Pieces of My Mother (8 page)

I sit across from my aunt Joanna and Kim at the dinner table while my mom continues to sleep and dream in the next room. The house is quiet and heavy. We've ordered Mexican food from the local diner, and Kim sets out a six-pack of Corona and lime wedges. We're sitting around the table making conversation but I'm not really present—maybe none of us are.

My thoughts keep sliding into the undeniable truth:
she
is
dying
. The sentence plays over and over like a recording that can't move forward. I want to retreat upstairs to be alone and read more of her letters. But I'm also afraid to read them all at once. I suppose a kind of measured self-control defines my nature. Similar to the way that I never finish some of my favorite books—because I don't want the story to end and I don't want the characters to leave me.

My aunt sets down a plate of leftover green-and-red Christmas cookies. It's odd to be celebrating this holiday under the same roof as my mother, since growing up, we rarely saw her at Christmas. I excuse myself to make a call home. Bella answers.

“When are you coming back?” is her first question.

“I'm sorry, Bella. I don't know yet.”

“So you're missing our whole Christmas vacation?” Bella sews stitches of guilt like a master seamstress.

“Are you having some get-togethers with your friends?” I ask, trying to distract her.

“They all have
family
plans.”

I hear my husband in the background. “Don't make Mommy feel bad, Bella.”

I'm grateful that Anthony is with the kids while I'm here. He doesn't spend nearly as much time with them as I do, and sometimes I feel resentful that he gets to be the dad who steps in just in time for the fun activities. As a single parent raising three children, my dad was always crazy-busy and running to catch up. He was the role model I had for a parent, and what I learned from him is that one parent can do it all. Thus, I tend not to ask for help when I could use it, which is not the best recipe for balance in our family.

I've been vague with Bella about the things going on with my mom. Maybe if I allowed my emotional ups and downs to be seen, she would be easier on me.

“I'm bringing you a present back from Washington,” I tell her. Which is a lie only in that I haven't actually bought anything yet. But whenever I'm gone for more than a day, I always return with a gift to soften my absence. This trip to Olympia may prove to be the longest I have ever been away from my children.

Several years ago, when I traveled to the desert for three days, Bella was furious by the time I returned. One of the reasons that my absence was especially upsetting was because Daddy couldn't help with her hair. I was the one who combed out the knots each morning, fashioned ponytails, and snapped in the colorful barrettes. I knew from personal experience that fathers do not have a great deal of skill with long and tangled hair.

When I returned and walked through the front door, Bella looked at me with a stern face and said, “I almost forgot you were part of this family.”

Her extravagant comment left me speechless. Who was this spirited little girl of mine who wasn't afraid to say or show what she felt? Dominic had never challenged me in quite the same ways, and I wondered if Bella was sensing my mothering insecurities or reading the tea leaves on the bottom of my cup.

“It sounds like you missed me a lot when I was gone,” I finally replied.

She burst into tears. As I held her and felt her sobs, heavy against my chest, I was grateful to comfort my little girl who missed me. I also became aware of the physical contact I must have longed for from my mother as a child.

I talk with my family a bit more and then finally hang up, still thinking about Bella's frustrations over my occasional absences. On a deep level, I understand her strong reactions. As a mother, I make an effort to be a better parent. I buy self-help and parenting books and subscribe to
Family
Circle
and
Parenting
magazines. I'm trying to find my way, but sometimes I feel the weight of all my shortcomings at once. I am not always a good mother, and there are days where I am humorless, judgmental, curt, and preoccupied. I try not to let myself get defeated by the daily grind of motherhood, but sometimes I feel locked in the nightmare of domesticity.

When I interact with other mothers on the school yard, I feel transparent. I don't want to talk about domestic details like sleep schedules, Swiffers, standardized testing, or where to buy discounted organic produce and Disneyland tickets. Really, that sort of discussion shouldn't get to me, but it does. I know that it's part of being a parent—sharing resources and all that. But sometimes I want to run when I see these well-organized mothers walking my way. I can't take in any more information or mommy tips. I don't want them to mention that I look tired. I don't want them to ask if I can volunteer for the pancake breakfast, the PTA, or the sport-a-thon.

I know mothers who have their priorities in order. I am not one of them. There are mothers who go to the market with a shopping list and an envelope full of carefully snipped coupons. They make cupcakes with fluffy peaks of whipped frosting and deliver them to the classroom. And they manage to keep their kitchen table free of clutter and get their kids to swimming lessons on time. At least this is how I imagine them when I am questioning my skills as a parent—which is frequently. There are also mothers I absolutely adore and admire for their down-to-earth kindness. And mothers who have saved me from losing my mind by offering to take my kids for the afternoon or evening. While I always considered myself a strong contender in my imaginary International Room Cleaning Competition growing up, as an adult I worry I might be disqualified from entry into the Good Mother pageant.

Rather than clipping coupons or making cupcakes for my daughter's class, what keeps me sane is writing for hours in my lined notebooks or giving myself time to escape into a great book. But while these are the touchstones that keep me grounded, they also lure me away from my responsibilities as an organized and present parent.

Why can't I be a dreamer
and
a good mother? Because I am afraid of what could come of
wanting
things. Isn't that what happened to my mother? She dreamed of who she could be out in the world, forging a brave path, and off she went.

Standing alone in her office bedroom, I stare at the file cabinet. It doesn't feel safe to pull out her letters while others are still awake in the house. What if someone catches me? What if there is something too private and frightening in the letters?

As the night temperature dips and turns the room chilly, I rummage through the upstairs closet for something warm to wear. I find an old wool sweater of Mom's and jackets and hats that I haven't seen her wear in years. I hold up one of my mom's quintessential hippie shirts covered with blue and green paisleys. It has a cigarette hole, and one of the frayed string ties is missing. I haven't seen this shirt since I was eight years old. The summer I finally got to fly to Washington to see where my mom lived.

I get to visit my mom in a place called Chimacum. She always lives in towns with interesting names like Sequim and Quilcene, or places with “Port” as part of their name. I am flying by myself this time because my dad already sent my brothers to Chimacum while I was at camp.

The pilot's voice crackles from the tiny holes in the ceiling, announcing that we have made a safe landing in Seattle. I slip on my flip-flops, click off my seat belt, and smooth out the pattern of yellow daisies on my sundress. I give my loose tooth a twist all the way around but I don't want it to fall out just yet. I'm not sure if the tooth fairy comes to Chimacum.

The stewardess in red and blue asks me again who is picking me up.

“My mom might be late,” I tell her.

The stewardess looks down at the watch on her wrist. Then I see my mom running down the carpeted walkway and waving both hands in the air. “Little Liddy Bumpkins!” she yells out.

She wears bell-bottom jeans, a strappy black tank top, and red sandals. Brass bells hang down from the bottom of her purse and jingle against her hip. Her wavy hair is longer and darker now. She hugs me big, then steps back to look at me.

“You sure got tan,” she says.

She touches the strands of blond hair around my face and asks me if I bleached it. That makes me kind of embarrassed, because I don't know any eight-year-olds who bleach their hair. I look up at her face and suddenly feel like I've got Mexican jumping beans inside me. I want her to like everything about me. I want her to like the daisy dress I picked out.

“How was riding camp?” she asks as we hurry past the crowds.

“Oh, it was the best. I mostly rode a gray horse named Mickey Mouse, but my favorite was a black horse with a white star named Pot Luck.”

“Its name was Pot Luck?”

“Yeah, I got to ride Pot Luck after I got bucked off Apache.”

“Well, I wish your dad would find some kind of camp for your brothers. They've been going stir-crazy since they got here. They fight like a couple of wild pigs, those two.”

I follow the sound of the bells jingling from her hip to keep up with her. There is so much I want to tell her.

“I'm sorry we're rushing, darlin'. It's just that we need to get to the car. If they run the registration on it, we'll be in trouble.”

The outside of my mom's car is as dirty and rusty as I've ever seen a car, but the inside smells like coffee with sugar and cream. She reaches across me and fishes through the glove box stuffed with road maps, then pulls out a pack of cigarettes and takes a deep breath.

“I'm living at Ray's this summer, and we've got twin baby goats.”

“Who's Ray?” I ask.

“Ray's my boyfriend,” she replies with a smile. “He's not used to being around kids, especially your brothers, but I told him how much he'd like you. He's not real talkative. Takes some getting used to, that's all.”

“Okay,” I reply. But I'm disappointed. I like things better when she doesn't have a boyfriend because then she makes more time for us. I'm wondering if Ray has a beard. Once, she told me that she had “a thing” for beards and liked men with long hair.

“I'm glad your dad let you come, even if it's just for a week. You're going to like Berry Bush Farm. There are ripe blackberries and huckleberries all over the place. We've got the goats—Miss Nanny, Pippin, Opus, and Slope. Then there are the chickens, the flower garden, the cats, and the two geese named George and Martha.”

She takes a long drag on her cigarette.

“I've got to warn you about George and Martha though. They can be nasty. They don't like kids or the color red.”

“The color red?”

“Well, when Ray wears his red flannels or even a bandanna, the geese come honking and squawking after him. They won't draw blood anymore, 'cause Ray will kick them right across the yard with his steel-toed boot.”

I don't like the sound of Ray.

“You ever eaten a goose egg?” my mom asks.

“No, I don't think so.”

“Wait until you see one of Martha's cracked open—yolks as big as Florida oranges.”

We drive along stretches of quiet highways, and she talks a lot. I'm mostly listening and looking at her face sideways from my seat. I like the way she holds her cigarette against the steering wheel and pauses in the middle of her sentences.

The counselors at camp wanted to know what my mom looked like because of my blond hair and light-colored eyes. Lori Potter said, “I bet your mom is beautiful.” And Sandy Deeds asked, “Do you look just like your mom?”

I shrugged because I didn't have a good answer, but now I could tell them more. My eyes are gray, but hers are bright blue with thin crackles in them like the old marbles I have at home. She has a trail of freckles across her nose and I don't have any. We don't really look alike but that's okay with me. I'm just happy to be sitting next to her.

We turn off the main road and bump along a dirt road full of potholes. It's so thick with trees that it feels like we are headed into the wilderness. Branches stick out like arms and screech along the sides of the car. A small house appears, surrounded by an enormous thicket of blackberries, just like my mom said. Animals and chickens are running in all directions as we pull closer. A gray and black goat bounds toward us, leaps onto the hood of the car, and stares at us through the windshield with big amber eyes. I laugh out loud.

“That's my Opus,” says my mom. “And here comes Slope, but she won't jump on the car. She's a scaredy-goat.”

Then Ray comes out of the house—a big lumberjack of a man with a red beard and a long ponytail to match. He's pale and shirtless. He gives me a nod and a “Hi” from the front porch, then slips his feet into a pair of unlaced work boots.

“Your boys used up the milk again,” he says. “I told them Nanny only gives so much.”

Behind Ray's big body, I notice the house has no glass in the windowpanes, just sheets of clear plastic stapled up. The paint on the house is the texture of crusty oyster shells.

Jamie and Eden come tearing out of the woods in cutoff shorts. Jamie's furiously waving a stick in the air. Eden doesn't even stop to say hi. Jamie comes to a dead halt. He's completely out of breath, and I can hardly see his eyes beneath his long dirty-blond bangs.

“Hey, Sis, I hope you brought a roll of toilet paper and your shovel, 'cause there's no bathroom in the house.”

“Oh sure. Right, Jamie,” I say. He always likes to joke around.

“I ain't joking. And I hope you brought a flashlight too, because there are no lights at night.”

“Okay, cut it out Jamie, or you'll be sleeping with the chickens tonight,” my mom says.

“What for? For telling the truth? Is there a secret toilet somewhere that I don't know about?” He laughs and bolts into the woods after Eden.

My mom smiles at me. “I'm going to explain how things work when we get inside.”

I follow her through the screen door, wondering what else I don't know about. The house reeks of sour milk and rotting vegetables. I try not to breathe through my nose. The air is hot and still, trapped by the plastic sheets covering the windows. It is a quick, one-room tour. In the center of the room is a big mattress layered with green army blankets and a torn patchwork quilt. The bedside table is an overturned crate topped with loaded ashtrays, paperback books, and a cigar box overflowing with bangles and glass beads.

“You get to sleep upstairs with the boys. Up there in the rafters.” She points. “Just be careful on the ladder. It's very rickety. If you need water, you ask Ray. He can pump it out of the well. And don't listen to your brother. There is a shovel on the porch that always has a roll of paper on the handle, and at night we use kerosene for lighting. You can't expect too many luxuries when the rent is dirt cheap.”

“You mean there really is no bathroom here?”

“Well, no proper bathroom, but certainly plenty of trees to pee behind.” Then she whispers down to me, “Just don't let Ray catch you going too close to the house. You need to travel out a bit.”

Berry Bush Farm is different than I imagined it. I'm wondering if my dad even knows about the no-bathroom situation here. Would he have allowed us to come if he did? I look out through the screen door and see Jamie and Eden setting up plastic army men on grass battlefields. I can hear the
rat-a-tat-tat
of their gunfire, the exploding tanks, and the high-pitched screams of dying soldiers. Eden likes to set the army men on fire and watch them melt.

“You want to go out and play with your brothers?” Mom asks.

“I think I'll go see the goats instead.”

I sit down outside with my legs crisscrossed on the brown grass. The twin goats jump high into the air off the hay bales, then run over to Nanny and tug on her teats full of milk. I hold out a handful of dry grass. Opus, the one with the black stripe on his back, comes over, sniffs, then turns up his nose and runs off, kicking his legs in all directions. I laugh because I feel like they are putting on a show for me.

I wander around to the back of the house where I discover a junkyard full of car parts, huge pipes, and old metal containers. I exit through a broken gate and find a million red jewel-like berries spilling over into an old claw-foot bathtub with a rusty bottom. These must be the huckleberries my mom was talking about. I roll a small, red berry between two fingers. It's shiny and smooth like the salmon eggs that my brother fishes with. I pop it into my mouth and can't believe that something can be so sweet and sour at the same time. Here in the hot August sun, I eat handfuls of huckleberries from the old bathtub. Time slows down.

I catch my mom moving through the tall grass on the other side of the yard. She stops between groups of tall yellow and orange flowers. I fill my mouth with one last handful of huckleberries and walk across the yard to her.

“What are you doing, Mom?”

“Taking care of the poppies.”

She takes a razor blade and carefully cuts a circle around the bulbous base of the flower. A milky white juice seeps out in little wet dots where she cuts. Then she cuts a second circle around the base, making the flower bulb look like it's adorned in double strands of white pearls.

“That's so neat,” I say. “Why are you doing that?”

“They're opium poppies. Don't touch. It makes something special when it dries.”

“Could I do that? I like the way white stuff comes out.”

She laughs. “You can try it sometime, but not right now. It takes practice.”

I continue to watch her do her work. Her fingers full of rings handle the flowers so delicately as her razor cuts into the green skin.

When evening arrives, there is a lot of yelling inside the house. Jamie and Eden are fighting over who has to clean the goat poop on the porch. I get to help light the candles and kerosene lamps in the kitchen. At the table I watch Ray's big hands as he sprinkles dried grass along the crease of a cigarette paper. He rolls it up, licks it closed, and lights it against the candle flame. He and my mom pass it back and forth, holding their breath between turns. It smells just like “grass,” the word my dad and his friends use for the stuff they smoke sometimes. I know that grass makes people act differently but I don't get what the big deal is. My dad always sends me away whenever someone lights up a grass cigarette at our house.

I hold my breath because I don't like the smell. My mom will soon slip into a different voice, slow and lazy, like she's from the South. She says she likes to get “high,” whatever that means. Maybe this time I will find out what's so great about grass.

I help fill the center of the table with thick, buttery noodles and bowls of fresh chard and other greens from the garden. While we eat, my brothers keep trying to scare me with the idea that we are out in the middle of nowhere, and that there are definitely wolves and bears outside the house at night.

“So just don't be surprised if you wake up in the morning and one of us is missing. Or maybe you'll just find a bloody arm out on the porch,” says Jamie.

I ignore them. My tooth is so loose that I can't stop spinning it around in my mouth with my tongue. Ray doesn't say much at the table, other than telling the boys that he is going to throw them outside if they don't pipe down. My mom drinks red wine from a jelly jar and speaks in her slow southern drawl. She kisses Ray in a sloppy way and then sits on his lap and sings: “I went to the animal fair, the birds and the beasts were there…The monkey he got drunk and sat on the elephant's trunk. The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees, and that was the end of the monk, the monk, the monk.”

When Ray looks over at me, his eyes are as red as his beard. I turn away because I don't like when people stare at me. And I happen to know that people stare longer when they have been smoking grass. I take a swig from my bottle of orange Fanta and try not to look at my mom or Ray. Eden complains that there's no dessert. Jamie dips his canned sardines into a bowl of ketchup and says he's eating bloody fish. Ray and my mom kiss some more.

I climb up to the rafters, tired and queasy, and lay out my sleeping bag between the two-by-fours. The floor space is divided up into small rectangular plots, so each of us has our own sideboards to prevent us from rolling on top of each other—or off the rafters.

I'm so tired but I can't quiet all the thoughts in my mind. Jamie and Eden are already asleep across from me. I stare at the wooden beams just above my head, watching shadows dance from the candlelight down below. I hear my mom and her boyfriend whispering. When I press my eye to a crack in the floorboards, I can see a thin slice of them. Down below, underneath the torn quilt, he is allowed to touch her skin. He can touch her in a way that I can't. I wonder why she lets him. In this moment, I hate her. I wish she were more than an occasional mother to us. I imagine her skin, cool and polished like sea glass. I wish that I were Ray, nestled close to her, her warm skin touching me and her arms hugging me until I knew I was safe.