The Ghost Child

This story doesn’t fit in the memoir I am writing— or does it?

It’s a memory triggered by reading a brief story about my friend’s mother pretending that she didn’t recognize her own child when she was young and all the traumatic emotions it brought upon her young soul. All of a sudden, I remembered being six or seven years old and laughing at my three-year-old brother Mickey as he desperately punched his little fists on my mother’s lap while she asked me and five-year-old Gino if we knew where Mickey had gone. We all pretended we couldn’t see or hear him while he screamed and cried, “I’m here! I’m here!” —We were merciless and impish, and thought it was a smart trick we were playing on the terrified child.

Mickey (and lamb), Nyldita, and Gino circa 1958

For the rest of his short life, Mickey played the clown to get people’s attention and to throw his elders off when he got into trouble for his mischief and disobedience. As his older, well-behaved sister I resented the attention and perceived approval (not to mention the accompanying mirth) he received after doing something he shouldn’t have. It was unfair that no one seemed to notice or celebrate my own good behavior that I worked so hard to polish. I also wanted to scream “I am here! I am here!!”

As a supposedly wiser old woman, I cringe at the realization that my mother’s ignorant efforts to entertain three small children in a small apartment without the support of her family and my childish complicity in the event must have caused inordinate trauma and suffering on a toddler needing outside confirmation of his own existence. No one intended harm, but it probably had long-term consequences for my little brother. We never had the opportunity to talk about it or ask for forgiveness.

Mickey grew up to be a talented actor and singer, honing his skills at begging for attention. I spent thirty-seven years pleading for my husband’s devotion and recognition of my humanity. Even now, my writing reflects a deep need to be seen and appreciated.

As human beings, we all need to be noticed and valued. Our childhood traumas may have made us into the adults we have become, but it may not be too late to show each other that we know we exist and, by doing that, bring joy to everyone’s life. We might even help change the world one human being at a time.

“¡Te veo, Mickey!”