Don't Call Me Mother

by Linda Joy Myers

  At Gram’s house, they eye each other warily. She’s wearing one of her favorite dresses, and her hair is coifed nicely. I wonder why she dresses up so much for Daddy if she doesn’t like him. He plans to teach me how to roller-skate on the skates he sent me for Christmas. I put on my jeans—something I rarely wear because Gram thinks they’re low class—my chunky oxfords, and a scarf to keep the wind off my ears. I ask Daddy what he’s going to wear. He laughs and pinches the lapel of his dark brown suit. “This is all I have. I promise I won’t get dirty.” He sits tensely across the room from Gram, visibly struggling to keep his anger at her in check.

  Outside I am a little girl again, steadying myself on Daddy’s arm and giggling. I try to keep my balance, sticking my feet out like a duck as we trudge up the hill. Neighborhood fathers are in their front yards wearing T-shirts or plaid shirts and jeans as they peer into the open hoods of their cars or push lawn mowers. My father has never been seen playing with me on the street, so I feel proud as I cling to his arm. The hill looks steep, and my stomach flips over as we look down it. Daddy senses my anxiety and murmurs, “You can do it. I’ll be right here with you. Just let go.”

  The world is green lawns and pastel houses, bright-colored cars, the sound of mowers, the voices of neighbors. I am rolling along, Daddy’s hard leather shoes tapping out a staccato beat beside me. Tap, tap tap, the grind of the skates, Daddy’s voice—I hear all this and the whoosh of wind against my body. At the bottom of the hill I skate onto our lawn, laughing so hard that I fall down. Daddy chuckles in his throat, and Gram comes to the door, surprising me with a smile on her face. Twice more Daddy and I trudge up the hill and rush down again. At the end of the third run, Gram comes out with the camera. She points to the front steps and says, “Sit there together. I’ll get your picture.”

  Daddy murmurs to me as we sit facing Gram and the Brownie camera, “Smile; you look thweet.” I hold on to the idea that Daddy and I are playing just the way other fathers and daughters do.

  The ride back to Perry is deathly silent. The car passes the field where Gram and I stopped two days ago. The cows are far away in the pasture, and I miss their comical, friendly faces. Daddy’s large form is in the back seat with me, a bundle of irritated energy, barely contained. I can see Gram’s face reflected in the rearview mirror—a mask of snide superiority. A mist of misery settles over me and I feel a terrible emptiness.

  The bricks of the station are dark against a pearl-blue dusk. Daddy comes out of the lobby to tell us that the train is an hour late. My heart leaps. I wish he could stay much longer than an hour. I glance at Gram as I inch toward Daddy. I don’t like the kissing lessons, but maybe it’s really okay, maybe other girls learn this way too. I already miss him. I grab his arm like a little girl, as if to remind him that I’m still only twelve, skipping beside him as we head toward the Kumback Inn a block away. The neon sign blinks and music blares from the jukebox. Plaid-shirted farmers are being served piles of food by the down-home waitresses.

  We order chicken fried steak, fried chicken, and mashed potatoes from the blonde waitress. Daddy engulfs his fried chicken; Gram slices her steak with dainty care. All around us is the din of crashing plates, cooks yelling orders. Gram, with her red lipstick and haughty attitude, and Daddy, in his slick Chicago suit, stand out in this crowd, looking like city folks. I wonder what happened in Chicago long ago that led to this hatred they feel for each other. I wish I knew the history, so I could make sense of things.

  Eating with Daddy, such an ordinary act, always makes him seem more like my actual father. I notice Gram’s face, which suggests that I’ll get in trouble later for being disloyal by sitting next to him. I’d rather sit next to this energetic, cheerful man than cranky Gram.

  As we leave the café, streetlights give an amber glow to the square. Otherwise there is the deepening black of night. Daddy’s long legs gobble a block in a few strides. I fold my arm in his the way ladies in the movies do, skipping to keep up. Gram lingers behind, but I don’t care. I treasure my last few moments with Daddy.

  The dark night sky is silent as we await the whistle of the train from Texas. Daddy paces back and forth. Gram sits and smokes, with an attitude of weary disgust. The whistle calls out, and people rush over to the track. The bright light grows huge and the ground vibrates as the train sweeps in with a heart-throbbing bass drum beat. Daddy gathers me to him, his rough cheek smearing my face. That wavy liquid feeling I always get when one of my parents leaves comes over me. Gram and Daddy say a tight-lipped goodbye. Then he grabs his suitcase, finds his seat on the train, and turns to wave at me. He’s framed in the golden square of the window, my father. Little do I know that it will be a very long time until I see him again.

  I’m grateful for the silence in the car as Gram drives us back home. We make our way around shadowy curves, the headlights illuminating the yellow dashes on the road, bushes and trees looming on the shoulder like ghosts. The sky has an eerie glow from the oil derricks burning off gasses in the distance. I watch the orange flames rage like the fires of hell, licking up into the jet-black sky.

  Thirteen

  Gram scurries around vacuuming like a demon, cliffs and crevasses distorting her face while she shouts and yells. What is wrong with her? Why is she yelling and screaming? I can’t imagine what I did to make her act this way. She screams about how she has given up her life for me, that I’m ungrateful and selfish. Doesn’t she know this is my birthday and that I want to be happy today?

  I try hard to stay cheerful, thinking about pleasant things, like Keith and some of the other cute boys. I think about the symphony practice room, where the music lifts me away from the darkness, Mr. Brauninger grinning at me from first chair as Keith, Jodie, Floyd, Lloyd, and I play Beethoven’s Seventh. I reflect on the books I’m reading—Sue Barton, the nurse, Jim Bridger and Kit Carson, mountain scouts. I dream of my mother and father. One day they’ll get back together, and I’ll join them in Chicago where we’ll start a new life together.

  Gram screams that no one appreciates her; she could kill herself and no one would care. I hate her screaming, but I get scared when she talks about dying. Where would I go? My parents don’t really want me to live with them—it’s just an old fantasy of mine that things could be nice and sweet with them.

  The postman comes. There is no birthday card from my mother, but I see one with unfamiliar handwriting. Gram opens it, as always. It’s a birthday card from Keith, with yellow flowers and a pleasant verse. Right now it’s the best thing that could happen, a reminder that someone cares. I’m smiling and happy, skipping around the room. But out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Gram’s grim face.

  “Oh, that’s a fine how do you do,” she snarls. “What the hell do you think that means, anyway? You know that men are up to no good.”

  “It’s just a birthday card, and he’s our friend.” How can she say bad things about him—he’s sixteen years old and is always nice.

  “Sure, you start there, and then where does it go. You are destined to be on the stage. You’ll be too busy with concerts and traveling to get involved with men. Do you think I give you all these lessons just so you can get googly–eyed about some boy? I better not ever catch you with anyone until you’re eighteen, and after that you’ll be too busy for such nonsense.”

  She goes on yelling about her sacrifices, how I’d be dead if it weren’t for her. I can’t bear the noise and go to the bathroom, where I get a few minutes of peace. I feel shaky, but I can’t bear the idea of crying today. I cradle the card, holding Keith’s signature to my heart. It’s all I have to hold on to.

  Gram’s rage goes on and on. To shut her up, I sit at the piano. Gram has to be quiet when I play. The sweetness of a Chopin nocturne takes me into another world. I see a veranda surrounded by lilies, a full moon rising, a soft breeze riffling through the trees. Chopin gathers me into his embrace, lifting me into a lovelier time and place, and I’m free.

  Swan Song

  B
right lights flood the stage, gleaming on the graceful curves of the grand piano. Its S-shaped top is open, exposing the wires of its secret inner life. The house lights dim and the ritual begins. Mr. Brauninger, handsome in his black tuxedo, cradles his amber violin as he steps into the light. Petite Eva, her dark hair shining, bounces with energy as she joins him on stage. Mr. B. begins to play. Music streams from his violin, melodies moving gracefully through the air the way a butterfly floats on a spring breeze.

  I am most fully alive in the rarefied world of music, where I am surrounded by wonderful sounds and colors. Music paints the world with pale maroon, soft lime green, and a mellow aqua blue, like photos of the sea. Music transports me into a world free of pain and darkness, a world of soothing safety, where hope returns to me.

  Mr. Brauninger has told us that he and Eva are getting married and moving soon to their new home. I understand that they must leave and go on with their lives. I’m thrilled with the romantic notion of it, but it also breaks my heart.

  I can hardly remember life before him. He awakened me to a world I never could have imagined, offering me the symphony and its magical sounds, along with more tenderness and encouragement than anyone else I’ve known. He has believed in me without reservation. The sweetest and safest man I’ve ever known is leaving.

  At the recital, he and Eva play together, she on the piano, he with his golden violin under his chin, in perfect synchrony, responding beautifully to each other’s gestures, the signals that musicians use—a nod, a glance, the movement of a finger, bow tip, or shoulder. I know this same language, it will always be with me. I am the string, the bow, the piano key. I am the vibration through which Mozart and Beethoven continue to express their inner worlds.

  At the end of the performance, Mr. Brauninger bows deeply. I take a picture in my mind of my musical parents—the gleam of light on the instruments, how Eva and Jim shine together, holding hands.

  It’s an evening in June when they come to the house to say goodbye. I can’t imagine my life without them. I take in the love in Mr. B.’s eyes, the graceful movements of his fingers as he talks. My childhood is truly ending now. He has found a full-size cello for Gram to buy for me. “The size of the cello will challenge her, but we know Linda Joy loves a challenge.” Mr. B. winks at me and Eva laughs, saying, “That girl will make it, she’s a trooper.”

  He shakes our hands, then says with a grin, “Don’t take any wooden nickels.” My heart contracts in agony, but I smile and wave at them as they disappear up the street in their blue Dodge. This is a terrible, familiar feeling. The cicadas are humming in the silver evening and a bright moon has risen in the east. The summer air is sweet and warm. I hold in my tears as so many images of Mr. Brauninger flit through my mind—that first day when I was nine years old, tapping his toes as he danced, rosin flying everywhere, the light in his eyes as he kneeled down and asked my name. My memories are like pages of a calendar, tearing off and flying away—Saturday morning Youth Orchestra where I labored joyfully with my friends over Haydn, Bach, and Beethoven.

  The mourning doves say who, who, who, as the wind sweeps and swirls away my childhood. Without a word to Gram, I go to my room and take out a Nancy Drew book, losing myself in a world of adventure with a smart girl who always figures things out.

  Wasteland

  One weekend during the summer of my fifteenth year, Aunt Helen drives me to her house. Gram hardly leaves the house any more, so every week Aunt Helen and I take care of the chores, like laundry and shopping; sometimes I go to church with them on Sunday. I’m always welcomed with homemade food and warm hugs. Uncle Maj takes me out to the garden to cut roses, cupping the flowers in his hands. Today it is warm, the fragrance of roses wafting through the house. I inhale the scent deep into my body, glad to be away from Gram’s smoke and caustic ramblings.

  After lunch Aunt Helen tells me to sit down, she wants to talk to me. My heart beats a little faster—this phrase usually means I’m in trouble, but Aunt Helen smiles. “Darlin’, I just want to talk to you about your father. It’s not right what your grandmother is doing, making you write those terrible letters, going on and on about him.”

  Despite everything, my loyalty to Gram makes me take her side. “She says he doesn’t take care of me the way he should. She’s right; he doesn’t send enough money.”

  “He does all right, and besides, he deserves respect. He sends money; some fathers send nothing at all. The real problem is Frances. She’s not fair to him. He’s a darned good man.”

  “How do you know about him?”

  “Land sakes, child, I’ve known him for years. He’s hot headed, but they’re two peas in a pod. He deserves to have his daughter’s respect. It’s a sin, I tell you, a sin not to respect your father.”

  I’m shocked to hear her talk against my grandmother. Long ago I gave up defending my father. Until this conversation with Aunt Helen, I had never considered the possibility that Gram’s web of hate is woven with lies and her own agenda.

  Aunt Helen continues. “He isn’t the man your grandmother says he is. If I were you, I’d write my own letters. I’d give him a chance to know me through my own words.”

  I’m knotted up inside with worry. I begin to cry, partly out of fear, partly from relief. At least I know that someone cares about what is happening. I pace around the living room. “Gram will know. I can’t get away with anything. She opens my mail, she reads my mind…”

  “She won’t find out,” Aunt Helen tries to reassure me. “You’ll write your letters at our house, and he’ll send his replies here for you to read. They’ll be waiting for you when you come over. She’ll dictate the other letters as usual, and he’ll answer those at your house.”

  “What if he gets mixed up?” I grab a Kleenex and blow my nose, trembling with the possibility of Gram finding out. Aunt Helen puts her arm around me.

  “Great balls of sheet iron,” Maj says in his typical colorful speech. “The Duchess is our good friend, but it isn’t right that she’s come between you and your father. It’s criminal, I tell you!”

  I’m excited by the plan but terrified. She’s always threatening to send me away to the juvenile authorities. If she finds out about this, she’ll have more reasons to beat me senseless with the yardstick. When she’s crossed, she’s a demon from hell.

  Nevertheless, on that spring day, Aunt Helen, Uncle Maj, and I make our pact. That afternoon I write to my father, telling him in my own words what I think about school, the symphony, and my friends. It’s been years since I wrote him a letter that comes just from me. I seal it and give it to Aunt Helen to mail, feeling triumphant and a little bit freer from Gram’s shackles.

  She seems to know everything I do or think, as if she’s inside me, breathing my air. It frightens me that her attitude toward my father has taken root inside me. Perhaps I am becoming like her, learning from her to be hateful. I embark on this journey to know and be known by my father as a way of saving myself.

  Gram and I continue the hate letters, which seem to have become her sole source of enjoyment. She perks up on the couch, more awake and alive than at any other time. I write down her terrible words without guilt now, knowing that Daddy is getting my real letters, too. In those I tell him that he has to be very careful about keeping the letters straight, that Gram still opens my mail before I get home. He assures me that he understands; he will be careful.

  The great glacier that has frozen over us for the last several years begins to thaw. Joyfully I come to Aunt Helen’s to find his letters written with affection and excitement. My father is very verbal and always writes several pages in his distinctive loopy handwriting, expressing himself freely. We’re finally getting acquainted. Things have been going along well for a few weeks when suddenly the world tilts on its side.

  I come home one afternoon in July to find Gram standing at the front door, her hands on her hips, a letter in her hand. The look on her face would turn Moses to stone. Her hair frizzes in all directions and her eyes
shoot a dangerous light, the kind of light you could fall into and die. She rattles the letter at me.

  “How dare you! You betrayed me. You’ve been talking to your father behind my back! Don’t deny it, or I’ll slap you into the next life.”

  I break into a sweat, frantic with worry about what she’ll do to me. I can see that Daddy blew it, writing about something that she didn’t dictate.

  “Behind my back!” she rages. “You wrote to him behind my back! Who put you up to this?” She goes on and on, screaming, pacing, ranting. For a long time I don’t admit to her that Aunt Helen suggested it.

  “Fine. I can see you don’t care about me any more, for all I’ve done for you. Call your mother and tell her to come get you. Call your father. You think he’s so damned great, let him take care of you. I can’t have you living under my roof.”

  She has threatened to send me away for years now, whenever I express my own opinions or question hers. I fight back, fighting for my life, screaming at her about wanting to know my father, having a right to know my parents; it doesn’t mean I don’t love her just the same. After several hours, she pummels me into submission until I tell her the truth about Aunt Helen.

  On the phone with Aunt Helen her voice crescendos to ever higher peaks. Gram has entered into some new realm of the rounds of hell. After she puts down the phone, her face in a sneer, announces that Aunt Helen told her that I’d asked her to help me write to my father. This is the lowest point of the day—Aunt Helen has covered up her own role in this. Now that Gram thinks I am lying, she closes in on me. I protect myself with my hands, but I can’t escape Gram’s mindless fury. I’m still in shock, stunned that Daddy slipped up and Aunt Helen lied, both of them leaving me to face this Medusa who’s trapped me in her lair. My face and arms sting as I slink into bed. I wish I could run away, but I know Gram would beat me even more when I got back.