13: About Number 3

Number 3 is still above ground, living in my father’s home with her adult son. She has a daughter that lives nearby.  

Number 3 follows Mick’s typical prototype of dark haired, short women. He was nothing if not predictable. Though I do remember him telling me he’d like to “fuck Beverly d’Angelo” from the National Lampoons Vacation movies; she was blonde and buxom, a total departure from his physical predilections. He was crass as hell. Anyway, Number 3 was taller than Pearl, who was diminutive in height. Pearl was really short so anything above 5’2” would have seemed really tall by comparison. That said, I’m not sure how tall Number 3 is. Where Pearl was petite with an hourglass figure and muscular legs, even when overweight or in postpartum days, Number 3 was slightly pear shaped, large breasted, and thick waisted. She has absolutely gorgeous hands, long and dainty fingers. 

For as long as I can remember, Number 3 had very dark hair, though now I suppose it’s mixed with some grey. I haven’t seen her in nearly 8 years so now is anyone’s guess. Her hair was never really styled in a trendy fashion, and I seem to remember simplicity being the name of her mane game. Common for moms across generations it seems. Usually in a bob or shoulder length with very little pomp or circumstance. She dressed casually, always in the typical mom-style of the time, in jeans and a tee shirt. From a purely comparative perspective and based on outward appearance alone, Pearl was gorgeous and Number 3 average. Some might say that my assessment is biased for obvious reasons, which is fair to say, but Pearl was striking. There is no denying it. 

Aside from physicality, the biggest difference between Pearl and Number 3 was their intellect. Pearl was, as Mick frequently claimed, “dumb as a fox.” Pearl played those in her world with ease and deliberately donned the role of a fool when it served her; to be seen as witless was beneficial in most situations because it helped her assess her surroundings and manipulate the people in her midst. With Mick as her husband, this was a necessary skill, but it was one she learned at a very early age long before she met him. She came to the relationship knowing this game and her sisters all showed similar characteristics, though my mother mastered it like no other. I suspect her entire family witnessed their fair share of altercations at home, but I can’t be certain of this. The irony of Pearl manipulating her circumstance is not lost on me, though I truly believe her mastery of it was partially due to Mick’s malevolence and bullish nature. When she danced between the worlds in her head, there was a decided difference in the efficacy and clandestine nature of her efforts. When she was medicated and balanced, she had no intellectual equal. 

Comparatively, Number 3 was neither remarkable in intellect, sophistication, nor presentation. She couldn’t really play anyone…except me. I bought her farce…hook, line, and sinker. Number 2 eventually caught on; it might have been the telltale signs of an illicit relationship while Mick and Number 2 were still married. I’ve since found out a lot of people sniffed significant character issues with her but kept them silent. Aside from her seemingly benign, but rather crafty manipulation tactics, I’d categorize her as average on nearly every level. As a bookkeeper, she was decent with numbers, but she did wreak havoc on her and Mick’s personal finances on more than one occasion and was shady in the movement and handling of household funds. Why do I know this? Because Mick told me everything. Ugh. Kids should never be privy to certain details about their parents.  

Despite loathing her, Number 3 does possess a few noteworthy skills and redeeming characteristics. The first that comes to mind is that she is a phenomenal seamstress. The woman could be given a piece of jute fabric from an old potato sack and after some time, the most beautiful gown would appear. Detailed, crisply pressed, unique, and sewn to utter perfection and fitting like a second skin. Her hands holding a needle and thread worked as fast as a machine, and she frequently took on odd jobs as a way of supplementing her family’s income. I seem to remember she worked in uniform procurement at some large company during my teens. Number 3 made her own patterns or manipulated those she had on-hand to suit her needs with ease. I think she sees the world in shapes or has strong spatial awareness and that likely helps her endeavors. Her daughter’s dresses through school and other extracurriculars, as best as my memory serves, were all hand made, one-of-a-kind, and beautiful. 

Secondly, and quite ironically, I remember her being a very attentive mother and her children showed noteworthy love and respect for her. This fact is hugely significant because her first husband, my father’s buddy from work, was abusive. While I do not know the details, remember, I was living in my own hell, I am 99% sure she and her son both took the blunt end of his tirades. I can’t be certain of any of the real atrocities and whether or not it was purely verbal and emotional or if it crossed physical lines. The amount of abuse her daughter endured is anyone’s guess, though she remained sufficiently physically and emotionally distanced from her father until he died, which, I believe, indicates some level of discord. At a minimum, she heard shit and likely saw a lot, too. Not an easy experience for a kid. And, as times were in the 80s, divorce was not as commonplace. Women had far less agency in their own lives, and money was always a consideration (at least in the houses I knew). 

Through their divorce and for the entirety of my recollection, she advocated for her kids in the face of, well, anything and anyone. Her first husband hearkens memories of being tall, broad shouldered, dark haired, and somewhat socially awkward. Maybe glasses. I don’t remember the vibes of Rico Suave oozing off of him when thinking back. He was more interested in his buddies than his wife and kids, and feelings of fear are palpable when I recall any events with him. To be clear, he never hurt me, at least not that I can remember. I honestly don’t think he ever spoke to me; if he did it was unremarkable or I have locked it away. That’s a fun thought. Anyway, his temperament with his kids was unmistakable; he parented with an iron fist and his tongue was blunt. I do not remember Number 3 backing down from him in any public setting. Whereas Mick was a manipulative and abusive asshole behind-the-scenes, those in public thought him to be the best thing since sliced bread. Everyone loved Mick and Mick loved being loved. Not Number 3’s husband. He was an outright prick to his wife and kids wherever they may be. I sometimes wonder which is worse…a dad like mine or Number 3’s ex. 

The result of her parenting seems to be a rather tight bond with her daughter, who lives exactly 4.6 miles from her mom. When Google maps gets cranky, it’s 4.5 miles. Anyway, it’s just a couple of turns and straight down a major thoroughfare named after the state where I was born. Easy peasy for mom and daughter to hook up. 

Her son, the eldest, had some level of estrangement from his entire family at various times; it was intermittent. He moved several states away under the guise of hating the cold weather. In my mind, kids don’t eschew contact with family members unless they aren’t so beloved. I vividly remember his ill sentiment towards his father and maternal grandfather. I don’t recall any issues with his paternal grandparents; I have no recollection of them at all. Number 3’s son stayed away maybe a decade or more, and I recall Mick complaining that he called her about as frequently as I called him. Maybe there’s a reason, you dumbfuck. I’m not sure if there are motives for this, but something about it feels off, and the cold-temperature-snow excuse feels suspect. Things are not always what they seem from the outside looking in. But, then again, these things never are. Sometime around Mick’s death, Number 3’s son moved home and lives in my sister’s childhood bedroom…in Mick’s home. In terms of positives, that is literally all I have to say about Number 3. 

Number 3 has busied herself with genealogy for the past two decades. Though I hate how she appropriated the term and applied it to herself. To be a genealogist means to engage in rigorous research, dig through census records, examine oral histories, qualitative research of sometimes-conflicting data, and more. It is a learned profession of skill, nuance, and ethics. One that requires an eye for detail and memory, with a deep respect for history and its impact. When I’d inquire about details surrounding the death of a family member, all people she’d “thoroughly researched,” my maternal grandmother for instance, she’d mysteriously lost all recollection. To me, she is little more than an internet sleuth that likes to build out family trees. Her rudest affront to my world came years after my mother died, when she was married to Mick, and she gleefully told me that she’d recently discovered a maternal great aunt that was so mentally ill that she lived her entire life institutionalized. 

While I have a complete appreciation for mental health issues and other maladies off the brain, laziness is not something I’m particularly fond of. I am Mick’s daughter, after all. I realize hoarding is a bona fide illness and recognized by the medical community, but a medically classified hoarder she is not. The hallmarks of hoarding disorder and laziness are vastly different. Hoarding is also highly likely to hang out with friends; social anxiety and ADHD are among the most likely comorbidities. Disorganization and clutter also come with depression, anxiety, or ADHD, among other illnesses. Now, on the off chance she was legitimately sick, she certainly never sought care as one would expect a mother, raising children of any age, to do. As parents, we have an ethical and moral obligation to maintain our wellness for the sake of theirs. She didn’t. As someone with raging anxiety, panic disorder, and more, I can tell you that she is flippant, doesn’t care. And it is obvious.

I do not buy into outdated notions that the woman does the housework. Never did, not even in the 70s and 80s. She always worked a full-time job and her time was limited. But Number 3 is filthy, intrinsically, and it is part of her character. Her homes were always an absolute disaster. Think college frat house on steroids. Every visit to her house was the same: dishes piled high, covered in food, bugs, trash all over the house, filthy bathrooms that bore disgusting toilets and sinks, and the stench. I’m the parent of two teenage children, I have a well-diagnosed mental illness, and a schedule that is slammed full. My house will never make the Martha Stewart Living catalog. Even in my mental state of disconnected reality, I could never live like that. Basics are a must. There comes a point when simple things must be taken care of. I wrangle my kids and we have 30 minutes of all hands on deck. I find it completely odd that she had well-behaved children, that listened and were attentive, and yet her home was utter filth. It’s an unfathomable disconnect.

Number 3 was cavalier, flippant, and often blamed her husband or children for the mess. She worked too much. The fact is, she outwardly didn’t care how she lived, what people thought, or made any efforts to tidy up. I have tried every which way from Kansas to give her some grace and a pass for the literal shitshow her kids endured, and it simply isn’t possible. Mick commented on this frequently; how could his “close friend be such a pig?” It perplexed him. When he was debating on whether or not to ask her to marry, he constantly asked me about how he’d “deal with the piggish household?” First, read the room, Mick. I’m the child in this relationship dynamic and I don’t have your answers. But, perhaps you shouldn’t be asking your wife’s once best friend, the figurative aunt to your child(ren), and the friend to your second wife (also your sister-in-law) for her hand in marriage? 

I’ve already stated I’m no doctor. Pearl was extremely mentally ill and I know bizarre diagnoses are quite real. I also know that sometimes diagnoses are slippery, and they can be hard to pin down…for decades. But, the one thing I’ve determined to be true about those plagued by mental health issues is the constant, internal nagging of it all. It’s weightiness. We cannot free ourselves from it; the burden is like no other. Literally every person I have ever met with any form of mental health issue is being oppressed by their illness, some more so than others. And while many do a great job at hiding it, nobody can hide it for 22 years. From the time I was born until I found my freedom and drove across the country, I never witnessed any remorse, regret, sadness, reflection, or one iota of an internal struggle. I witnessed nuanced, blatant, and self-serving manipulation.

There are definite traits of narcissism that run deep in her character. Number 3 might have a diagnosis of narcissistic personality disorder, but it’s highly unlikely, given the rub that would have caused between her and Mick. Mick was narcissist numero uno. The textbooks were written in his image and likeness. While statistically possible, the chances of a successful relationship, spanning decades, is highly unlikely. At some point, narcissists are, well, narcissists. They cannot hide it all the time, in every possible situation. To avoid a confrontation between them seems a practical impossibility, especially given Mick’s coercive and explosive nature. She might have been able to control herself…not Mick. 

She worshipped Mick. Elevated him to the point of sainthood despite the fact that he was an abusive tyrant that gamed situations, people, and circumstances to his own ends. Forget everyone else. It would be an extraordinarily combustible situation for two, full-blown narcissists to live together. Nevertheless, her character oozes with envy, situational and exploitative behavior of specific people, a lack of empathy, and manipulation. These are basic acts of narcissism. Perhaps the worst of these traits is her grotesque, vocal, and visible affection for my father. She fantasized about him for years. 

Number 3 told me, aloud and quite proudly, that she’d been in love with my father since the day she met him, on several occasions, while either she or Mick were otherwise spoken for. Stay classy. She was my mothers best friend, and, by extension, was more than a constant around Number 2. She was present for nearly every major event in my life. Number 3 really needed to keep her mouth shut. Some things, though true, are better left unsaid. Read the fucking room. What, exactly, was I supposed to do with that information? Because, if by some chance she thought that airing her sentiments bought loyalty or brownie points with me, she was hugely mistaken. To me, it shows a lack of tact, decorum, and brain cells.  It is a complete disregard for my mother, Pearl. I had to individually place each tree to fully appreciate how crappy her forest is.  

There are a few other events that don’t belong categorized somewhere else in this narrative, but reveal her significant flaws. When I was roughly 16 years old, she sat at the kitchen table alongside me as I tried to create a fake ID for that would allow me to get into bars and purchase alcohol. I was in Mick’s home, Number 2 was the wife du jour. Working diligently with acetone, scissors, Qtips, and a Sharpie, I dove into this project with fervor, destroying my state-issued driver’s license along the way. The goal was to go bar hopping with older friends, to be able to purchase beer. She sat there, amused with my ingenuity, and watched as I crafted away. My attempts proved futile, but her participation in this memory speaks to her internal compass…or lack thereof. 

In the 80s kids still died by alcohol poisoning, drunk driving, and other alcohol-fueled activities, and she said nothing. In fact, she actively encouraged and participated in my antics and laughed along the way. Her father was an alcoholic and she hated him for it. Her first husband loved the drink. This woman had been present since my birth and did nothing to assuage me, said nothing to my father or Number 2, and actually offered tips for how I could make my knockoff appear more realistic. And don’t throw the, “these were different times” line at me. It is very clear the line over which her ethics crossed. Lots more trees.

In the same general time frame, my father called home one day and told me to go to the store, buy a sympathy card, write out my condolences, and bring it to her. Seems her second husband had died and Mick was hell bent on me engaging in some grand showing of condolences, remorse, and support…solo. The card would be from me. Just me. Not me and my family. Not from him and Number 2. Me. When I patently refused because it felt weird, he flew into a tirade. Mick believed me a puppet in his dog and pony show; my refusal to engage this gesture was an affront to him. I was ridiculed and deemed “defiant and stubborn like Pearl.” Whatever. I barely knew her husband, and while death is sad, it was completely awkward for me to do what he asked. The next time I saw her some weeks later, she chastised me on how dissatisfied she was that I’d let my father down. Get this, she told me that I needed to make better choices and honor my father. Another tree for my forest. 

The most bizarre, insulting, and entitled behavior circles around the deaths of her parents, whom I do not recall meeting more than once. Perhaps there was a brief interaction with them in my youth that I do not remember. These people had one exceedingly brief interaction with my husband but never met my children. And, in case you forgot, she was my father’s third wife whom he married nearly a decade after I moved across the country. In simpler terms, we weren’t familial in any construct of the word except by way of a paper trail. And yet, she listed my family in their obituaries, which I find absolutely disgusting and infuriating. I was not a grandchild in any sense. My husband? Really? We are getting a little too far removed. But she listed my children in her parents’ obituaries as great grandchildren. She derided her father for being an abusive husband to her mother, mean as hell to anyone in this path and she associated my children with him? Let’s talk entitlement, flawed character, and questionable judgment. I was not consulted, asked, or even informed. It was only in doing my research for this memoir that I happened upon this information. The fact that she appropriated my children in her family’s affairs is patently disgusting. 

Many people reading this memoir are likely connecting the dots and wondering why I kept silent for so long. Science and medicine have taught us that people with narcissistic tendencies are master manipulators. They game situations and flip stories around to suit their ends. These people are typically well-liked by those outside their circle of control. They are able to gain toeholds and silence those suffering their wrath because they are also situational opportunists. Mick was well loved, by friends far and wide. Some of his friends had hurt me and he knew it. Legions of people would defend him, Number 3 being first in line, questionable character and all. The blowback on me would have been swift, harsh, and potentially lethal. Mick was also a crafty asshole, the best storyteller I knew. He frequently tried to tell me that he “had to be this way” because it’s all he knew. These justifications went on for decades and Number 3 listened to all of it. Never standing up once for my sister or me. Not once. She shirked any sort of responsibility because she’d rather be fucking Mick than protecting innocent children or standing up for what’s right. 

The upside to her shitty countenance is that Number 3 taught me more about friendship and it is a lesson I’ll not soon forget. I know what friendship is and what it isn’t. She taught me exactly what not to do. My friends know my loyalty runs deep, knows no bounds. How is Number 3 responsible for this, my greatest asset? I’m a ride-or-die…because she sold my mother down the river at her weakest hour, in her lowest moments, when she was her absolute sickest. And then she snaked her way into their marital bed. Number 3 outwardly flirted with my father, is believed by many to have been sleeping with him while he was married to Number 2, and she eventually married Mick, the serial abuser. By choice. No friend does that.

Category 4…they are the worst of the bunch.  And they are extremely hard to find because you have to reconstruct entire forests to see them for what and who they are.