by Terri DuLong
* * *
I arrived back in Ormond Beach the next morning around ten, dreading dinner with my mother later that evening. Once or twice I thought about calling her to cancel, fibbing that I was sick, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that.
And so here I was ringing her doorbell just before six.
As on my previous visit, she opened the door wide with a huge smile on her face. But this time I was alone and didn’t have Petra and Haley to pick up the slack if conversation flagged.
“Isabelle, I’m so glad you agreed to come. Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Great,” I said, and followed her to the family room, where I sat on the sofa as she uncorked a bottle of red, poured one glass and brought it to me.
She sat across from me in a wingback chair. “So is Haley having a nice time visiting her father?”
I ignored her question and blurted out, “Why don’t you drink wine? This is the second time I’ve come here and you haven’t had any.”
She took a sip of ice water and nodded. “Right. It’s part of the reason I wanted to talk to you. I’m a recovering alcoholic. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Isabelle.”
What? My mother was an alcoholic? I pictured a falling-down, word-slurring, unkempt person when I heard the word alcoholic. Surely she meant that sometimes she just had a few too many. Like I did. Besides, I couldn’t remember seeing my mother drunk when I was a child.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“I know you don’t and that’s what I hope to fix.” She let out a deep sigh.
“Were you a drinker when you left me and Dad?” I asked.
“I was. I just kept it pretty well hidden. From you, at least. But your father knew.”
“Oh, so that’s why you left? You preferred booze over me?” I knew my words had taken on a nasty tone, but I didn’t care. I was angry to learn this about my mother, but also pissed that I hadn’t been told before now.
“Let’s get something straight right now,” she said, and I heard an edge to her tone. “I never left because of you and I never preferred anything above you. If you don’t believe anything else that I have to tell you, I need you to believe this. Do you understand?”
Instantly, I felt as if I was ten again and was being chastised by my mother for something I had said or done wrong. I nodded and said, “Yes.”
“Okay,” she said and stood up. “I have a lot to tell you and I know you’ll have a lot of questions, but I’d like us to have dinner first and enjoy the pasta and meatballs that I made. No discussion about the past until we’re finished. Deal?”
My head was spinning, but I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Can I help?”
“No, I’m all set. Let me just put it on the table.”
I followed her to the dining area and saw she had already set the table.
Somehow we managed to make general conversation about Haley, Petra, the yarn shop, and various other topics as we ate salad, pasta, and garlic bread.
I helped my mother clear the table and clean up and then she brewed a pot of coffee.
“I think it might be a long evening,” she said, shooting me a smile.
After we settled ourselves in the family room, each with a mug of coffee, she said, “Let’s see, where do I begin?”
“At the beginning would be nice,” I retorted. All through dinner I failed to understand how anything she could tell me would take away the hurt and resentment I’d harbored for thirty years.
She nodded. “Right. Well, that would be back to college where I met your father. Your grandparents were gone by the time you were born, so not only did you never meet them, but you never saw the area where I grew up. Shamokin was a coal mining town in the middle of Pennsylvania. It was less than three hours from Philly, where I went to college, but believe me, it was a whole other world.”
When I’d asked my mother about her childhood, as I think all kids do, she’d never said anything bad about it. Only that she grew up in the country, she was an only child as I was. Because her childhood seemed so boring, I never questioned her any further.
“My father worked in the coal mines,” she now told me. “And in February of my senior year of high school, he was killed in a mine explosion.”
“Why did you never tell me this?” I asked.
She shrugged. “You never asked. Besides, it didn’t affect me being your mother. But who knows . . . maybe it affected me more than I realized. I had worked hard all through high school and managed to get a full scholarship to college. I remember the day I left home. I think I’d felt smothered by coal dust all my life and I felt like I was getting a chance to gulp fresh air when I arrived at college. Meeting your father was another gulp of fresh air. He came from the city and a middle-class family. I knew he was going places and I wanted to join him.”
“Did you love him?” I asked.
She paused a moment before saying, “I did. But probably not in the way I should have. Over the years I came to see that his love for me was no greater than mine for him.”
I recalled that I’d never really witnessed any great affection between my parents, but as a kid I think I assumed everybody’s parents were like that.
“So why did you stay together?” I asked.
She let out another deep sigh before taking a sip of coffee. “Why does any couple? You’re in a rut. You’re not sure where to go or what to do. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other—thinking maybe tomorrow will be different. I don’t know, Isabelle. I can’t answer that.”
“But you had no problem leaving when I was fifteen. Was it because you had a lover to make the leaving easier?”
“What? Is that what your father told you? That I had a lover?”
I saw the genuine look of astonishment on her face.
“Yes,” I said, and for the first time in thirty years I began to question what I had been told. “Yes. After you were gone about a month, he sat me down and explained that you wouldn’t be coming back. That you had been in touch with him and told him you were in Oregon. He told me he wasn’t surprised because you had been seeing somebody—another man.”
My mother slowly shook her head from side to side. “Oh, Isabelle, there’s so much you don’t know, but no . . . when I left it had nothing to do with another man. It had everything to do with protecting myself and ultimately protecting you—but maybe I was wrong about that.”
“I don’t get it,” I said. “I have never understood why . . . not why you left him . . . but why you left me. Why didn’t you take me with you?” I was fighting to prevent the tears trying to form in my eyes.
“Because I was not in a good place and I didn’t want to damage you. We had always been close, but when you turned thirteen we began to drift apart and that’s not unusual. Most teen girls go through this with their mothers. But you had grown even closer to your father during this time and I knew the best thing to do was let you stay with him.” She paused for a moment as if formulating her thoughts. “What I’m going to say is in no way an attack on your father. I want you to know that, but it’s time you know the truth. He was a wonderful and caring father to you, but he was a difficult husband. Your father was demanding and a perfectionist and that in itself is fine ... except when it destroys another person’s confidence and identity.”
“What are you saying?” I asked, but I remembered that my father always expected only the best from me. Instead of rebelling, I acquiesced and became a model daughter and student.
“I’m saying that emotional and verbal abuse can be every bit as bad as physical abuse. If a woman hears long enough that she’s a disappointment and a failure as a wife and mother, over time she just might come to believe it. And I did. By the time you were ten, I was convinced that while I might have been an average mother, I really sucked as a wife and a woman. And so . . . that was when I began to find solace in alcohol.”
“I don’t remember you drinking very much. Yeah, you’d have a glass or two in the late after
noon and with dinner, but so do I and so do many other women. That doesn’t make you an alcoholic.”
She nodded. “That’s true. But remember all those migraine headaches I had? When I locked myself in the bedroom most evenings? That’s when there is truly a problem. When you hide away with a bottle or two and claim you’re resting because of a headache.”
My mind immediately flashed back to Atlanta shortly after Roger left and how I had done the very same thing—hidden out in my bedroom with a bottle of wine. And I did the same thing last summer when I came to visit Chloe at Koi House. Was I headed down the exact same path my mother had taken?
“And so, what happened? Dad said you were staying with some guy out in Oregon. But you weren’t?”
“No, I was not. Do you remember Sylvia? My very good friend from college?”
“Sure,” I said. “She came to visit us a few times in Philly. Wasn’t she a social worker in Portland? Is that where you were?”
“Yes, but even if your father didn’t tell you this, I told you in those first letters I sent.”
Letters?
“What letters?” I felt a twinge of anger course through me and I wasn’t sure whom it was directed toward.
“I wrote you quite a few letters, Isabelle, when I first got to Oregon. It was such a difficult time for me, but I wanted you to know my leaving had nothing to do with you. Your father kept those letters from you, I guess. But I’m not surprised.”
Oh, sure, I thought. Blame it on my father.
“No, I can see now that you’re right. It had nothing to do with me. And everything to do with your selfishness. You were unhappy in your marriage, so you chucked it all, including your daughter, and headed out west.” I stood up and reached for my handbag. I’d waited thirty years to find out why she’d left and it all boiled down to my mother being selfish.
“Isabelle, sit down. You are not leaving until you hear all of my story.”
As if on cue, I heard the ringtone on my cell phone telling me I had a call from Chadwick.
“I have a call,” I said, stating the obvious. “It’s Chadwick.”
“You can take it on the patio, where you’ll have some privacy,” she said, in a determined voice.
I walked outside and for the first time in months I craved a cigarette.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey, beautiful. How was the dinner at your mother’s?”
“I’m still here.”
“Oh. Okay. I hope it’s going well. Give me a call when you get home.”
“I have no idea when that will be.”
I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see it was already eight.
“If you feel it’s too late, then I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
“Okay.”
“And Isabelle . . . you’re doing the right thing. Giving her a chance to explain.”
I wasn’t sure I agreed. Sometimes ignorance truly is bliss.
“Bye,” I said, then disconnected the call and walked back inside.
Since my mother clearly seemed to be in control of the conversation, I remained silent and sat down.
Chapter 30
“Okay,” she said, placing a fresh mug of coffee on the end table beside me. “So yes, it was Sylvia that I ran to. And I was running. But I want you to know, I was never running from you, Isabelle. I was running from myself.”
I took a sip of coffee and waited for her to continue.
“I should have been stronger, I should have stayed and sought help, I should have done a lot of things differently. But I didn’t.”
“And Sylvia gave you the help you needed?” I asked.
“No. Nobody can give you that help. You have to want it and then it’s a long, tough road back, but you have to do it yourself. Sylvia was the means to set me in the right direction. Within a few days of my arrival, she knew I had a major problem with alcohol. I didn’t have to hide it anymore at her place and I guess that’s when I hit my bottom. I felt like I’d lost everything. There was nothing more for me to lose. I won’t go into the sordid details, but before the week was over she gave me an ultimatum—either I began attending AA meetings, got a sponsor and stayed sober, or I couldn’t live with her.”
“As simple as that?” I said.
My mother laughed. “Right. Just that simple. Like the program says, easy does it. Except it’s never easy. I did find a meeting, hated every minute I spent there, insisted to myself I didn’t have a problem, could stop any time I wanted. All the usual excuses.”
“What happened?”
“After thirty days of sobriety, I began slowing down on the meetings. Thought I had it licked. I didn’t need meetings and then I didn’t need a sponsor. And within thirty more days, I was right back to square one.”
“Did Sylvia kick you out?”
She shook her head. “No. She stuck with me. Gave me another chance but said it was the final one. She said everybody deserves a second chance . . . but she refused to enable me. And beyond a second chance, she felt that’s what she’d be doing.”
I remained silent, but I had a feeling my mother wanted that second chance with me and our relationship.
“And so?” I asked.
“I knew she meant it. Was it easy? Never. But I knew I only had two choices. To continue drinking or to go forward and build a new life for myself.”
“A life that didn’t include me.”
She ignored my comment. “I checked myself into a rehab facility. I was there for ninety days and still pretty fragile when I was discharged. I wrote to you, and when you didn’t answer, I assumed you just didn’t want to bother with me. The few times that I called and your father put you on the phone, I could tell how angry you were. I felt maybe I should go easy and let you come to me if you wanted to. You have no idea how thrilled I was when you called to tell me I was a grandmother. I thought maybe things would improve between us then, but . . . that really didn’t happen.” She took a sip of her coffee.
“If you had it to do over, would you do things differently?”
She paused a few moments before answering. “I’m honestly not sure, Isabelle. I know you consider it selfish, but I had to do what was best for me. Because if I wasn’t right and in a good place, you wouldn’t have been either. Had I stayed, I think my drinking would have continued and only gotten worse. I think that over time, I would have ended up damaging you. I’m not trying to justify what I did . . . but I know now, in my soul, that I left to protect myself and in doing so, I also protected you. Maybe I did do the right thing. You’ve turned out to be a daughter to be proud of. You’re an excellent mother. And although I probably had nothing to do with any of that . . . I love you and couldn’t be any prouder.”
The tears that had threatened earlier now stung my eyes and I swiped at them. I had nothing to say. My head felt like a computer on overload, exploding with too much information. I knew it was going to take a while for me to digest all that I’d been told this evening.
“Any more questions?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Not right now. No.”
She slapped the palm of her hand on her thigh and got up. “Okay, then. We’re going out.”
“Out?” I looked at my watch and saw it was going on nine. “Where?”
“Get your jacket,” she said. “You’ll see.”
On our way out the door she grabbed two scarves from the coatrack.
“Here, you might need this when we get where we’re going.”
* * *
My mother drove toward A1A. It reminded me of childhood excursions with her. She’d suddenly announce, “Get a sweater, Isabelle. We’re going out.” And she’d surprise me with a trip for ice cream or to the park, where I could play on the swings and slides. I remembered one rainy day when we ended up at the library. I was only about seven; that was the day I got my first library card. It was strange how over the years I hadn’t recalled any of these fun events. Maybe that’s what anger does: it blots out everything that w
as good and only allows you to focus on the negative.
My mother pulled into the parking lot at Andy Romano Park. We were going to the beach at night?
“Are you familiar with the sea turtles?” she asked.
I’d read in the newspaper and seen on television something about sea turtles nesting and dropping their eggs on the east coast beaches of Florida.
“Not really,” I said.
“Well, my sponsor in AA is a woman named Charlotte, and she’s very involved in this program to protect the sea turtles. I’ve been to a few of their meetings and it’s something I want to be a part of.”
My mother continued to surprise me. She’d been living in Ormond Beach less than two months and during that time she had managed to join a salsa dancing class, yoga, and now a program for sea turtles.
“I’d like you to meet Charlotte. She’s here tonight doing her watch and if we’re lucky, we’ll see a mother turtle coming out of the ocean to make her nest. Come on.”
I got out of the car, wrapped the scarf around my neck, and felt the Atlantic wind on my face as I followed my mother to the sand. I saw a handful of people walking around; most of them seemed to be carrying a red light.
“There’s Charlotte,” she said. I saw a woman raise her hand in greeting and walk toward us.
She gave my mother a hug and in a hushed tone said, “I’m so glad you could make it; this must be Isabelle.”
Silly, I know, but it made me feel good that my mother had told her about me and she knew who I was.
“Yes,” I said as I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Same here,” she said. “And I think you’re in luck. You just might get to see a mama turtle make her nest here tonight.”
“What’s with the red lights?” I asked.
“Sea turtles gravitate toward light, and light pollution from the beach area is a death sentence for them when the baby turtles hatch from their shells. They will automatically go toward the water because of the reflection of the night sky and moon, but if there are bright lights along the beach from houses and businesses, they get confused and wander onto A1A.”
