“I do love you, girl.” She smiled. “Let’s have a bit of the Crisp White! You get the glasses.”
“You want one?” I asked Kim, who was busy winding Rick’s kids up to a point of no return.
“One what?” she replied.
“A glass of Mom’s white wine?” I answered.
“Yes!” she said. “Make it a LARGE.”
Grabbing three crystal glasses out of the cabinet, I brought them over to Mom, who was preparing the spout on her five-liter box of Franzia Crisp White. I wasn’t really a fan of the “Crisp White,” a touch too sweet for my palate, but not unlike my most recent trip to my mom’s “other” house and “other” world, I wasn’t calling the shots here. I was just having a free drink.
Turning away to provide Kim her glass, Mom’s voice trailed off. “I have something for you, A,” she said, retreating into the laundry room.
Leaning back against the countertop I sipped my drink, watching Kim regale Rick’s kids with hilarious instructions regarding personal hygiene. “You must wash your hands,” she nearly screeched, waving her arms about. “After you do the poop.”
This delighted the kids, especially Otto, who was chanting, “Pooper Scooper, Pooper Scooper!” over and over again. Finn, on the other hand, was winking at Kim while comically slapping his own butt. This sent her into even higher orbit, making me wonder who was winding whom up.
“Here you go,” Mom huffed, returning with several file folders on top of a book.
Flipping through the files, I read the tabs, in Dad’s longhand cursive handwriting. “Amy – Texas Tech Grades”; “Amy – Teeth”; and “Amy – Surgery.” The first two were pretty self-explanatory, my transcripts from Tech and my dental records. The last, “surgery,” intrigued me enough to open it now rather than wait until later, as my surgical experiences had been as limited as my sexual ones.
The documents all referenced a plastic surgeon on FM1960. Wait. Plastic surgery? In 1989? They had the wrong daughter here, maybe Kim got a breast enhancement in ’89, but not me. Then I saw it, a heinous black-and-white picture from the side. It was me. It all came flying back … my dramatic, emergency plastic surgery. It was the summer of ’89 (not ’69, apologies to Bryan Adams) and I was a counselor at Camp Olympia. I was playing basketball and wearing earrings when a camper got her finger caught up in the golden hoop I was wearing while we were under the basketed hoop. Somehow, the force of her finger combined with our rapid downward spiral ripped the earring through my earlobe, leaving a wide-open gash. When I had finally called Dad and described the injury, he insisted I come home. He scheduled the plastic surgeon and I was henceforth returned to pristine condition.
I was a plastic-surgery survivor. This meant that I could regale my friends with tales of woe from my “plastic surgery” experience, tantalizingly leaving out the details, leaving them to think my breasts had been reduced due to the strain on my young, collegiate back.
This was a good day, indeed.
With a smile still beaming across my medically improved face, I examined the book. It was my Bible, my green Children’s Living Bible. Though I would have recognized it regardless of the time or place, it was even more striking now that I had just seen it, in brand-new condition, in the near past.
“Thanks, Mom …” I said as I looked flipped through the creased pages.
“I’m going to go check on the damn grill,” she said after taking another a sip of her wine.
“Can I help?” I asked.
“Not unless you can get your father to do his small part, his only part,” she said.
I said nothing and watched her walk out of the kitchen, again shuffling, but this time muttering, “You said you would help, but do you? No. You said, ‘Now Mama, I’ll light the grill’ and did you light it? NO!”
After a series of falls, eye surgery, and other health concerns, Mom didn’t get around very well. Her balance was off, she was physically weak and her depth perception was compromised. None of that stopped her from going about her regular business, including trips to the hairdresser and the Walmart. Suddenly, I realized that what I had perceived as her transformation wasn’t so much due to her sudden aging, but because when I supposedly went back in time, I had seen her in a totally different light.
Not only had I witnessed her treating Little Amy, or me, differently than Rick and Kim—something I guess I knew was real but hadn’t ever completely validated my own memory of—I had also seen her as a contemporary, as a mom and wife just trying to survive all the goodness, and badness, until the next day, when it all started over again.
She chafed under the expectations of her own parents, particularly her mother, who could be sweet, cruel, loving and demanding. Next, she was living in a world that expected her to be a domestic goddess, and love it. Did she really want to be a domestic goddess? Some people did, but did she? Did she find satisfaction in folding sheets, preparing meals and taking people to band rehearsal and soccer practice? And what about her marriage? Was that what she really wanted? Sure, she had married one of the best guys I knew, my father, but did that mean he was the right guy for her?
Is that why she drank?
Perhaps a slight buzz made her feel not whole, not invincible, but optimistic enough to feel like she was capable of something significant. It was an impact that wouldn’t just be appreciated by others, but more importantly, by herself. In the drink she found self-validation, or at least the tiny roots of it. The only difference between us, her and I, was that I “knew” when to stop, or at least I thought I did. But, if that was true, then why did the most dramatic, awful event of my life, the wrist-slashing, happen while I was completely drunk? Then again, maybe that, and all of my combined experiences, was why I had the self-awareness, as an adult, to know when to stop drinking? I had a built-in sensor.
What if, somehow, someway, she had given me the self-assurance she didn’t have, or hadn’t been given—the confidence I needed to know when to stop? What if she had pushed me so hard because she knew it was the only way I would be free of what imprisoned her?
I had always thought it was Dad who had given me the tools to survive real life with a smile on my face, but it made more sense that it was her, because only she could have known how desperately I needed it. Maybe she gave it to me without even knowing it and despite all the things that went terribly wrong.
Maybe it was the best gift of all.
And maybe it was why she didn’t like me—because we were so alike, not in the ways I had always feared, but in the best kind of ways, in the heart.
Love was easy; like was far more complicated.
It didn’t let her off the hook for making me feel like there was a huge difference in the way that I was loved versus the way Kim and Rick were. I guess it was something that I felt all along, and acted out on, but had never really believed it. Now I did. Regardless, if I could focus on the fact that she loved me, and she truly did, maybe I could find peace, not just for me, but for her too.
It would be almost impossible, in this house where we ran from our real feelings like an Olympic sprinter, but what if I spoke to her about it? Not here, not now mind you, but another time, not the right time, because the truth was there never would be an actual time that seemed right. What if I told her that I remembered all the bad stuff, and rather than giving her some empty promise that she was forgiven, even if she was, what if I explained to her that I thought our sameness, or the way she had raised me, aside from the conflict, had managed to make me strong, and mighty, and stable, and happy?
What if I told her that it was time to be honest, and honestly, we both knew it hadn’t been perfect, sometimes far from it, but we were OK? What if I told her I firmly believed she was the mom that God had given me for a reason? And what if instead of honesty ruining everything, telling her the truth, as I saw it— the presence of love, but the absence of like—freed both of us from the burden of remembering it, but not talking about it? Yes, what if by being totally authentic, out l
oud, in person, I could finally begin to shift my focus, my look back, on all the good that was truly there?
And what if the only way for her to be free of it, for her to feel the forgiveness she needed, the forgiveness we all needed, was for one of us, me, to take that one horrifying step toward honesty?
What if?
What if grace doesn’t mean that nothing happened or that everything is magically wiped away, but that you are loved despite the real presence of whatever happened? That’s what makes it so powerful … nobody deserves it. Not you. Not me. Not anyone.
What if?
What if, like Will had said, love really could fix anything? Could the simple act of choosing to love for the sake of loving mend not only our relationship, but allow us to both experience real peace? Could allowing love to direct everything I did, every choice I made, transform my existence?
And then, what if, like Mary had said, every life really does matter? Just because nobody would ever make a Lifetime movie out of all this, it didn’t mean that it wasn’t important enough to talk about, to take seriously. Just because it wasn’t a case of extremes didn’t mean it didn’t matter. In fact, it mattered just as much as if it was destined to make everyone cry on Good Morning America.
In a culture that celebrates exceptions, both tragic and triumphant, have we marginalized the vital significance of regular, everyday life? Do fewer and fewer people find the joys in “regular” living and show less compassion for the struggles associated with it, because we’ve accepted that only the exceptional, extraordinary life is worth discussing, dissecting and celebrating?
And what does social media do to propagate the process?
What if?
What if I went back in time, at this point in my life, with Mary, because she was safe and because I was finally ready to confront the questions I was sure I didn’t have? The questions that my brief, life-changing conversation with my dad had stirred up. He had said that he failed to “protect” me, but even that wasn’t enough for me to believe it. I had to see it for myself. Otherwise, I would have never, ever, in a million years, seriously considered talking to my mom. Out loud.
What if?
What if I went back now because I had finally decided to approach life as something to be thankful for, rather than something to bitch about?
What if?
What if I went back to 1978 not to check off every single item on my emotional agenda, but instead so I could understand how impossible it would be to have one’s menstrual cycle while using a belted napkin and wearing a snap-crotched turtleneck? Was it my destiny to salute and celebrate the hard-earned technological advancements in adhesives and functional fashion?
What if?
It was too much, I had felt too much. I needed to regroup. Walking back through the laundry room and into the family room I saw Jennifer convening an impromptu one-person meeting with the Black Friday sales ads. “Three-thirty a.m.,” she stated as she wrote on an official-looking yellow pad, a sparkle in her eyes, “Macy’s doorbusters, seventy-five percent off kids clothing, ladies jeans and small electronics … Now WHO needs a small electronic …” Out the back door, I went down the two steps into the garage and out into the driveway.
Silence. God, how I loved it. God, how I needed it, and God, how I didn’t need it.
Walking down the drive, I noticed how the setting sun mirrored the scene I had witnessed just twenty hours, and thirty years ago, on old Creekview Drive. The majesty of the long, elegant pine trees, loblolly to be precise, combined with the glow of evening caused time to stand still. Yes, clothing and cars could and would change, but some things, like a magnificent orange sky, the shadow of Spanish moss or the low buzz of crickets make it impossible to determine whether it’s 1978, 2018, or 1898.
Once out of doors, away from people, their stuff, and technology—the smells and the sounds were timeless. There was a comfort in that, experiencing the same environment that individuals had across the ages. Perhaps time travel is possible, maybe that’s where the wrinkle is, the one that allows the transportation between reality and memory.
Standing there in my forty-six-year-old body, destined to sag and wrinkle in the years I knew nothing about, I thought about Little Amy, about Big Amy, about younger Sue, about older Sue and about everyone who had played a part in the last forty-eight hours. Though I was still a long, long way from connecting all my emotional dots, I was closer, and, I knew one thing for sure. Yes, the one nugget of wisdom I could mine from the quarry of confusion was in the form of a desperate hope. I hoped that my own two boys were never, ever transported back to their childhoods.
What would they see there? Me throwing back a few drinks with my friends, steaming mad about my tortilla soup that exploded on the stove, or instead would they see the version of their childhoods that I played in my head, the highlight reel of us playing soccer in the backyard, making a movie trailer or that one time we made Christmas cookies, for seventeen freaking minutes.
The truth is, if they were given one thirty-six-hour window, they might see more of my unfortunate nature—the soup-spilling, cussing one—than the happy-go-lucky mommy, enthusiastically flipping flash cards, from my own mind.
Maybe I really was the decent parent I hoped I was, but the boys, thirty years from now, might not properly understand that, especially given only a few precious hours in the past. But they would understand that, right? They would get that I wasn’t perfect and they would love me anyway.
Why couldn’t I afford my mom and dad that same courtesy?
Perhaps grace-for-all, love, forgiveness and a fresh perspective was the lesson, or maybe it was about how I raised my kids, or about how I felt about myself?
Or, maybe, just maybe, it was learning that what we see of life, the transparent stuff on the surface, is nothing more than something to distract us from what is really going on.
Real life.
Just as I had almost unhinged the meaning of life, I heard the back door open behind me. Turning from the bottom of the driveway, I saw Rick and Kim coming down the steps and into the garage.
“There you are, friend,” Rick said, holding two pipes.
Kim was right behind him. “Sister of mine, we were looking for you.”
Retracing my steps up the uneven drive, we reunited at the edge of the garage. Rick gave me one of the two pipes and motioned to Kim, who had hers ready.
“Expect we deserve a celebratory smoke …” Rick stated, laying on a thick, yokel-like accent. “We got ‘er done today.”
“Yep,” Kim agreed, mimicking Rick. “We done survived Death Camp Thanksgiving Eve.”
Rick lit each of our pipes.
“I can’t believe anyone ever said ‘we couldn’t pipe,’” he continued, referring to an incident on his back porch when his then five-year-old daughter claimed we had no idea what we were doing. The pipes had been purchased as a working prop for our annual summer Brother-Sister weekend, and he’d held on to them ever since. “Yes sir,” he said dramatically. “This ain’t amateur hour, we are one-hundred percent pro-fess-ion-als. We are certified legit.”
Perching the pipe between his teeth, he moved a huge cooler to the edge of the garage. “Have a seat, lady friends,” he said, motioning toward the Igloo.
Still holding my old green Bible and the file folders, I turned to put them on Dad’s work bench. As I did, a small piece of paper fluttered to the ground. Reaching down to pick it up, I unfolded it and read the scratchy ballpoint handwriting. “Dear Amy,” it began. “Meeting you was the best part of this Thanksgiving. If you are ever wondering what to do, or are having a difficult time with something, here are what I think are the two most important things to remember in life: (1). No matter what the question (ANYTHING), LOVE is always the answer. (2). There isn’t anything in the world that LOVE can’t fix. I hope to see you again soon! Love always, Big Amy.”
It was my note. It was Will’s words of wisdom. She had saved it. We had saved it. I had saved it. She/We/I had def
ied her/our/my little ten-year-old freak self and saved it. And as sure I had been that it wouldn’t have made one damn bit of difference, I was positive it had changed everything.
“What are you looking at over there, sister?” Rick said. “We got unfinished business over here” he continued, motioning to me with his pipe.
“Yeah,” Kim agreed loudly. “This is biscuit-and-sausage time, put your reading materials away.”
Carefully placing the scrap of paper back in the Bible, I made a mental note to pick it up on my way back into the house. Then I would shove it, along with the note, into one of Mom’s 2000 Ziploc bags, offered up in a dizzying array of sizes and strengths. Then I would zip it carefully into the protective case of my backpack. No scratch that, I would make a copy, or several copies of the note first, upstairs on Dad’s 3-in-1 printer/ copier and then place one in each piece of my luggage and then mail myself an additional copy. Then I could take a picture of it with my iPhone, back it up on a flash drive and email it to myself for safekeeping. Then I could take a picture of it with the
Bible, and a video of me with all of it, along with a picture of me at ten years old. Then I could …
“Let’s go, sister! Pronto!” Kim bellowed.
Returning to the cooler, I worked hard to separate myself from the overwhelming number of thoughts and feelings I was experiencing. It felt like electricity. They had left me an open seat, in the middle. Kim fished three cans of Bud Light out of her coat pockets. “A little libation,” she said as she passed one to each of us. “Just a little something for your troubles.”
Popping the attached tab on the aluminum, low-calorie adult beverage, one I could somehow feel good about consuming, I realized, once again, that I was the widest and broadest of the three of us, taking up the most room between Kim’s undergarment-less white jeans and Rick’s hot-but-I-don’t-believe-it blue jeans. Crap. I should really try to lose some weight. Chugging a healthy sip of my beer, I changed my mind. I’d do that tomorrow, or after Thanksgiving. I’d be skinny by the time I went to England for my annual visit with Miss Julia in January. I’d be whole then.
You Cannot Mess This Up Page 32
