Tommy’s birth mother, had given us a letter for when Tommy was older, but the letter didn’t say I’m sorry for giving you up or I loved you or anything normal, but just went on and on about all the troubles she’d had. She even wrote a paragraph about how men were scum, which Ben agreed was a pretty lousy thing for a mother to tell a son.
The topic of my mother came up one night when Mary Beth called to say she’d be late. She told Ben she was picking up Tommy and heading to the cemetery, to put a Christmas wreath by Mom’s grave. He offered to go with her, but she said she wouldn’t be long. When he hung up, he said he was sorry; he should have put me on with my sister, since I would obviously want to go.
“Not really,” I blurted. “I mean, it’s okay.”
He sat back down on the floor next to the coffee table. “Why not?”
“It’s kind of complicated,” I said. I was on the couch. The Rockford Files had gone to commercial. I had no excuse not to look at him.
“Give it a try.” He tilted his head to the left in that sympathetic way he had, and smiled. “I like complicated.”
I said okay, but I really didn’t plan to tell him much. I started with the little fact that I hated the cemetery, and then I said that Mary Beth didn’t mind it; plus, she and Mom were a lot closer, and then he asked why they were closer, and I found myself blabbing about the two phases of our family: Before, which I knew almost nothing about, but had heard contained a nice house and a swing set and a father who worked and a mom who stayed home; and After, which I also knew very little about, except that it started when I was a baby after Dad lost his job and we moved to this apartment on top of Agnes’s house and Mom got her job at the insurance company.
“When I was a kid, she worked constantly.” I grabbed another potato chip. “That’s a big difference. She had a lot more time to spend with Mary Beth.”
“Makes sense,” Ben said.
“Plus, Mary Beth is more like her. I mean, she isn’t really like Mom, but she’s a lot more like her than I am.”
“MB told me your mother was a very strong woman.”
“True,” I said, although strong wasn’t exactly the word to describe Mom. She’d grown up in an orphanage outside town. It was closed by the time I was born, and she never talked about it, or about her parents. She always said, “I care about them just as much as they cared about me.”
One of my earliest memories was the time she slammed her hand in the car door when we were leaving Kroger. Her hand looked as purple and swollen as a fetal pig, but Mom not only didn’t cry, she wouldn’t let me say a word of comfort. “I wasn’t paying attention,” she said, through clenched teeth. “I got what I deserved.”
I remember I had a huge wad of gum in my mouth, and as I watched her try to bend her crushed fingers over the steering wheel, I sucked in my breath and accidentally swallowed it. I’d been told you weren’t supposed to swallow gum, and all the way home, I wondered if it would get stuck in my stomach or even kill me. I never thought of asking Mom. I was afraid she’d say I deserved it, too.
“But she wasn’t mean or anything,” I said to Ben, and laughed. “I don’t know why I used to be a little scared of her.”
It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself, but it was true—I used to be afraid of my own mother. I’d never told this to anyone. Not any of my friends and definitely not Mary Beth.
My sister was our mom’s biggest fan and most loyal defender. One time when I just hinted that maybe Mom didn’t relate that well to me because she had me later in life and I was obviously an accident, my sister said I was way, way off. Mom loved me to pieces, she insisted. Mom would have given her life for me without pausing for a second.
Later it hit me that she hadn’t denied I was an accident.
I expected to feel terrible now that I’d blabbed my big secret to Ben, but it was
The topic of my mother came up one night when Mary Beth called to say she’d be late. She told Ben she was picking up Tommy and heading to the cemetery, to put a Christmas wreath by Mom’s grave. He offered to go with her, but she said she wouldn’t be long. When he hung up, he said he was sorry; he should have put me on with my sister, since I would obviously want to go.
“Not really,” I blurted. “I mean, it’s okay.”
He sat back down on the floor next to the coffee table. “Why not?”
“It’s kind of complicated,” I said. I was on the couch. The Rockford Files had gone to commercial. I had no excuse not to look at him.
“Give it a try.” He tilted his head to the left in that sympathetic way he had, and smiled. “I like complicated.”
I said okay, but I really didn’t plan to tell him much. I started with the little fact that I hated the cemetery, and then I said that Mary Beth didn’t mind it; plus, she and Mom were a lot closer, and then he asked why they were closer, and I found myself blabbing about the two phases of our family: Before, which I knew almost nothing about, but had heard contained a nice house and a swing set and a father who worked and a mom who stayed home; and After, which I also knew very little about, except that it started when I was a baby after Dad lost his job and we moved to this apartment on top of Agnes’s house and Mom got her job at the insurance company.
“When I was a kid, she worked constantly.” I grabbed another potato chip. “That’s a big difference. She had a lot more time to spend with Mary Beth.”
“Makes sense,” Ben said.
“Plus, Mary Beth is more like her. I mean, she isn’t really like Mom, but she’s a lot more like her than I am.”
“MB told me your mother was a very strong woman.”
“True,” I said, although strong wasn’t exactly the word to describe Mom. She’d grown up in an orphanage outside town. It was closed by the time I was born, and she never talked about it, or about her parents. She always said, “I care about them just as much as they cared about me.”
One of my earliest memories was the time she slammed her hand in the car door when we were leaving Kroger. Her hand looked as purple and swollen as a fetal pig, but Mom not only didn’t cry, she wouldn’t let me say a word of comfort. “I wasn’t paying attention,” she said, through clenched teeth. “I got what I deserved.”
I remember I had a huge wad of gum in my mouth, and as I watched her try to bend her crushed fingers over the steering wheel, I sucked in my breath and accidentally swallowed it. I’d been told you weren’t supposed to swallow gum, and all the way home, I wondered if it would get stuck in my stomach or even kill me. I never thought of asking Mom. I was afraid she’d say I deserved it, too.
“But she wasn’t mean or anything,” I said to Ben, and laughed. “I don’t know why I used to be a little scared of her.”
It was out of my mouth before I could stop myself, but it was true—I used to be afraid of my own mother. I’d never told this to anyone. Not any of my friends and definitely not Mary Beth.
My sister was our mom’s biggest fan and most loyal defender. One time when I just hinted that maybe Mom didn’t relate that well to me because she had me later in life and I was obviously an accident, my sister said I was way, way off. Mom loved me to pieces, she insisted. Mom would have given her life for me without pausing for a second.
Later it hit me that she hadn’t denied I was an accident.
I expected to feel terrible now that I’d blabbed my big secret to Ben, but it was
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