father would lift his eyebrows and look at her, then go back to chewing his food. It was only when I got older that I realized "home" meant
"dead. " That was usually when he changed the subject, anyhow.
THERE WAS ONLY one hospital in our county, and with my father out of the picture, my mother tried to work as many shifts as she could, meaning she couldn't pick up my sister after school. So most days I would fetch Roberta, walk her home, then ride my bike back for baseball practice.
"Do you think Daddy will be there today?" she would ask. "No, stupid,"
I would say. "Why would he be there today?”
"Because the grass is high and he has to mow it," she'd say. Or,
"Because there are a lot of leaves to rake." Or, "Because it's Thursday, and Mommy makes lamb chops on Thursday. "
"I don't think that's a good reason," I'd say. She'd wait before asking the obvious follow-up.
"Then how come he left, Chick?" "I dunno! Hejust did, OK? "
"That's not a good reason, either," she'd mumble.
One afternoon, when I was twelve and she was seven, my sister and I emerged from the schoolyard and heard a honking sound.
"It's Mommy! " Roberta said, running ahead.
She didn't get out of the car, which was strange. My mother thought it rude to honk for people; years later she would warn my sister that any boy who wouldn't come to the front door was a boy not worth dating.
But now here she was, staying in the car, so I followed after my sister and crossed the street and got in.
My mother did not look well. Her eyes were black below the lids, and she kept clearing her throat. She was not wearing her nursing whites.
"Why are you here? " I asked. That was how I was talking to her in those days. "Give your mother a kiss," she said.
I leaned my head across the seat and she kissed my hair. "Did they let you out of work early?" Roberta asked.
"Yes, sweetie, something like that. "
She sniffed. She looked in the rearview mirror and wiped the black from around her eyes.
"How about some ice cream? " she said. "Yeah! Yeah! " my sister said.
"I have practice," I said.
"Oh, why don't you skip the practice, OK? "
"No ! " I protested. "You can't skip practice; you have to go. " "Says who?"
"The coaches and everyone. "
"I wanna go! I want a cone! " Roberta said. "Just a fast ice cream? "
my mother said. "Gaw! No ! OK? "
I lifted my head and looked straight at her. What I saw, I don't think I had ever seen before. My mother looked lost.
I would later learn that she had been fired from the hospital. I would later learn that some staff members felt that she was too much of a distraction to the male doctors, now that she was single. I would later learn that there had been some incident with a senior member of the staff and my mother had complained about inappropriate behavior.
Her reward for standing up for herself was the suggestion that "it isn't going to work out anymore. "
And you know the weird thing? Somehow, I knew all this the moment I looked her in the eye. Not the details, of course. But lost is lost, and I knew that look because I'd worn it myself. I hated her for having it. I hated her for being as weak as I was.
I got out of the car and said, "I don't want any ice cream. I'm going to practice. " As I crossed the street, my sister yelled out the window, "Do you want us to bring you a cone? " and I thought, You're so stupid, Roberta, cones melt.
Times I Did Not Stand Up for My Mother
She has found my cigarettes. They are in my sock drawer. I am fourteen years old.
"It's my room!" I yell.
"Charley! We talked about this! I told you not to smoke! It's the worst thing you can do! What's the matter with you?" "You're a hypocrite!"
She stops. Her neck stiffens. "Don't you use that word. " "You smoke!
You're a hypocrite!"
"Don't you use that word/"
"Why not, Mom? You always want me to use big words in a sentence.
There's a sentence. You smoke. I can't. My mother is a hypocrite!"
I am moving as I yell this, and the moving seems to
"dead. " That was usually when he changed the subject, anyhow.
THERE WAS ONLY one hospital in our county, and with my father out of the picture, my mother tried to work as many shifts as she could, meaning she couldn't pick up my sister after school. So most days I would fetch Roberta, walk her home, then ride my bike back for baseball practice.
"Do you think Daddy will be there today?" she would ask. "No, stupid,"
I would say. "Why would he be there today?”
"Because the grass is high and he has to mow it," she'd say. Or,
"Because there are a lot of leaves to rake." Or, "Because it's Thursday, and Mommy makes lamb chops on Thursday. "
"I don't think that's a good reason," I'd say. She'd wait before asking the obvious follow-up.
"Then how come he left, Chick?" "I dunno! Hejust did, OK? "
"That's not a good reason, either," she'd mumble.
One afternoon, when I was twelve and she was seven, my sister and I emerged from the schoolyard and heard a honking sound.
"It's Mommy! " Roberta said, running ahead.
She didn't get out of the car, which was strange. My mother thought it rude to honk for people; years later she would warn my sister that any boy who wouldn't come to the front door was a boy not worth dating.
But now here she was, staying in the car, so I followed after my sister and crossed the street and got in.
My mother did not look well. Her eyes were black below the lids, and she kept clearing her throat. She was not wearing her nursing whites.
"Why are you here? " I asked. That was how I was talking to her in those days. "Give your mother a kiss," she said.
I leaned my head across the seat and she kissed my hair. "Did they let you out of work early?" Roberta asked.
"Yes, sweetie, something like that. "
She sniffed. She looked in the rearview mirror and wiped the black from around her eyes.
"How about some ice cream? " she said. "Yeah! Yeah! " my sister said.
"I have practice," I said.
"Oh, why don't you skip the practice, OK? "
"No ! " I protested. "You can't skip practice; you have to go. " "Says who?"
"The coaches and everyone. "
"I wanna go! I want a cone! " Roberta said. "Just a fast ice cream? "
my mother said. "Gaw! No ! OK? "
I lifted my head and looked straight at her. What I saw, I don't think I had ever seen before. My mother looked lost.
I would later learn that she had been fired from the hospital. I would later learn that some staff members felt that she was too much of a distraction to the male doctors, now that she was single. I would later learn that there had been some incident with a senior member of the staff and my mother had complained about inappropriate behavior.
Her reward for standing up for herself was the suggestion that "it isn't going to work out anymore. "
And you know the weird thing? Somehow, I knew all this the moment I looked her in the eye. Not the details, of course. But lost is lost, and I knew that look because I'd worn it myself. I hated her for having it. I hated her for being as weak as I was.
I got out of the car and said, "I don't want any ice cream. I'm going to practice. " As I crossed the street, my sister yelled out the window, "Do you want us to bring you a cone? " and I thought, You're so stupid, Roberta, cones melt.
Times I Did Not Stand Up for My Mother
She has found my cigarettes. They are in my sock drawer. I am fourteen years old.
"It's my room!" I yell.
"Charley! We talked about this! I told you not to smoke! It's the worst thing you can do! What's the matter with you?" "You're a hypocrite!"
She stops. Her neck stiffens. "Don't you use that word. " "You smoke!
You're a hypocrite!"
"Don't you use that word/"
"Why not, Mom? You always want me to use big words in a sentence.
There's a sentence. You smoke. I can't. My mother is a hypocrite!"
I am moving as I yell this, and the moving seems to
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