I am aware that my mom traveled to Greece sometime after she left us. I have gathered that from things my dad said in passing and photographs I glimpsed of her on the Aegean Sea with her roommate Karen, whom she mentions here in the letter. But I don’t think she ever made it back to us “tads” that Christmas.
I remember my mom once telling me about her Gran and how close they were. I wonder why she never sent off this letter—and why she’s kept it all these years.
I pull out another letter, addressed to her sister.
Dearest Joanna,
I am in limbo rather. Can’t quite get it together. I’m floating between Novato and Stuart’s and the city and feeling pretty lost. Fuck, I’m so uncertain—school? Teepee? Nepal with Stuart for three magic months? Back with the kids? Help! Too many choices. I want to escape to the woods most of all but I am so unsure of making it. The woods, the woods, the wonderful woods—woulds? Tomorrow I’m back, wonder if I should. No permanence is necessary, however—dear Obadiah. Are we children caught in the universal turmoil, or is the wood just wet and low? To have the good fortune to have so many opportunities is misfortune for me. I wish I had my sweet blue Car to help me decide—him being my best friend and all.
I close my eyes and watch my mom drive away in her “sweet blue Car.” Where did she flee to when she left? And if she wanted opportunity so much, why did she call it a misfortune? The chronology of her life after abandoning us has always been unclear to me. Even my father was uncertain as to her whereabouts much of the time—especially during the first few years after she disappeared and left him trying to pin her down for answers.
I continue reading.
Off to the wild, blue yonder. Canada can’t be so cold in September. I’m not deserting and shirking all responsibility. I’ll probably go to Florida actually—if I bus it, then I will have lots of time for thought and call my Gran at the same time.
I’m not sure how to react to my mom’s carefree musings about “where to go next” that blithely disregard her responsibilities. Maybe I should be outraged, but I’m not. I’m fascinated. Maybe I’m even jealous. Somewhere deep inside me, I can relate to my mother’s irrepressible desire to be free of everyone, everything. Maybe I have inherited this fleeting nature too. Though I love my children passionately, I leap at opportunities for time away from them.
It’s not a lack of love but a fierce desire to be alone. I need it often, this solitude, this time to think and figure things out. And it never feels like enough. At other times I wish I could disappear and come back as a new and improved mother—a top-of-the-line, high-efficiency model. Maybe that was my mom’s intention at one point, but it never materialized. Or maybe she feared she would never be anything more than a mother in life.
When I was standing in line at the dreaded dollar store several years ago, with an armful of cleaning supplies and cheap plastic containers, my daughter Bella blurted out a statement that caught me off guard and silenced me. She said, “Mama, how come you never wanted to be anything when you grew up?”
I was crushed by her perception of me. Was I just a mother and nothing else in her eyes?
The truth is, I never imagined being a mother. Growing up, I didn’t have it on my list of dreams. For a long time, I wanted to be an actress. Later, I dreamed of traveling as a photographer for National Geographic or going on archaeological digs where I would discover lost treasures and ancient artifacts. I was also certain that someday I’d ride on the Olympic equestrian team and have my own stable of horses. But it never occurred to me that I would follow in my mom’s footsteps and become a mother.
That familiar fear starts rattling around inside me again: what if a leaving tendency lies dormant inside me? Nobody believes me when I say this, but they don’t know how quickly lives can get derailed, how maybe my mom didn’t want to leave, or intended to leave only for a little while that became forever.
Then another thought shakes me: my brothers and I share a common history of longing for our mother, and I can’t help but wonder if all three of us may have made the same monumental mistake. Perhaps, in our silence after her departure, we gave her permission to leave. Maybe we unintentionally handed our mom three free tickets to travel the world with little or no guilt about the family she’d left behind. Maybe we handed her the orange Monopoly card that said “Get out of jail free anytime.”
Perhaps she was just testing the bounds of our love when she left, and we failed her. We waited for her to change her mind, but we didn’t fight for her or plead for her to come back. And even when she visited occasionally, we still never begged her to come back and stay for good. We were so awed to see her again in person that we never thought to ask for more, to try to win her back.
Maybe she needed someone to fight for her. Maybe she needed my dad to hold onto her and tell her she was good inside and out when she had thoughts of leaving us. And when she walked out the front door, maybe she needed us to grab onto her waist or wrap ourselves around her and beg her not to go. Maybe she was planning to come back but no one asked her.
So what did we do instead? Jamie, Eden, and I sat and waited on our porch steps on hot summer evenings while mosquitoes buzzed and bit our ankles and elbows. We went to the Marin County Fair, sunk our teeth into caramel apples, rode the Ferris wheel high up in the sky, and wished she was there with us. I hid under my yellow and green quilt with Bun-Bun at night and waited. I sat on the hay bales stacked high in the barn and wondered when we would see her next. I lay down alongside my hamster Fuzzy’s grave on our hillside with handfuls of yellow buttercups, and waited.
We were always waiting.
I stop reading her dabbles and letters because I am afraid. What if her letters trigger something unpredictable inside of me? Like my mom, I could go off track. What makes me immune from retreating to the woods or skipping out the front door into the wild, blue yonder?
NOW
transparent
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’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.
THEN
all things red
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?”
Pieces of My Mother Page 7
