Out of all of us, Lisa seems the most invested in preserving her past as purely estimable, as a better way to have been raised than most. Maybe that’s how she remembers it. By my recollection though, it was no cakewalk and in fact, it had detrimental effects on all of us.

I’ll grant her that some things about our childhood were pretty damn good. Both our parents were well educated and well-read. We learned to speak two languages, we were exposed to literature, music, science, poetry, history, and more. Our father exposed us to politics, current affairs, and debate, our mother modeled life-long learning and an interest in the arts. On paper, it was ideal.

My friends’ impressions of our family were a mixed bag. Some of them could see immediately how poorly our father treated our mother, were put off by his airs of superiority and his drinking. Some thought Virginia was over the top, too wacky, and uncomfortably intense. Most of my friends had known Lisa for years and weren’t fans. I’ll talk more about that in other posts.

Every one of my friends, though, LOVED our mother. They all said things like “She’s so nice, so patient, she’s easy to talk to.” They would tell me how lucky I was and how comfortable my mother made them feel coming over to my place. Those were days when our father and Virginia weren’t around, obviously.

I also had one or two friends who appreciated how unconventional our family was. One of my friends, years later, reminisced that our family made her think “this must be what the Bronte home was like, with all the poetry reading, the dancing jigs and throwing pasta on the walls in the kitchen, the indoor snowball fights, and the walls stacked with books upon books everywhere.” She said she envied me that.

I cherish many things about growing up at 41 MacDonald Street. The good times were pretty damn good, and I’m glad for that unconventional culturally rich childhood. It’s informed so much of who I am and the choices I’ve made as an adult and I wouldn’t change that for anything.

I can’t speak for my sisters, but for me, as good as the good was, the bad was worse. My experience was living with a father who drank too much, had a terrifying temper, was controlling and cruelly critical. He would beat me. Often. He was also apparently a pedophile. I remember nicknaming him our very own Domestic Terrorist.

Our father’s expectations for his children were spectacularly unreasonable. We had to act and perform like little adults. We were expected to get the best grades in school, and to reason like seasoned debaters. We were likewise expected to read his mind and know what he wanted from us. He had no patience and often made it evident that he thought we were burdensome, tiresome, and demanding. Anything we did wrong he took as a personal offense. I revered him, had him on the highest of highest pedestals, but I spent my childhood on eggshells, avoiding him as much as possible, petrified to be reminded of the shame of not living up to his standards.

He was a monster only when sober though, and was a surprisingly laid-back happy guy when he drank. My father could be remarkably charming then. I remember countless nights he would keep me up late, long after everyone else in the house was asleep, telling me stories about his life, or adventures he promised we’d go on together (but of course never did). By the time I was ten, I was accustomed to going to bed at 2 AM or later. I remember one night, he actually took me out driving (while drunk) along the canal, teaching me how racecar drivers accelerate around curves. I would only realize years later how lucky I was to survive that.

I cherished any undivided attention he gave me, and it felt like those late nights together were special, that they were about us. But really, they were just about him. Addicts are narcissists, and everything is inexorably about them. He never took an interest in my thoughts, my stories, nothing. He would never ask me about my day, or anything else. Nor would he make the connection that he was the cause of me having a terrible time getting up the next day for school. By morning he would be sober, barking at me “Rouse!” (German for Get up!) and accusing me of being lazy and selfish.

Our father managed the money, over the years spending more and more of his paycheck at the Press Club bar. Our mother had no visibility on their finances, which must have only compounded her already inherent anxiety. Frank paid the bills himself, shopped for our groceries, and any big-ticket purchases were up to him. Big-ticket being a relative term, running shoes, winter coats, and school bags all qualified. And shopping with him was a nightmare, especially for things meant for us. As I recall, my opinion was never taken into consideration, he simply didn’t want to hear it. Invariably, I remember always going home with something I really didn’t want but had to wear just the same.

He would give our mother a small allowance to be spent on the kids. My mother, having grown up during the depression, was a master of making the most of it. Second-hand clothes were not the fashion in those days, though, and I remember being humiliated at school by other kids for what I was wearing, from the moth-eaten sweaters to the ugly winter boots (with the lowest cold ratings I might add) that my father chose.

Frank did the groceries every weekend. Lisa and I would be up before our parents on those days, passing the time peacefully downstairs. But I remember not being entirely at ease, a part of my brain being entirely dedicated to listening out for his footsteps. As soon as I could hear him moving upstairs, I’d be scrambling to get out of sight. Lisa and I would lurk at one end of the hall behind the doorway furthest from the bottom of the stairs, watching for his feet to appear through the bannisters, his weight thudding down on them treat by tread. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, we’d wait to see what direction he’d take. Depending on whether he chose to go through the living room or start straight down the hall toward the kitchen, we’d take the route that best hid us from his sight. With footsteps so silent from years of practice, we’d flee to our rooms upstairs to hide. I remember this happening every weekend, no exceptions. But without fail he’d hunt at least one of us down (there were the rarest of days when one of us might be spared) and order us into the car to go to Loblaws. Afterwards, he’d reward us with McDonalds’ cheeseburgers, but given the choice, I’d have been happier foregoing the bribe to stay home safe.

This little description is just a small snapshot of what it was like growing up with Frank Howard. Addicts make the lives of those who love them hell, and that’s exactly how I would describe living with our father as well.

But a hallmark of dysfunctional families is an unspoken agreement not to talk about the dysfunction, a classic hangover (pun intended) of growing up with an addict/narcissist. That’s very much how my mother and sisters operate. But in virtually every family of an addict or narcissist, there’s a scapegoat, also known as the truth-teller. Her job is to lay waste to that unspoken rule. My collection of stories here a product of my function in that role.

In keeping with the rules of denial, your mother is likely to accuse me of imagining things or even go so far as to call me a liar. This is her pattern, something she’s done for years, and I’m used to it. It still hurts, don’t get me wrong, but there’s nothing I can do about it. Still, I’d rather be the scapegoat than be trapped in a hell of denial anyday.

One interesting outcome of all this is how Lisa has recreated our home down to almost every detail. She’s preserved the very same items that were in our house growing up and built a replica of it there on Havey Street. She’s got everything down to the dining tablecloth, the piano, even our old toy box. It’s remarkable, but also, disturbing in my opinion.