An Abbreviated Life

by Ariel Leve

  BUT I DID break free. I am here now, in Bali, and I must learn to control the impulses that will destroy the loving climate I thrive in, one that I have fought hard to achieve. I have the scary feeling of not knowing what will happen. The tiniest rupture feels like a chasm. It is not about the moment; it is forty-five years of history, and I want to know the future is secure. I just want I just need I just I just. I let it go. And I, in spite of my need to be reassured, focus instead on the good feelings. I trust, which is so hard to come by, that it will be okay. That I will be okay. No matter what.

  42

  Nearly a year has gone by and I haven’t called my mother. She does not know where I am and I’ve moved our communication to email only, with the promise that I will respond.

  I stare at an email that has arrived—sent from Helena, a “former student” of my mother’s who can work a computer. She has been recruited to take dictation. I read my mother’s words typed by Helena.

  My mother wonders whether she will ever hear from me. In the face of my rejection, she can’t write, her self-esteem is plummeting, and she can no longer be a happy person. She begs me for at least a few sentences on a routine basis. They would restore her life, she promises. Without knowing where I am, she can’t function. She is sure I don’t want to cause her such pain—so she says—but it is impossible for her to continue without knowing how to reach me, what I am thinking, or having some communication. She beseeches me to find it within me to answer her, to get in touch. Without it, she is crippled emotionally. It would take away her pain and it is, she says, the decent thing to do.

  I IMAGINE THAT if someone were to see this, they would think what a horrible daughter I must be. Heartless, as my mother says. Indecent. But disconnecting is something that is necessary or I will be devoured. It is her or me—and I choose me. There is no middle ground. And slowly I discover that I am able to ignore these emails without fear of retribution. I shrug off the frantic nature, the cries for help, the pleas to stay close. There will be people who see this as insensitive or even unkind. I can accept that. There is nothing I miss.

  “DO YOU MISS me?” my mother asks. “Do you love me?” There was no answer other than yes.

  IN THE MIDDLE of the night, I wake up from a dream. I sit up in the bed, breathless and soaked with sweat. I can feel my chest rise and fall with the depth of my breath. The dream took place at 180. Most of my dreams are set there. I am in the apartment, usually in my childhood bedroom, and my mother is looking as she did when I was a child; she doesn’t age. When I wake up, I remember it for an instant, and then it’s gone. The sensation remains. The emotions are as they were then without time or intellect to mitigate them. I am frightened. In the dream I am hiding or panicking or twisting and turning the doorknob of a door that won’t open.

  I often bolt upright and shout a word so loudly it awakens me. “STOP!” I have rarely woken up from a dream without feeling grateful it was over. If I do remember a dream, it is a dream I have escaped from and have no desire to return to. It’s always, thankfully, just a dream. If I have pleasant dreams, I lack the ability to recall them. When I go to bed, what I wish for is a sleep without dreams.

  Mario, half asleep, asks, “Are you okay?”

  I say, “Yeah, I had a bad dream.”

  He says, “Me, I dream of fishing and I caught a pompano.” He rolls over and mutters, “But there was no room in the freezer.”

  In the morning, the first thing he says is “Non faccio per vantarmi ma oggi è una bellisima giornata.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “I don’t want to brag, but today is a very beautiful day.”

  I HAVE DECIDED to call my mother at an appointed time, and at first she is overjoyed and grateful to hear from me. “I had no idea what happened to you, no idea where you were. Don’t you think I was worried?”

  “I’m fine,” I say. Addressing a concern I don’t feel is about me.

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m not going to tell you.”

  I have never said this before. She doesn’t take it well.

  “Well, I called Interpol looking for you.”

  “Interpol?” I snort. “You’re not serious.”

  “I am,” she says.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said my daughter was missing.”

  Because Interpol—the International Criminal Police Organization that hunts down terrorists, drug traffickers, people being sought for war crimes or for smuggling children for sex slavery or who have committed genocide—this is the organization to call when a daughter wants to have time off from her mother. Perhaps she feels it falls under crimes against humanity.

  “I’m not missing,” I tell her.

  I say this soberly and with a declaration of independence she doesn’t hear.

  She moves on. “Is there any possibility you can live in New York? Would you like to?” Her attempt to get me to commit to her causes an immediate panic, and I am tense.

  My voice is clipped. “I don’t know.”

  “I would love you to. I’m old. And I miss you. I’d like to see you as much as I can. I love you more than any words can say. You’re always in my heart. I’m so proud of you, Ariel. I’m so lucky to be your mother.”

  “Thank you,” I say. And then because she needs to hear it, “Love to you, too.”

  “You’re the greatest thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll speak to you soon.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I just said, ‘Love to you, too.’”

  She laughs off the remoteness. She doesn’t want to push me away. “You’re a character. Can I tell you I had a dream last night about Martin Scorsese? Are you ever in touch with him?”

  “No. I’m not in touch with anyone.”

  “Well, you’re in touch with your muse.”

  “I have to go.”

  “I just want to tell you as long as you’re in touch with yourself, that’s most important.”

  “Okay. I have to go.”

  “I love you.” She makes smacking kissing sounds into the phone. “I love you so much. Thank you so much for making my day happy.”

  HER CHILDLIKE MANNER plunders my heart. And I feel, in spite of my rage, guilty. Because she can’t help herself. And she has no idea of the effect it has on those she loves. For so long I was imprisoned by her moods and her threats and her whims. Believing if I didn’t give in, she would suffer. I was responsible for her suffering. There were days I was made of paper and days I was made of steel.

  “ALL I WANT is for you to be happy,” she says before we hang up.

  What I need to be happy is to be free. She doesn’t want that.

  NOW WHEN I hear “You’re my reason to live,” I don’t feel beholden to those words. I don’t have to give in to the control. Time off has been a rebirth. The guilt and shame of being responsible for her are fading.

  43

  I met your mother,” he says, beginning cautiously. I look at him and nod. I will discover nothing new. The scenario is familiar. A stranger has had an experience with my mother, and I steel myself for the story he will tell. I will not show embarrassment. I will not reveal shame. My discomfort will remain private. I will sit listening quietly, and the anger that I feel from being put in this position will recede. I will monitor my response so as not to expose my humiliation. To do that would be unprofessional. We are seated in his office. It is a setting that is in my world, my professional world.

  I KNOW THIS story before it’s told. The cadence will differ. The details will be new. The manner in which it’s told will display scorn or pity or intolerance or disbelief. If it’s scorn, I will feel protective of her. I will keep it to myself and absorb the shrapnel of her actions. I will not flinch.

  There is a kindness in his voice. This is a relief. He does not sound alarmed. He tells the story in a placid way that sugge
sts he has had experience with this kind of behavior. Without having met him before, we already have a bond.

  “She called me out of the blue.” He took the call, he says, because she knew his father. He doesn’t have to continue because I know where it will go. She will use this connection to seize on his sentiments. I don’t know to what degree or how involved he will have become before he figures this out. But there is nothing he will say that will surprise me.

  He continues. “And after speaking with her for a while, I went to her apartment.”

  This surprises me. Not that she asked, but that he went. I am surprised by the responses she is able to elicit. That people, emotionally intelligent and rational people, can’t see through the charm. But why would they? They don’t get it. Until they get it.

  The visits were at first, he says, interesting. She told him stories that he appreciated. They included his father. But after a few visits, he learned that her sense of entitlement was unreasonable. She expected more time from him than he gave to his friends. To his children. He let her know this wasn’t possible. She said she understood.

  She went away. He got back to his life. There was a lull.

  SHE CALLED HIM again. He felt an obligation. He wasn’t sure why. She told him she was all alone. She complained about her daughter not wanting to see her. Her only child. Whom she has always supported. She rhapsodized about her daughter. How brilliant she was. She suggested they get married.

  WHEN HE TOLD me this, I laughed slightly to minimize the awkwardness. I dismissed it as a harmless cultural cliché—the Jewish mother who wants her daughter to be married.

  He continued. When he told her he was not available to see her, she persisted. He is a caring person, and rejecting her had begun to feel uncharitable. This part of the story bothered me. Because he had succumbed to the manipulation. I felt impatient with his kindness because I knew it would be exploited. But then I appreciated his kindness, too. Because she needed it.

  The story ends with her locating his home number and calling him there. He began screening his calls at the office.

  He’d known her one month.

  WHEN I WAS in my early thirties I got a phone call from my mother’s cousin. My mother had been out of contact with me for several days. This would happen from time to time when she was preoccupied with her life, things were going well for her, and she didn’t need me. I was off duty. These interludes were cherished while they lasted.

  My mother’s cousin told me in a matter-of-fact manner, “Your mother was arrested.”

  Her boyfriend’s mother lived in Westchester. My mother had shown up at her house after the boyfriend had broken up with her.

  “Your mother pulled one of her fits on the lawn,” the cousin said. She was trying to find him. He didn’t want to be found. She tracked down where his mother lived. It was an ambush. His mother didn’t want to let her in. My mother was out of control. Broke a window. His mother had a heart condition and the stress was too much. Paramedics came and took her to the hospital. Charges were filed. My grandmother, who was frail and not in good health, had to pay thousands of dollars to the attorney to keep my mother out of jail.

  After that, my mother stayed at my grandmother’s house in Scarsdale to regroup. That’s why I hadn’t heard from her.

  SHOCK WAS NO longer a part of my life. When I heard the stories about my mother’s behavior, the trouble she was in, the damage she had caused, what I felt was relief. Not to have been there. Concern was absent. Sadness was dismissed. Normal emotions had been extinguished by years of experience. Move on. This is what I tell myself.

  “HOW DID MY mother get to Westchester?”

  This was the only question I asked.

  Because my mother didn’t drive. And I couldn’t imagine that in her highly agitated state she would be composed enough to navigate train schedules. I couldn’t see her waiting on the platform.

  “She probably took a taxi,” the cousin said.

  After the arrest, her three half-siblings stopped speaking to her for a while because of what she put Grandma through. One of them never spoke to her again. She felt they abandoned her. She blames what happened on the medication she was taking at the time.

  THE NEW MEDICATION made her crazy. That was the reason. The Optifast liquid diet for a month made her lose her mind. That was the reason. It was the diet pills. They were speed. It was never her fault. And when it was, it was worse. The lucid moments were lethal.

  “I’m sick,” she would say. “I need help.” These heartfelt admissions would draw me in. The self-awareness was convincing. “I am not well. I know that. I’ve been a terrible mother.” The confessions were like a narcotic. They smoothed over the pain. Acknowledgment was an anti-inflammatory. The salve that always wore off. But the need to believe it would work remained.

  IT WAS HER mother’s fault for ignoring her. Her father’s fault for forsaking her. It was my fault for not making her happy. She deserves to be happy after all she’s done for me.

  I must show her compassion. It must be executed in the ways she demands. If I challenged the sickness or expressed hostility, I would suffer more than if I stayed silent.

  “How dare you say that to me? I’m not the one who’s sick. You’re the one who’s sick. You need help. Do you know that? You’re a sick individual.”

  “I’m not sick, you are—you admitted it!”

  These confrontations were unwinnable.

  THE CUMULATIVE EFFECT was for me to hide. To hide is to exist.

  WHEN I WAS fifteen, we took a trip to Greece on a summer break. A friend of mine from high school joined us. The first night in Mykonos, my mother took a nap and the friend and I went out. When we returned, my mother was hysterical. A legitimate concern (a worried mother) had become an apocalyptic event. I knew how to calm her down, but my friend wasn’t trained. When my mother called her a bitch or a slut, she fought back. I tried to stop her, but I couldn’t. She just took off. She grabbed her passport and disappeared. But I was stuck. We continued on to Crete without my friend. I didn’t know what happened to her. She was there and then she was gone. My mother told me we were better off without her. Somehow my friend found her way back to New York City. When I began school again in the fall, she had told everyone in my class what had happened.

  “See?” my mother said. “I told you that girl was a bitch.” This pacified the humiliation. She was on my side. That’s how it felt.

  She would protect me from the mayhem she had created.

  DURING ARGUMENTS AND conflict, there was never a voluntary ending. No “End of discussion” or “That’s it, we’re done.” The end would come only on her terms. When the person she was engaged with was so worn down and beleaguered, they would relent and give in to whatever she was demanding. A plan. Or a time. Or an answer that was satisfactory. Persistence was a wrecking ball.

  But sometimes her need was purely for conflict. And when that happened, it was not about extracting something absolute. A time, a place, an answer would be given, but it wouldn’t be enough. There would be something deeper, more urgent, more important that had to be addressed. Her stamina in the pursuit was as vigorous as her ability to recover. Her tolerance for conflict stretched indefinitely without ever snapping.

  WHEN SHE SAT on top of me and held me down, straddling me to keep me from leaving her, I knew when to become limp and resist so that I could break loose. I knew when to give in because to respond in a rational manner was in vain. The fighting nature I have is from her. Anger was my armor. Defiance was my shield. She could never imagine she supplied the weapons that would be used against her. To protect myself. But she passed on an imperative to survive. To survive was to withhold. To pull back was mandatory. There was always a system in place.

  IN MY TWENTIES, I continued to hide by screening my calls. I would tell her, “I don’t feel like talking.” That statement wasn’t recognized. I wish I could have said, “Let’s talk when we feel like it.” That would have been a luxury. A pleas
ure. But it wasn’t possible. She had to have set plans. She needed an outcome that soothed her anxiety.

  Denying her this was a problem. I agreed to meet once a week. Having a fixed date was a solution. During these lunches, I would be careful not to disclose details of my life that she would store in her memory. Sometimes I would slip up. I would reveal what I was doing—with someone else—and she would feel left out.

  “Why don’t you include me?”

  I would have to evade the question with a dexterity that didn’t injure her.

  There was the cross-examination.

  “Where are you going?” she asks. It sounds like an accusation.

  “I’m having dinner with a friend.”

  “Oh, really.” Her voice goes up an octave. “Who?”

  “What does it matter?”

  “I want to know you. I want to know your life.”

  Wearily I respond. “Kelly.”

  “I see.” There is no interest in how I know Kelly or who Kelly is.

  She asks, “How is it that you have time for Kelly and no time for me?”

  WHEN SHE WOULD make the comparisons, which she did often, to other mother-daughter relationships, I stayed silent.

  “Why can’t we have a relationship like Roz and her daughter? Her daughter invites her to things all the time. They’re best friends. How do you think that makes me feel? It makes me so sad you don’t want to spend time with me. People ask me why my daughter will only see me once a week. It’s embarrassing.”

  MEETING HER ONCE a week became impossible when I began working in London. At that point, in my late thirties, for the first time I became unreachable because I had a phone number that I refused to give her. Nor would I give her an address. I was in therapy and this is what my therapist suggested.