by Mitch Albom
“You’re sweet, Rose,” my mother said. “But the other girls were good.”
“Oh, dear, hush. Let me brag. Your mother, Charley, always made time for me. And once it got too hard for me to go to the beauty parlor, she came to my house, every week.”
She tapped her shaky fingers on my mother’s forearm.
“Thank you, dear, for that.”
“You’re welcome, Rose.”
“Such a beauty you were, too.”
I watched my mother smile. How could she be so proud of washing someone’s hair in a sink?
“You should see Charley’s little girl, Rose,” my mother said. “Talk about a beauty. She’s a little heartbreaker.”
“Is that so? What’s her name?”
“Maria. Isn’t she a heartbreaker, Charley?”
How could I answer that? The last time they had seen each other was the day my mother died, eight years earlier. Maria was still a teenager. How could I tell her what had happened since? That I had fallen out of my daughter’s life? That she had a new last name? That I had sunk so low I had been banished from her wedding? She used to love me, she honestly did. She used to run at me when I came home from work, her arms raised, yelling, “Daddy, pick me up!”
What happened?
“Maria is ashamed of me,” I finally mumbled.
“Don’t be silly,” my mother said.
She looked over at me and rubbed shampoo between her palms. I lowered my head. I wanted a drink in the worst way. I could feel her eyes. I could hear her fingers kneading Rose’s hair. Of all the things I felt disgraced about in front of my mother, being a lousy father was the worst.
“You know something, Rose?” she suddenly said. “Charley never let me cut his hair. Can you believe that? He insisted on going to a barbershop.”
“Why, dear?”
“Oh, you know. They get to an age and it’s ‘Get away, Mom, get away.’”
“Children get embarrassed by their parents,” Rose said.
“Children get embarrassed by their parents,” my mother repeated.
It was true, as a teenager, I had pushed my mother away. I refused to sit next to her at movies. I squirmed from her kisses. I was uncomfortable with her womanly figure and I was angry that she was the only divorced woman around. I wanted her to behave like the other mothers, wearing housedresses, making scrapbooks, baking brownies.
“Sometimes your kids will say the nastiest things, won’t they, Rose? You want to ask, ‘Whose child is this?’”
Rose chuckled.
“But usually, they’re just in some kind of pain. They need to work it out.”
She shot me a look. “Remember, Charley. Sometimes, kids want you to hurt the way they hurt.”
To hurt the way they hurt? Was that what I had done? Had I wanted to see on my mother’s face the rejection I felt from my father? Had my daughter done the same to me?
“I didn’t mean anything by it, Mom,” I whispered.
“By what?”
“Being embarrassed. By you, or your clothes or...your situation.”
She rinsed the shampoo from her hands, then directed the water to Rose’s scalp.
“A child embarrassed by his mother,” she said, “is just a child who hasn’t lived long enough.”
THERE WAS A cuckoo clock in the den, and it broke the silence with small chimes and a mechanical sliding noise. My mother was trimming Rose’s hair now with a comb and scissors.
The phone rang.
“Charley, dear,” Rose said. “Could you get that for me?”
I walked into the next room, following the ring until I saw a phone hanging on the wall outside the kitchen.
“Hello?” I said into the receiver.
And everything changed.
“CHARLES BENETTO?”
It was a man’s voice screaming.
“CHARLES BENETTO! CAN YOU HEAR ME, CHARLES?”
I froze.
“CHARLES? I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME! CHARLES! THERE’S BEEN AN ACCIDENT! TALK TO US!”
Hands shaking, I placed the phone back in the cradle.
Times My Mother Stood Up for Me
It is three years after my father’s departure. In the middle of the night, I awaken to the sound of my sister thumping down the hall. She is always running to my mother’s bedroom. I bury my head in the pillow, drifting back to sleep.
“Charley!” My mother is suddenly in my room, whispering loudly. “Charley! Where’s your baseball bat?”
“Wha?” I grunt, rising to my elbows.
“Shhh!” my sister says.
“A bat,” my mother says.
“Why do you want a bat?”
“Shhh!” my sister says.
“She heard something.”
“A robber’s in the house?”
“Shhh!” my sister says.
My heart races. As kids, we have heard of cat burglars (although we think they steal cats) and we have heard of thieves who break into houses and tie up the residents. I immediately imagine something worse, an intruder whose sole purpose is to kill us all.
“Charley? The bat?”
I point to the closet. My chest is heaving. She finds my black Louisville Slugger, and my sister lets go of her hand and jumps into my bed. I am pushing my palms into the mattress, not sure what role I should play.
My mother eases out the door. “Stay here,” she whispers. I want to tell her that her grip is wrong. But she’s gone.
My sister is trembling next to me. I am ashamed to be lumped in with her, so I slide out from the bed to the door frame, despite her pulling at my pajama bottoms so hard they nearly rip.
In the hallway, I hear every creak of the house settling, and in each one I imagine a thief with a knife. I hear what seems to be a soft thudding. I hear footsteps. I imagine a big, ruddy beast of a man coming up the stairs for my sister and me. Then I hear something real, a smash. Then I hear...voices? Is it voices? Yes. No. Wait, that’s my mother’s voice, right? I want to run downstairs. I want to run back to bed. I hear something deeper—is it another voice? A man’s voice?
I swallow.
Moments later, I hear a door close. Hard.
Then I hear footsteps approaching.
My mother’s voice precedes her. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” she is saying, no longer whispering, and she moves quickly into the room and rubs my head as she passes me to get to my sister. She drops the bat and it clunks on the floor. My sister is crying. “It’s all right. It was nothing,” my mother says.
I slump against the wall. My mother hugs my sister. She exhales longer than I have ever heard anyone exhale before.
“Who was it?” I ask.
“Nothing, nobody,” she says. But I know she is lying. I know who it was.
“Come here, Charley.” She holds a hand out. I straggle over, my arms at my side. She pulls me in, but I resist. I am angry with her. I will remain angry with her until the day I leave this house for good. I know who it was. And I am angry that she wouldn’t let my father stay.
“ALL RIGHT, ROSE,” my mother was saying as I reentered the room, “you’re going to look beautiful. Just give it a half hour.”
“Who was on the phone, dear?” Rose asked me.
I could barely shake my head. My fingers were trembling.
“Charley?” my mother asked. “Are you all right?”
“It wasn’t...” I swallowed. “There was no one there.”
“Maybe it was a salesman,” Rose said. “They’re afraid when men answer the phone. They like old ladies like me.”
I sat down. I felt suddenly spent, too tired to keep my chin up. What had just happened? Whose voice was that? How did someone know where to find me, yet not come get me? The harder I tried to think, the dizzier I got.
“Are you tired, Charley?” my mother asked.
“Just...give me a second.”
My eyes drooped shut.
“Sleep,” I heard a voice say, but I couldn’t tell which of them said it
, that’s how gone I was.
Times My Mother Stood Up for Me
I am fifteen and, for the first time, I need to shave. There are stray hairs on my chin and straggly hairs above my lip. My mother calls me to the bathroom one night after Roberta is asleep. She has purchased a Gillette Safety Razor, two stainless-steel blades, and a tube of Burma-Shave cream.
“Do you know how to do this?”
“Of course,” I say. I have no idea how to do it.
“Go ahead,” she says.
I squeeze the cream from the tube. I dab it on my face.
“You rub it in,” she says.
I rub it in. I keep going until my cheeks and chin are covered. I take the razor.
“Be careful,” she says. “Pull in one direction, not up and down.”
“I know,” I say, annoyed. I am uncomfortable doing this in front of my mother. It should be my father. She knows it. I know it. Neither one of us says it.
I follow her instructions. I pull in one direction, watching the cream scrape away in a broad line. When I pull the blade over my chin, it sticks and I feel a cut.
“Oooh, Charley, are you all right?”
She reaches for me, then pulls her hands back as if she knows she shouldn’t.
“Stop worrying,” I say, determined to keep going.
She watches. I continue. I pull down around my jaw and my neck. When I am finished, she puts her cheek in one hand and smiles. She whispers, in a British accent, “By George, you’ve got it.”
That makes me feel good.
“Now wash your face,” she says.
Times I Did Not Stand Up for My Mother
It is Halloween. I am sixteen now, too old to go trick-or-treating. But my sister wants me to take her out after supper—she is convinced you get better candy when it’s dark—so I reluctantly agree, as long as my new girlfriend, Joanie, can come with us. Joanie is a sophomore cheerleader and I am, by this point, a star on the varsity baseball team.
“Let’s go far away and get all new candy,” my sister says.
It is cold outside, and we dig our hands in our pockets as we walk from house to house. Roberta collects her candy in a brown paper shopping bag. I wear my baseball jacket. Joanie wears her cheerleading sweater.
“Trick or treat!” my sister squeals when a door opens.
“Oh, and who are you, dear?” the woman says. She is about my mother’s age, I guess, but she has red hair and is wearing a housedress and has badly drawn eyebrows.
“I’m a pirate,” Roberta says. “Grrr.”
The woman smiles and drops a chocolate bar in my sister’s bag as if dropping a penny in a bank. It goes plunk.
“I’m her brother,” I say.
“I’m...with them,” Joanie says.
“And do I know your parents?”
She is about to drop another bar in my sister’s bag.
“My mom is Mrs. Benetto,” Roberta says.
The woman halts. She pulls the candy back.
“Don’t you mean Miss Benetto?” she says.
None of us know what to say. The woman’s expression has changed and those drawn eyebrows are straining downward.
“Now you listen to me, sweetie. Tell your mother that my husband doesn’t need to see her little fashion show by his shop every day. Tell her to not get any grand ideas, you hear me? No grand ideas.”
Joanie looks at me. The back of my neck is burning.
“Can I have that one, too?” Roberta asks, her eyes on the chocolate.
The woman pulls it closer to her chest.
“Come on, Roberta,” I mumble, yanking her away.
“Must run in the family,” the woman says. “You all want your hands on everything. You tell her what I said! No grand ideas, you hear me?”
We are already halfway across her lawn.
Rose Says Good-Bye
WHEN WE STEPPED OUT of Rose’s house, the sun was brighter than before. Rose followed us as far as the porch, where she remained, the aluminum door frame resting against the side of her walker.
“Well, so long, Rose, honey,” my mother said.
“Thank you, dear,” she said. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Of course you will.”
My mother kissed her on the cheek. I had to admit, she had done a nice job. Rose’s hair was shaped and styled and she looked years younger than when we’d arrived.
“You look nice,” I said.
“Thank you, Charley. It’s a special occasion.”
She readjusted her grip on the walker handles.
“What’s the occasion?”
“I’m going to see my husband.”
I didn’t want to ask where, in case, you know, he was in a home or a hospital, so I blurted out, “Oh, yeah? That’s nice.”
“Yes,” she said softly.
My mother pulled at a stray thread on her coat. Then she looked at me and smiled. Rose moved backward, allowing the door to close.
We stepped down carefully, my mother holding my arm. When we reached the sidewalk, she motioned to the left and we turned. The sun was nearly straight above us now.
“How about some lunch, Charley?” she said.
I almost laughed.
“What?” my mother said.
“Nothing. Sure. Lunch.” It made as much sense as anything else.
“You feel better now—with a little nap?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
She tapped my hand affectionately.
“She’s dying, you know.”
“Who? Rose?”
“Um-hmm.”
“I don’t get it. She seemed fine.”
She squinted up at the sun.
“She’ll die tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“But she said she’s going to see her husband.”
“She is.”
I stopped walking.
“Mom,” I said. “How do you know that?”
She smiled.
“I’m helping her get ready.”
III. Noon
Chick and College
I WOULD GUESS the day I went to college was one of the happiest of my mother’s life. At least it started out that way. The university had offered to pay half my tuition with a baseball scholarship, although, when my mother told her friends, she just said “scholarship,” her love of that word eclipsing any possibility that I was admitted to hit the ball, not the books.
I remember the morning we drove up for my freshman year. She’d been awake before sunrise, and there was a full breakfast waiting for me when I stumbled down the stairs: pancakes, bacon, eggs—six people couldn’t have finished that much food. Roberta had wanted to come with us, but I said no way—what I meant was, it was bad enough that I had to go with my mother—so she consoled herself with a plateful of syrup-covered French toast. We dropped her at a neighbor’s house and began our four-hour trek.
Because, to my mother, this was a big occasion, she wore one of her “outfits”—a purple pantsuit, a scarf, high heels, and sunglasses, and she insisted that I wear a white shirt and a necktie. “You’re starting college, not going fishing,” she said. Together we would have stood out badly enough in Pepperville Beach, but remember, this was college in the mid-60s, where the less correctly you were dressed, the more you were dressed correctly. So when we finally got to campus and stepped out of our Chevy station wagon, we were surrounded by young women in sandals and peasant skirts, and young men in tank tops and shorts, their hair worn long over their ears. And there we were, a necktie and a purple pantsuit, and I felt, once more, that my mother was shining a ridiculous light on me.
She wanted to know where the library was, and she found someone to give us directions. “Charley, look at all the books,” she marveled as we walked around the ground floor. “You could stay in here all four years and never make a dent.”
Everywhere we went she kept pointing. “Look! That cubicle—you could study there.” And, “Look, that cafeteria tabl
e, you could eat there.” I tolerated it because I knew she would be leaving soon. But as we walked across the lawn, a good-looking girl—gum-chewing, white lipstick, bangs on her forehead—caught my eye and I caught hers and I flexed my arm muscles and I thought, my first college girl, who knows? And at that very moment my mother said, “Did we pack your toiletry kit?”
How do you answer that? A yes? A no? A “Jesus, Mom!” It’s all bad. The girl continued past us and she sort of guffawed, or maybe I just imagined that. Anyhow, we didn’t exist in her universe. I watched her sashay over to two bearded guys sprawled under a tree. She kissed one on the lips and she fell in alongside them, and here I was with my mother asking about my toiletry kit.
An hour later, I hoisted my trunk to the stairwell of my dorm. My mother was carrying my two “lucky” baseball bats with which I had led the Pepperville County Conference in home runs.
“Here,” I said, holding out my hand, “I’ll take the bats.”
“I’ll go up with you.”
“No, it’s all right.”
“But I want to see your room.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Come on.”
“What?”
“You know. Come on.”
I couldn’t think of anything else that wouldn’t hurt her feelings, so I just pushed my hand out farther. Her face sank. I was six inches taller than her now. She handed me the bats. I balanced them atop the trunk.
“Charley,” she said. Her voice was softer now, and it sounded different. “Give your mother a kiss.”
I put the trunk down with a small thud. I leaned toward her. Just then two older students came bounding down the stairs, feet thumping, voices loud and laughing. I instinctively jerked away from my mother.
“’Scuse please,” one of them said as they maneuvered around us.
Once they were gone, I leaned forward, only intending a peck on the cheek, but she threw her arms around my neck and she drew me close. I could smell her perfume, her hair spray, her skin moisturizer, all the assorted potions and lotions she had doused herself with for this special day.
