They Call Me Baba Booey Read Online Free
Author: Gary Dell'Abate
an honorary Cotroneo who grew up near my mom and knew all the siblings. She wasn’t married, smoked like a chimney, didn’t work, didn’t have children, and was always around. When someone needed some extra help with the kids, they called Jeanie Blah Blah. Once, she showed up at our door for a party and Steven yelled, “Jeanie Blah Blah is here.” The adults practically died.
After school Jeanie gave us a snack and then for dinner my aunt Maryann, who was really my cousin but was closer in age to my mom than to us, either brought us food or had us over to her house since she lived nearby. Then, after dinner, we’d go back to the hospital.
In the car on the way there, we always sat in the same places: I was in the back behind Anthony, who sat where my mom would have been sitting in the front. And Steven sat behind my dad. We didn’t talk on those trips. My mom was the chatterbox. I am a chatterbox. But my dad was always stoic. He even mowed the lawn in double-knit pants, collared shirts, and brown shoes. When my mom bought him sneakers he returned them and said, “These are for kids.” Steven tended to keep to himself; he was the only person in my house who could find a way to disappear while he was standing right in front of you. And Anthony, at this point in his life, was full of rage and rebellion, a streak he was already prone to. I’m sure watching his mother deteriorate didn’t help.
Instead of talking, we listened to the great AM pop station of the time, WABC. Music was something we all loved.
At the hospital, I would sit and wonder what was happening behind that ice cream freezer door. But as I waited with one of my brothers in the lobby, they never talked to me about it. They didn’t talk to each other, either. While Steven and I shared a room at home, the age difference between us ensured that he and Anthony were much closer to each other than I was to them. Anthony tells me now the two of them never discussed what was happening, either, because they were too freaked out. They didn’t want to go behind that door. But what were they going to do? It was our mom.
I saw her once. By accident. One of my brothers was coming out and the other was going in. I was sitting in the yellow lobby, bobbing up and down on my knees, peering over the back of the sofa, as I did whenever the cables started whirring and the door began sliding open. I was about to turn back around when, just then, I caught a glimpse of my mom.
She was shuffling to the front of the door, her black hair matted down in a way she would never let it be at home. There were paper slippers on her feet and a hospital gown hanging loosely from her shoulders to the floor. She tried to smile. She slowly lifted her arm to wave. Then one brother walked out, another walked in, and the doors whirred shut. And just like that, she disappeared.
AFTER TWELVE YEARS IN BROOKLYN —only a couple of them spent at Hotel Cotroneo—my parents moved to Uniondale. For $21,500, they bought a 1,500-square-foot, three-bedroom, one-bath brick ranch with a basement. I was two years old when we moved in. My mom had a field of avocado green carpet installed over the wood floors. She covered the living room couches in sheets so no one messed them up. I think I saw the actual cushions of those couches five times in the twenty-three years I lived at home.
It was a tiny house. There was nowhere to hide. And the only constant was that my mom was completely inconsistent.
No one can pinpoint the day she started to change. No one in her family ever talked about her having a history of mental illness—despite all the intense arguing. Anthony says she was pretty with-it until he was about nine or ten. He says it was after I was born and when we moved to Long Island that she snapped.
Her stay in Syosset Hospital didn’t change things. When she came home she was always sleepy and could barely get out of bed. The doctors had given her pills to take, but they didn’t seem to be
After school Jeanie gave us a snack and then for dinner my aunt Maryann, who was really my cousin but was closer in age to my mom than to us, either brought us food or had us over to her house since she lived nearby. Then, after dinner, we’d go back to the hospital.
In the car on the way there, we always sat in the same places: I was in the back behind Anthony, who sat where my mom would have been sitting in the front. And Steven sat behind my dad. We didn’t talk on those trips. My mom was the chatterbox. I am a chatterbox. But my dad was always stoic. He even mowed the lawn in double-knit pants, collared shirts, and brown shoes. When my mom bought him sneakers he returned them and said, “These are for kids.” Steven tended to keep to himself; he was the only person in my house who could find a way to disappear while he was standing right in front of you. And Anthony, at this point in his life, was full of rage and rebellion, a streak he was already prone to. I’m sure watching his mother deteriorate didn’t help.
Instead of talking, we listened to the great AM pop station of the time, WABC. Music was something we all loved.
At the hospital, I would sit and wonder what was happening behind that ice cream freezer door. But as I waited with one of my brothers in the lobby, they never talked to me about it. They didn’t talk to each other, either. While Steven and I shared a room at home, the age difference between us ensured that he and Anthony were much closer to each other than I was to them. Anthony tells me now the two of them never discussed what was happening, either, because they were too freaked out. They didn’t want to go behind that door. But what were they going to do? It was our mom.
I saw her once. By accident. One of my brothers was coming out and the other was going in. I was sitting in the yellow lobby, bobbing up and down on my knees, peering over the back of the sofa, as I did whenever the cables started whirring and the door began sliding open. I was about to turn back around when, just then, I caught a glimpse of my mom.
She was shuffling to the front of the door, her black hair matted down in a way she would never let it be at home. There were paper slippers on her feet and a hospital gown hanging loosely from her shoulders to the floor. She tried to smile. She slowly lifted her arm to wave. Then one brother walked out, another walked in, and the doors whirred shut. And just like that, she disappeared.
AFTER TWELVE YEARS IN BROOKLYN —only a couple of them spent at Hotel Cotroneo—my parents moved to Uniondale. For $21,500, they bought a 1,500-square-foot, three-bedroom, one-bath brick ranch with a basement. I was two years old when we moved in. My mom had a field of avocado green carpet installed over the wood floors. She covered the living room couches in sheets so no one messed them up. I think I saw the actual cushions of those couches five times in the twenty-three years I lived at home.
It was a tiny house. There was nowhere to hide. And the only constant was that my mom was completely inconsistent.
No one can pinpoint the day she started to change. No one in her family ever talked about her having a history of mental illness—despite all the intense arguing. Anthony says she was pretty with-it until he was about nine or ten. He says it was after I was born and when we moved to Long Island that she snapped.
Her stay in Syosset Hospital didn’t change things. When she came home she was always sleepy and could barely get out of bed. The doctors had given her pills to take, but they didn’t seem to be
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