Woe Is I

Mrs. Murray, the gym teacher who won the booby prize that morning was quite sweet for being a bit of a dog with a bone on most matters. She "there, there'd" me and stroked my Dorothy Hamill haircut, waited patiently outside the locker room while I got dressed and rinsed the tears from my face. She walked with me, arm around my shoulders to my next class.

We go to the classroom and I took my seat. She went to talk to Mr. Devlin, my Algebra teacher who looked up at me once or twice as they spoke in a tone just above a whisper. He made a WTF face even though no one was really saying WTF in 1978.

So this is what it feels like to be pathetic!

Divorce was not as prevalent as it is now back then. It was the 70s. People just remained miserable and slept in separate beds. I only knew one other person whose parents had been divorced and it was because her Dad had gone to jail for fraud. I felt like a statistic. Right up there with cases of Polio in the last decade.

And in the 70sx, MOMS DIDN'T LEAVE! I may as well have told Mrs. Murray that my mother had been murdered with a chainsaw for how she looked at me.

She touched my shoulder as she left my Algebra class, her tennis shoes squeaking on the floors as she swished by in her skort and warmup jacket. We never talked about it again. She'd look at me in class and ask me how I was doing, just casually enough not to make a big production, and just directly enough to let me know exactly why she was asking.

I don't know if she spoke to any of my other teachers that day. This was long before schools had counseling staffs and took the loco parent is thing so seriously. Back then your parents were your parents, no matter how lousy. I would have welcomed a heap of parentis-ing at the time.

I sleepwalked through the remainder of the day. A complete waste of time to be there. Absolutely no academic advantage to having attended even one of my classes. And I certainly didn't feel like talking about anything with anyone. A can of worms doesn't open itself. If I didn't open it, I could attempt to ignore what was inside.

On the way home on the bus, I spotted Casey from down the street.

And suddenly I felt like talking.

Aftershock

And then of course, she didn't leave.

Not right away.

Dropped the bomb and then waited to detonate it. So we all sat with our fingers figuratively in our ears, wincing and waiting for the Big Bang. For the world to fly to bits.

The delay left plenty of room for confusion. For speculation. For hope. Hope that she had changed her mind. She'd decided to stay. She couldn't bear to leave. (Because when you're a kid, no matter how much fighting or violence or household items sailing through the air and crashing into walls, nothing is worse than someone leaving. Even if that someone leaving would neutralize the chaos and a whole load of other shit.)

But the cat was out of the bag - and was scampering around the house leaving things in shreds.

I'd gone to school. Ridden the bus. I had no idea how to even tell my seat mate Carolyn who always road with me. She was a nervous wreck on the best of days. Had I told her, the driver would have had to pull over to start chest compressions.

But it was on the bus that Reality paid a visit. THIS was happening. THIS was happening to me. THIS was happening to my sibs. THIS was happening to my Dad (In my Almost 14 year old simplistic comprehension of the complexities of marriage, he was just as rocked by the news as I was.)

My first class was gym. Volleyball. I hate volleyball. I do not have the hands or the wrists to play without hurting myself on a simple volley. I walk around all day looking like I got defensive injuries in a recent mugging.

In the locker room afterwards, reddened forearms and all, I finally began to cry as I untied my sneakers. My friend Sandy was telling an amusing family story (her family would have been a huge hit had reality TV dawned 30 years earlier). She looked around as people laughed and noticed that my head was bent. My hands were shaking.

She sat on the bench with me. Softened her voice. Listened as I choked out the reason I was coming unraveled in public (There is no more public a place to an eighth grader than the locker room. Ask anyone. Talk about being exposed!)

Sandy heard me out and was appropriately horrified. She went to get me some tissues (toilet paper) and a teacher (the only female gym teacher we were reasonably sure was not a lesbian) and returned to my side.

I choked out the tale of woe yet again. I'd have to get used to this. Maybe I could come up with a less pathetic-sounding Readers' Digest abridged version that didn't make people cry along with me.

Both of them hugged me.

I felt like I had not been hugged in years.

The Bogey Man Is Gonna Getcha

I remember being very torn when I learned Mom was leaving. Torn between "Holy crap! What is going to happen to me?" and "Well, Jesus H. Christ! Something has to change or we're all doomed."

And speaking of doom, I'd had a Doomsday revelation then, too. At the ripe old age of Almost 14, when Life seems to want to dish out all kinds booby prizes across the board. Acne. Braces. One's oh-so-fun-and fickle period. Boobs that grow or decide not to. What you get in your prepubescent gift basket is a complete crap shoot. And your parents' marriage unraveling is a big bow made of razor wire tied cheerfully to the handle.

But my A-ha moment came just then, when Mom told me she'd be leaving. For years I'd had an overpowering sense of impending doom. Something awful was just around the corner. Something wicked this way comes. It's the end of the world as we know it. Bye-bye, Love. Bye-bye, Happiness. Someone, something somewhere was going to take a hatchet to my life and hack it all to collops. The Big Whammy was afoot.

But I had no idea what it could be. What to expect. It was as if I were walking around in the pitch blackness, hands protectively out in front of me, feeling my way through a tunnel knowing that at any minute I could bump smack into the Bogey Man. He was somewhere out there. Coming toward me. God knows where. 

In my 11, 12, and 13 year old capacities to understand, I could not imagine what could be so horrible. I just knew it was coming. I conjured up the worst possible scenarios. I imagined awakening to find both of my parents dead in their bed. Both parents getting cancer from all of that incessant chain smoking. I imagined a horrible car accident in the Ford Towne and Country wood-paneled station wagon. My family dismembered and dead on the highway. Me still siting in the middle spot in the back seat with my Keds resting on the hump. 

And now, as I sat at the kitchen table, Mom chain smoking and drinking coffee, me downing Tang and an effortlessly prepared package of Tastykakes, it all made sense. 

This was the doom I could not define. This was the thing I sensed had been coming but could not imagine. This was the thing that rattled my cage but that I could not put into words.

Mom delivered her news matter of factly. Dispassionate. While I wordlessly ate my Butterscotch Krimpets, a lump forming in my throat making it hard to swallow, even with a sip of Tang. 

I knew there was no room for tears. Nothing messy, please, you have a bus to catch. 

I secretly dreamt of smacking the coffee cup out of her hand as she sat there casually sipping. Nice timing, Ma. Lower the boom and put me on the bus. And I got angry. This was her thoughtful plan to tell me she was leaving? That she was turning the world on its head?

And I was mad. Seething. And I said something pissy.

"Well it's about time." 

I stuffed the remaining bite of Krimpet in my mouth, grabbed my yellow zip-up hoodie and my book bag and walked out the door without looking back. 

I doubt she ever got up from her chair.

Preparing for Takeoff

It must be a matter of gender. Last year, Pat crossed this same threshold and it never crossed my mind that he was tiptoeing across an imaginary line with enormous importance.  I suppose it is significant that he is a boy.  I have no idea what my brother Joe experienced when my mother left. I have no "male child perspective."  I do know that he remained confused (and very likely developmentally arrested) for a very, very long time. But he lived with Dad, like I did, so he had his ship to steer by.

But Hil, Oh My God, Hil. I look at her and wonder what on God's green Earth she would do if I vanished. We are so close. She needs so much from me. She gets so much from me. She seeks so much from me.  I can not imagine turning and walking away and leaving her behind.  I can barely handle shared custody!  And she can walk to my house from the house she lives in with Lars so she can drop in any time. And does!  How did my mother move out and move outside our reach so casually?  With so little regard for us? How didn't she die inside?

I remember looking at a house with her before she actually boarded her broom for takeoff.  We were supposed to be "going to Mass" which was generally code for "Mom has a nefarious, secretive errand or self-serving mission to accomplish that Dad can know nothing about, so the hour that we would spend in Mass is taking on a much more interesting purpose." We drove to the house. It was adorable. A cute cape cod that was neat as a pin and beautifully decorated. The woman that lived there had been widowed young. She was a little older than Mom. She was looking to take a roommate.

I was thrilled. The woman was darling and so was the house. Rent was within Mom's meager price range and the place had everything she needed. It was also just a few blocks away. I would pass by on my way to church one those Sundays when I walked there with some of the neighborhood kids. And it was a block away from my friend Carolyn.

Of course Mom had other ideas. Came up with a variety of complaints. Chief among them was that the woman would "drive her nuts." Probably because Mom was looking to live the party life and this woman had obviously let her priorities mature as she did.

In the end, Mom chose to share a house with a whacko that she coincidentally had gone to high school with.  She was bizarre but kind and entertaining. And she had three yappy beagles with names like "Cher" who crapped all over the kitchen, which was the only room not decorated entirely in royal blue, mirrors, gilded surfaces and red roses. It was like a Vegas whore house. Probably what appealed to Mom.

But the big selling point was probably the location.  Close enough, but well beyond reasonable after school walking distance. If Mom was going to see us, it would be on her terms.

And since this was years before the advent of multiple land line phones and decades before car phones and cell phones, Mom had to share the house phone with other tenants. A fine excuse to never call and never answer.

She planned her escape. And she executed flawlessly.

Have A Birthday

But there has been an even bigger revelation. One that I reached and then couldn't step away from. A doozy.

The price of being alone in one's own head without interruption for too long at one time.

As summer rounded the corner into July, we celebrated Pat's birthday. Pat turned 15 and was quite naturally excited about being on the runway to adulthood. Discussions of working papers and learner's permits and much coveted cars and concert events he'd like to attend filled every meal time, side by side task, snuggle on the couch. It was a turning point in his young life.

And once we had birthday dinners and cake and candles and presents and other nice surprises, my mother reared her ugly little back-combed head. As Pat thrilled at the arrival of his self-designed, customized awesome new skateboard -- a skateboard he and his friends thought was the height of cool, Mom sent her birthday greeting,

As per usual, nothing more personal than a card and a check.  A check I have to put in the bank and withdraw from the ATM for it to be even remotely of value to a 15 yer old.

What ws even more disappointing, and frankly, bordering on a alarming, was her card.

As Pat opened the envelope to reveal the card, he looked quizzically at me. As if he'd opened up the wrong envelope. (A sure sign of maturity. A year or two ago, the card would have gone unnoticed and would have been dropped on the floor once a couple of bills had been discovered. It could have read" With deepest sympathy.")

He turns the card toward me to show me and makes a "WTF?" gesture.

Mom has sent my 15 year old decidedly masculine boy who loves skateboarding and rap music a card that reads, "For Someone Special" and featuring a lovely swirly blue and green and purple motif, embellished with butterflies and sparkles.

And inside there is a totally impersonal check and a note for him to text her and telling him she will text back. Oh, goodie!

As if.

I refrain from screaming. Try to put it in perspective. Just weeks before she'd sent me a check for my birthday (after expressing shock that I'd sent a gift and card for Mothers a Day the week before) and had written the check to my married name. I had not been Liza Royal for 6 years. Six very notable years.

And then when I didn't cash it right away - How could I? - she sent me a nasty text telling me to hurry up. She wanted to close the account.

Pat didn't ultimately give a hang. And he sure as shit didn't text her. The impersonal, can't-bother-to-make-it-even-seem-sincere, offhandedly, box-checking gesture rolled off of his back. And mine, too, but more slowly.

But I did not forget it, and as we passed Independence Day and I turned my attention to Hil's birthday, I realized a new brand of horror.

In a matter of days, Hil would be exactly the age I was when my mother peeled out of the driveway and out of our lives. Leaving skid marks, natch.

We're On The Road To Nowhere

And as the summer wears on, I have some big revelations. And I have some small revelations, too. Spending two to three hours a day in the woods communing with nature but otherwise alone in my head will do that.

I can say this now, though it was not so obvious as each days dripped by: My mother never once called to ask me how I was doing. How I was doing with my job search. How I was doing emotionally. How I was doing financially. How I was doing personally.

Not that I need her pity. Or her money or a pep talk or even something that resembles friendship.

But it strikes me as odd that with the year I've had --Scott vaporizing into nothingness without warning and then my abrupt departure from my job without the benefit of a soft landing in a new one
-- she never once managed to soften her heart, warm her blood, lay down her sword, (lower that voice!) and call me to check in --if only on my sanity and the safety of my children who depend on it.

No. She told Charlotte how upset she was that Scott had broken my heart. (Check the box.)

She told Charlotte that she hoped I found a smashing new job. (Check box #2.)

But she could not for even one minute extend her hand to hold mine, even figuratively, for one minute.

No call.
No note.
No card with ten bucks in it so I can take myself out for a beer.

Yet, when I spaced on Bill's birthday and did not send a card, (Why I am even obligated is beyond me - his own daughter is not held to that standard) she picked up the phone and called to say she was "sure it is in the mail" but in case I'd forgotten to get it to the mailbox, she wanted to let me know it had not arrived yet, but he'd had a great birthday.

Nice try, Mom. We all know that buying and mailing a card to Bill falls somewhere between vacuuming the closet ceilings and alphabetizing the spice cabinet in order of importance. As in not.
Not.
At.
All.

And by comparison, other people in my life were so supportive!  Charlotte - her FRIENDS! And my friends - and their MOTHERS! And my former classmates and colleagues - and their PARENTS! My cousins - their SPOUSES! It nearly made me cry.

But from Mom?

Zero.
Zip.
Zilch.
Goose eggs.

Which is about what our relationship has come to mean to me.

Just Shoot Me

The beer arrives.
Gregory arrives.
The food arrives.
The indigestion arrives.

I try to drown out the brainwave scrambling sound of Mom's yakkety yakkety yakking with chat of my own. With intense concentration on conversation at the other end of the table. With the sound of my own chewing. She is like an air horn.

I alternately wish she would shut up (Fat chance) and that her lips would swell to the point where they muffled her voice. I also pray for an act of God. A sink hole. A falling rock. An alien abduction. A hostage situation.

But lunch takes its course. Several courses, actually. Thank God for the beer. It may not have mellowed Mom but it dulled my senses sufficiently to not actually go through with jabbing a fork in anyone's eye just to get them to stop talking. Or breathing, for that matter. As appealing as the idea is, even now.

Soon enough we are leaving the pub, heading for home, discussing the directions ad nauseum. I've never met people who bicker as much as Mom and Bill over "the best way to get there" when there is no hurry, no deadline, no place to be. Who cares if we have to stop at a light or go around the park? What? We might be delayed 5 minutes in getting into our comfy pants?

I text friends the entire way back to the house. Threats to gouge my own eye out with a spoon. Pondering why anyone would ever question why I drink. Bewilderment that I am within 10 miles of normal after my upbringing.

We get to Charlotte and Jack's. We make small talk. And I realize that Mom and Bill and I have run out of things to say to each other. I see them a maximum of twice a year and I have nothing to say within hours.

Nothing I'm willing to say, it will only be repeated with disdain when I leave.

Nothing I am interested enough to ask, in spite of the morbid curiosity I have about how my mother manages to get through a day without making herself cringe. Or even slapping herself across the face.

Current events are off limits. All roads lead to a loud, violently disparaging diatribe about our President.

I warmly say my goodbyes to the boys and my sister and Jack. I half heatedly kiss my mother and Bill. I get in my car and point it in the direction of home.

As lovely as graduation had been, I find that I am unmoved - indifferent - to my mother having attended. If I were to replay the highlight reel of the day, there would not be a single frame with her in it. Her attendance was a non-event, however grating.

I doubt that I'll even care if she comes to Pat's or Hil's graduation. Or wedding. Or anything else. Something to think about.