The Other Side of Darkness (5 page)

To my surprise this makes me laugh. For one thing, people don’t usually criticize my mom’s cooking, not to her face, but besides that, I’ve never heard my mom say the word
doggy-doo
before.

“I asked Sammy how he knew what doggy-doo tasted like,” she continues as she places the lasagna in the microwave, “and he told me that he could
imagine
how it would taste.” She shakes her head. “He could
imagine!
Only four years old and he can
imagine
. Well, I’m sure that boy must be gifted.”

“Or maybe he just spends too much time around adults.”

She nods. “Yes, it always did concern me that Lynette waited so long to have children. But she says little Sammy loves his Montessori school and is doing very well.”

It seems strange that I’m almost enjoying myself as I eat leftover lasagna with my mom, listening to her prattle on about things that really don’t interest me. And despite a little prick here and there, like when she makes the comments about my “having the girls in a
hoity-toity private Christian school
” and “how
pretty
Lynette looked with her chic new hairstyle last night” and how “Jeff’s graphic design business just won a national award,” I think my mother might actually be changing, softening some. I know she’s been going to some kind of counseling, and it gives me hope. It also gives me courage. As I help her rinse the dishes and load the dishwasher, I bring up the subject of finances.

“Things have been pretty tight for us lately.” I twist the dishtowel until it resembles a rope, wishing I’d never opened my mouth.

“This economy,” she says lightly, taking the deformed dishtowel away from me, giving it a firm shake, then smoothing it out to remove the wrinkles.

“With the added expense of the girls’ tuition,” I continue nervously, “and trying to put away some money for Matthew’s college—”

“Has Matthew decided to continue his education after all?”

“Not exactly. But we’re hoping he will, in time.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, we’re having a hard time making ends meet this month. I mean, something sort of unexpected came up, and I—”

“Are you asking me for money, Ruth?” Suddenly her eyes get that old, hard look. The blue might be paler with age, but the intensity is just as hot.

“Well, I—”

“You know how I hate to say I told you so, but I always warned you that you and Rick got married far too young, and to make matters worse, you started your family much too soon. Remember how I told you it would be very hard to catch up?” She hangs the dishtowel on the oven handle, then turns to me. “Your father and I made certain that our finances were well in order before starting our family. Sure, it meant we had to wait a bit, but our car was paid for, and we bought a house long before Lynette was born.” She sighs and shakes her head. “It’s just how people did things in
our
day. We believed in stability.”

“I know, Mom. And, really, we were doing okay. It’s just this tuition—”

“I don’t understand that either. Public schools were good enough
for you kids. I don’t see why they’re not good enough for your children. And when I think of the school taxes I pay—”

“Just forget it,” I say as I head to the door. I want to remind her that her youngest grandson—the gifted one—is in private school too, but it will do no good. What’s acceptable for Lynette has always been too good for me. “Sorry I even asked,” I mutter as I reach for my purse.

“You don’t need to get in a huff, Ruth. After all, I
am
your mother. If I can’t speak my mind to you, who can? You’ve always had such a stubborn streak, such a hard time respecting authority.”

I turn and look at her. “When did I have a hard time respecting authority?”

“Oh, you know, the way you used to challenge me about every little thing. You were a handful as a child. There’s no denying that.”

Now I know it’s time to bite my tongue. The Lord will not be glorified if I start screaming at my mother and acting like a complete lunatic. Even if every word from her mouth is a bald-faced lie, there’s no need to fight about it. I remind myself of the familiar scripture that says to respect your parents. But more than anything I want to yell at this cruel woman. I want to lash out and remind her of how I was her whipping girl, how I got blamed for things I never did, how I was left out, picked on, and often simply ignored. I want to remind her of how Lynette,
the beautiful
, and Jonathan,
the baby
, got away with everything while I, Ruth,
the unwanted
, usually got stuck with all the crud. Somehow—maybe it’s the Lord’s grace—I manage to keep quiet. But I’m fuming inside, and I’m sure my face is flaming red.

“Oh, Ruthie, you should see yourself. You look just the way you did when you were a little girl. The way your mouth is all puckered
up and your eyes like little black fireballs.” She laughs. “It’s rather cute.” But the way she says this is demeaning. Clearly an insult.

“Glad I could amuse you, Mother,” I say in a tightly controlled voice as I reach for my shoes.

“Don’t run off in a big huff.” She’s relocated herself to the living room now, sitting on her pale blue velvet couch with her legs casually crossed and patting the seat beside her. “Come on over here, and tell me how much you need. Maybe we can work something out.”

Feeling just like a stupid fly heading straight into a spider’s web, I set my purse back on the marble-topped table and slowly walk back toward her and down the steps to the sunken living room, where I pause and consider running in the other direction.

“Good grief, Ruth, come and sit down!” She slaps the couch again.

But I choose the chair across from her instead, carefully sitting as I wait for this woman’s next move.

“First I have some questions.”

I press my lips together and simply nod.

“Well, as I already said, I always felt that you and Rick started your family far too soon. But there’s nothing to be done about that now. So I won’t say another word about it. Just the same, I’d like to know why you think it’s so important for the girls to be in a private school, a school that it appears you are unable to afford. Can you answer that?”

So I launch into the same explanation I gave her during the Fourth of July picnic at my sister’s house last summer, telling her how low the academic standards have gotten in public schools, how lax the morals and values are, and how the school board has even considered placing condom machines in the rest rooms. She actually nods as I speak, almost as if she can accept my rationale.

“I suppose some of that may be true. But, goodness, this is only October, Ruth. If you’re struggling financially now, how will you manage to get through the rest of the year?”

“Oh, the worst of it is over.” I admit to how we used our savings to cover a year’s worth of tuition for both girls. “It’s just made things a little tight for the time being.”

Her pale blue eyes grow wide with horror. “You bankrupted your savings?”

Now I realize I’ve said too much. Far too much.

“Oh dear …” She shakes her head, her lips tightly pressed together in clear disapproval.

“I’m going to get a job, Mom. Soon.”

“Well, that should help some.”

“And, really, we’ll be just fine.” I stand, ready to give up, wondering why I even bothered and how I could be so stupid as to think anything had changed. Nothing ever changes between my mom and me. The sooner I figure this out, the better things will be for everyone. I didn’t even pray about this impromptu visit. What was I thinking?
What was I thinking?

I head toward the door again. “I’m sorry to bother you with—”

“How much do you need?” She’s on her feet now, walking toward the big oak desk against the far wall, the same desk my dad once used for paying bills and whatnot. The roll top makes a familiar squeak as it’s pushed up to reveal a neatly organized desk.

I consider her question and, without really thinking, toss out a figure. “Five hundred dollars.” Now I realize that it’s more than the checks I need to cover, but I figure my mother can easily afford it. “And I’ll pay you back as soon as I get a job.”

She sits down and slowly writes out the check. But each stroke of
her pen feels like a lashing, like I am being whipped, disciplined for my foolishness. And I recall the times when this same woman made me go outside to cut a switch from the big wisteria bush in the front yard to be used against my bare legs as punishment for some real, or more likely imagined, offense. I hold back tears as she hands me the check. My whip.

“Thank you,” I say in a choked voice.

“I know you’ll pay me back, Ruth. And I won’t charge you any interest as long as you pay it back within six months.”

Interest?
I know for a fact that both Jonathan and Lynette received money from her that was not only interest free but just
plain free
. Still, I keep these thoughts to myself. I am wearing my flat face again. Just like the old Etch A Sketch screen that’s been shaken and shaken and shaken. And as I walk to my car, I am shaking too.

Dear Lord, forgive me for hating my mother. Dear Lord, forgive me for hating my mother
. I run this sentence through my head so many times that one sentence seems to link right into the next, going around and around in a tight circle, each word merging into the next, until it feels like they are wrapping themselves like a noose around my neck.

Finally I literally smack my hand against my forehead as I attempt to mentally wipe away my nonsensical prayer by saying “amen”
seven
times. There has always been something magical about the number seven. I can’t really explain it and wouldn’t want to, but I know that if I say “amen” seven times it will end this nonsense.

Even so, my mother’s worn-out words about how Rick and I got married too young, started our family too soon begin to taunt me. Good grief, how many times have I heard those words over the past nineteen years? Can’t she get over it? But something about those
words feels different today … something in me is worried that perhaps my mother was right. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe my marriage, my whole life, has been just one great big mistake. Maybe the Lord is punishing me. Why else would I be so miserable?

I can recall only about three or four years in my life—between the ages of eighteen and twenty-one—when I felt like I was really doing okay, like my life was on track and I was somewhat content with who I was and what I was doing. Oh, things weren’t perfect, but it was okay. The rest of the time, both before and after, I have felt sadly and increasingly insufficient. Always falling short of everyone’s expectations, including my own. Never good enough. Never fitting in. Never really happy. Never enough. Never enough.

But I allow myself to go back. Back to when I was eighteen, shortly after graduation. The happiest day of my life was when I moved out of my parents’ house. Sharing an inexpensive apartment with my best friend, Colleen, who amazingly had settled down thanks to her newfound religion, I started going to community college part-time and working in a little deli the rest of the time. And although I was struggling to make good grades as well as ends meet, I had never been more fulfilled in my life. Or more free. Finally it seemed like I was living like Mary Tyler Moore, and Colleen was my Rhoda. Or maybe it was the other way around.

Colleen tried to get me to come to her new church, Valley Bridge Fellowship, but I regularly blew her off. “I was raised in church,” I told her. “And I’ve had more than enough of that to last a lifetime.”

Ironically, this religious experience was all fresh and new to Colleen, and after a while I could see that she was actually changing. And the changes were pretty impressive. So finally, partly from curiosity and partly from being worn down by her constant pleading, I gave
in and went to church with her. And Valley Bridge Fellowship was refreshingly different from the church of my childhood. So I continued to go with Colleen. But I was mostly a spectator in those days. I held myself back, refusing to take the big plunge and commit my heart to the Lord. I guess I was waiting.

I had just turned twenty when a cute guy began handling the route that made deliveries to the deli where I worked. I started flirting with him right off, and it wasn’t long before he “accidentally” dropped off the wrong package at my apartment. I invited him in for a Coke and learned his name was Rick Jackson. Shortly after that we started dating, and it quickly turned serious. I wasn’t even twenty-one when I married him, quit school, and quit my job, and our first child, Matthew, was born the following year.

While I was pregnant with Matthew, I started taking church and God more seriously. Rick claimed to be a Christian but was never too interested in going to church with me. Sunday was his only day to sleep in, and nothing would make him give that up. So Colleen, still single, continued to pick me up every Sunday morning while my husband snoozed. I finally committed my life to the Lord just a few months before Matthew was born. It seemed the right thing to do, and for a while I rode this kind of spiritual high, and it seemed that things were really changing for me. Plus I had this amazing peace—a peace I’d never experienced before. I knew it was real, and I knew it was from God.

Rick had wanted to name our firstborn son Taylor, but I insisted on a biblical name: Matthew, after the first gospel in the Bible, which I’d just started to read. And I secretly hoped to have three more sons, whom I would subsequently name Mark and Luke and John, after the other gospels. Rick should be thankful that we
had only girls after that. But we were happy back then. Life was simpler. And we were in love.

Cheered by those old memories, I smile to myself as I drive through the business section of town. Things will be better now. My mother’s check is safely zipped in my purse, and life is, once again, under control. I park in front of the bank and go inside. I don’t like using the drive-up window; I worry that the teller will make a mistake or money will get lost in that strange black tube. I carefully fill out the deposit form, putting most of the check into our account, enough to cover my recent “errors.” But I take the remainder out in cash, asking for fives and tens, which I hide in the zipper pocket of my purse.