I Love You More Than Music

[Chloe Johnson]

CHAPTER 1

I didn’t officially exist until I was nearly thirteen. The State of Oregon marked this achievement via a document inscribed “Delayed Certificate of Birth” across the top. We were all born during the Vietnam war, and Mom and Dad weren’t about to let The Man know, so it was just the two of them bringing us into this world. Dad had no medical experience, and later I wondered what would have happened if something had gone terribly wrong. But nothing did, not at first anyway.

My brother was born on the road. Mom was about to give birth in their red 1957 International TravelAll but then decided that’s where she drew the line, making my dad stop at the nearest commune so she could give birth in a real bed or on a mattress at least. She always rolled her eyes when she got to this part of the story.

The Black Rabbit was a collective community deep in the woods of Washington State, all ramshackle cabins, makeshift dwellings, Douglas fir trees, and an assortment of hippies varying in age and hair length. “Your dad knew every commune between San Francisco and British Columbia,” Mom said, a tinge of pride in her voice. 

Folks there subsisted on free government cheese and powdered milk along with whatever they could grow and forage. Clothing was optional, and they informed my dad it was BYOD – bring your own doula. My parents were welcomed and given a sleeping area so Mom could get on with the task of pushing. They had no idea what they were doing, but it was over rather quickly. She was only seventeen and relatively healthy. Everything went fine, except that Dad, in his inexperience, cut the cord a little too closely, and my brother ended up with an “outie” instead of an “innie” for a belly button.

I was their third child, and Dad delivered me in a house in Portland, Oregon. It was on the corner of Northeast Cleveland and Going Street, which was appropriate, Mom said, because I never stop moving. “You’re always going somewhere.” 

A few days after I was born, she took me to Maxi’s Better Buy on North Williams, where everyone in the neighborhood gathered to share gossip and purchase a few sundries. “Another little one you got there, and she is mi-tee-fine,” Mom always imitated Maxi’s voice when describing their conversation as she set me on the produce scale. “And a small one, only six pounds.” About the size of a cantaloupe, Mom pointed out when she told me the story as soon as I was old enough to ask, which I repeatedly did.

Mom was 21 when she gave birth to me. She even took drugs while pregnant, but still, we were “normal, whatever that means,” she would say with another eye roll and a short, sharp laugh. “The body processes psychedelics differently than most drugs. They don’t affect the fetus, and, besides, you each have ten fingers and ten toes.”

I was an accident, the baby that wasn’t supposed to happen because she thought she couldn’t get pregnant while nursing my sister. She said she cried the whole time she was carrying me.

Thankfully, I was a self-soother as an infant. Mom was busy with a one-year-old and a three-year-old, and God was testing her with my brother, so she didn’t have much time for me. Since she was tired, I spent a lot of time in my crib, not crying. I learned how to calm myself, rolling over onto my stomach and pulling myself onto my haunches to rock back and forth, falling asleep in that position. 

“You turned out to be the happiest baby. You never cried no matter where we took you, holding out your arms to anyone who would pick you up. As soon as you could crawl, you went right into people’s laps, even strangers, talking away, asking them questions about themselves. You were so direct.” She paused here to tilt her head and consider me. “You still are.” 

“And you were so smart, memorizing books after we read them to you. I only had to show you how to do things once. Right away, you made yourself mommy and daddy’s little helper.” She smiled again, and her eyes looked distant as she ruffled my hair. 

“So, in the end, it turned out having you was the best thing that could have happened,” she said, as though wrapping up a fairytale or bedtime story, “because you’re the one who will end up taking care of us when we are old.”

My earliest memories are strange like maybe I dreamed them, or Dad made a slide show but put everything in the wrong order. I’m holding an individually wrapped Mother’s cookie, and my brother, in his eagerness, tears it open for me. Dad is in an overstuffed orange chair, reading his newspaper. The turntable in the living room spins while Beach Boys harmonies float from the speakers and mom sings along off-key. My sister and I hover over cradles suspended on posts, squealing with delight as we give them a shove and watch them rock back and forth. At Grandad’s house, I sit in his lap, running my fingers along the lines in his face and grabbing at his round, wire-rimmed glasses.

These scenes are all warm-toned, like faded vintage photos with white scalloped edges, and glow with the feeling that we were happy. And we were, until one day, we weren’t. The change came about slowly, as though we drank the same polluted water and were infected by something hidden, unseen, eating away at our souls, rendering each of us a different person. I’ll try to explain how it happened, but let me start again, from when my memories take shape.