"...can I ask you one thing?" he said. "Call her more often. She doesn't have a whole lot of people to talk to. Only a few friends. (antisocial)..."
I thought for a moment. She needed me. Now. Again. Why was I so put off by this? I had forgiven her years ago. Hadn't I?
"...As far as mom goes, we have the relationship that we have and it is what it is. I have always loved her and always will, but there is a comfort level that we both respect when dealing with each other and mom can't handle what is going on with me right now. It's better for me to protect her. She's never been very strong and although I used to resent her for that when I was a child, I am now protective of her...like you are...", I replied to him.
All via email of course because why would we have actual human interaction in this family?
He is so young and so old now all at once. How did he get that way? She raised him so differently. She stayed for him. How did he get that way?
Is it the price we pay for having her as a mom...even if she stays?
Can any of us remember a "childhood"?
Jennifer can.
Jennifer was set free.
Jennifer was 3.
Yet...
Of all of us, Jennifer is the one who is most like "her" when she was at her almost worst...
...except Jennifer would never leave her children.
Jennifer is defined by her children and has no separate identity.
Is that because our mother left her as if she didn't exist?
Should we count Jen among the casualties of our childhood deaths of the soul?
Because Jennifer is so much like our mother, I have removed her from my life.
One of "her" has always been more than I could bare.
How did Jen end up like her?
Jennifer had a childhood, but no mother.
Jennifer had a father, but no mother.
Jennifer had love, but no mother.
Jennifer was always protected from it all.
Jennifer was always the "victim" in our mother's choice to go.
Poor Jennifer.
It was somehow understood that she would leave me.
I was old.
I was almost 10.
I had no mother, but I was 10.
I had no father, but I was 10.
I lived with my grandpa and lesbian aunt before being gay was "cool", but it was OK because I was 10.
"When your mother calls, don't tell her about anything that's bothering you. Talk to me. We mustn't get her upset. She can't handle it," he said every Sunday night before that magical phone call.
I could handle it. After all, I was 10. 2 digits. I had a boom box and a mauve 12-speed Raleigh.
I could handle it.
I puffed out my flat little chest with pride at that knowledge.
I could cook now. I could plan a meal. I could make my own icing and bake heart-shaped layered cakes for my grandpa. I could burn the shit out of butterscotch pudding like no other. I could polish silver. I could wax the furniture. I could set the table with the good china. I knew how to get the spots off glasses and make sure there were no water spots on the faucet. I could do laundry. I could iron every little pleat in my Catholic school uniform. I could sew buttons on work shirts and pajama tops. I could curse a blue streak in Italian. I was 10. It's a pretty big deal.
Every night for 2 hours I would dance my ass off in front of our mirrored wall in the living room, acting out every ballet and Broadway play that I had ever seen. All for his amusement as he read The Journal and rested his eyes. He never asked me to lower the volume.
This convinced me that he was deaf. And blind.
His eyes watered when my mom told him I would move to Florida for high school.
I had only witnessed his crying once before. That was when our dog was hit by a car. I knew he loved me.
Jennifer was the lucky one.
She never asked for Jennifer to come back.
She left her alone. She stayed out of her life.
This is how I knew she hated me.
My carefree days of no yelling, not watching suicide "attempts", and no snide remarks about my late father were about to end.
Cue the razors, pills, revolvers, and temper tantrums...our mother was in a relationship.
Back to walking on egg shells.
Back to awaiting the other shoe to drop.
Back to hiding her pills, dulling her razors and praying that she wasn't stupid enough to play with her department-issued revolvers.
(She was stupid enough...but somehow lucky enough not to kill either of us.)
Is that a gray hair...? I'm 13, dammit!
POOF!
14 now and motherless again.
She wasn't dead.
She was two blocks away in a condo.
She drove past our house every day and never stopped.
I saw her a few times a year.
Never at her request.
She rolled coins for my 16th birthday because I didn't deserve real money.
No gift. Just rolled quarters.
My gift was her not calling or seeing me for my birthday.
Or my dance recitals and competitions.
Or my graduation.
She saw me cheer once. Once.
The next year she cancelled a check to my drill team for my uniforms and costumes just to embarrass me.
She was never there when it mattered....or even when it didn't.
Some man was always more important and ruled her crazy little world.
Men. And horses. Not her children.
She told me to leave as soon as my grandfather's funeral was over. I was 17. I was the only one who had spoken to her. Embraced her. It was a slap. It hurt. It was the last time it would hurt.
I know why I was never a child. But what about him?
She stayed for him. Raised him. Gave him everything. EVERYTHING! She talked to him. She LOVES him. How did he get to be so old at not-yet-18?
Is this the price we pay for having her as a mom...even if she stays?
I slept Saturday night.
