Chapter 9: Michelle's Story
February 22, 1961
My name is Michelle Dawson and up until recently, I had no hope of living a perfect life. According to my driver's license, I'm five foot six and weight one hundred and forty pounds. I am the daughter of Florence Toews and Walter Dawson, and I was an accident. My parents married when Florence discovered she was pregnant at age seventeen. Walter, a handyman with some useful skills, made a scrape-by living. We lived in a small rented house on the outskirts of Sedro Woolley, in Skagit County.
I guess the marriage was a mistake from the beginning. My ma was too immature to raise a child and manage a home, and Dad wasn't ready to be a father himself. He spent his time working and drinking at the local tavern while Ma was left to tend to me.
The marriage ended when she finally got fed up with doing all the looking-after and left, taking nothing more than her clothes and our little bit of savings. I was five at the time. My father was completely amazed that Ma would not only leave him, but leave me behind. It was a life-changing experience, and for the next ten years he did the best he could to provide for us.
I had no idea why my mother left, but I grew to hate her and my memories of her. I had been abandoned by the one person I relied on to help me. My father did his best, but it wasn't the same. My teenage years were hell. With few friends and struggles at school, I saw my father sink further and further into depression and alcoholism. By the time I was fifteen, I was running the house by myself.
I was interested in my father's work. He was a fixer. He could repair almost anything if he could understand it and was sober. It was interesting for me to watch him work on appliances, cars, farm equipment -- almost anything mechanical. He was naturally good at problem solving, something he passed along to me. By the time I reached my teens, I was good at a lot of my father's skills. I think what helped me most was my curiosity about how things worked.
If I had a hobby in the little free time I had to myself, it was to read manuals for the equipment my father would be fixing. As Dad's drinking made him more unreliable, it was left to me to finish some of his work to earn enough money to get by on. I took pride in my talent, but I wasn't kidding myself that I could turn it into a career.
One cold, wet February day, Walter Dawson, my father, dragged himself into our house, drunk again. The clock said it was almost six o'clock and there was no supper on the table. He bellowed my name as he staggered around. A few seconds later, I opened front door and stepped in, carrying my school books. I could hear his hollering from across the yard.
"Where the hell have you been?"
"School. Had some extra work," I said, getting past him.
He grabbed the arm of my coat and yanked me back.
"Where's my supper? You know it's supposed to ready now."
"You'll have to wait. It's not ready yet." I'd had about enough of this.
Smack! He backhanded me across the face. Luckily, as drunk as he was, he hit just a partial blow along my jaw, but just the same, it hurt. I looked at him but didn't say anything. He had never hit me before. Never! I turned and went to my room, putting my books on the little night table and took off my coat. There were tears now. Tears for all the frustrations of the last twelve years. All the pain I had bottled up inside.
I dried my eyes and walked to the kitchen and began to make the supper. My father, slumped in his chair, watched me. Even in his drunken state, he must have figured out that something had changed. Something had happened when he hit me. He was too drunk to know why he had done that. I was a good daughter and had done my best to look after him. If that damn floozy he married hadn't run off ....
When my father slowly climbed out of bed the next morning, he would have stumbled to the kitchen, looking for the coffee that should be made. There wouldn't be any. The pot would be sitting empty and cold. If he took the trouble to look for me in my room, he would find the bed made, but I wouldn't be there. I doubt he would think much more of it. I had probably gone to school, he would suppose. No doubt he'd be pissed off that I hadn't made the coffee like usual.
When he arrived home that night, there would still be no sign of me. This time it was going to be different. This time I would not come home. This time I was never coming back to that tiny house again. Walter Dawson was now on his own, left to care for himself. I had broken free, and at age seventeen, I would never return.
I had no relatives that I knew of. There was little point in returning to school. It had been my escape place, but now, with no place to live, I would have to make it on my own. I had a little money from babysitting jobs and other sources, but it wouldn't go far. One thing was stuck in my mind. I was leaving Sedro Woolley. I would make my way someplace else.
I got a job as a waitress in a truckstop along the Interstate 5 in Ferndale. Midge, the dayshift head waitress, helped me find a place to stay with an elderly farm couple not far from the diner. I had never waited tables before, but it didn't require much more than a good memory and a thick hide. With my body, I got plenty of rude comments and more than a few gropes. Midge taught me to ignore them unless they got too personal, then Midge would handle it.
A couple of months after I started, the big toaster died suddenly one morning, right in the middle of the breakfast rush. Midge was swearing like a trooper under her breath as she tried to handle the problem. Curious, I went to the machine and turned it over. I opened the bottom hatch and looked at the connection from the cord to the control panel. It was a simple problem. A wire had come loose. Within five minutes I had secured the wire using a knife blade and the toaster was back in business.
"Where the hell did you learn to do that?" Midge said with a big smile.
"I learned to fix a lot of stuff with my dad. I'm just happy it was that simple and not a burned-out element."
"Well, girl, you just saved me a lot of grief. Thank you."
I nodded, smiling at how much that little repair had meant to the girls. It reminded me of how much I enjoyed fixing things. The satisfaction was my reward. For the next few months, I was consulted on anything that wasn't working properly. My opinion usually was the decision-maker on what should be done. More often than not, the other girls covered for me while I worked on the repair. They also split the tips, not wanting me to be short-changed by volunteering my talent.
As I lay in bed at night, I had dreams about my future. Or maybe they were nightmares. Would I end up like my mother, tied to a loveless marriage, kids underfoot in some dingy trailer park? I had preserved my virginity despite all the attempts of the young guys who chased after me. I knew what they wanted. I was damned if I was going to make my mother's mistake. I would only give myself to a man I could count on. Someone I cared about. Perhaps even loved.
I didn't see it in myself, but others did. Midge often remarked in conversation how tough I was. Mentally tough, she meant. I had lived a miserable existence and yet I survived; an optimist without much to be optimistic about. Most of the guys thought I was attractive in a way, but not a beauty. Midge said it crossed her mind more than once that I would make the right guy a very happy man, but he'd better not cross me.
I broke down and accepted some dates from a few of the regular customers I knew weren't married. It usually involved a movie or occasionally even a dance at the local tavern, but almost always ended up in the back seat of some car. When I finally surrendered my virginity, it was almost like I was giving up. I handed my date a condom and made sure he used it.
It was painful and pointless. I had no personal tie to the guy, and today I couldn't recall his name. The sex wasn't scary, but didn't feel like what I expected or wanted. Disappointing, I guess you could call it.
I tried with a few other dates, but again, never had any real enjoyment from the sex. It was just ... sex. It was often over with before I was even ready to enjoy it. After a while, I just quit worrying about it and would decide whether or not to allow the guy to finish the date that way or not. It really didn't matter to me very much.
I guess Midge was watching what was going on with me. She had taken an interest in me, keeping me on the dayshift to make sure that my repair skills were always available when needed most. But she also watched the parade of guys I dated, knowing full well they weren't all gentlemen. She decided to talk to me one afternoon when there was a lull at the diner.
"Shelly, you know I care about you and I think you're the best thing that's happened to this diner since I got here," Midge began.
I looked at her, a bit worried. "Are you going to fire me?"
"No ... or course not. It's just ... these guys ... the ones you've been goin' out with. I don't think they're right for you. You're too good for them. You need to find a guy that you care about."
"Yeah ... I know. But those kinds of guys don't grow on trees. I guess I just have to bide my time. But you're right. I'm tired of just goin' out with some guy just have a date. Most of them just want one thing anyway. About all I get out of it is a free movie," I complained.
"Well, if I see a likely candidate, I'll let you know," Midge smiled. "In the meantime ... just be careful ... OK?"
I grinned and nodded. Midge was in her middle thirties, but acted older. I respected the woman because she respected me. We were fast friends at work, but Midge had a husband and a couple of kids in school, so we didn't see much of each other beyond work.
