by S. Bennett
My mom bustles about filling glasses with ice and pouring dark, syrupy tea over it before adding lemon slices. She makes nervous chitchat, telling me how she was not scheduled to work today so she was having a lazy day by herself, watching her soaps.
When she sits down, placing both glasses on the table, she places her hands nervously in her lap and stares at me in a way that makes it clear she’s afraid I might bolt at any minute. Her voice quavers when she says, “It’s just so good to see you again, Hazel.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Mom.”
“You look fantastic,” she says, raking her gaze over me again. “You look… happy.”
I give a wry smile. “Does that mean I looked unhappy when I used to visit before?”
My mom’s face sobers, and her smile slips away. “Yes. I think you were a very unhappy woman.”
With mine still in place, I nod in agreement. “I don’t think I realized I was unhappy until my circumstances forced me to change.”
My mom’s eyes glitter with satisfaction that her child is potentially succeeding at life. For the past years, at least since I was eighteen, I’ve been a great mystery to my mother. Would Hazel continue down a path of minimal satisfaction in life or would she finally get her crap together?
I fill my mom in on everything that happened from the moment Darren kicked me out of our house until I told him it was over for good.
My mother’s expression went from enraged to sorrowful tears as I told her of those miserable three months after Darren kicked me out. When I tell her about finding Atticus in the ditch, she leans over and scratches him on the head again. I bet she’d lay down a ribeye steak for him if she had one.
I tell her all of it. About Oley and my new career as his assistant, and about my good friend Bernard. Mostly, I talk about Atticus. Pulling out my phone, I show her all the pictures I posted on Instagram. I tell her about how bad he is and how completely wonderful he is. She listens to it all as she’s realizing I am probably going to be okay in life, and it seems the years start melting off her. She sits a little straighter in her chair, and she smiles a hell of a lot as I fill her in on the past few months of my life.
When I finish, my mom leans over and again pets Atticus. “I love dogs. Always wanted to have one, but your dad didn’t like them.”
I blink in surprise. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says with a fond smile. “Your dad didn’t like the hair. You know what a neat freak he was, and you also know your father’s word was law.”
We both laugh. A lot of that was the military in my dad, which we understood.
A lot of that was why I am the way I am. My mother deferred to my father in all matters. She was unsure of herself, always needed his approval, and couldn’t make a decision on her own. She was utterly dependent on him to not only provide a roof over her head, but also to validate her as a wife and mother, and I suddenly realize how alone and scared she must be since he died.
It’s how I felt when Darren kicked me out.
I am my mother’s daughter.
I aspired to have what she had because she was happy. She had a distinct role in our household, and my father had his. From her, I learned the man was the strength of the unit. He was the wise leader and the physical provider. I watched my mom preen with love from the sparse praise he handed out, as if they were the greatest moments of her life.
It’s no wonder the minute the first guy crooked his finger at me that I went running. I was ready for it. It’s what I was unknowingly taught. While there was absolutely nothing wrong with the way my mom chose to live her life and love her man, it made an impact on me. My mom didn’t often have an independent thought of her own that she could exercise and then have someone validate. Perhaps she was afraid to even go there, or maybe she did unbeknownst to me and my father shot her down.
My parents were good to me, and they loved me. But I was never given the skills to think for myself within our family unit. I wasn’t encouraged to have independence. Rather, I watched my mother flourish in a relationship that was built around her husband and all the wonderful things he did for her.
My mom lucked out. She found a good man in my father. I didn’t find that good man, and I kept trying and trying and trying, eventually changing myself into someone I wasn’t to become what someone could love. It was a horrific failure of a social experiment I’d been running throughout my life.
A vicious cycle that wouldn’t have been broken if not for Atticus.
“Why did you stop coming around, Hazel?” my mom asks, and the abrupt change of subject to something so serious has me reeling. I knew we needed to talk about this, but it’s still uncomfortable.
I really want to tell my mom, I stopped coming around because of the way you made me feel. Like such a failure. Granted, it was subtle. It may be how your face pinched when I talked about tending bar, or maybe that you were never quite polite to the men I’d dated, or the way you gushed about how proud you were about Liz but never me.
But I will never say that to her because it just doesn’t matter right now. It would only serve to hurt her, and that I will not do.
What does matter is that I acknowledge my error, so I can absolve myself of the guilt for making my parents suffer under the terrible way I treated them for so long. “It was me, Mom. I was just messed up in the head for a long time. Couldn’t see things for what they were, and I was too afraid to be different. I’m sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”
“You didn’t—” she rushes to assure me, but I cut her off.
“I did,” I say firmly as I reach across the table. I hold my hand out, palm up. She doesn’t hesitate and puts hers in mine. “I’d like to make up for it, though. I missed the chance with Dad, and I don’t want those regrets with you.”
She opens her mouth to argue. Perhaps to tell me it’s not necessary. She’s being a protective mom and that warms me, but I squeeze her hand and shake my head at her. “Let me own this, Mom. I need to.”
Her cheeks turn pink over the gentle admonishment in my voice, but she gives a tiny nod. “Okay.”
“Okay,” I repeat with a big smile.
We share misty gazes across the table, and I’m incredibly happy I took this step. But my mom’s face clouds slightly and I brace.
“Are you going to reach out to Liz?” she asks hesitantly.
My guts burn with shame, for as much as it was horrible the way I’ve been absent from my parents, it was unforgiveable what I’d done to Liz when Benji was born. When I’d shown up drunk, stoned, and belligerent at the hospital, ruining what should have been a beautiful celebration of new life. It’s something that absolutely bonds Bernard and I together, as we both know how the power of alcohol and selfishness can hurt the ones we love the most.
I cough to clear my throat, nodding with a smile. “Yeah. But um… I’ve got to work up the courage to do that. It’s a hard apology to make.”
“She told me about what happened at the hospital,” my mom murmurs.
“It was unforgiveable.” I pull my hand away and lace my fingers in my lap. My gaze drops there because it’s too hard to meet my mom’s eyes. Atticus senses my distress, pushing from the floor with a grunt. He shoves his big head into my lap, burrowing his nose right under my hands so they’re forced to go to his head. It always seems like a selfish move on his part to make me pet him, but he knows it’s a calming therapy for me.
“It’s not unforgivable, Hazel. Your sister loves you, and you should reach out to her.”
My head lifts to meet my mom’s gaze. It’s soft and tender, full of understanding for her wayward daughter.
“I will,” I assure her.
I’m just not sure when.
CHAPTER 32
Hazel
I love October in North Carolina because it’s when the humidity starts to ease up and the torture of Hades-hot days starts to end. It doesn’t mean there can’t be warm days in October because eighty degrees and wearing shorts while
trick-or-treating has been known to occur. But for the most part, October signifies that fall is coming. Granted, the “feel of it” may not fully get here until the end of November but at least we see it on the horizon.
My life has morphed into a series of scheduled standing events that define much of who I am these days. We still have Friday night baseball and pizza at Oley’s house. That will continue through the World Series. Because Oley and Bernard are both Carolina Panthers fans, we have added Sunday football to the mix. It doesn’t matter if the game is at one, four or eight, Bernard comes over to watch it. The only exception is if the Panthers play on a Monday night or one of those weird Thursday night games.
Another night has also been added to the social agenda, and that is taco night on Wednesdays. Charmin and I started that since it’s her night off and we were sort of doing a single ladies solidarity type thing. We made the tacos in my apartment the very first night and invited Oley up. He gladly accepted and then proclaimed that taco nights would happen down in his kitchen because it was too much for him to climb the stairs. I readily agreed to this because Oley’s kitchen is a lot nicer and bigger than mine.
For the last month and a half since I showed up on her doorstep, Saturday mornings have become the time for me and my mother to reconnect. I drive over to her place, sometimes bringing Atticus or sometimes leaving him behind. If my mom hasn’t made a big breakfast, I will often take her out and treat her. It’s something I’ve never been able to do before, not for lack of money, but for lack of wanting to put myself out there.
Sometimes we’ll hit up The Waffle House or Central Café, which makes the best SOS in town—otherwise known by marines everywhere as “shit on a shingle”. If we’re feeling fancy, we’ll head over to the Cracker Barrel and gorge on Mama’s Pancake Breakfast.
I have yet to talk to my sister Liz, and my mom pesters me about it every Saturday. Sometimes it makes the eggs in my stomach curdle because it’s something that needs to be done, yet I’m terrified.
Of course, my mom told Liz about our reunion. Mom then passed on that Liz would very much like to see me.
I want to see her, too. Very, very much. But I just don’t know how.
The scene that played out in Liz’s hospital room was far uglier than my mother could have ever imagined, despite what my sister may have told her. My stomach cramps up into painful knots, and my face flushes as hot as a summer sunburn when I think about that day. Compounding the shame is the fact I was so drunk and stoned I don’t remember exact details. I just remember pieces. Hazy, dream like snatches of time which could potentially mean it was way worse than what my mind thinks happened.
I remember the room being filled with Liz’s husband’s family, everyone gaping me as if I were a carnival oddity.
The expression on Liz’s face as she held her newborn son in the hospital bed, horrified at the way I was staggering around.
Her refusal to let me hold Benji, culminating in my drunken rant that she was a stuck-up snob who thought she was too good for the likes of me.
A security guard escorting me out of the hospital while I cursed and struggled and made an ass of myself.
It makes me shudder when I think about it. It is without a doubt the worst thing I’ve ever done in my entire life, and I am not sure how to move past it. I keep putting my mother off with one excuse or another why I haven’t contacted Liz but the truth of it is, I can’t even bear to think about looking at my sister because I am so ashamed and humiliated.
Because most days of the week are taken with me spending quality time with my friends and family, I carefully plan out the rest of my days. It’s Thursday now and I have no obligations after I get off work.
But I do have a mission I choose to go on.
I borrowed the car from Oley. When he asked me where I was going, I point blank lied and said I was going shopping at the mall. I did this because if he knew where I was going, he would have moved hell and high water to talk me out of it, and I don’t want to be talked out of it. He’d have preached to me in a fiery brimstone sort of way to make his point. He probably would have talked me out of it, and I don’t want to be dissuaded.
I owe it to Bernard to try.
It’s funny to think Bernard has become one of my closest friends in the world. He’s not quite as dear to me as Oley is, but I feel closer to him than I do Charmin. The more time I spend around the man, the more I’ve come to love him. I have never seen anything from Bernard but genuine kindness and humility. He has given me good advice—some of it even fatherly—over the months.
Yes… I love him.
It’s why I’m going to put myself all up in his business today by going to go talk to his wife.
Over the months that Bernard, Oley, and I have been hanging out for Friday night baseball and pizza, I have come to learn a lot about him. While he tends to talk more when he drinks, he has genuinely opened up to Oley and me. Some of that has to do with the fact we can be relentless in our questions to him.
We’ve learned that Bernard’s last name is Jackson. He’s sixty-two, joined the Marine Corps at eighteen right after graduating high school in Philly, he spent some time in Vietnam—he insists there was nothing traumatizing about that—yeah, right—and that he wanted to make a military career for himself. He would have retired after twenty years of service in 1988, but sadly received a medical discharge two years after the bombing that robbed him of some of his sanity.
He was thirty-two when two suicide bombers drove their trucks into the barracks he lived in at the time. He was on his bunk reading a magazine when the explosion hit. Two hundred and forty-one U.S. personnel died, but Bernard was one of the lucky ones. He escaped with only a broken leg and a slight concussion that got him shipped back home immediately. His leg got better, but his head never quite recovered.
Because we’re nosy and we pry a lot, Bernard over time talked more openly about what it was like after he returned. The mood swings, the self-medication with booze, the irrational spikes in temper he said he often took out on his family, and the extreme paranoia that a bomber would be coming after him again. I was horrified to learn that he never got any type of psychological treatment, medication, or counseling, but rather was handed a medical discharge without the military offering much in the way of a helpful solution for him. His condition eventually became legitimately recognized as PTSD, but by the time the Veteran’s Administration had a handle on the depth of the problem they were facing with our troops, Bernard was long lost to a life of alcohol, depression, and eventually periods of intermittent homelessness that has seemingly become permanent.
I’m not willing to accept that.
I’d also learned Bernard’s wife’s name is Wanda. He doesn’t talk about her much because I think things really had deteriorated between them as a husband and a wife. But he does talk a lot about the son their son Tyrone, who he affectionately calls Ty-Ty. Tyrone, in turn, has a wife and two small children of his own. Bernard rarely talks about his grandkids, but I think it’s because he just knows so little about them.
The last thing I learned about Bernard was that he and I are like two peas in a pod when it comes to being incapacitated with contrition and self-disgust. He is so convinced he’s ruined his family’s lives and deserves nothing from them that he won’t even put himself out there to see if it’s actually true. After repeating a pattern for years of returning home only to leave again for months or years at a time, he told me that the last time he left, Wanda begged him not to ever come back.
It absolutely broke my heart to hear that, but I can also understand where she’s coming from. There comes a time where it’s very easy to give up hope.
After much stewing, fretting, and even some praying about whether I was doing the right thing, I tracked Wanda down and decided to go visit her. When I looked her address up on Google, I was surprised to find that she lived in the neighborhood not far from that Wendy’s parking lot off Western Boulevard where I had picked up Bernard all those mo
nths ago. I often wondered why he was on that side of town when it was such a lengthy walk for him, but I can only surmise that perhaps he was walking by his old house because he wanted to check in on Wanda. Or maybe it was purely nostalgia.
I did take it to mean that Bernard still very much cared for that part of his life.
I don’t know what to expect as I pull up in front of the small house with mint-green cement board siding. There is one car in the driveway, and I know that she lives alone.
Or at least that’s what Bernard says, but I don’t know how current his information is.
My hands are sweating by the time I make it up to the front door. I have an unbearable aching need for Atticus, who is always my puppy Xanax, but he would have been too much of a distraction and this is too important not to give my full attention.
I knock and after just a few seconds, a woman opens the door. She’s average height and on the plump side, but I immediately don’t take her for Bernard’s wife because she looks like she’s in her mid-to-late forties, and his wife is the same age as Bernard as they were high school sweethearts.
“Can I help you?” she asks politely, curiosity filling her dark eyes as she watches me through the screen door.
“Um… yes. I’m looking for Wanda Jackson,” I say with a hesitant smile.
“I’m Wanda,” she replies, and my jaw drops open. Her dark skin is creamy and completely unlined. She looks twenty years younger than Bernard, and I can’t figure out if she has really good genes or Bernard’s hard life aged him more than a sixty-two-year-old should look.
“Oh… um… I’m sorry. That just caught me really off guard.” My stammering doesn’t do anything to put her at ease. Her politeness ebbs away, leaving her expression cool and aloof.
I hold up my hands in a lame attempt to convey my apologies as I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. It’s just… you look so much younger than Bernard.”
“Is he okay?” she blurts out, her face now a mask of worry and fear.
