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.
