box. Mom picked a few of the mushrooms off. She wasn’t a ’shroom lover like me.
“Your dad called this morning. He was disappointed he missed you.” She nibbled on her pizza. “You weren’t home when he called last time either.”
Ah, the pizza came with extra mushrooms and a side of guilt. “I had to work.”
“You know he can’t just call whenever he likes. He’s only allowed to use the phone at set times.”
“I think that’s the point of jail, the whole restriction-of-freedom thing,” I said. Next my mom would be pointing out that prison officials were cruel because my dad wasn’t allowed to wander home whenever he wanted.
“You don’t need to be such a brat.” Mom waved her pizza in my direction. “You know why they don’t send donkeys to college?”
“No one likes a smart-ass,” I answered. This was a very old joke in our house.
“The point I’m making is that your dad misses you.”
“I’m not avoiding his calls; I had to work.” This wasn’t completely true. My dad and I tended to avoid each other. It was a mutual thing. I always felt that he’d never wanted kids; he always looked at me as if he was wondering when I might leave. He was never the kind of dad who got down on his hands and knees and played with me as a kid when he was even around, and as I got older, we seemed to have even less to talk about. My mom, however, liked to have this fantasy where we were the perfect family. I’m pretty sure inside her mind we had a nice cozy bungalow with a white picket fence and a golden Lab named Buster.
When she talked about our lives, I almost didn’t recognize them. She had this ability to completely remake history to fit her fantasy. She would talk about how when I starred in the schoolplay in eighth grade, my dad brought me flowers after the show. I’m not sure where she got that idea; he hadn’t even shown up to the play, and I wasn’t the star; I was some background player. All her family memories where straight out of a Hallmark card, with us wearing matching holiday sweaters while we made Christmas cookies together. For years I thought I was going crazy, since I didn’t remember all these things, but then I realized she just made them up. Cut out any parts of her life she didn’t like and squished in a new and better memory to fill the gap.
“Your dad thinks he might be released early. They’ve got overcrowding issues, and he doesn’t have any disciplinary reports this time. The lawyer is pulling together something to take to the probation board.”
“Dad always did master the good behavior part on the inside. It’s when he’s released that he has a problem.” I saw Mom open her mouth to argue with me, and I held up my hand to stop her. “I’m joking.”
“I was thinking when he gets out, we could still take a summer vacation as a family. We could go down to the Oregon coast, maybe visit Portland.”
I stared at her. I bet she was picturing driving down the coast singing show tunes and having some sort of family bonding moment. Our last family vacation had been a nightmare where we traveled from Walmart to Walmart while my dad worked a fake return scam. It wasn’t the kind of vacation full of happy memories.
“I’m not sure I can get time off,” I said. It seemed a better excuse then telling my mom I would rather be tied to the bumper and dragged behind the car than go on another family vacation. “Do you know where my baby pictures are?” I asked, steering her away from the vacation topic.
“Did you look in the shoe box?” Mom took another slice and flicked the mushrooms off.
“Yes, I looked in the box. There’s a bunch of stuff in there, but no baby pictures.”
“Well, I don’t know where they are then.” Mom tossed her slice back down and stared at me with her mouth pressed into a thin line. “So, let me guess, the fact that I don’t have baby pictures is a sign that I’m a bad mother.”
I stared at her with my mouth open. Parents
“Your dad called this morning. He was disappointed he missed you.” She nibbled on her pizza. “You weren’t home when he called last time either.”
Ah, the pizza came with extra mushrooms and a side of guilt. “I had to work.”
“You know he can’t just call whenever he likes. He’s only allowed to use the phone at set times.”
“I think that’s the point of jail, the whole restriction-of-freedom thing,” I said. Next my mom would be pointing out that prison officials were cruel because my dad wasn’t allowed to wander home whenever he wanted.
“You don’t need to be such a brat.” Mom waved her pizza in my direction. “You know why they don’t send donkeys to college?”
“No one likes a smart-ass,” I answered. This was a very old joke in our house.
“The point I’m making is that your dad misses you.”
“I’m not avoiding his calls; I had to work.” This wasn’t completely true. My dad and I tended to avoid each other. It was a mutual thing. I always felt that he’d never wanted kids; he always looked at me as if he was wondering when I might leave. He was never the kind of dad who got down on his hands and knees and played with me as a kid when he was even around, and as I got older, we seemed to have even less to talk about. My mom, however, liked to have this fantasy where we were the perfect family. I’m pretty sure inside her mind we had a nice cozy bungalow with a white picket fence and a golden Lab named Buster.
When she talked about our lives, I almost didn’t recognize them. She had this ability to completely remake history to fit her fantasy. She would talk about how when I starred in the schoolplay in eighth grade, my dad brought me flowers after the show. I’m not sure where she got that idea; he hadn’t even shown up to the play, and I wasn’t the star; I was some background player. All her family memories where straight out of a Hallmark card, with us wearing matching holiday sweaters while we made Christmas cookies together. For years I thought I was going crazy, since I didn’t remember all these things, but then I realized she just made them up. Cut out any parts of her life she didn’t like and squished in a new and better memory to fill the gap.
“Your dad thinks he might be released early. They’ve got overcrowding issues, and he doesn’t have any disciplinary reports this time. The lawyer is pulling together something to take to the probation board.”
“Dad always did master the good behavior part on the inside. It’s when he’s released that he has a problem.” I saw Mom open her mouth to argue with me, and I held up my hand to stop her. “I’m joking.”
“I was thinking when he gets out, we could still take a summer vacation as a family. We could go down to the Oregon coast, maybe visit Portland.”
I stared at her. I bet she was picturing driving down the coast singing show tunes and having some sort of family bonding moment. Our last family vacation had been a nightmare where we traveled from Walmart to Walmart while my dad worked a fake return scam. It wasn’t the kind of vacation full of happy memories.
“I’m not sure I can get time off,” I said. It seemed a better excuse then telling my mom I would rather be tied to the bumper and dragged behind the car than go on another family vacation. “Do you know where my baby pictures are?” I asked, steering her away from the vacation topic.
“Did you look in the shoe box?” Mom took another slice and flicked the mushrooms off.
“Yes, I looked in the box. There’s a bunch of stuff in there, but no baby pictures.”
“Well, I don’t know where they are then.” Mom tossed her slice back down and stared at me with her mouth pressed into a thin line. “So, let me guess, the fact that I don’t have baby pictures is a sign that I’m a bad mother.”
I stared at her with my mouth open. Parents
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