My mother and I had never been particularly close. We had what you would call a love/hate relationship - we loved to hate each other. It’s not that we didn’t love one another. The truth is that my mother didn’t grow up in an open-arms, let- me-give-you-a-kiss-to-make-it-all-better kind of environment. It was more…oh- good-you’re-home-from-school-fetch-me-a-beer kinda home. So, you see? It’s not that she didn’t love me - it’s that she didn’t know how to love me.
Although, that hadn’t stopped her from loving my dad…
It was summer, 1976 and she loved him so much that on their third date, she ran off with him to Mexico to elope. I don’t want you to picture some ten-hour drive through the desert. They were from El Paso, Texas - and Juarez, Mexico actually sits along the border. So, in all actuality my parents drove about twenty minutes to their destiny. My mom was so afraid to face her parents that she and her groom rented a motel room right after the ceremony and consummated their marriage - for two nights, three days. And on that third day, I was conceived!
My mom said she knew I was in her belly the second it happened and when they got back to El Paso, they went straight to see her parents. She had my dad wait out in his lime green, 1971 AMC Gremlin while she went inside to announce that she was now a married woman.
Five minutes later the front door banged open, and through it ran my mother, arms raised to Heaven, screaming, “I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant!”
My grandmother froze, broom in mid-swing. My grandfather…well, let’s just say, never feigned surprised even when it hit him square in his moneymaker. He sprinted straight to my dad, without missing a beat. Rifle in hand, fire in his eyes, he yanked open the driver’s side door, pulled his new son-in-law to his feet and spat out, “She’s your problem now!”
My mother went into the home she grew up in and threw all of her most prized possessions into a garbage bag, kissed first her mother and then her father on the cheek, got into her new husband’s Gremlin and never looked back.
My father had joined the ARMY about a year before; his bride had just graduated high school. His meager salary was enough to allow my mother to get degreed in Real Estate. She’d had a job lined up before receiving her certification. On her first day of work, she showed up with baggage – me. She begged and pleaded with her new boss to let me stay just one day. Her boss reluctantly agreed. One day turned into one week, which turned into one month, which ultimately turned into her company implementing an office day care. That must have been my purpose for existence because shortly after, every employee began bringing their own baggage to work. This was great because my mother would now spend nearly 24 hours a day with me. Maybe that’s what eradicated our relationship…
“Mom?…Mom!”, I yelled pushing through our heavy front door. Why my father installed thick, steel doors on our house, I’ll never know. I asked him once and he mumbled something about hurricanes and tornadoes. I had to remind him that we were in El Paso, not Kansas. He just told me to quit being a smart-ass and ordered me to get him a Big Red.
I searched every corner of our house looking for mom, but she was nowhere to be found. The one place I didn’t look was her bedroom - because that’s the one place in our household that is off limits. Now, as I stand outside the “forbidden” room, fist upright, ready to knock, I hear familiar sobs. They’re my mother’s sobs. She cries every day for 14 minutes. They may be at various times of the day, but for 14 minutes none-the-less. For five months she’s been mourning my father.
My father left us nine months ago, right after their wedding anniversary. He didn’t leave us like most husband’s leave their families - by saying they’re going out for milk and instead running off with some floozy they met at a bar or work. I wonder if they actually do buy milk - because its one thing to run off with another woman, it’s entirely something different to leave your family without milk. Maybe they leave it at the doorstep, then run off with the floozy?
Anyway, that wasn’t my father. My father was deployed to Iraq, to fight in Operation Desert Storm. He had been there for 4 months when my mother got a visit from Officers telling her that my dad had been traveling in a light armored vehicle when it hit an explosive that sent my father soaring into the air. My dad’s remains were never found.
A funeral by it’s own right is sad to begin with, but it’s awfully depressing when you know the coffin that everybody is pawing at is void of a body. I sat through the memorial service, then the burial and finally the wake, motionless. I tried to cry for days – I really did. But, each time I tried to push out tears, I’d just end up with a red face and a headache. Somewhere deep inside I held on to the hope that an empty coffin meant my father, my only ally, would find his way home. That was five months ago. I’m still waiting. My mom, on the other hand, has accepted reality and every day since, she mourns him for 14 minutes - no more, no less. One minute for every year they were married
I drop my fist, realizing that what I need to speak to her about isn’t so urgent after all, and I walk away. It’s now up to me to get dinner taken care of and to put a load of laundry to be washed. I hope tomorrow she tends to her sorrow while I’m at my Summer Gymnastics class - by the time I get home, she’ll be back to being my mom.
When my mother was my age she was a real gem - “a timeless beauty”, is how my dad’s sisters often referred to her. She was 18 years old when she met my father and he said he fell head-over-heels in love with her the nano-second he laid his steel grey eyes upon her. She was reluctant to go on a first date with him since he was so good-looking, not to mention a couple years older. Add to that the fact that she’d never had a boyfriend and you can understand her apprehension. What would a GI want with an inexperienced teenager? But, my father was relentless. He also loved a challenge. Finally, after 5 months of courting, my mother agreed to a date. That lakeside picnic was exactly the push Cupid needed to make her realize that this was the first of many dates with the man who was to become her Soul Mate.
Now, as I stand staring at my mother’s red, blotchy face and watery, swollen eyes I am reminded of the love she had for my dad. I am reminded that when I lost my father, I also lost every tiny molecule of hope that my mother will someday spread some of that love to me.
I almost had it once. Love, I mean. From her. I was 7 years old and the three of us - mom, dad and I - were having a picnic in our backyard. My mother loves picnics. We had them whenever weather allowed - which is nearly year-round in El Paso. My dad ran into the house to fetch the pitcher of iced tea my mom had made. She makes the best iced tea. She lets a container of water and tea bags sit in the sun for a day, then adds the perfect amount of sugar and touch of lemon. As my dad went into the house, I bit into my hot dog and looked up to find my mother staring at me with a look I’d never seen before, at least directed at me: she wore a huge smile and her brown-sugar eyes sparkled.
“What’s wrong, Mami,” I asked, cautiously, “Do I have something on my face?”
She reached out for my arm, pulling me into a tight hug. Then she cupped my face in both of her hands and replied, “Nothing but beauty, My Love. Nothing but beauty.”
She kissed my forehead, stood up and went into the house to see what was taking dad so long.
“How was gymnastics, today?” Mom asked me now, realizing I was in the room. She dabbed at her eyes with the tissue she held in her hand.
“It was fine,” I replied. “We worked on back handsprings. Nearly sprained a wrist, but I’ll live.”
Immediately, my mother jumped out of her chair and grabbed the wrist I was holding. “Mijita, are you okay? Show me where it hurts.”
“I’m fine, Mom. It was nothing. Just landed wrong. That’s all.”
She looked into my eyes to search for clues that I wasn’t being honest, but dropped her gaze when she realized I was.
She let my wrist fall and stepped around me. “Dinner will be here in about 10 minutes. I hope you’re in the mood for pizza,” she told me as she headed for the stairs, straight to her bedroom, where she will spend the next 14 minutes.
Once I asked my mom why she didn’t love me as much as she loved daddy. She responded by telling me that I was delusional and of course, she loves me. Maybe even more since she held me in her womb for nine months. She often told me stories of how she would read to me every night as she lay in bed. She told me how she’d sing to me every morning as she showered. She made sure she ate healthy because she was also feeding me. She got plenty of exercise so I would have a stress-free birth.
And…I would have had a stress-free birth had it not been for my grandparents. They had heard from another relative that my mom had gone into labor and was on her way to the hospital. My grandfather was furious she had not called them and he packed my weeping grandmother into his Chevy and raced to meet me.
My grandparents ran into the hospital, and dashed right past my mother as she was being wheeled to a delivery room. They literally made a u-turn and stopped the wheelchair in motion. My grandfather told the nurse that they will not go any further until his daughter apologized to her mother for not being in contact with them over the last nine months. Well, obviously, my mother refused, which made her mother bawl even louder.
“Where is my husband?” My mother shouted over the chaos.
“We are trying to reach him,” said a receptionist.
“Try haaaarder!” My mother yelled, just as a contraction hit.
A midwife stepped out of an elevator in search of the patient she’d been expecting and noticed the commotion going on in the lobby.
“What on earth is going on out here?” she asked. “We need to get this woman to a bed. Can’t you see this baby’s coming?”
The nurse regained control of the wheelchair and wheeled me and my mother towards the elevator. My grandparents stood stunned for a few seconds, then sprang into action. They ran to hold open the elevator doors, then stepped inside after my mother, her nurse and her midwife. Only 7 floors to go. The entire ride up, my grandfather begged my mother for an apology. My grandmother, through tears, reassured her daughter that if this baby’s father should not show up she would gladly take over as delivery coach. And through all this, my mother…well…she clutched her abdomen, howled in pain and wondered why she’d ever thought I’d have a stress-free, peaceful birth.
My father did arrive…just as the midwife was pulling at my head, trying to get me out. He ran into the delivery room, saw my grandmother cheering my mother on, as if this was a football game, and nudged her aside. He didn’t realize how hard he had nudged until she lost her footing and crash-landed on the floor. He quickly apologized, and reached to help her up, when he heard, “It’s a girl!” Taken by shock, my father withdrew his hand, leaving my grandmother again to hit the floor. He was taken by shock a second time when he noticed all the blood pooled under his wife and it was his turn to crash-land.
Now, I am sitting on the top step just outside my mother’s bedroom. She is crying and for 14 minutes I read the novel I brought home from the library today after gymnastics class.
“Mami! Mami! I made it! I made the team!” I run through the hefty front door and into the kitchen, where I’m halted by the sight of my mom and her mother standing at the breakfast bar. They’re obviously having a crucial conversation. My grandmother has an arm around my mom, who has her face in her hands and is sobbing. Great! It’s one thing to listen to her behind a closed door, now I actually have to see it.
My mom wipes her eyes with her hands and says, voice shaking, “What, Mijita? What did you make?”
A little shaken, myself, I reply, slowly, “The gymnastics team. We have a competition coming up in four weeks and only a few were selected to go.”
“That’s great, mi amor.” My mom walks to me and it’s her turn to embrace her daughter.
I glance at my grandmother, wondering why she’s standing in my kitchen, when she hasn’t step foot in this house in nearly a year. She, too, embraces me, letting me know she is very proud. But, as I look up at her I can see that she has been crying, also. She tells us that she has errands to run and she’ll visit soon.
As soon as she is gone, I ask, “Mami, what was that all about?”
“Nothing,” she says, as she heads to the stairs. Suddenly, she stops and turns to me, “You’re father would be very proud of you.” And she headed upstairs, as I went out onto our front lawn to practice back-handsprings for 14 minutes.
I first enrolled in gymnastics when I was 10-years-old. I begged my mom to put me in a class, but she refused. I once heard a rumor that it was because she had always dreamed of being a gymnast herself, but her parents refused to shell out the cash. They’d told her that it was an expensive hobby and they weren’t going to throw good money away on a curiosity that would only last a few weeks. My mother promised that this would be different. That she really wanted to be a gymnast. Secretly, she just longed to belong to something. She wanted to be part of a team, any team. Gymnastics just happened to catch her interest. Evidently, she was never given the opportunity to prove to her parents that she has potential. That she could be something more than a beer-fetcher.
When my mother denied me to show her my potential, I went to somebody who had faith – my daddy. For over two years, my father took me to every practice, paid for extra private lessons and went to every competition. No matter how low I placed in Floor Exercises , he was always proud of me. My mother, on the other hand, was usually showing a house or meeting with clients during these times. Which, now as I think about it, is okay. I shared those moments with my daddy – alone. Nobody can share those memories with me. And, nobody can take them away.
For the second time this week, as I rush through the back door in search of my mother to give her good news, I stumble upon her and my grandmother having a heated conversation. I duck out before they notice my entrance and race up to my bedroom. A few minutes later I hear the front door crash open and I peer out my window to see my grandmother angrily get into her car and race down the street.
I pull out the letter my coach has given me and carefully open it. The letter is just to inform my parents when the City competition will take place. It also states that if we place in the top three, we will go on to State and maybe eventually Nationals.
I clutch the letter to my chest and take a deep breath. I’ve never made it this far in anything. The highest award I’ve received is 5th place in my middle school’s Spanish Spelling Bee. Not bad for someone who isn’t very fluent.
I hear my mom climb the stairs. I can feel her stop at my door, hesitant to knock. A beat later I hear the door to her own bedroom open and shut. I stick the buds to my i-pod into my ears and for 14 minutes I listen to my collection of favorite songs.
“Mami, I need a new leotard…” I shout as I walk through our back door. I’m halted by the sight of my mother seated at the dining room table. She immediately asks me to join her. This takes me by surprise, since she rarely greets me when I walk through a door. She is unreadable, so I am at first apprehensive
She’s going to make me give up the competition, I think, instantly.
“Honey, there’s something I need to speak to you about,” she begins.
Here it goes…why can’t I ever be happy?
“I’m sure you’re curious about you grandmother visiting quite often this week.” It wasn’t a question. She could read me like she could always read my dad.
Before I could respond she broke my thoughts. “Your grandmother found out a few weeks ago that she has Stage I breast cancer…”
She went on about what that means, “The point is that they caught it early enough…”
But, all I heard was, “grandmother...breast cancer…”
“There will be a series of tests…”
My body tightened and my throat closed up. I couldn’t get any words out. I was paralyzed. My head was screaming No! No! No! This is all wrong! How does a 55-year-old get breast cancer? Is this her penance for being an indifferent parent to my mother? Is this punishment for my grandfather being stubborn and unloving to his family? My grandmother had always taken good care of herself. How does this happen? Is my mother next? Am I?
Finally, my body regained consciousness and I tried to run, but my mom is quick. Just as I pushed back from the table she was up and reaching for me. She grabbed hold of my arm before I was completely gone and she embraced me, nearly smothering me. I tried to break free. I needed to escape. To clear my thoughts. To grieve – alone. She wouldn’t allow it.
For the first time in 13 years, my mother and I grieved together. Not for 14 minutes. Not for 55 minutes. But until we were out of tears. This time neither of us glanced at a clock.
I was in our backyard showing my mom and grandmother my gymnastics floor routine, while my grandfather tended to the grill. My competition is in less than 3 weeks and my family has cleared their schedules to be there. My mother canceled all impending home shows. My grandmother put off her double mastectomy until after. My grandfather, well…he’s in retirement, so he really hasn’t an excuse not to be there.
Things between my mom and her parents seem to be smooth sailing. This breast cancer scare seems to have put a scare into all of us. My grandparents come over every weekend for a backyard picnic. My grandfather has even taken up the responsibility of taking me to my practices. While I’m toning up my gymnastics skills, my mom and her mother spend quality time together. They realized that they love to have dinner together once a week, followed by a shopping spree. Which is awesome for me, because I’m usually the recipient of said sprees.
And, as for my mother…let’s just say that her 14 minutes are fewer and farther between. I can sometimes hear her weeping but it’s not as often and it’s usually after she thinks I’m asleep. But, it’s okay. She will never get over losing her Soul Mate. Then, again, why would I want her to.
My grandfather goes into the house to fetch a pitcher of my mom’s refreshing iced tea, with grandmother right behind him. They can’t be apart for more than two minutes. As my mom and I have been rekindling our relationship, they have been rekindling theirs, as well.
My mom takes a bite of her hot dog and finds me staring at her. “What? Is there something on my face?” she asks me.
I stand up from the bench I’m on and seat myself on her lap. I cup her face in my hands and reply, “Nothing, but beauty, Mami. Nothing, but beauty.”
I haven’t seen her smile that huge or her brown-sugar eyes sparkle that much in a really, really long time.
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 27.04.2013
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For my mother - I miss you dearly and I would do anything to spend just one more day with you.