dad: bloated, smudged glasses slid halfway down his nose. Why wasn't he telling me what happened? He loved talking gore; lived for it; documented it, even.
Dad drove his Ford pickup with his Kodak movie camera sitting shotgun just in case he saw an accident. If he was lucky enough to come upon something, he'd jump out and aim his camera at whatever was crumpled, bleeding, or burning. And every Thanksgiving he lined up Mom and the four of us kids on the gold-and-brown-plaid studio couch, hauled out the Bell + Howell reel-to-reel, and rolled his masterpieces.
Images jiggled past, scenes from our tiny Ohio town of Galesburg. Christmas morning, four beautiful children in color-coordinated Santa pajamas, squinting; summertime, my older brother Jamie's first home run; a station wagon hideously wrapped around a telephone pole, blood dripping down the passenger door and plop, plop, plopping onto the road; my two older sisters and me in hats with wide ribbons hunting for Easter baskets; a dead cow smashed on the front of a Plymouth. Our childhood was preserved among the big fire at the Catholic church, a Greyhound bus accident on Fort Henry Road, and a tornado twirling up Martha Whitmore's bean field. We all sat watching the movies and eating buttered popcorn made in the black-and-white-speckled pan that was always greasy, no matter how many times you scrubbed it. The disasters took up more reels than we did, and Dad narrated them like a pro.
So why was Dad skimping on the details about this dead girl? Maybe it wasn't bloody enough for him.
I couldn't get that school picture out of my head. I needed to know what had happened to that girl. If she was dead, something had killed her, and I wanted a heads up just in case whatever it was might be lurking nearby.
That night I casually swiped the newspaper off the cluttered coffee table and headed down the hallway to find my brother, Jamie. Nothing scared him.
He was sitting on his bedroom floor putting together a plastic model of a '69 Shelby Cobra Mustang.
"Can you read this out loud?" I held up the paper.
"Why can't you read it?" he asked, looking up from his project. He had most of the chassis put together.
"I can read it, but I want you to." He stared at me. I held up a Milky Way left over from my Easter stash.
I couldn't tell Jamie I didn't want to read the details of that girl's death by myself, especially with her staring out at me from the front page. I didn't want him thinking I was chicken.
"It has to be right now?" he asked.
"Mom says I have to go to bed in a minute," I said.
He twisted the lid back onto the blue-and-white tube of Testor's glue and wiped his hands on the filthy dishrag he kept in his supplies shoe box.
"Let's go," he said. I followed him to the dark landing of our musty basement, where the four of us kids congregated for secret business.
"Here," I said, handing him the paper and the candy. I was glad Jamie wasn't too curious. He hardly ever asked questions about anything.
We sat crouched on the landing. I held the silver flashlight with the words "Black and Decker" printed down the side. Dad owned a hardware store in downtown Elk Grove and earned the flashlight selling ten hammers in two months, but he tossed it to me when the lens cracked. Jamie and I sat facing each other cross-legged with our foreheads touching, staring down at the white circle of light. He began to read: "'Driver Faces Charges in Bike Rider Death' -- "
"Bike rider? She was killed on her bike?" I craned my neck to see the paper right side up.
"Do you want me to read this or not?" Jamie tore open the candy bar wrapper.
"Go ahead," I said, thinking of my own bike, a gold Schwinn with a leopard-skin banana seat. I'd spent hours running it up the wooden ramp Jamie had built beside the alley behind our house. Cars ripped through there without ever slowing down.
Jamie took a bite and began reading again: "'Mason County's fourth traffic fatality of the year occurred Tuesday afternoon with the death of Sarah Rebecca Keeler, eight-year-old daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Keeler.'"
Eight years old? I was eight. I grabbed the paper to take another look. She was my age, but I didn't recognize her from school. I felt a pang of disappointment as I handed back the paper.
Jamie continued, "'Sarah Keeler was a member of St. Mary Catholic Church and was a third-grade pupil at St. Mary School.'"
That's why I didn't know her; she was Catholic. Catholics were considered the equivalent of snake handlers in our small Ohio town. I didn't know much about them except that they made Methodists like my parents nervous. This made Sarah more mysterious. Anyone who unnerved my parents was interesting to me.
"'Sarah was en route on North Highway 26 when struck by a car driven by Nowell Linsley, sixty-one. The report states death was apparently instantaneous, due to a basal skull fracture and a broken neck.'"
"What's a 'basal skull fracture'?" I asked.
"I guess her head broke open," Jamie said. He knew death. He'd buried dozens of small animals he'd found dead in the field behind our house, or cats and squirrels squashed by cars speeding through town on Highway 64.
I contemplated how hard I'd have to be hit by a car to have my head crack open like an egg. My oldest sister, JoAnn, had her head split open on the corner of the coffee table when we were little. Dad deliberately stuck his foot out and tripped her. He thought it was hilarious until bright red blood began trickling down her face.
I was trying to picture someone's whole head laid open, hair and brains and blood on the asphalt, when I began feeling woozy and sweaty.
"Hold the flashlight still," Jamie said. I shook my head and steadied the light. "'A Breathalyzer test was taken on Linsley, and he was charged by the sheriff's department for driving under the influence of alcohol.'"
"The guy was drunk," Jamie said, handing me the paper. I thought of Uncle Ernie, the only person I'd ever seen drunk. He'd come to our front door one night after running down the street from the dilapidated Galesburg Tavern, where another drunk had been hitting him over the head with a pool cue. Dad wasn't home.
Ernie's forehead was bleeding and Mom looked pale and nervous, especially when he asked to use one of her good bath towels. The next morning I heard Mom call him a "sweet drunk," so he'd probably never kill anyone on a bicycle. Even so, I'd be on the lookout for his white pickup.
That night I lay in my small wooden bed and relished the attention Sarah Keeler must have received. I fantasized that it had been me on that bike and I'd been struck from behind. I hoisted my arms above my head on the pillow and pretended to be lying on the road. In my fantasy my dad drove by and stopped, not because he recognized my bike (my dad had no idea what color my bike was); he stopped because it was potentially gory. He jumped out of the truck with his movie camera but realized it was me lying there -- bleeding and dying. Double jackpot, he thought: one less mouth to feed and he'd get all the attention. People would feel so bad for him.
Dad resisted the urge to film the scene, opting instead to bend over my limp body, pretending to be struck with grief. He was surprised when he could actually squeeze out tears. Everyone closed in around him...and that's when I canceled that fantasy.
If Dad shoved me out of the limelight even in my death scene, if he couldn't even love me while I was lying on the asphalt, there was no hope.
Maybe others would have been sad to see me dead in the street. I thought of Mom curled up in the nubby orange chair reading Rich Man, Poor Man. Surely she'd have been devastated. But Mom was a human cork; she floated to the top of any awful situation. My mom, who'd told me the earth was flat, always created her own reality. She would have been fine.
I was beginning to wonder if dying was such a good idea.
It wasn't as if I wanted to be dead; it was just that I was miserable and felt in the way most of the time. There was something wrong with me. I always knocked over my milk, I got sick every time we drove long distances in the car, and I wet my bed every night, even though I was in third grade. But when Dad started in on us, knocking Jamie across the kitchen and then kicking him in the side, or jerking my pants down in front of strangers, that's when death seemed possible, even preferable.
If God could make me normal like everyone else in my class, or pull me out from under the rage of my own father, I might be happy instead of nervous and ashamed all the time.
I remembered the funeral details Jamie had read:
Friends may call on Saturday at Kilner and Sons Mortuary between 4:00 and 8:00 P.M. On Sunday there will be Mass at St. Mary's, with burial following at Maple Creek Cemetery.
Until Sunday, when Sarah Keeler was sunk in a deep, lonely hole and the world forgot and moved on, I could pretend I knew her. I could wallow in the glow of her spectacular departure. Sunday was years away.
I woke up the next morning to sunshine and bushy green trees rustling outside my bedroom window. I rolled over and felt under my pillow for the newspaper. Still there.
I crawled out of bed to change my wet sheets and pajamas. Bed-wetting kept Mom from buying me a spiffy twin bed like the ones my older sisters, Becky and JoAnn, had.
Their fancy twins were on either side of mine, decorated exactly alike wi...
