Lies My Mother Never Told Me (34 page)

She had hurt my child. She had burned the last bridge back to me.

 

I knew Mr. Bill had his chemo treatments on Wednesdays, and he missed class on Thursday. That night I looked up his mother's phone number in the big phone book and called him at home.

“Hi, Mr. Bill, it's Kaylie. How're you doing?”

There was a dead silence.

“KJ,” I said quickly.

“How's Shortstop?” he said, his voice turning warm and light.

“She's good. She sends her love. I know you had your chemo yesterday. How do you feel?”

Talking in a murmur, he said he felt okay. He said he was whispering because he didn't want his moms to worry. He said his moms was failing now and didn't have long to go. He asked me if I'd be coming to class on Saturday, and I said absolutely.

“Do you need any more of that green tea extract or the mushroom stuff?”

“I like the green tea extract. That seems to help.”

“I'll get you some tomorrow.”

He thanked me, and then after a silence, I said, “I'm honored to be your student, Mr. Bill.”

We didn't have anything else to say, so I told him I'd see him on Saturday.

 

Saturday I showed up for class, and a new fellow was behind the desk. He said his name was Mario, and he was taking over the
do-jang
.

Over the course of a couple of weeks, he took down all the old, yellowing photographs and removed the dusty, peeling trophies. Mr. Bill continued to teach the lunchtime class, straight and tall and dignified, and didn't say a word about it.

The
do-jang
, under the new management, quickly transformed itself into a large conglomerate called Premier Martial Arts.
They completely remodeled the place, painting, putting down a blue rubber mat floor, and knocking out some walls. Everything looked new and seriously professional now, even the equipment. They started a mixed martial arts curriculum—tae kwon do, jujitsu-style grappling, as well as Muoy Thai—style fighting, which is much less elegant and much tougher on the joints, and boxing.

Then, one Tuesday, a new teacher showed up to teach the noontime class. His name was Mr. Sevilla. In his late twenties, from Miami, tall and pale, with a handsome patrician profile, he was charismatic and self-confident. Mr. Bill stood in the back, behind us, and didn't say a word. About halfway through the class, he went into the men's locker room, changed, and left the
do-jang
.

After class, a few of us regular students stayed behind to ask Mr. Sevilla what was going to happen with Mr. Bill. Mr. Sevilla said he didn't know. I said I would leave the school if they didn't respect Mr. Bill's long-standing relationship with Master Chun's school and the old noontime students. The others agreed.

Mr. Sevilla said he'd pass that on to Mr. Mario.

Mr. Sevilla, who held a Third Degree Black Belt in tae kwon do from the legendary Master Joon Ri's school in Miami, was an honorable man. On Thursday, when we arrived for class, Mr. Bill was already there, dressed in his yellowing uniform with his gray collar and gray belt. Mr. Sevilla told us that Premier Martial Arts would be offering lunchtime classes five days a week from now on, and that in three months, in June, we would take the promotion test for Red Belt, and Mr. Bill had volunteered to continue to teach us the old tae kwon do forms. We needed to perform
Palgue
1 through 6 to pass the test.

 

Mr. Bill told me a few days later that even though he had been one of Master Chun's oldest students, Master Chun hadn't called him to tell him they were selling the school.

Friday, near the end of the session, Mr. Bill, who'd been sitting hunched over on the sidelines, suddenly pulled himself up, breathed in deeply, gathering his strength, and threw himself into the first move of
Palgue
6, demonstrating a double knife-hand back stance followed by a sharp and perfect back leg front kick. He looked like a champion.

“Face the form with an open heart,” he told us. “As if you're facing a deserving opponent.”

After class, looking extremely uncomfortable, Mr. Bill asked me quietly if he could borrow twenty bucks. I told him sure but I had to go to the bank. We walked to the corner of Second Avenue, and he waited outside while I went in to use the cash machine. I folded two twenties up small in my palm, and when I got out into the street, I slipped them to Mr. Bill while we were shaking hands.

“I'll get you back next week,” he murmured.

“I don't want it back. Don't even think about it.”

On Monday, the regulars all decided that from now on, we would pay Mr. Bill on our own for teaching us the forms.

 

I took Eyrna out to Sagaponack for Easter weekend, for she remembered with deep happiness those chilly early-spring Sundays of egg hunts in the greening garden. I didn't want to go. Cousin Anne and her husband had moved to Pennsylvania, so there was only Gianna's daughter, Nina, now eleven, playing along as they hunted together for the colorful eggs.

At dinner on Saturday night, my mother poured herself a glass of red wine. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I suddenly realized there wasn't any Diet Coke in the pantry or food in the fridge. Tonight's dinner had been brought over by Michael Mosolino's catering shop. I had to say something to her and dreaded it. I waited until she was alone in the library and approached her. I suddenly felt exhausted.

“Mom, if you continue to drink, you're going to die.” My voice was calm and devoid of judgment.

“Don't be silly,” she said dismissively. “I'm not drinking, anyway. I have a sore throat, and it helps with the pain. I'm not swallowing it.”

I realized, of course, that if she was drinking in front of me, she must have been drinking for quite a while. Last summer's episode began to make a weird kind of sense, and at once, everything began to fall into place.

The emergency bell had been tolling for a long time, but I had not heard it. She would not go quietly, and she would take a great deal down with her. I tried to steel myself as best I could for the oncoming disaster.

I went into my room and called Cecile. “My mother's drinking again,” I said, my voice hollow and unfamiliar.

“I know,” Cecile said. “But she seems to be in control of herself right now.”

“If she could maintain control of her drinking, she wouldn't be an alcoholic.”

Dead silence.

There was no point in playing Cassandra and prophesying doom and gloom. I said good-bye, and slowly began packing up the few things in my old bedroom that still mattered to me—photographs, books, old letters. I did not think I would be staying here again.

 

I fell into a depression that kept me bedridden for several weeks. Everything felt difficult, as if I were buried up to the neck in a stinking mud swamp. I rose in the morning to get Eyrna off to school and to walk our little dog; I pulled myself together in the afternoon to pick up Eyrna at the school bus; the rest of the time, I slept. For close to three weeks, I didn't go to tae kwon do or call anyone from the
do-jang.

Kevin grew concerned and asked me to return to Sherrye, the therapist, which I did. She asked me if I wanted to do some anger work. She handed me the foam bat and told me to hit the pillows. I couldn't even lift it; it hung limply from my hand like an extension of my arm.

I had been full of expectations until I realized my mother was drinking again. I'd still believed in the notions of justice and retribution. I'd thought that because I'd gotten ahold of myself, because I was being forced to face my demons, she should be forced to face hers and to be accountable for her actions. She had to
pay
.

Was it true, what James Baldwin had said, that “people pay for what they do, and still more for what they have allowed themselves to become. And they pay for it very simply; by the lives they lead”?

I'd never blame a person with cancer for being sick. I'd never try to reason with a madwoman in an insane asylum—so
why
did I still expect my mother to understand the consequences of her actions, and despise her for not taking responsibility?

And where does one draw the line, ultimately, between mental incompetence and accountability? Between madness and sanity? When is personal choice removed from the equation? We still revile and punish drunk drivers who kill people, as if they were morally inferior to us and had a
choice
in whether or not, with their judgment completely impaired, they got behind the wheel of a car. The law sends those people to jail, not to insane asylums or rehabilitation centers.

 

Mr. Bill called. I had not missed as many weeks of tae kwon do in a row since my ACL surgery.

“My mother is drinking again, Mr. Bill,” I said. “I don't know what to do.”

“There's nothin' you can do,” he replied. “Except take care of
your daughter and your husband. But especially you got to take care of yourself.”

Eyrna asked me that night as we snuggled together in her soft loft bed, “Are you quitting tae kwon do, Mommy?” Her eyes were big and shining.

“Never. I'm going to get my Black Belt.” I'd never said this out loud, and I didn't quite believe it myself.

She nodded solemnly. “So am I going to get my Black Belt, too.”

 

The next day, I dragged myself back to the
do-jang
. Mr. Sevilla, who is charismatic and funny as hell but not one for emotional displays, looked at me for a long moment in silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, get your gloves out. After warm-up, we're boxing!” he shouted.

I loved hitting the mitts and practicing body punches on the heavy bags. I had quickly become one of the fastest female boxers in the school. Mr. Sevilla once asked me where I'd studied boxing before. I told him I'd never studied boxing in my life, but my dad had taught me to punch and parry when I was a little girl. This talent had come as a surprise to everyone—except Mr. Bill, who knew my father had been a boxer in the army; he believed such abilities were inherited.

Now, commenting on my weak and uninspired warm-up and my despondent condition, Mr. Sevilla yelled that at this rate, I'd never be ready for my Red Belt test in June.

“Jones! Over here!” he shouted.

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Sevilla had on his own personal mitts. “Hit it. Jab, cross. Give me six. Go, go, go, go! Jab, cross, hook! Jab, jab, cross! Cross, hook, cross! Cross, hook, uppercut! Uppercut, I said! Now, jab, cross. Give me six!” Over and over and over, until my arms ached and then lost their strength and I let out a fierce, rage-filled scream.

“Feel better?” Mr. Sevilla asked under his breath.

I was folded over double, panting hard. “Yes, sir! Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Bill sidled up to me after class. “This is only one realm of existence,” he murmured. “You understand?”

No, I really don't understand, but what does it matter? I'll show up anyway. That's what matters.

“It's your karma. You fix it this time around, next time you won't have to.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on, let's work on those
Palgue
forms.”

 

Toward the end of July, I got a call from Vladimir, the Russian who lived in my mother's attic. He had been a nurse's aide/ companion to a well-known aging artist in my mother's neighborhood. He'd moved into my mother's attic about a year ago. Vladimir had driven her into the City and checked her into Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. She had pneumonia again, and was completely delusional. Her friend Liz Fondaras had pulled many strings to get Gloria admitted under the care of a lung specialist who'd been President Clinton's doctor. Eyrna and I took a taxi up to Washington Heights to see her. The resident on the floor was quite upset because he felt she didn't belong here; he thought she should be in the alcohol and drug detox center.

We went into her private room. She was sitting up in bed, staring at us petulantly, her eyes following us as we walked toward her. I stared right back, amazed that I no longer feared her.

“They tried to lock me up but I kicked the doctor in the shins,” she told us proudly. “I'm not staying here with these idiots.”

Outside the huge window the Hudson River steamed. In the distance, the George Washington Bridge, ensconced in haze, was undulating in the heat. The resident came in and told us my mother's tests wouldn't be back for four hours. Meanwhile, he wanted
me to convince her to go to the detox center. Kevin, Eyrna, and I were supposed to be leaving on a six-day camping and whitewater rafting trip that afternoon, a Thursday.

“Oh, we're not staying,” I said. He looked troubled. He sent for the social worker, a young, nervous woman with a pale complexion and flyaway hair. I wasn't up for this discussion, so we left her with my mother and went and stood out in the hall. The social worker lasted five minutes.

“I don't know what to tell you,” she said to me when she came out, even paler than before. What I had come to accept, which she apparently had not yet, was that a person in my mother's condition was no longer able to make a sane decision on her own behalf. She'd passed that fork in the road some time ago and no longer had the mental capacity to look back, or forward, with sound judgment. But the law states that unless the person is an immediate danger to herself or others…

“You don't have to tell me anything,” I replied. “I'm no longer taking responsibility for my mother's drinking. My daughter and I will deal with our own issues in therapy. We're leaving now. We're going on vacation.”

And we walked out, holding hands, without looking back.

 

In September 2005, Anna, George, and I—the three of us who had started this journey together—took the candidate for Black Belt promotion test, judged by Mr. Sevilla and Mr. Mario. Mr. Bill sat in the back, his face devoid of expression. It was an endurance test that lasted an hour and a half. I was not afraid. Anna, my age, has the temperament of a Valkyrie. She is the type of person who gets stronger and more aggressive the more she's challenged, and that helped me to stay focused and strong; and George, well, George was in it for the long haul too, now. He didn't complain or say a word, he just performed the tasks in silence. After being pounded, boxed, kicked, run aground, and hollered at for an
hour, we performed the
Palgue
forms 1 through 7, in front of the rest of the students. I was moved by a vehemence and control I never knew I possessed. Mr. Sevilla and his new assistant, six-foot-five, 240-pound Mr. Acosta, a karate and capoeira master, held my rough pine boards for me. On my second try, I broke two three-quarter-inch boards with one reverse side kick; I broke another with a back fist punch on my first attempt.