Ten

Ten

Holidays became more stressful.  Mom would overdo as she always did when the entire family, including her husband’s three sons and their families would come.  There were small spoons for sugar, tiny forks for who knows what.  The table was beautifully set as a proper English woman might do.  Everything was organized.  There were drinks before dinner at four o’clock precisely. 

Her husband’s adult children began to comment on Mom’s need to control.  That everything was done on her terms for gatherings.  They felt it put a lot of unnecessary stress on them.  Conveniently, most of them never pitched in to help remedy the situation.  Mom did hire a childhood family friend to help in the kitchen.

Our meals became political.  My oldest uncle didn’t much care for the conversation.  I found it interesting and loved hearing people’s thoughts.  In time, her husband’s children stopped coming.  They started their own family traditions closer to their homes.

One particular Christmas holiday was memorable.  Mom started back with with her piercing comments, aimed at me and her husband.

“Oh, shut up,” she said.

I was offering to help her when I saw her struggling in the kitchen. 

Immediately, I was the teenager when Mom was telling me I was ill bred and not college material.

“You are stupid!” she screamed.

I never quite understood the context of that remark the first time I couldn’t park the car perfectly.

“Stupid!

Once again, I went quiet.  Of course, I wasn’t a child, or a teen anymore.  Nor was I living with her.  But hearing those comments leaves a lasting impression

There was nothing I could do to make her happy.  It simply was not my job.

After dinner, we quickly gathered our things and headed back to New Jersey.  We overstayed our welcome.

That night, I thought a lot about what happened.  What happened lifelong with Mom.  Her comments, insults, bullying. 

I went to my desk and started writing.  In the case she and I would talk soon, I wanted to come from a loving place when I told her what her anger does to me. 

The following morning, she called.

“You were quiet at Christmas. Is anything wrong?”

I took a deep breath.  Thought about how much I loved my mother.

“Mom, I love you.  I care deeply about you but you need help.  You are pushing everyone away.  No one wants to come for Christmas anymore.  You need help with your anger.  I know you are in pain. “

Dead silence.  A minute passed.

“Well, I will have to think about that. Goodbye.”

She didn’t call again. 

She would turn seventy in a month.  I suggested to my brother that we fly to Florida as she and her husband wintered there.  I suggested we take her to dinner.

As I packed my suitcase for the trip, I bought all the goodies my brother and I ate as children.  Corn Curls, red licorice.  Even bought Coca Cola at the hotel.  We decided to stay in the same room.

All night we talked about growing up.  Our parents.  Our life.  This was the first time my brother ever opened up about how he felt. 

He hated our upbringing, but said our parents were first rate people.  And parents.  Yet, he only came home once a year to visit.  Rarely called any of us. 

He said we grew up in a pressure cooker.  I agreed.

Dinner with Mom was quiet.  She was polite but not forthcoming.  She wouldn’t look at me.  I don’t know if she felt ashamed, angry or both. 

More than anything, I wanted to be heard.  I hoped she could hear me.  It was a risk which I took to share my feelings. 

That following year, my stepfather asked to meet me half way.  He wanted to gift me his made in occupied Japan china.  The pattern was “Violets” and I loved it. 

We met in a charming inn in Chaddsford, Pennsylvania.

“Can’t you find some happiness?” he offered.

I didn’t know what to do with those words.  Was I unhappy, too?  I was too young, maybe too scared to ask for clarification.  Did he think I should have ignored her nastiness when he couldn’t?  I think he loved me dearly and wanted me to move behind this.  Irregardless of that, he was right.

 Five years later he was dying from his recurring small cell leukemia.  Mom never told me his leukemia returned.  He was in hospice.  She still wasn’t talking to me.  I found that out through my mother-in-law which she called to tell her.  That was interesting, because the two of them never talked outside our gatherings at my mother’s house at Christmas.  My mother-in-law didn’t much care for my mother.  It was a curious call.

Immediately, I drove to the hospital in Baltimore with my then college age children.  I could hear a cane tap the floor.

“She is on her way down,” my stepfather said.

“She is having a rough time.  Yes, the General is here” he said in not so kind words.

He felt my mother was a coward emotionally.  Embarrassed by her inability to work things out. Mom complained about everyone.  No one was perfect enough for her. 

In some ways, I think he had had enough.

Three weeks later, my brother called. 

“He died,” he said.

“He will be cremated and his ashes spread over the golf course where he played.”

My stepfather did not like my brother.  It did cause conflict between my mother and him.  Especially when my brother would visit and dominate their telephone. Or conduct business in their living room with his loud business voice.

I never wanted to be in the middle.  Mom had issues with my brother lifelong.  She was always putting him down. 

Granted, he rarely called or offered to help Mom.  He always cashed her checks. 

As mom continued to go downhill, he did offer to help her get a scooter for mobility.