Don't Call Me Mother

by Linda Joy Myers

  I wonder if I will recognize my mother. I watch a heart-stoppingly beautiful woman step down. She wears open-toed shoes, carries a paper bag and a small suitcase, and walks purposefully toward Gram. I watch them watch each other, and then I know it’s her. I break into a run, patent leather shoes tap tap tapping on the bricks. “Mommy, Mommy.” I fling myself at her, grabbing her legs, looking up into beauty itself, my mother’s soft eyes, her dark wavy hair. She smiles and kneels down so I can kiss her cheek. I can hardly believe that she is real.

  “Hi, Mommy. Do you think I’ve grown?”

  “Hi, Linda Joy,” Mommy says casually, as if we’ve been apart only a few hours. She kisses my cheek lightly, stiffens, and gets up.

  “Hello, Josephine,” my grandmother says in her cool voice.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  The great silver train growls and coughs under the wide blue sky.

  Mother’s musky scent fills the car as we roll home. I am suspended in a dream, watching her every move, trying to make up for all the missed time. I feel like crying. I didn’t cry for her while she was gone, knowing that if I started I might never stop. Somehow I can control it all when she’s away. Now that she’s here, I’m desperate for her, but I have to sit back while Mommy tells Gram about her job in Chicago. Gram misses Chicago. She still acts as if it’s her real home, even though we live in Enid.

  Once we get home, I track my mother through the house, trying to uncover her mystery. I question her about each brush and tube of makeup she put on the hall table, the mascara she brushes on her eyelashes. I reach out to touch the fine hairs on her face. She smiles at me absentmindedly, as if she has just realized I’m here. I drink her in with an unquenchable thirst.

  Gram seems a little upset or mad, her dark eyes shadowed with feelings. Mother gets coffee and an ashtray, then sits in the burgundy chair, her knitting needles clicking away. The silent air between them heats up like a hot wire. I watch my beautiful mothers, each of them with a part of the other inside. Unsaid words build up all that day and into the night. Finally, from my bed, I hear them fighting in the cadence I remember from Wichita. Later, Mommy slips between the sheets next to me. Her delicious aroma wafts over me as her dark hair flows across my pillow. I fall asleep wrapped in cottony dreams, breathing in the scent of my mother.

  The next morning, Gram is up early, smoking and pacing. I can tell that it will not be a good day. In the living room, the maroon ceiling presses down into the burgundy rug; smoke swirls in thick gray ropes. Mother saunters out from the bedroom and demands coffee.

  “It’s in the kitchen,” Gram rasps.

  “That’s a fine how-do-you-do. No way to treat a guest.”

  “Guest? Just how long do you plan to stay, since you lost your job? You’re a grown woman and…”

  “Look here, Mother…” Mommy’s eyes flash dangerously.

  “Mommy, I’ll pour your coffee,” I say, desperate to break the tension.

  “No you won’t; you’re too little. Mother, you don’t let her handle hot things on the stove, do you?”

  “Now what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Their mad storm of smoke and words travels inside me, words like, “I’m taking care of your kid, you’re irresponsible, you’re mean and cruel.” It is clear that I am a difficult burden. I go to my bedroom and sit by the window, my eyes on puffy white clouds in the azure sky. The outdoors is always lovely and peaceful. For a long time, I watch the wind blowing against a cottonwood tree.

  After a while, the storm inside the house passes. Gram begs Mother to play the piano. Mother resists, then sighs and puts down her knitting. A whole new mother appears at the piano bench. As her fingers move across the keys unraveling a haunting melody, I think of the rising full moon, and the loneliness of a train whistle at night. An ancient heartache thrums in my chest. The music seems to tell me a story about my mother, about her sadness and her mystery. I watch her skillful fingers run up and down the keyboard.

  When she stops, Mother returns to earth, no longer magical, no longer weaving a beautiful world where we all could be together in peace. She returns instantly to her smoking and furrowed brow.

  “Does that music have a name?” I ask.

  “‘Liebestraum.’ It means ‘Song of Love.’”

  All day long, the song weaves through my body, filling in places that have been empty since Mother first left me, easing the ache with a sweetness that gives a lilt to my step.

  Aunt Helen has invited us for dinner. When we arrive, I am surprised that she hugs Mother tight the same way she does me, calling her darlin’. They start talking easily, as if they’d just seen each other last week.

  “Did you know my mommy before?” I ask Aunt Helen later. She stands at the stove stirring the glop, adding onion and tomatoes.

  She says, “Land sakes, girl, I was there when you were born. I was with Frances that day and…” She starts to say something but then falls quiet. I ask her what, and she just shakes her head.

  Out in the living room, Gram and Mother start in, their voices rising and falling. Aunt Helen struts out and shakes her finger at them. “Now look here…” Uncle Maj stands up like a military man and barks, “I’ll have none of that in my house. Talk nice to each other or you’ll have to go home.”

  Mother and Gram both fix their dark eyes on Helen and Maj. I brace for more trouble. To my surprise, they sit down and light cigarettes, the room filling with smoke and tension but no angry words. Maj gets them to talk about more neutral things like the weather, President Eisenhower, how America should have joined in the last war to rescue England sooner. Aunt Helen and I return to the kitchen, where the fun is.

  One night back at our house, I am in my room painting a watercolor of Bethlehem and Jesus and the bright star. In the living room, voices run up and down the scale, high-pitched screeches. And I hear dishes crashing. I want to stop them, but I’m afraid to. I listen for clues, hearing only more crashing and screaming. Finally, I rush out of my bedroom to find our good china in pieces on the floor. Mommy’s curls are loose around her face, and Gram is howling. My mother is ranting about something, her voice rising and falling in a tone that is too familiar. I shout at them to stop, grabbing Mother around the legs, trying to get her attention. Suddenly the screaming stops. Gram looks at me with guilt in her eyes. I pick up some broken shards, but Mother takes them out of my hand and tells me in a soft, fractured voice that she’ll take care of it. I watch my two mothers crawl on their knees, picking up the china pieces. The rest of what is broken remains hidden from sight for a long time to come.

  Despite the horrible battles, my mother’s visit is a dream come true. I get used to her being with us, almost get used to the fighting again, again, again. One night as I eavesdrop, I hear the dreaded words: a new job. Chicago. I ask Mother if she is leaving, and she says, “Soon.” I start to shake, terrified of losing her for good.

  The next morning Mother stumbles out of the bedroom looking sleepy, her hair tangled. When she passes me to sit in the chair and smoke, I clench my jaw, wishing very hard I could get her to stay—but I know that what I want doesn’t count in her decisions. Mother smokes, still sleepy, legs curled up under her, looking almost like a little girl. Gram hunches on the couch, relief all over her face that Mother will be leaving.

  Mother gestures for me to come to her. She draws me close and puts her arm around me. It is almost more than I can bear without crying. When it is time to leave, she always touches me more. My skin burns with a desperate need, more hungry for her than ever.

  “Mama has to leave today,” she murmurs. “I have to start my new job.”

  “Can’t you stay?” I say mournfully, touching the curls in her hair.

  “Mama has a new job,” she says about herself. “Aren’t you happy for her?”

  I say that yes, I’m happy for her. I have to say the right thing no matter what I’m feeling. But there is one thing I can’t resist asking her for.

  “Mama?” I
twist her hair over my fingers.

  “What?” She blows a puff of smoke into the air.

  “Can you play ‘Liebestraum’ for me before you go? Please.” She pauses, frowning. I know she doesn’t want to, but I keep begging, knowing that she feels guilty about leaving and is likely to give in.

  Finally she gets up and arranges herself at the piano bench. I cuddle next to her as she unravels the melody that runs up and down the keyboard. I see colors—yellow and amber, orange and brown, blue and red and green, shimmering in the waterfalls of notes she plays. The notes fill the room and rise to the sky, filling me with my mother in ways that nothing else can. I soak up all she has to give, folding this moment into my mind so I can bring it back when she’s gone.

  When she is finished playing, she gets up and goes off to bathe, dress, and pack her things. I follow her around like a duckling, watching her fold her sweaters, smoothing them with her hands. I wish it was me she was caressing like that, but I seem invisible to her. She frowns and smokes, gathering her make-up from the table. I remember the day she put it there. I was so happy then, and now grief fills my body. I ache as if I have been beaten, but everything is inside where Mommy and Gram can’t see it. I make sure they don’t, because it will just upset them.

  I ride in the back of the car with my mother, praying that time will reverse, wishing that the train will never come. Gram’s mood is lighter, which makes me more upset. If they got along better, Mommy might stay.

  The lights are bright at the Perry station. Families gather, whispering and talking. I dread seeing the eye of the train as it comes around the curve, but there it is, a monster that will take away my mother. The whistle tears through me.

  Mother kisses Gram on the cheek. Their voices and eyes are soft, as if leaving is the only time they can feel this. Mother kneels down. “You be a good girl. Mind your Gram.”

  Her scent mixes with the air that is laced with diesel and the promise of rain. She slips into the train car and soon reappears at a window. I watch her wave with a gloved hand, remembering our cozy train ride of so long ago. The whistle blows again, and the train disappears with my mother. I stand by the tracks, focused again on the place where they meet at the horizon, the point where time and space come together.

  The wind whispers its ancient knowledge, stirring up remnants of the history buried in this copper-red dirt. All that went before is in the past now, both the good and the bad. I resign myself again to life without my mother, but can hardly breathe for the pain in my chest. Particles of bone and dust blow against my legs.

  Daddy Is Magic

  Daddy is magic. Daddy is a dream. Daddy is coming this morning! Gram and I wait by the shuddering train, the steel animal that trembles and snorts, pawing the tracks at the Perry station under a brilliant blue sky. I jump up and down on the concrete, the sun warm on my hair. The morning is sweet, full of birdsong and promise. Not a cloud in the sky. Men in suits and long coats sweep from train cars. All the men look like him, almost, the brims of their fedoras shadowing their faces. Under one of those shadows might be my daddy.

  I scan the faces of all the men dismounting from the train, my stomach beginning to sink. Did he change his mind? Will he remember me? I know I’ve grown. Now that I’m seven, I’m much smarter. I was in second place in a spelling bee, and I can read beyond my grade. I can’t wait for Daddy’s good cheer, his brimming-over energy, his bristling whiskers, the rough nap of his coat, the feel of his strong arms lifting me into the air.

  I want to spend time with him alone, to get to know him better, to see his arms without a starched shirt, his dark silky hairs lying against his skin. Other girls talk about their fathers at school. A girlfriend tells me she watches her father mow the lawn wearing no shirt, that she accidentally saw him pee. I can see in her eyes the thrill of it—so naughty, yet so exciting—a secret glimpse of a mysterious part of life that is hidden from children.

  I feel cheated without a father in my house, without any contact with men in general. My grandmother doesn’t even let the neighbor guy who mows our lawn use the toilet. The Father, with his big body and those illicit private parts, is exciting and dangerous. There is something about the power of men that changes women, though we kids don’t have words for it, exactly. But we can feel it, we can hear it in the women’s talk about not displeasing a man. We hear the way they chat about their husbands; it’s the same way they talk about God—with awe, a little gasp at the end of the sentence. There is much left unsaid, like between moments of a prayer. The only way to hear in between what people say is to learn to listen to the wheat, the land, the wind. You can only hear these things out in the plains, by a wheat field, say, in the spring.

  Feet tap-tap-tap on the bricks of the station platform. He’s coming for me, for me! Now the heavy breath of his deep voice, “Linda, Linda.” He lifts me up. Colors and shapes swirl—the brick train station, the steel train, the conductors’ blue suits—around and around. My ribs are squeezed so tight I can barely breathe. His cashmere coat swings around him, and he laughs from deep in his throat. His Old Spice envelops my face and sinks into my bones, and I am happy all the way through.

  “I’ve missed you, my girl, my girl.” He whirls me until I’m dizzy with joy, then sets me down and faces Gram.

  I’d rather leave out the next part, how Gram leans toward him, her hand cocked with an unlit cigarette, hovering close to him as he flicks open the lighter. She touches his hand with hers; a sizzle, then the tobacco burns orange. She looks into his eyes and he meets her gaze briefly before they break apart.

  It’s been so long since I’ve heard Daddy’s voice that I’ve forgotten what he sounds like. Even his face has dimmed in my memory. The picture of him in my mind is not him, not really, and my photograph of him doesn’t capture him either. A daddy can’t be folded flat in black and white. Sometimes I steal the picture out of its hiding place, but not too often. If you get a good feeling and hold on to it too much, you have to pay for it later.

  The Nash Rambler glides down the blacktop. The car overflows with all of us, Daddy taking up more than his share of room, his coat thick with Chicago threads, the white of his starched shirt so bright. His huge hands sculpt the air as he talks excitedly about his work on the L & N railroad, his stock investments, making more money than ever, belonging to fancy clubs. I tug his arm—Daddy, Daddy. He turns back to enfold me in his scratchiness and Old Spice. My happiness knows no bounds. Daddy is a burst of cymbals in my quiet life with Gram.

  Daddy and I ride in the elevator of the Oxford Hotel. Looking out the window in his hotel room, I can see all around town—spidery trees, Randolph Street, Broadway, Main Street, and the granite courthouse on the square. We can even hear the train whistles from the Frisco and the Santa Fe, a lonely sound that has always made me think of him and my mother. The spot under my left rib, where I feel always feel the absence of my parents, aches even though Daddy is right here and I can feel his warm hands on my shoulders as we look out the window. I don’t know why a train whistle always makes me feel sad.

  I’m surprised that Gram is letting me spend the night with him here. I love being alone with him, like other girls who have a father spending time with them at night, at bedtime. Tomorrow we’ll go to Aunt Helen’s for one of her fried chicken dinners. Gram will be there, continuing the silent conversation between them. When they are together, I can sense the events of the past. I don’t know exactly what happened between Daddy and Gram, but I can feel it in the dropped words and glances between them.

  All I know about Daddy and “the old days” is that he married my mother when she was twenty-nine and he was forty, and they had me the first year they were married. They divorced when I was eight months old. I know it in my stomach and heart. I have no memories of him from before the age of four. No feeling of his clothes or body on my skin. Only a blank space. I’m seven, and we’re alone together for the first time. When the man at the hotel counter took too long, I tapped my foot. He was stealing
time from Daddy and me. I have only two days and a night to make up for the whole year, 363 days when Daddy lives only in my imagination.

  The bathroom at the Oxford has a floor made of tiny black-and-white tiles, a pedestal sink, and a gleaming bathtub. If I can get Daddy and me into that tub, I’ll understand what makes him different from me. I’ll know what other girls know. I want to be in their club, not left out the way I am at school games—the skinny one, knock-kneed, pigeon toed, always dropping things.

  I want to be like the other girls, whose lives are enriched somehow by the thick voices and grime of the males in their lives. They have daddies who fix faucets, repair cars, and mow lawns; wash the car and take out the garbage; come home every night to smooth out the bumps of life. They drive up in white shirts with rolled-up cuffs. The neighbor daddies grin and put their arms around their wives and kiss them on the cheek. The other girls’ daddies give them baths or even take baths with them, so I want that, too—to have the mystery of daddies revealed.

  He has taken off his jacket and loosened his tie. He starts to tickle me and we roll around on the bed, rumpling the chenille bedspread. My stomach hurts from so much giggling, and my face is raw from his beard. I feel the imprint of his big arms and hands on my body. I feel his strength in me and ask him if we can take a bath. He seems surprised but rustles down the hall to check the tub. It’s even bigger than the tub at my house, with feet and great curved edges and long silver spigots like swans’ necks. I wonder if I was wrong to ask him, but all I want is wet hair and giggles with my father in the bath. The top of Daddy’s bald head shines as he bends down to inspect the bathtub, as if the quality of the tub will decide this question.