Conversations with my Mother
By Stephanie Parke

The music drifts out of the old record player, tinny and distant as if it were a whisper instead of a song. The weather has been as unpredictable as ever, with an unexpected chill sneaking into the late fall air. The trees outside sway in the fall wind, tapping like impatient fingers on the roof while the dim afternoon sunlight plays through the trees painting shadows on our kitchen floor. My mother, all vibrance and energy in blue leggings and a Mickey Mouse shirt, spins and twirls like the lightest of ballerinas, even though she is much heavier. She always holds her head high and there is a strange magic in her walk that I one day hope to copy. With a smile and a twinkle in her bright blue eyes, she sways and vibrates across the white-tiled kitchen floor towards the stove. She shimmies in time with her favorite song Thunder Island; she always listens to Thunder Island when she cooks. Her beautiful long brown hair is tied today into braids that swing and bounce around her round face as she moves. The old oven door, the grotesque color of pea soup, creaks open and the smell of meatloaf seduces my senses. My mother makes the best meatloaf in five counties. The smell and aroma have been known to cause traffic accidents, or at least the cataclysmic failure of many church goers diets. I take a deep breath and almost drool at the smell. She turns from the oven and smiles at me, a pudgy twelve-year old with long brown braids, glasses and a huge crush on her brother’s best friend. She gives me a thumbs up as she pushes the door closed with a creak. She notices my serious face and comes to join me at our creaky old table.

“ If you keep frowning like that your face will freeze that way.” she says with a smile.

“God” I mumble to myself knowing I’m pouting but unable to help it. My mother makes a face sticking her tongue out at me and distorting her face at crazy angles trying to make me laugh. She sighs as I stubbornly fold into teenage sulk.

“Boo," she starts out as she sits down with me at the old fashioned kitchen table, “Not everyone is going to love you, but as long as you love yourself you’ll be happy; I didn’t always know that, but I’m glad I do now.”

I groan at the use of my childhood nickname and then I stare at her aghast at the idea as I have trouble liking myself most days, let alone loving me. I pick at the chipping top of the table hammering away at the rooster pattern in its center not caring that the rooster now only has one leg. I don’t look at her as I speak.
“Mom, that’s stupid," I moan awash in teenage petulance,”I just have to find a way to be what he wants.” I say this in exasperation, head lowered, mumbling under my breath. I know somewhere inside me that to think this way is pathetic but I find myself sucking in my stomach as I wonder how long it will take me to go on a crash diet to get down to the size girl he seems to prefer. I always have issues with my body; I believe that somehow the weight- gain fairy comes while I sleep and zaps me with extra pounds. Just wait until I catch that bitch

I think to myself as my mom gives me a funny look. She leans back in the chair, which creaks again in protest almost as if to say enough already.

“For someone so smart that was a dumb comment,” she says as she looks at me with a weird smile on her face, You are better than that grasshopper.” She folds her hands and bows her head a little in true David Carradine fashion. Her gaze tells me that she knows exactly what is going through my mind. She smiles wider at my look, her whole face opening as she folds her arms over her ample chest and just looks at me, waiting.

“Boo," she whispers leaning closer to me tipping my face up to hers, "you need to love yourself first before anyone else will love you.” My eyes fly down to my tight shirt and snug Levis, sighing I realize that they will never fit me this winter. I feel all but invisible to my brother’s dark-eyed best friend. I examine the apples and pears marching on the wallpaper stalling for time to try and think of what to say. I feel the change in space a heartbeat before my mother sits down in the chair next to me. The last notes of the song crash over us and as Jay Ferguson finishes singing about making love in a storm my mother hums along, terribly off key, and puts her arms around me giving me a squeeze.

“It won’t always be this hard, I promise.” I snort in derision and try to pull away with a muttered “mom”, but she squeezes me tighter and continues: “Just remember life might not always be perfect but it will be good if you believe in yourself.”
I know that she is thinking about my father. He was mostly a nice guy, which I guess is why she stayed with him so long. Sometimes, though, he would come home drunk and he had no control over his anger. He used to whip my brother and I with a leather belt that left welts on our legs. It had a huge buckle on it and raccoons burned into the leather. My mom tried to protect us and I’m sure she kept us from many “whippings” through the years. We were lucky I guess that it only actually happened a few times and wasn’t any worse, but those times were enough. Back then this punishment technically wasn’t child abuse but I always found it hard to believe that someone as strong as my mother could have stayed with him so long. I guess she thought what every woman thinks: that he would change. I shudder at the memory and try to forget how I have to look away every time I see a leather belt with a big buckle. I look up at her and notice the tears in her eyes that she refuses to let herself cry. I see the shadow in them an instant before she can hide it. I know she is thinking of the recent defection of my father after twenty-three years of marriage. I look at her and she smiles at me sadly as if our thoughts were marching along simultaneously. Her smile seems to say, “I’m so sorry.” I squeeze her hand and try for a bright smile and she does too; no words need to be spoken between us now. The mood breaks and she has me laughing again in no time, even though I have taken her words to heart. She is good at covering her pain with laughter, and I think that somewhere deep down she still loves him, even if his leaving is the best thing for us all.

The fall wind whips past our trailer pulling with hungry fingers at the loose siding. Anticipation runs rampant in the air as we wait for our grandmother to pick us up. We are going school shopping. Every year before school starts grandma picks us up and takes us to get a few school clothes since my mom cannot afford them as my dad once again avoids child support enforcement. The phone rings and my mom picks up; the conversation is very one sided with a few yes’s and no’s thrown in at awkward intervals. My mother’s eyes stray toward me with a look that says that the news is not good. She places the phone down and sighs before turning to my brother and I with her hands clenched at her sides. She pulls on the hem of her oversized shirt and stands awkwardly, for once missing the grace that is usually so much a part of her. My heart pounds as I look at her and a feeling of unease drifts down my spine: I know what is coming. She motions me away from the door and my heart sinks. My brother Jacob stays where he is on the couch, spread like a pile of discarded magazines, not really caring one way or another. He burps and laughs at the antics of Ren and Stimpy on the television as I trudge over and look at her expectantly.

She sighs and puts her arm around me steering me into the small kitchen area. We sit at the table and my eyes remain glued to the one-legged rooster in its center. It seems to be staring back with sympathy in its one eye and this makes me gulp hard.

“Boo, your grandmother called and she said she is not going to be able to get new clothes for both of you.” She paused for a minute rubbing her face with her hands. I can almost hear her screaming at her mother, as this is her normal M.O. Favoritism is one of my grandmother’s favorite weapons.

“Let me guess," I say with all the fourteen-year-old resentment I can muster, “She’s taking her golden boy for clothes but not me.” I fold my arms across my chest and breathe out. The hair curled into a bubble at my forehead fails to move thanks to my super-hold hairspray, but for once I wish it would, as it always looks so cool in the movies. I eyeball my brother through the connecting opening between our kitchen and the living room and I wonder how he can be oblivious to what is going on.

“ Boo, you know how your grandmother is; she has her priorities and she believes that boys deserve more. She’s old school.” She puts her hands up and makes finger quotes in the air. Her eyes meet mine and I can see her irritation echoing mine.

I huff in agreement as I think back to those moments when my grandmother wielded her favorite weapon. My grandmother is one of those people who has problems connecting with her own sex. Our family past is littered with discord among the women. When she was raising her children she made frequent excuses for bad behavior in her boys while holding her daughters to a standard so high that even Mother Theresa herself could not have met it. I often wonder if this is the reason that my mother and my aunt Krystal married young. I grimace as I think of all those times she came and picked my brother Jacob up for a weekend away at her house or dropped off a spur of the moment gift, while barely noticing me. I remember begging to go with her and being denied because she had “promised him.” It seemed like she was always promising him something.

Shaking my head to clear it I scowl and stick out my tongue. “She’s a pain in the ass, I ground out looking away. “She’s a stuck up old biddy.” Mom barely covers her laugh with a cough and tries not to smile.

“What did you say to her when she gave her edict," I ask quietly with irritation pinning my mother with my eyes. My mother has a hard time standing up to my grandmother especially when she “helps” us. Unfortunately since my dad has made a habit or avoiding child support this had happened a few times more than I would have liked due to my mother’s barely-above-minimum-wage job.

“I told her that if she buys for one she has to buy for you both,' she says with pride and my look turns to shock. I run my fingers over the rooster as if it is a good luck talisman and wait for the rest.
“And” I prompt leaning forward further. “And she agreed to take you next weekend to get something.” I put both hands in the air like I just scored a soccer goal and jump up to hug her. I am so proud of her that my heart feels like it’s bursting. I pull back and catch her face, and when she smiles I know that she is proud of herself too.

“You rock” I squeal hugging her again.
“ Thank you, thank you, no applause,” she says with a small bow. “I told her she had to be fair; she didn’t like it but I told her that’s how it had to be.”

“Look at you” I say with an excited laugh as I smile widely at her, “standing up for Truth Justice and the American way.”
Her eyes twinkle as she wrinkles her brow and asks, “Isn’t that superman?”

“Nope, superwoman.” I say with a snicker as I hug her again for good measure.

“Takes one to know one,” She laughed at me as she hugs me back. The wind whips against the trailer again but now the tapping seems happily congratulatory as we celebrate our victory.

While we celebrate our victory, we hear the honk of a horn in the driveway. My grandmother waits in the driveway in her Chevy van and honks again when my brother fails to appear. We look out the door and her pinched face makes it clear that she is not happy at my mother’s standing up to her. My brother jumps up and scuttles out the door, still oblivious to what is going on. My mother and I look out the front door as she ruffles his hair and smiles at him. My mother wave jauntily at her and my grandmother’s face pinches even tighter as she pulls away, making sure not to look at us again.

As the van’s exhaust fills the chilly air and disappears from sight Mom’s eyes meet mine and our faces collapse as we burst out laughing. We smile through our laughter as we look at each other and know that we are both seeing my grandmother’s pinched, disapproving face again. We gasp for breath as we close the door and collapse against it. We feel invincible for that moment and I look at her and smile. She slings her arms around my shoulders and we wipe our eyes as we move away.

“Come on Super mom, I say with a smile, let’s go make some cookies.”


The wind sings as it flies past the windows calling happily to those of us inside, bubbling over with teenage anticipation. Satin and silk rustle in the silence as I dream about the coming night. My hands run down my powder blue skirt and I finger the lace at my waist in sixteen-year-old teenage ecstasy. “Mom, this dress rocks!” I squeal as I give her a tight hug. She smiles around the pins held in her mouth and gives me a wink. I look down at the beautiful homecoming dress she made for me by hand. Its surface seems to shimmer and it almost sways on its own in the light of our kitchen. Her long brown hair, which is loose today, sweeps the floor as she finishes the hem on my dress. Her recent weight loss has caused the oversized shirts and leggings she prefers to almost hang on her. She is proud but it scares me. She takes the pins out of her mouth and sticks them into her tomato-shaped pincushion. She places it on the table covering the one-eyed, one-legged rooster on its surface. It looks at us accusingly from underneath the pincushion as she sniffs, and I can see a tear in her eyes as she looks not at the dress but at me.

“Boo she says softly in a watery voice, I can’t believe my little girl is growing up.” I roll my eyes at her and smile trying to pretend that this moment is not affecting me too. “Mom I sigh putting hands on hips “ I’ve been grown up for a long time now”; sometimes I feel like I have been an adult for years.
“But not like this” she says quietly trying for lightness as she ducks her head and puts her sewing implements away. I sit down beside her in a sigh of satin and look at her waiting. She avoids my gaze pretending to be folding a scrap of fabric. She looks up finally and runs her hand over my curly brown hair, smiling a little wistfully.
“I can’t believe this is your first homecoming dance with a date, it seems like yesterday that I was putting your hair in pigtails.”

“ But Mom” I say with a sarcastic laugh, “I am sixteen and you did give me three pigtails.” I put my hand at the back of my hair indicating the place the hated third pigtail used to sit and wiggle my fingers at her. She laughs, the sound light and bubbly. I realize that it’s been awhile since I’ve heard light and bubby from her. I try to keep a stern expression on my face remembering that pigtail but as always I give in and join in the laughter. This is how it has always been with us: mother, daughter and best friends. She sits on her butt on the cheap brown carpet guffawing with laughter. Her hands clasp her middle as she gasps for air. She smiles, and I know that she is remembering those pigtails, multicolored plastic animal clips clicking together as I raced away to play. I shudder at the memory. “Thanks for that” she mutters wiping her eyes. “ I really needed a good laugh.”

In an instant the laughter drains from her face and she is suddenly serious. I know that the moment of joy is gone for her as other thoughts cloud her mind. She tries for a smile as she looks away, but I know she is thinking about her disastrous new marriage. The year I turned fourteen my mother jumped into a marriage on the rebound with a much younger man. Her feelings still smashed from my father’s rejection, she grabbed onto the first handsome young man to come along. My stepfather, who was only eleven years older than me at the time of their marriage, was selfish, immature and completely incapable of being a stepfather to a fourteen-year-old girl and her sixteen-year-old brother. He was the self-proclaimed king of the auto parts store where he worked as a day manager; he used my mother for his personal piggybank. Many times we ran short on money because he had spent it going out drinking with friends. The fact that he did not often come home most nights until well after 2am led me to be almost 100% sure that he cheated on her. I am certain that my mom knew too but didn’t want to admit it. I teased my mother once about being a sugar mama, but quickly stopped when I saw the hurt in her eyes. I was trying to get my point across by hiding behind humor. My mother’s marriage was a trap that she didn’t see until it was too late, and now like a wounded animal she feels there is no escape.

“Mom you can leave him,” I say with uncharacteristically adult insight. I take her hand in mine and squeeze it. I look at her and realize how much she has changed in a few short years. She still shines with vibrancy but a shadow hangs over her now.

“Boo it’s not always that easy, she mutters a tad petulantly; you can’t just give up on a marriage.” “But to be honest I have been thinking about it, I just don’t want to get divorced again.” “I don ‘t want to be a failure.” She refuses to meet my eyes and I feel the waves of indecision seeping off her.

“It doesn’t have to be hard, I mutter as if I know all the secrets of the universe. “You could never be a failure Mom,” I say with a smile trying to get her to smile back. I try humor knowing this usually works. “ You raised me didn’t you; look how great I turned out.” I hear a chuckle and she finally looks at me.

“When did you gets so smart” she asks with a laugh as she takes in my stance.
“ I learned from the best” I reply cheekily as I give her a saucy wink very reminiscent of her own. For a moment I feel like the parent as I find myself trying to give her my sage advice. My head nods in teenage certainty as I cross my arms over my chest and try to look parental. “Seriously Mom,” I say my face deadpan, meaning every word of it, “he’s an ass.”

She laughs despite herself and takes a moment, considering. She is back in full parent mode now and I know she is trying to decide whether she wants to chide me for the cussing, which is a strict no-no in our house, or if she wants to agree with me. She skips the lecture and slings an arm around my shoulder hugging me hard. Her hair tickles my face and the sweet scent of Loves Baby Soft that always clings to her, fills my nose. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her back.
“I know he is,” she whispered in a low voice as she pulls away “but unfortunately he is my problem.” She turns away as the doorbell rings and she trudges over to answer it. Her movements are a strange mixture of her normal whirlwind of motion and a sadness that even I can tell is bone deep. For the first time in years I feel as if I have no idea what she is thinking, and I hate it.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 21.01.2012

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