Don't Call Me Mother (5 page)

They drink coffee by the hour, chatting and giggling. Mother clicks her knitting needles, talking on and on, punctuating the air with her wild laughs, kicking her legs in the air. I peek around the doorways, watching them have a fine time. Vera smiles as she always does with strangers, saving her sour face for us kids.

I begin to understand that Mother loves her single life in Chicago. I keep listening to her, checking to see if I’m right. Deep in my bones I know that my mother won’t rescue me. Heavy with disappointment, I just watch her, wondering what I’ve done wrong to make her not want me. At the train station, Mother’s soft cheek against mine, I want to tell her everything and run onto the train with her, but I know I can’t. She steps onto the train and waves cheerily while I stare miserably at her, trying not to cry.

Instantly, Vera’s face returns to its usual scowl. She puts her hand on my shoulder and squeezes hard. “Big girls don’t cry.”

The train is a trembling silver beauty, yellow and red stripes wrapping around the engine. The Santa Fe Super Chief has come from the west with a real Indian wrapped in a blanket. He stands beside the engine, silent and imposing, his eyes dark and mysterious. The train gathers itself and whistles, shattering the evening, and then speeds off with an earthshaking rumble. In the silence that follows, I realize that I’m on my own forever.

I get a second chance to be rescued when my father visits. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him. I can’t exactly remember his face, but at the train station he recognizes me and scoops me up in his strong arms, whirling me and spinning the world. He smells like spicy aftershave and makes me giggle when his beard scrapes my face. Daddy talks with a drawl and has good Southern manners. He shakes Vera’s hand heartily and introduces his wife, Hazel. She smiles shyly and speaks in a soft voice. I am disappointed that he is with her. I wanted to see him alone so I could tell him about Vera.

Vera serves coffee and cookies, acting every bit like the polite person she appears to be to the world. They’d never guess what she’s like with kids, especially me. Right in front of her, Daddy asks me if I’m happy. I fix a smile on my face and say yes, oh yes, so happy, feeling sick inside. All afternoon I watch the adults laugh and chat. Daddy puts his arm around Hazel and talks about his life in Chicago, how happy he is in his railroad work. I realize that Daddy likes his Chicago life, his shiny suits, the diamond ring on his left pinky, and his new wife. A little girl would mess all that up. The morning they leave, Vera takes a photograph of the three of us. I stand in front of my kneeling father, his arm around me. The little girl in the picture looks lost, with sad eyes and not even a hint of a smile.

I have a series of illnesses, from colds to bronchitis to flu and more colds. When I’m lying in bed, Charlie sometimes brings me soup, and the kids come by to say hello. They are not always mean, but I can’t trust them. They’ll be nice and then suddenly lash out, making fun of me. I have grown used to Vera’s spankings, but I hate it that I cry for each one. I can’t seem to keep the tears away anymore. I often see scary monsters in the closet at night, but one night I have a different vision, one that stays with me for a long time.

A lady wearing a red gown and a blue headdress appears in the window across from my bed. I blink, but she does not disappear. I get out of bed and check in the hall to see if someone is standing there, but there’s no one. Her dark hair falls to her shoulders, and she looks at me with kindness. She tells me not to worry, that everything will be all right. I feel peace and relaxation as I look at her, and eventually I fall asleep. She isn’t there in the morning, and I never see her again, but I return often to the feeling of comfort she gave me, as if she had taken me into her arms like a mother. Later, I discover that she looked just like paintings of Mary, the mother of Jesus.

On my sixth birthday in March, Vera makes a cake for me and everyone sings Happy Birthday. I try to imagine my next birthday, but I can’t. My life stretches out like the plains, empty all the way to the horizon. I blow out the candles, my skin crawling with awful feelings: ugly, unwanted, and alone. I know that despite their smiles and singing, these people don’t really care for me. I blow out the candles, missing Mommy and Gram, seeing their beautiful faces in my mind. I wonder if they know it’s my birthday.

Just after school is out, I get sick again and have to stay in bed. Vera tells me that the family is going on vacation, so I’m going to stay with Gram, and they’ll get me after they come back. I should be ecstatic, but I’m too sick to care. They bundle me up with my suitcase and drive to Wichita. Suddenly we are at Gram’s house, and she’s smiling and wrapping her arms around me. “Sugar Pie, poor sick Sugar Pie,” she croons.

Gram folds me into a soft bed with clean white sheets. She tries to hide her alarm at my deflated condition and high fever, but I can see she’s worried. The doctor takes my temperature and gives me a shot. I huddle under the quilt, feeling protected and safe. Gram is a kind nurse, waiting on me day and night with juice, pills, and soup, putting warm washcloths against my forehead and a hot water bottle on my feet. Sometimes her tenderness makes me cry, but I don’t let her see that. She yells at my mother and father on the phone, “She has rickets and malnutrition!” I don’t know what that means, but she says it’s their fault for not noticing.

I rock for hours in my mother’s childhood rocking chair holding my doll. I rock and rock, grateful for the peace in the house. Gram watches me carefully, puts her face close. “Tell me, what it was like at Vera’s? How did she treat you?”

I want to tell her the truth. The words gather in my mouth, but before I can speak, I remember that words are dangerous. When they come back, Gram will pass on everything I say, and Vera will beat me harder than ever. At night I cry, feeling desperately worried, waiting for them to come take me away from Gram. I know that they will be mean again and that I will be unhappy. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I just wait, shaking and worrying.

One morning Gram decides to boil an egg for me for breakfast. She bounces around her sunny kitchen, happy, I can tell, because she’s going to get me to eat, which I don’t do much. Eggs—doesn’t she remember I can’t eat them? Already I feel like throwing up. She spreads apple butter on toast and pours a glass of milk. I stare at the runny egg whites, not touching them, shaking. Gram kneels on the kitchen floor. It makes me sad to see her like that, begging me to talk to her. I don’t want to make her mad, but I’m scared to talk. Movie-like images run across my mind: Vera’s spankings, her scary eyes, the boys’ cruel teasing. It all gathers up like a steam engine and comes out in a rush of tears and sentence fragments. She smoothes my hair and listens, with tears rolling down her face. I don’t dare tell her what happened with Freddie. Her face is sad, then angry, and then sad again. She pats me and strokes my hair, saying, “Poor little Sugar Pie. It’s all right.”

When I am through talking, she declares: “That’s it! You’re not going back.”

“But they’ll get mad. They’ll make me go.”

“You’re not going back with them, and that’s final!” Her eyes are fierce. I’ve never seen her like this before. She calls my parents, screaming that they forced me to go and didn’t see that I was suffering. She tells them again that I have rickets and anemia. “I will not give that child back to them. She just sits in a chair and won’t talk. She’s skinny as a rail. She’s not the same little girl.”

After many loud phone conversations over the next few days, Gram announces that my parents have agreed to let me stay with her. Gram finally looks happy, and I feel hopeful for the first time in a long while. Still, I wait for Vera’s return, rocking in the rocking chair. Will Gram really keep me? I don’t trust any of these adults; they change their minds all the time. I keep asking her if she means it. She insists that she will be what is called my guardian from now on.

Finally the day arrives when my tormentors are supposed to come back. All day, my stomach’s knotted with anxiety. They all burst into the living room acting as if they are glad to see me, Vera with her white teeth and her phony smile that sends chills down my back. I hide in the bathroom. The adults chat a little, and then Gram tells them. She says that I’m not well and she’s my guardian now, with my parents’ permission. I come out just to say good-bye, standing close to Gram.

Vera looks genuinely disappointed. I think, sure you are, you won’t have me to yell at and hit any more. They make a show of kissing me good-bye as if they cared. I stay close to Gram as we wave good-bye, terrified that they will come back and snatch me away. But the car disappears down the street. Gram, my savior, keeps her arm around me as we stand there waving. Now I belong to her.

Enid and Aunt Helen

Gram moves us to Enid, Oklahoma, a few months after I come back to her from Vera’s. The grand sweep of the prairie and the huge blue sky go on forever, knitting into a silvery horizon. Across the street from our little house on Park Street, an ancient cottonwood reaches its branches to the sky, the undersides of its leaves gleaming in the sun. Cows graze and moo contentedly. Everything is so peaceful. I can imagine Indians sitting under that cottonwood tree, horses’ hooves and thick clouds of dust, bows and arrows. Evidence that this place was Indian Territory less than one hundred years ago is everywhere: Red Chief Motel, Cheyenne Café, the Cherokee Theatre.

Wheat fields surround the town, their graceful stalks wafting in the wind all spring, changing gradually from baby green to deep amber. I come to love these beautiful landscapes—the wheat, the wide deep-blue sky with great thunderheads building, the clouds that show you the shining underside of heaven.

One afternoon not long after moving to Enid, Gram tells me to get dressed. We are going to visit her best friends, Aunt Helen and Uncle Maj, who live across town.

“Which aunt is Aunt Helen?” I ask.

“She’s not a real aunt; she’s my best friend. ‘Aunt’ is what you call someone who’s such a good friend, they’re like family.”

“Why is the man called Uncle Maj?”

“He was a major in the army during the war, so we call him Maj. His real name is Russell Claire, and we call him R. C. for short.”

Gram puts on a good blue dress and white sandals, glosses on red lipstick, and fluffs on her powder. She always makes herself look nice. As we get in the car, I say hi to the cows grazing under the cottonwood. I’m still amazed to actually be living with Gram. I worry about Vera, sometimes wondering if she’ll figure out a way to burst my bubble of happiness, but I trust now that Gram plans to keep me.

Off we go, bumping along on dusty Market Street with its red dirt blowing around us in great gusts all the way through the “Negro section.” The street changes from dirt to concrete when we hit the white part of town. The road crosses Highway 81, the route of the old Chisholm Trail. Gram tells me, “The Chisholm Trail is named after Jesse Chisholm. He drove cattle from Texas north into Kansas before the trains. It was the most famous trail in the west.” Gram loves history; her books are piled up all over the house. She likes to tell me about the past and says what happened then is a part of us now.

Eventually Gram stops in front of a green-shingled house with a red front porch and an emerald-green yard set off by bushes of furling red roses. A smiling, red-faced woman wearing a pink striped dress bounces down the stairs, her arms out, her soft belly jiggling with laughter. “Oh, let me get my hands on that pretty little thing. God love ya, darlin’.” She squeezes me against her body and my nose is pressed so hard into her soft stomach that I can’t breathe for a moment. I don’t understand who she is or how she seems to know me. Her blonde hair is a curly mass around her head; her round cheeks blush with rouge or excitement—I don’t know which. “Ahh, lovey, look how you’ve grown. You weren’t no bigger’n a grasshopper the last time I laid eyes on you.”

“You remember Aunt Helen, don’t you?” Gram beams at me. A ruddy-faced man with thick white hair bounces down the steps. “Great balls of sheet iron,” he says, clamping a hand on my shoulder, his blue eyes spark-ling. He asks me to hold out my hand, where he places a beautiful red rose. I cup the rose in my hand and inhale its delicious scent. The adults start to chatter, Aunt Helen in her drawling Southern accent. Gram’s more relaxed and happy than I’ve ever seen her. We clatter into the house, and the smells of fresh coffee and homemade bread just out of the oven enfold us in cozy comfort.

The house is a delight—a damask tablecloth on the dining room table, a pink rose in a silver vase, lace curtains being sucked against the screen by a gentle breeze. The back yard is like a painting, with roses in all colors—red, pink, yellow, and white—shimmering in the light. I gaze at the photographs in the bookcase: Aunt Helen when she was younger with a smooth face, Uncle Maj in his military uniform. I look at Aunt Helen, then back at the photo, comparing. She sees this and says, “Land sakes, girl, don’t be looking like that at me. We’re all older now, but the Duchess here,” she gestures toward Gram, “looks the same as she always did.”