Metamorphosis: the journey of a heart.

I am seriously considering changing the title of my story.  As a teen I thought the title Metamorphosis was cool and perfect...today, not so much.  Thirty years later the word metamorphosis has been overused, and someone else already beat me to it...I'll never forget the day I saw a book titled Metamorphosis sitting on the shelf at a local book store; it was around 1990 and it stopped me in my tracks.  So much for that idea.

Today, I'm getting a feel for something different, new and perhaps more telling, and I'm leaning toward After All for the title.  I tend to use those two words together in my writing...or so I've noticed lately.

So I'm leaning in that direction; leaning but not quite heading. 

Hmm, I just made a joke...title...heading.  Ha ha!

And so goes the process...

 

delela1 at 11:13:09 AM PDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 4 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

This little journal is feeling abandoned, I know; but I have not forgotten about it.  Each and every day what I could be writing here runs and buzzes through my mind.  But I can't deny writing in here drains me on many levels and I must recharge before the journey can continue.  And it will continue...

 

delela1 at 11:01:09 PM PST Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 0 comments: Add your own

This chapter has been a long time coming.  I started writing it last May on my way back from Georgia, during a four hour layover in Salt Lake City.  The first few paragraphs just flowed out of me that day.  But as the chapter changed, I hit a wall, and I couldn't carry it any farther.  Maybe a part of me didn't want to remember the day everything changed---the day hope died.  But I have traveled that journey, once again, and arrived safely on the other side...with hope.  This time, hope survived.

Love's Divine - Seal <----click to view/hear music video

During the days and weeks that followed, life continued.  By the fall of 1976 I watched my mother's physical health slowly improve.  I kept various jobs waiting tables while living at home and utilized most of my free time as a built-in sitter for Cheri and Kelly.  But that arrangement didn't last long.  The problem with having me living at home was that my earnings counted as household income according to the State of Washington, thus reducing the amount of assistance available to my family.  The solution to this problem was simple, according to my mother…I just needed to move out.  That way Mom wouldn't be forced to lie or hide anything from the State, and our household income would drop significantly, which qualified Mom for more assistance.  The flip side of this, of course, was that moving out created an expense for me called rent.  Mom told me not to worry about the rent, she would cover me, somehow.

While Mom's physical health did improve, her heart continued to stumble.  As Christmas neared, I felt the weight of her worry and concern about Bill's disappearance grow heavier with each passing day.  He was, after all, the love of her life.

Bill came into her life at a time when I know she was questioning her decision to leave Ray.  Bill and Mom met in late 1973 when she took a bartending job in the lounge of the local Best Western hotel.  Frequented by many blue and white-collar workers, the lounge was a popular hang out for many locals and travelers.  It was particularly popular with employees of Troy Forests, Inc., the local lumber and paper mill.  Troy, or TFI as it was called, employed about 35 percent of the local population.  Bill owned a construction company in Portland, Oregon and during an expansion project at TFI, he met Mom while he was a guest at the hotel.

Once they met, it didn't take long for Mom and Bill's relationship to develop into a serious match; so much so that within a year I learned Bill intended to marry my mother once both their respective divorces were final.  Having found each other, they both were eager to get their new life together off to a happy start.  By late 1974, Mom's divorce from Ray was final.  Bill's however was not as his wife was causing problems on many levels, thereby dragging it out.  A year later, in 1975, something happened that threw Bill for a curve and upset Mom.  I never found out what it was, but it put a strain on their relationship, and their dream.

From the beginning I liked Bill; he was warm, friendly and when he smiled, his eyes lit up.  In my book, that was a genuine and likable quality.  After all, eyes are mirrors of the soul.  When I looked at Bill's eyes, I felt comfortable, at ease and happy.  I didn't get that feeling very often when I looked at someone, so when it happened with Bill I knew he was right for Mom.  When he looked at her, his face changed and in his eyes I saw a man in love with a woman.  I was happy for them, but especially happy for my Mom.

There was something about him.  He had charisma, that magnetic quality that just draws you in.  He knew how to charm the fairer sex, especially the daughters of his love.  One particular morning in the spring of 1974 stands out in my mind above all others.  Having dragged my butt out of bed, I got dressed and went upstairs to begin my morning routine.  I walked into the dining room to find Bill sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee.  His presence took me by surprise and at first I felt a bit awkward.  However, that didn't last long.

"Morning sunshine," he said the moment I walked in.  He pulled the newspaper down and smiled at me, then returned to his reading.

Sunshine?  Did he just call me…sunshine?  The bathroom was occupied so I plopped myself down on a chair to wait my turn.  Cheri and Kelly were busy eating their morning cereal.

"I think you need glasses," I said coyly.  "Because thereis no way I look anything like sunshine right now."

He smiled and put the newspaper down.  "On the contrary," he stated.  "My vision is perfect.  And you are the picture of morning sunshine."

I furrowed my brow.  Is he hitting on me?  "Oh, I know your type, all too well.  And flattery will get you nowhere mister," I told him.

"That's exactly what your mother told me," he smirked, bringing the newspaper up to eye level.  Then he lowered one hand and peered at me out of the corner of his eye.

What a cad!

The bathroom door opened and out walked Mom, looking every bit like a fresh spring flower.  Bill put down his paper as Mom walked past him, gently laying her hand on his shoulder as she bent over to plant a light kiss on his cheek before disappearing into the kitchen.  Her eyes were twinkling with a light I had never seen before.  I liked that.

Not one to lose my chance in the bathroom, I excused myself and left the table.  Inside the bathroom I closed the door and stopped in front of the mirror.  Sunshine, huh?  My reflection said otherwise; my long blonde hair resembled a bird's nest in complete disarray, under my blue eyes the telltale sign of yesterdays mascara had me looking more like the spawn of Alice Cooper, my skin was blotchy and, of course, I could see the beginnings of another acne breakout about to take place on my chin.  I'd seen that face many times before and I looked like crap.  But Bill's words rang in my ears, and brought a smile to my face.  Even if he was just flirting with me, or using his charm, it worked.  I liked being called sunshine.  If he was trying to score points with me, well, it was working.

Bottom line during that time was, for over three years, we were happy.  All of us were happy.  Sure there were bumps in the road, but things always smoothed out.  I was convinced as long as Mom was happy, nothing could go wrong.  Each time I saw Mom and Bill together, I found myself looking to the future, to their wedding.  Someday, two families would join together; Bill had sons, Mom had daughters…we'd be like the Brady Bunch.  I was okay with that, and I was really looking forward to it.

Then, our world turned upside down.  Just before Bill disappeared in early 1976, Mom started to get edgy and restless.  Bill's wife would not agree to a divorce and refused to reach asettlement.  She wanted everything, including Bill.  Whenever he was at our home, Bill spent most of the time on the telephone, either talking to attorney's or to her.  Somehow Bill's wife got Mom's telephone number, and her calls to our home became daily events.  I always knew when Bill was on his way from Portland because the phone would start ringing, off the hook.  It was always her, looking for Bill.  I had to give my mother credit, as she handled the wife very well, with a lot of grace and civility.  But, at the same time, it was wearing on her.  It was wearing on her, and him, and their dream.

To this day I don't know exactly what happened.  I've speculated about it, with my aunt, and I've come to the following conclusion: I believe Bill disappeared because my mother broke it off with him.  She put him out.  Somebody did or said something to her.  Mom was hot headed and easy to anger and knowing her, she got mad and acted out of frustration.  No doubt she looked at the facts as her divorce was over within eighteen months, while Bill's had stretched out to almost three years.  The longer his took, the more Mom feared he was considering a reconciliation with his wife.  Rather than face that possibility, I think Mom took the defensive position and ended it with him.  When that happened, it pushed him over the edge.  Between the stress of running a construction company, dealing with his wife, living on the road, and God only knows what else, Bill cracked under the pressure.  Then, he just disappeared.

Mom spent the next three months looking for him.  She spent hours handing out flyers with his picture, talking to the local police and every law enforcement office within 300 miles.  Reports of a man, fitting his description filtered in, but by the time word reached Mom, he was gone again.  People reported seeing him in town, at bars with other women.  Mom knew it was Bill when people described a ring the man was wearing.  It was distinctive and one of a kind.  For a brief time, I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes.  And then the reports stopped.  Completely.  Days, then weeks, passed by without a single word.  Slowly, I watched my mother lose her grip on things.  And just before my 19th birthday, she letgo.  That was the beginning of the end, the end of her, the end of us, and the end of hope.  She lost it, she lost everything, and she never got it back.

In January 1977, almost one year to the day Mom first got word of Bill's disappearance, I received a telephone call from her.  I had taken a room at the Lewis-Clark Hotel, where I worked days in the restaurant and nights in the cocktail lounge.  It was a Sunday and I had the day off.  I had just finished drying my hair when the telephone rang.  For the rest of my days, I will remember that call.

"Crystal," Mom's voice was faint, and weary, "they found him."

Thank God!  But, something wasn't right.  She didn't sound excited.  "They did?  Where?" I asked.

I waited as seconds passed.  Then Mom said, "Hanging from a tree outside of Portland."

No.  No!  This can't be.   "Mom--"

"Crystal, I need you, here, right now."

"I'm on my way.  I'll be right there."  I don't remember hanging up, or putting on my shoes, or leaving the room, or driving to the house.  I just remember walking in the back door, through the kitchen, and seeing Mom standing by the telephone.  Like she hadn't even moved from the time I hung up.  She looked up at me as I walked toward her to give her a hug.  But before I reached her, she grabbed her purse and walked past me toward the door.  Stunned, I stopped in my tracks.  I thought she needed me.  "Where are you going?"

Mom pulled the door open and said, "Over to Rena's.  She's waiting for me."

She was leaving?  Didn't she want to share her pain with me?  I needed to know what she was feeling, what she was thinking.  "But, I thought you said you needed me.  I thought you wanted to talk about this."

With haunted eyes, she looked at me and shook her head.  "Not right now," she told me.  "Stay with the girls.  Right now I need to talk to Rena."

I was stunned, but understood.  "Okay," I replied as I watched her turn and walk through the porch.  In the living room Cheri and Kelly were both on the floor watching television.  I sat down on the couch, bewildered by my mother's behavior.  We had always been so close, best friends.  I could tell my mother anything, anytime.  Well, most of the time, obviously my pregnancy wasn't one of our better mother-daughter moments.

But as I turned and looked to the kitchen door, listening tothe sound of her station wagon leave the driveway, the news began to sink in.  How would this affect her now?  Would she stand up to the strain?  She had already changed so much during the past twelve months; where was the woman I knew to be my mother?  I wondered about her, and I wondered about Bill.  Where had he been the past twelve months?  What caused him to put that rope around his neck, and then make that last fatal move?

I was so lost in my thoughts I didn't hear Kelly's voice next to me.  But when she leaned on my leg, I turned my head to find her staring up at me, her bright brown eyes deep with concern.

"What's the matter?" she asked quietly.

"Nothing," I told her as I reached out and pulled her onto my lap.

She cuddled in close to me; Kelly liked to cuddle, and I loved holding her.  The feeling of complete peace and total relaxation I felt when I held my young sisters always helped stabilize my emotional state.  At the age of 10, Kelly was more like a 2 or 3 year old, always needing gentle reassurance, so sensitive to her surroundings and yet so inquisitive about the world.  As I gently stroked her soft, curly dark brown hair, she pulled away and looked up at me.

"But you look so sad," she observed.  Children.  They are so highly keen to everything, there's no hiding the truth from them.  They always seek the truth.  It's in their eyes, those pools of endless innocence and life.  I looked back into hers and at that time the tears started to flow.

By now Cheri got up from the floor, walked to the couch, climbed up next to me and sat down.  When Cheri took my right hand and wrapped it around her as she leaned into the warmth of my body, I felt so vulnerable, and yet fortunate.  I had them, my two sisters.  Wrapped around my heart, with all their purity, love, and undying devotion.  Without them I knew I'd be lost.

"Is it Mom?" Cheri asked.  "She's always crying or mad.  Why does she hate us?"

Through her words I wondered if there was some truth to it.  That maybe a part of our mother did hate us.  But I knew it was not true.  It was the situation she found herself in.  She was dealing with a lot right now, probably more than she could handle, alone.  And I felt the needto help these twoyoung hearts understand that hate was not what our mother carried in her heart for us.

Pulling them even closer to me, I tried to explain, and maybe send away their fears.  "I don't believe she hates us."

"But she's always angry," Kelly cut in.

Yes.  She was.  But there was another mother inside her, the mother I knew as a child.  The loving, tender caring person who gave so much of her heart that at times I felt like the world just stopped for us and us alone.  This mother made me feel special, and very loved.  Anger didn't exist in her heart.  She was too filled love.  That was the mother they never saw, and I knew it was up to me to show her to them.

"When I was a little girl, younger than you both are now, Mom was the most beautiful person in the world to me," my voice was tired and weary, strained from the sorrow of my tears, but I continued.  "And there was a time when she would go to the ends of the earth of us.  When I was very young, Mom used to take Mary and I to a special place, because I think she thought it would help me.  It was called Angel's Flight."

Kelly pulled away from me, with a puzzled look on her face.  "Angels fight?" she asked.

I couldn't help but laugh.  "No silly.  Angel's Flight.  F-l-i-g-h-t.  Like a bird takes flight."

"She's so stupid," Cheri replied.

I turned to Cheri with a look of gentle displeasure.  "Cheri don't call her that."

"But she is."

"No, she's not.  Kelly just marches to the beat of a different drum, that's all."  I turned from Cheri and looked at Kelly.  "Don't you?" I asked.

Meekly and silently she nodded her head.  I could tell Cheri's words hurt her and all I wanted to do was ease her feelings.  Once again, I began to stroke her soft hair.

"Anyways," I continued.  "I loved riding on Angel's Flight with Mom and Mary.  It was one of those special things we did together when Mom could afford it, like when we got to have Fizzies.  But Angel's Flight was different."

"What is it?" Cheri asked.

"It was an old trolley car, kind of like the cable cars in San Francisco.  You've seen them, on the TV commercial?"  Both girls nodded their heads.  "Well, like the ones in San Francisco, this car climbed up a very steep and tall hill.  To me it was magical and I canremember sitting inside feeling happy as the car slowly rose up that hill.  I always felt special when we rode on that trolley car.  And I think that's why Mom always wanted to take us there.  I think she believed there was power in that place, a healing power, for Mary and me.  Like she believed riding on that car brought us closer to the angels and made us better again."  With the memory, the tears returned as I thought back to how young and scared my mother must have been, 23 years old, all alone in a big city, far from her home.  She must have been desperately searching for any way to heal those wounds.

Silence fell between us for a few moments, and then Cheri asked, "Better from what?"

"From what a very mean and ugly person did to me, and to Mary."  How much should I tell them?  Everything?  Did I dare share with them what happened all those years ago?

This time it was Kelly.  "What happened to you?"

I let out a sigh, caught between what to share and what to keep.  "There was this woman, who we lived with and she took care of Mary and I while Mom worked.  When Mom was gone, the woman would hit me, very hard, all the time."

"Why?"

"I don't know.  Guess she was just a mean person with a very bitter heart.  But you see, as soon as Mom learned what that woman did, she moved us out of that wicked place.  Back then, like I said, she was the most beautiful, giving person in the world.  To me, anyways.  She was always like that, especially when you two were born."  I looked down at my two sisters, who looked so lost and helpless.  And I wondered if any of my words were helping, if anything I said was easing their worried little minds, and their pain.  "When you were born, her heart sang a song of joy.  I heard it, and I saw it in her eyes.  She loves you, both of you, today, just as she did while she carried you inside her.  And just as she did when you were born, she loves you both very much, today."

"Then why does she spank us?" Cheri asked.  "Is she like that woman?"

"No, she's nothing like that woman," I assured them.  At least, I hoped I sounded assuring.  "Right now, I think Mom is confused about a lot of things.  You know how it is when you get confused?  Sometimes, you get mad and angry.  There are a lot of things going on in Mom's mind right now, and some of it makes her angry.  And because we live here, wesee it.  I don't think shemeans to lash out at us when she does.  But, if we all try, we can make things better for her, so she won't be angry."

Both girls looked up at me with a look of hope so profound I had to catch my breath.  "How?" they asked.

"By not fighting.  No more bickering, no more pinching and hitting, or biting each other."  With my words my sisters slowly cast their eyes downward.   They heard me.  "Together, the three of us can help her get better.  Mommy's very sad right now," I said, stroking both their cheeks as a tear flowed down mine.  "But, we three, we can help her smile again.  We can be like the Three Musketeers, you know.   Only we will fight for love, for what is right.  Not with swords, or angry words, but with love.  Is that what you want?"  In unison they nodded.  "Then look at me."  Both their young faces turned up to me.  "Promise me, right now, right here.  Promise me that you will let the love you feel for me, right now," I said, pointing to my heart, "lead you, and guide you.  Promise me, when one of you does something wrong, that you won't yell, or kick, or fight.  I know I can't be here all the time for you, so I'm counting on each of you to remember this.  Okay?"

After a brief hesitation, both girls nodded their heads and replied with a "Yes."

I really didn't expect them to fully carry out the promise.  More than anything I just wanted them to remember what I said, about the love they felt in their hearts.  And I wanted them to remember this moment on the days when I wasn't around to hold them, to comfort them, to help them make sense of what was going on.  I just wanted to send out a message to help them adapt to the changes taking over our simple lives.

The three of us sat in the living room, soaking up the love we felt for each other.  They needed me and I needed them to need me.  It was moments like this that gave my life a sense of purpose, even when I felt lost in everything else, loving my sisters filled me up inside.

In them, I found hope, for a better tomorrow.

delela1 at 4:36:51 PM PDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 3 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

NOTE:  Since the last entry, I debated on whether to pick up where I left off, or move forward to another time...to one of my sweetest days.  A comment swayed me, but I still hesitated.  Then, last night the movie 'Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood' aired on television.  And I knew.  The answer was clear.

Annie Lennox  : Bare  : 'A Thousand Beautiful Things' (In-Studio)

On the porch, I stood for a moment, hoping against hope. The screen door was unlocked, but what about the kitchen door. Was it locked? With my heart in my throat, I reached for the knob, and turned. Without resistance, it turned. A gentle push, and the door swung open. Before I took a single step, I knew she was awake. For her, this was unusual. It was 6 a. m., and Mom never rose from her bed before 7. But my nostrils filled with those two familiar morning smells. The same scents that greeted me each and every day as I made my way through my home. The undeniable smells of coffee and cigarette smoke, lingering in the kitchen. A hazy cloud of smoke hung in the dining room when I walked in.

I found her sitting at the dining table, looking worn and tired. Between the bags under her eyes and the look within those eyes I knew that if last night had been hard on me, it had been hell for her. Our eyes met and I wondered if this moment would be a continuation of yesterday, or if it would take a different direction.

"Sit down, Crystal," she said with a heavy tone. "We need to talk."

Without hesitation, without a word, I slowly sat down. Silent seconds passed, but I knew to hold my tongue. She was choosing her next words carefully, for they would determine where she and I would go from here.

With shaky hands she rubbed her forehead, then sighed. "Have you thought about what you'll do?"

"Yes. It's all I think about."

Another moment of silence passed between us. "Crystal, I'm sorry about yesterday. And last night."

"It's okay Mom."

With a mother’s eyes she looked at me, taking in every part of me. As if she was seeing something in me for the very first time. "You have three choices, you know."

"Yes, I know."

"What's it going to be?"

"I don't know," I sighed.

"Do you know who the father is?"

"Yes."

"Have you told him yet?"

I started to shake, and before the words formed in my mouth, my eyes filled with tears. "As soon as I found out, I went to tell him. But he was in bed...with another girl."

That was all it took. Within seconds, my mother was beside me, comforting me, holding me, gently wiping my tears away. "Oh honey, I am so sorry. Why didn't you tell me?" she asked as she scooted her chair closer to mine.

"How could I tell you? I never got the chance," I sobbed. "Would it have changed anything? Would it have changed your reaction?"

She nodded her head, no doubt remembering yesterday's bitterness. "I'm sorry," she said again, taking up my shaking hands. Tenderly she wrapped her hands around mine. Hers were now strong, warm, comforting. She leaned in toward me, stroking my face, wiping the tears. My long blonde hair fell in front of my face, and she gently tucked the strands behind my ears. "Are you going to tell him?" she asked.

"No. It's my problem, not his. I got myself into this mess. I'll get myself out. I don't need him." I sounded so sure of myself, and yet I felt so lost.

She let out a deep sigh. "It's probably for the best that he doesn't know." Softly she rubbed my cold hands, slowly warming my fingers...warming my feelings. "Crystal, you can't keep this baby."

The tears came back. "Mom, I feel so confused. All I know is I can't carry this child for nine months, then give it up." Did she understand my feelings? "When I look back at my life, I see all the pain I felt as a child. Pain only I knew." I lifted my right hand to my heart and covered it. "I knew I wasn't like the other children. I felt different. And they treated me differently. I know what it feels like to go through life not knowing about my father. None of my friends understood that. They had both their parents. The loneliness, the feeling of isolation...I don't want my child to feel those things." With the warmth of her touch pressed against my skin, I felt like my heart just opened and all the years and years of silent feelings began to flow out. In all my life, I had never shared my childhood feelings with my mother; until this moment. "I want something better for my child. But God, I feel so confused."

She sat back, and looked out the window. Her eyes searching...searching for an answer. "Honey, we are barely surviving right now. Your paycheck and tips are the only things keeping us going. You know how bad things are, don't you?"

I nodded my head. Yes, I knew.

"We all depend on you. Me, Kelly and Cheri." Her voice was soft, soothing. Then her tone shifted. From soft to firm. "But this pregnancy changes everything. And things will get worse, much worse."

She reached for her cigarettes, lit one and offered me another. I took it, hoping it would calm me down. I was still shaking, inside and out. Shaking with fear. Shaking with pain. Shaking with worry. "Have you thought about an abortion?" she asked.

"Yes, but I can't do that. I can't take another life."

She set her cigarette in the ashtray, then moved closer to me, folding her hands together in front of her, between us. And she began to plead with me. "Crystal, listen to me. Listen carefully. Things are bad, really bad. I lost my battle with the State Disability Board. I won’t receive any disability benefits for the past several months. I was counting on those benefits. You know the problems I’m having with Ray’s child support checks. All we have to keep a roof over our head and food on our table is you. The food stamps help, but you know they don’t go far."

As my mother painted this vivid portrait of our lives, I sat listening, my head bowing with the weight of her words. I thought I knew how bad things were. I had hoped things would improve for us. Clearly things had not. And this pregnancy made it worse. I listened, and watched each of my tears land silently on my legs.

Finally, I lifted my head and spoke. "I used to dream of the day. I dreamed the day I received the news that I was pregnant would be a day of the deepest joy my heart has ever known. Instead, when I heard the news, there was no joy. There were only tears. Since that day, the weight of these tears grows heavier. I am tired of the tears." She reached up and gently wiped my eye, her face filled with a mother’s pain. I looked into her eyes. "Mom, the other day, I made a list of the pros and cons of keeping this baby." I paused, and looked out the window, my vision blurred with tears. I felt my mother’s hand on mine. I let out a deep, heavy sigh. And then fell apart. "And I tried, and I tried, but I couldn’t write anything on the pro side. It was empty."

Mom moved in and held me. "Then you know what you need to do," she whispered in my ear.

I nodded my head. I knew. And I hated that I knew.

---+---

We sat together at the State Health Department, in an office, silently watching the caseworker leaf through the paperwork as she checked her notes. The questions had been asked. Now, we waited.

Throughout the interview, I watched Mom speak and move with a regained sense of purpose. She was straightforward, deliberate, never wavering. She dominated the interview, receiving several looks of disapproval from the caseworker when Mom replied to questions posed to me.

Finally, the woman spoke. "Well, it appears we have everything we need," she gave us a hollow smile. "You will hear from us in a couple of days."

That was it, I wondered? We sat here, laying our pathetic life out on the table for her scrutiny and she just brushes us off like a couple of crumbs?

Stunned, I turned to Mom. "Crystal, give us a minute," she said matter-of-factly.

What? "You’re asking me to leave?"

"No. I’m telling you to leave," she said, never taking her eyes off the caseworker’s face.

"Wait a minute! This is my life…my body-"

Mom turned to me. "Just do it!"

She had that look in her eye. The look that said ‘Cross me, and I will take you down.’ I glanced at the woman behind the desk. She may have come to work today thinking it would be just another day…but it wasn’t. She was about to experience something totally new, the wrath of my mother.

At that point, I knew better than to push back. With a huff, I stood, frustrated and furious, but ever the obedient daughter. I knew better than to strike back at my mother’s ire. I stepped out of the office and walked to the reception area. Sometimes...God that woman...my mother! Why the closed doors? Why all the secrecy? This is my life, my body, and my choice being negotiated behind closed doors. I had no say. What could my mother say in private to that woman that would change anything?

With agitation I picked up a magazine and flipped through the pages. Nothing made sense anymore. What were they talking about? Me, of course. Yet, here I sat, separated from the words that by now had to be flying around that office. This was about me. Why didn’t my voice matter in this?

Minutes passed and soon I saw Mom walking toward me. "Let’s go, Crystal," she said, never stopping as she moved toward the door. I stood and in two strides we were outside. She was digging through her purse, walking like we had just stepped out of the grocery store. I waited. She said nothing.

"Well?" I asked.

"You have an appointment, in two weeks with a doctor in Pullman," she replied flatly.

I stopped walking. "What? Just like that? But, she said the decision would take days."

Without breaking her stride, Mom said, "She changed her mind."

"But how…why? What did you tell her after I left?" I didn’t move. This made no sense at all. One minute it’s this way…and the next, it’s that?

Mom kept walking and reached the parking lot. "Come on Crystal, we need to get home before the girls. Let’s go."

I ran to catch up with her. "Mom! What did you say to her?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Then why did I have to leave the room?" I stopped and grabbed her arm.

The fire was still in her eyes when she stopped and faced me. "I needed to speak to her, woman to woman, in private."

"In private? What about me? What could you possibly have to say…to her…that I wasn’t supposed to hear."

She started walking again, leaving me standing there. I needed answers.

"Mom! Answer me."

She was at the car. "Just get in the car."

I dug in my heels. "No. I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers."

My mother. She could love me and drive me crazy all at once. Without even looking, she opened her door and slid onto the driver’s seat. Fine. I’m not moving. Next I heard the engine start. Okay, she’ll wait. But she didn’t. From my stubborn position I watched the back-up lights shine as our 1969 Chevy Kingswood Estate station wagon slowly backed out of the parking slot. I crossed my arms. Come and get me. The brake lights lit up and the vehicle stopped several yards ahead of me. Mom put the transmission into drive, and waited. With a sigh of exasperation I knew if I didn’t budge I’d be walking home today, without my answer. Fine. I threw my hands up, walked to the waiting car and got inside.

Resistance was futile.

---+---

There were several visits with the doctor before the procedure. A consultation and exam, then another visit to prepare me for the procedure. The day of the procedure I remember sitting in the waiting room, filled with pregnant women, yet feeling so unlike them. I wondered what it would be like to someday be in their shoes, joyfully awaiting the arrival of a miracle. Mom was tense, and in a terrible mood. She’d brought her knitting, and as we sat the click…click…click of the needles marked off every moment of guilt. I could tell she was angry with me. Still.

"Someday, Mom," I turned to her, "I’ll be like all these other women. You and I will be happy to be here."

Click…click. "S-h-h-h-h! Be quiet!" Her tone was stern and impatient. Click…click.

Then it was my turn. I followed the nurse back to a private room, with Mom right behind me. I undressed and slipped into the gown. Everything was explained to me. The nurse injected my arm and the last thing I remember was turning to my mom…then everything went black.

I awoke, fully dressed. Groggy and in a foggy, drug induced haze. Someone was talking…

"Crystal…wake up." It was my mother’s voice. "Come on honey, stay awake. Stay with me."

Then I remembered where I was. And why I was here.

The doctor came in as I was sitting up. From my first visit he made it clear to me he did not enjoy these procedures. I heard his lecture before. Today was no different. With his arms folded, he stood in front of me. "I never want to see you here again," I heard him say.

"You won’t, I promise you," I replied as I looked into his dark brown eyes.

His gaze penetrated mine. "I’ve heard that before, too many times from young girls like you. You’ll be back. You’re all the same." He turned, and I grabbed his arm.

"No, I’m not the same. I mean it."

He shook his head.

"I’m serious," I said swallowing. My mouth was so dry I could barely speak. "You will forget about me. You’ll never see me again. You won’t even remember me."

He paused, as if he almost believed me. "I hope your right," he said as he stepped toward the door.

"I am."

Mom and the nurse helped me stand, and walked with me to our car, which Mom had brought around to the back door, so we could leave discreetly. There was one stop we had to make before driving back home to Clarkston. I needed an immune globulin injection, which was administered at the local hospital. I was told it was for my protection, as I have A negative blood, and if the baby I had carried was Rh positive, it could pose a threat to me in the future. As soon as we walked into the hospital, I felt nauseated. Nauseated with the weight of the guilt…nauseated with my life. I barely made it to the women’s rest room. Inside the stall, on the floor I kneeled over the toilet, retching. Everything about today made me sick. On the other side of the stall door, my mother stood, worried. I saw it in her face when I finally opened the door several minutes later. At the sink she wiped my face with a wet towel, speaking softly to soothe me. She knew what I was feeling just then. Holding my arm to steady me, she led me to the appropriate office, where I received the injection, and soon we were heading home. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Just outside of Pullman I fell asleep.

At home, Mom woke me up. Still groggy, I crawled out of the car and stumbled up the porch steps as Mom led me into the house. Inside, she set me down on the couch, and I went back to sleep. I awoke to a dark, silent house around midnight. Again I remembered…today. There was only one thing I wanted to do now. Having slept off most of the effects of the anesthesia, I got up and walked down to my room in the basement.

It hit me all at once. Through everything these past few weeks, I had held myself together. But I hadn’t dealt with my feelings. As I walked into my room, every one of the feelings came crashing down on me. Fear. Pain. Depression. Anger. Despair. And guilt. The heaviest was the guilt. By my bed, alone with my feelings, I fell to pieces. I kneeled down, with my head resting against the mattress. And I sobbed.

And I prayed.

"Forgive me. Dear God, forgive me for what I have just done. I know this baby was a gift, to me, from you. I am so sorry. Please…forgive me. Please, if you just forgive me this one time, just this once, I swear…I promise it will never happen again. I promise you. On this, you have my word."

Alone in my room, I sought forgiveness from the only One who truly mattered. What I had done was between God and me.

It was His gift of life I had rejected. It was up to Him to forgive me. Only He had that power, the power of life, with the power to forgive. I owed nothing to anyone else.

delela1 at 5:54:39 PM PDT Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 4 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

AOL Music: Avril Lavigne: 'Nobody's Home'

It all came to a head in August, when I begged her to stop taking the percodan. I had seen the comedian, Jerry Lewis, hosting the Johnny Carson show while Mom slept. That night, he spoke candidly and openly to his audience about his experience with percodan. He told us of the night he walked into his bedroom to his nightstand, opened the drawer, took out a loaded pistol and put it to his head. With his finger on the trigger, he cocked back the hammer. The only thing that stopped him was the sound of his children laughing in another room. Their laughter broke through the drug-induced haze, and he realized what he was doing. With rapt attention, I listened to his story. Then he pleaded with his audience and delivered a personal message. I’ll never forget his words. "If you are taking percodan, please stop.  If you know someone who is taking percodan, talk to them.  Tell them to stop. Get off the percodan.  It is dangerous and scary stuff."

The next day, I spoke to Mom about the show and what Jerry said. It only pissed her off. We got into huge fight, and she kicked me out of the house, just as she had done several times before. I took some of my things and left. A few weeks later she softened up, apologized, and I moved back home. But things remained tense between us. I was a failure in her eyes. Everything she wanted for me, everything she didn’t have in her life, I knew she wanted me to have. And I kept messing it up. During those times, when we fought, I sought comfort in two things. Pot to numb the pain, and a man to hold me. But I didn’t want to be like her. A 30 something single mother raising three children in the 70s. Always stressed out, trying to make ends meet, living off her daughter’s wages. To say we were poor was an understatement. We survived on food stamps and welfare, and although Mom received child support payments from Ray for Cheri and Kelly, the checks always bounced because Ray’s new wife always spent all his money before the support check could clear the bank. Then Mom’s checks would bounce, too. And that really set her off. So it didn’t really matter what I did, or didn’t do, I was just another reminder of what had gone wrong in her life.

Then things went from bad, to worse. Just whenMom and I were making progress, just when we started to talk again, I got pregnant. I was seven weeks along when I found out.   Numbed by the news, I walked out of the health clinic and drove straight to my favorite place along the river. There I sat on my rock, watching the river go by, watching my life go by. Every day, for a week, I drove to my secret place and sat next to the river, trying to decide what to do. Maybe the nurse was wrong. No, she wasn’t. My cervix was blue she told me. And I was late. I was never late. Finally, I got the courage to face the truth. I had to deal with this, just as I had dealt with everything else in my life, I had to deal with this. And the first thing I needed to do was tell the baby’s father, Lance, that I was pregnant.

I drove along the winding river, back to town, to Lance’s house. His roommate, Steve, answered the door and immediately I sensed something was wrong. The look on his face when he saw me said it all. Lance was in bed, with another girl. Steve and I went for a drive, and I told him, in confidence, with the condition that he would not say a word to Lance.  Steve tried to convince me Lance should know, he was the father after all. I was convinced of only one thing; whether Lance knew or not, he didn’t care about me, his actions today proved that and he certainly didn’t want to marry me. We’d been seeing each other for over a month, exclusively, I thought.

Now, I knew the truth. Whether Lance ever learned about my truth, didn’t really matter to me. And even if he wanted to marry me, this situation lacked the solid foundation for a healthy, long-lasting relationship. That was one thing I was not willing to compromise; my future, my happiness. I knew it was out there, somewhere, waiting for me. My past may have been filled with tears and pain, but I was determined that my future would not be. My future would be better, it had to be better. How could it be worse than what I had already been through? Yet everything was going wrong. I had hoped to go home to Mom with this news and Lance at my side, to reassure her the baby would be loved and cared for. Instead, I drove home and walked through the back screen door, alone.

She was sitting at the dining table in her robe, drinking coffee and putting on make-up. Lined in front of her were several bottles of pills-her drugs. Pain killers for her headaches, anti-depressants for her moods, muscle relaxants for her back, pillsfor her hypertension, pills to cure, pills to mask, pills to hide. I could see she was still taking the percodan. I sat down across from her.

"Where haveyou been all morning?" she asked as she lighted a cigarette.

"On a drive up the river. Thinking." She looked up a me for a moment, then returned to her mirror. I took a deep breath. "Are you going somewhere?"

"An interview, for a job at the port," she replied.

"Can we talk before you go?"

Without stopping, she continued her routine. "Make it fast. I have to be there in just over an hour."

Was this the right time? I needed more time. How could I drop this bomb now, just before her interview? "Never mind," I said, nervously scratching my head. "It can wait until later. Will you be home after the interview?"

She took a drag off the cigarette and began brushing her hair. "No. I’m going straight to Rena’s afterwards.  Cheri and Kelly will be home this weekend and I want to enjoy this time while I have it.  Can’t you just tell me now?"

No.  Not now. "It can wait, until tomorrow," I replied.

And so it did. The next morning we both sat at the table again, me toying with my coffee, trying to get up the nerve to tell her. She was tired and in a bad mood. This was the last thing she needed to hear. She was still very touchy about everything, and I knew she would not receive the news well. I just had no idea how severe her reaction would be.

The more I thought about it, the more scared I got. I was pregnant…carrying a life inside me. This didn’t just affect me, it affected all of us. Mom, Cheri, Kelly…they all depended on me now. I was the bread winner, I put food on the table, my wages helped us survive. If I stopped working, without my paycheck, how would we survive? Would we survive?

It was now or never girl. Do it. "Mom," I said. "I’m pregnant."

At first, she just sat there, holding her cigarette. Then she looked into my eyes, and exploded. "Well, that’s just dandy news, isn’t it! Your pregnant! You just had to go and do it, didn’t you?"

I was stunned, but didn’t have time to even think before I spoke. I just reacted right back.  "Mom! It’s not like I meant to! I didn’t plan this."

"Crystal…how could you? Aren’t you taking the pill?"

"Yes. But I forgot to take it a couple of days."

With a heavy hand she slapped the table top. "You forgot? Well that’s just great!" With eachword her voice increased in volume. Now she was angry. She was rubbing her temples with her fingers. "How many did you forget to take? Or have you forgot that too?"

Her words sliced through my heart like a knife. "Mom, please, don’t be angry with me. Between your illness, taking care of you, and working, it was a lot for me. A lot of pressure, you know?"

She didn’t reply, and I knew what that silence meant. It was not a good sign. Somehow I had to turn this around, to help her understand. I was desperate. I needed her understanding, I needed her love, I needed reassurance, I needed a hug.

"Why you little slut!" Her words stung like a slap across the face. "How could you do this to me?"

"You? I’m the one who is pregnant--"

"Crystal Shut up! You just had to do it, didn’t you? After all I’ve done for you, after everything, this is how you thank me." This was a mistake. I should have waited. But it was too late, there was no turning back now. "Your not even 20 years old, and already you’re pregnant."

My anger rose like a snake in tall grass…and I took the defensive. "What about you? How can you point a finger at me, when you got pregnant at the age of 16. At least I waited until I was out of high school."

That was big mistake. "You little tramp! How dare you talk to me that way!" She rose in anger and took a step away from the table.

"It’s the truth." I was getting scared--with every word--everything was falling apart. More and more, I felt like I was sinking in a wounded ship, about to drown. "Of all the people I know, I thought you would understand," the tears began to flow. "You know what it’s like. At my age, you were pregnant for the second time, with me."

"I don’t need a history lesson from you. You didn’t even graduate from high school."

"Neither did you," I retorted.

"That's it!  I’m not putting a roof over the head of an ungrateful little whore like you. I want you out!" she screamed at me, her face red with anger, her blue eyes flaming. "Now! Get out of my house!"  She turned to walk away.

No. Don’t do this. Please. You’re my mother, you are all I have left in this world. "Mom! Please! Stop!"

She stopped momentarily in the hall doorway. I had to make her turn, to listen, to love me.

"Please, Mom. I am so scared. I don’t know what to do. I need you. Please don’t turn your back on me.  Not now.  Please." I waited, hoping with everything I had that I would see her turn around, walk back to me and hold me. I hoped something in her would awaken and remind her. That the tenderness would return and we could be a mother and child, once again. Just simply, a mother and her child.

A knot formed in my stomach, I felt a loneliness I’ve never known as I sat and I watched my mother disappear just after she said, "Get out. Your not welcome here." The sound of her bedroom door slamming shut bounced endlessly off the walls, then struck me like an iron hand.

I don’t know how long I sat at the table, crying, watching the doorway, wishing she would reappear. Hoping she would apologize. Hoping she would be my mother again. Minutes passed and I knew she wasn’t coming out of her room. She meant every word. I stood up and walked out side to my car. And I drove to that special place, as always did when I needed to think. Alone I sat on the rock, and the song of the river soothed me, calming my fear, easing away the tears. I sat on that rock, connected to the earth, a child of the earth, carrying another child in my womb. Give her time, an inner voice told me. Give her time. The hours passed by, and occasionally a car would pass by on the road next to my rock. As always, I had the place all to myself. It was peaceful, quiet, and relaxing. By the end of the day, I decided to drive back to town, and talk to my friend, Celeste. I didn’t find her car parked at her apartment, and I knew that she was out, it was a Saturday night after all. My stomach had finally calmed down, and I was hungry. So, I drove to Chuck and Rena’s restaurant, the Garnet Lantern, to get a bite to eat.

It was dark, probably almost ten at night when I pulled into the alleyway behind our home. As I guided my caronto the back yard grass, some thing in the bright headlights contrasted against the vegetation and it caught my attention. Some thing that didn’t belong in the yard. Stunned, I sat in the car, staring at the yard. No. No, it couldn’t be. Slowly I got out, leaving the headlights beam pointed into the yard. It was. My clothes. Every article of clothing I owned had been tossed…thrown out of the house. I remember thinking to myself with worry that the teenage boys next door might have seen this, that they had seen my clothes. All of it…my panties…my bras…everything and I felt embarrassed.  And the tears came back.

There was no point going inside, or trying to talk to her. Before I tried the door, I knew she didn’t want me back. But I tried anyway. I knew the kitchen door was locked, but I could still go through the porch to get to my room, in the basement. At the top of the porch stairs I was stopped by the locked porch door. She had made her point to me, and she was serious. There was only one thing to do. Gather my clothes and leave.

If I was depressed this morning, before I told Mom, I was really depressed now. I didn’t know where to go. I had nowhere to go. Grandma would be asleep by now, and I was too embarrassed to face her. I couldn’t tell her. She still believed pregnant women shouldn’t be seen in public, let alone driving the streets at night with everything they owned packed into their car. I thought about going to Chuck and Rena’s home, but talked myself out of that. No point dragging them into this, they had already put me up several times before when Mom had forced me out of the house. But she always wanted me back, and this time, I hoped would be no different than any other time before.

Instead, I drove about a mile down the road, to the local beach, where I parked my car, laid down on the front seat and fell asleep. About three in the morning I heard a tapping on my window, but I didn’t budge. I just wanted who ever it was to go away. To leave me alone.

At the first light of dawn I awoke, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and sat up. It was a new day, maybe a new beginning. I put my hand on the keys and started the ignition. There was only one person I wanted to talk to now, my friend Celeste. I knew I could find her working at the Garnet Lantern. We met last year on the night shift, Celeste made working at the restaurant fun. Over time, we became good friends and made an excellent team. Her shift was about to start, and if I wanted to talk to her, this was the best time to catch her, before the Sunday morning breakfast crowd showed up.

After I broke the news and showed her my slightly swollen belly, she sat with me for a few minutes.  Shocked almost into silence, at first she didn’t know what to say. I told her, everything, and she convinced me to go back home. To try again to talk to Mom. She was right, it’s what I needed to do. Celeste bade me good luck, I left the restaurant and drove back home.

Once again I pulled into the alley behind our home, and parked on the grass in the backyard. I checked to be sure I hadn’t missed any clothing last night, but saw none. I walked across the dew covered grass, listening to the sweet morning song of birds greeting the day. My heart pounded loudly in my chest as I placed my foot on the first porch step. I reached up, grabbed the door handle and pulled. It opened. The door to my mother’s home was open. I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

delela1 at 7:56:17 PM PST Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 1 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

 

Throughout the flight back home, Mom spoke in low, unintelligible words.  In silence I watched as she removed the contents of her purse into her lap, several times.  Carrying on a conversation with no one but herself, she’d put all the items back inside and snap the purse shut.  Then open it again, carefully removing each piece with a sense of extreme care as she inspected each article, looking for…something.  Damage?  Or maybe a clue?  A clue to her self?  Did she even know who she was?  That’s the thought that scared me the most.  And yet, it brought everything into clarity.  She didn’t know.  She didn’t know me.  She didn’t know herself.  She’d had a complete and total breakdown.

 

It was the only thing that made sense.  It explained everything.  Over and over it played out in my mind.  All the events leading up to the day she left for Spokane.  The day she told me she needed another back surgery, only this time she had to go to Spokane.  This time it required a one-month hospital stay, when prior surgical procedures only required a one week stay.  There was the compelling suddenness and urgency she expressed in wanting to celebrate my 19th birthday a few weeks early.  I remember seeing something in her eyes, the day she, Cheri and Kelly sang Happy Birthday to me.  It was in the way she negotiated with Ray to take the girls for summer one month early, and then the way she handled the administration staff at Cheri and Kelly’s school.  Like, she was on a tight schedule, and time was running out.

 

I was still sorting everything in my mind when the sound and jerk of the wheels hitting the tarmac brought me back to the moment.  The plane taxied to the private hanger, and soon the three of us were in Chuck’s station wagon heading to our home.

 

There are moments, moments in life when we know, we feel, we believe certain things to be true.  It can’t be explained, we just have this inner sense of knowing.  We stand firm in our belief, and when our knowing is validated by external factors, we feel vindicated.  It’s not always a matter of faith, faith had nothing to do with this situation.  But I knew.  I knew my mother had a nervous breakdown.  I may have missed the signs before, but now they stared me right in the eye.  A part of me hoped I was wrong, but deep down inside I knew I was right.  All I needed was validation.

 

Chuck pulled the family station wagon into our driveway and parked.  I got out, and opened the passenger door behind me.  “Get her suitcase and take it inside,” Chuck said as he approached me.  I grabbed my mother’s things and headed up the steps to the back door.  Inside the porch I opened the door leading to the kitchen and set the suitcase down inside.  I stepped back through the porch and held the screen door open for Mom and Chuck.  I watched in silence, this person who I’d known all my life…my rock, my foundation, my best friend…shuffle helplessly past me, lost in a hazy world of confusion and uncertainty.  It all seemed so surreal.  Maybe I was just dreaming.

 

As Chuck guided Mom to her bedroom, I stood in the kitchen, silently staring out the window.  I felt numb inside, in total disbelief.  In the yard next door the neighbor’s walnut tree gently fluttered in a mild breeze, the greenleaves dancing slowly and effortlessly in response to the gentle caress of the breeze.  I needed to feel her caress on my cheek.  She should be standing here with me, wiping these tears, gently assuring me everything will be okay.  What happened to her?  Whywas she behaving this way?  How could she not know me?  How could my own mother not recognize me?

 

I heard Chuck’s footsteps as he walked into the kitchen.  “She’s resting now,” he said.  Our eyes met for a second, and when he saw my tears, he averted his gaze.  I stepped into his path.

 

“What happened to her?”  I asked quietly.  He deliberately stepped around me, grabbed the door knob, and swung the door open.  I grabbed his arm.  “You know, and I have a right to.  Tell me.”  He stepped through the doorway, unable to look at me.  “Chuck!”

 

He stopped on the back porch.  “She needs your help now, Crystal.  Be there for her."

 

“I know that!  But how can I help her if I don’t know what’s wrong with her.  Tell me what happened up there.”

 

“She had back surgery…”

 

“Bullshit!  Chuck, bullshit!  That’s not my mother in there,” I pointed toward her room.  “I don’t know who she is, but she’s not my mother.  Please, tell me what happened.”

 

He stood for a moment and I thought for a second he might say something.  Instead he turned toward the screen door and grabbed the handle.  “She’s your mother, Crystal, and she needs you.”  He pushed the door open and walked down the stairs.  I followed him through the porch and stopped on the top step as he walked around his car.

 

“Dammit!  Tell me!  How can I be expected to help her when no one will tell me what’s really wrong?”

 

He kept walking.  I just needed validation.  Some form of validation, just a simple acknowledgement that I was right.  He opened the car door and slid inside.

 

“Chuck, please, help me!”

 

Without hesitation his fingers found the keys and the engine roared to life.

 

“Can’t you hear me?  Please, for God’s sake.”

 

I heard the clunk of the transmission being shifted into drive.  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on!” I screamed.

 

The car lurched forward and within seconds it pulled away to the end of the driveway before disappearing from my sight.  Why?  What had Mom done or said that kept everyone so silent?  What was so terrible that it had to be kept from me?  No one was talking.

 

Wiping my eyes, I walked back into the house, picked up Mom’s suitcase and headed for her room.  She was lying on her left side, in a fetal position, with her back to me.  “Mom,” I said softly, “here’s your suitcase.  Is there anything you need from it?”  Silence.  Her room was dark and cold.  I felt cold.  Was it from the temperature, or something more?  I didn’t know, but the room definitely lacked warmth.  I set the suitcase down and stepped over to her stereo.  Maybe some music would help.  Something familiar, something she knew and loved, something to remind her.  I found the album I was looking for and slipped it onto the turntable.  The warmth of Roger Whitaker’s voice soon filled the room.

 

“Are you cold?  Here, let me help you get out of those clothes and into something more comfortable.”  Quietly I removed her shoes, then her anklets.  Each time I touched her, she responded with a slight jerk.  But I kept my head.  There was no point in both of us falling apart.  I fought back the tears.  Even if I did cry, she was incapable of comforting me right now.  There were two people in the room, in this home, and only one of them had the capacity to care for the other.

 

In the days that followed, I slowly put the pieces back together.  I moved from my room in the basement, upstairs to Cheri and Kelly’s room so I could be near Mom at night.  It was obvious she had a nervous breakdown, as she could do nothing for herself.  My hunch was verified by a quick trip to the library.  Yet I received no confirmation of this from any of her friends.  They all stood behind her story of a back surgery.   But each time I bathed her, each time I dressed her, I saw no sign of a recent surgery.  I knew her back, I knew every mark, I had seen them so many times before.  Carefully I searched for a clue to confirm her story.  I found nothing.  No incision, no stitches.  Her back was scarred with the marks of many surgeons, every one of them healed with the signs of time.

 

Fortunately the weight of her care that summer was not put entirely on my shoulders alone.  One of Mom’s friends, Julia, was a registered nurse.  Everyday she dropped by the house in the morning and evening to check on her friend.  But even Julia wasn’t talking, even she wouldn’t fess up about Mom’s real illness.  There were many visitors to the house during that time, and with each day Mom improved.  I continued to play her music, everyday, with the hope that something would trigger her mind; a memory, a moment, anything.  I don’t recall when exactly it was that I heard her say my name, I just remember the relief I felt.  She came back to me and I was overjoyed.  But the joy was short lived, and soon things returned to the level they were before she left.  Soon the criticism returned as well, and once again I found I could do nothing right in her eyes.

delela1 at 7:45:00 PM PST Permalink | Blog about this entry |  Add to del.icio.us |  digg this This entry has 1 comments: Show Recent | Add your own

AOL Music: Brad Paisley: 'Whiskey Lullaby'

How could I have known?  The signs were all there, in plain sight.  Yet, somehow I missed them--all of them.  I guess I just thought she was stronger, that she had found a way to rise above it all.  It never occurred to me that she was actually drowning. It all started with Bill’s disappearance--no, before that.  Long before that.

I think it started the first time I saw Ray hit her.  From a distance, in horror I watched as he twisted Mom’s fragile body against the door.  And I begged him to stop, to stop hurting her.  When he turned to face me, I looked into his eyes, I saw the madness, I felt the rage.  It hit me like a wave.  Then in fear I ran to my room, flinging myself on the bed in tears.  The house shook with the fury of Ray's violence, the front door slammed, and she was by my side.  Mom came to me, to soothe my fears, to ease my tears.  She tried to explain his behavior, to help me understand so I wouldn't be frightened.  He'd been drinking and so he was drunk.  It was the alcohol, not him.  Ray didn't want to hurt us.  He didn't mean to. The police came and took him away.  And the house was quiet again. 

 

But in the weeks and months that followed, Ray’s drinking continued and the violence escalated.  Several times I came between Mom and Ray, mediating their anger so I could return to my homework.  So I could concentrate.  So I could get better grades.  So I could make them both happy again.  Then everything fell apart.  And it was with relief when I learned from Mom that she was leaving Ray.  The down side was she was moving us back to her hometown in Washington.  After I graduated from ninth grade, and Mary graduated from high school, we left Los Angeles for the small town of Clarkston.  Mary stayed in LA, unwilling to leave her life behind.  At 18, she had a choice, at 15 I did not.  That was June 1972.

 

Now, four years later, I was sitting as a passenger in a small Cessna piloted by Chuck Nordhoff, a family friend, and my former boss.  We were on our way to the Spokane airport, to pick up Mom.  She'd been gone over a month, and I had the house all to myself.  Cheri and Kelly were spending the summer in California with Ray, as they did every year.  All alone in that big house, I missed my mother and my sisters, and I tried to make sense of everything that was going on around me.  I knew something was wrong with Mom.  Something beyond Bill's disappearance.  Mom and I fought constantly, and all those medications she took only made things worse.  She was so different, so angry all the time.  And that stupid percodan...God, once she started taking that stuff she totally changed.  I didn't know her anymore.  Her words were always short and terse; no longer tender…what happened to the tenderness, the softness in her voice that I once knew.  It was gone, all gone; the place where I found comfort, in her, in her words, had just vanished.  I didn’t know her anymore.

 

But I wasn't totally blameless.  Every now and then I still got high.  Once or twice a month someone would offer me a joint, and I usually accepted.  Smoking pot numbed the pain and helped me forget.  Over time, smoking pot helped me forget a lot of things…the bad things.  And it changed me, as well.

 

Beneath Chuck’s plane the farmland of the Palouse stretched out as far as the eye could see.  From the air the lush green rolling landscapes dotted with a handful of buildings resembled a huge patchwork quilt.  We had just passed over Pullman, ahead Colfax waited on the horizon.  We were almost halfway there.  My mind began to wander back to Mom, when Chuck's voice broke the silence.

 

"She's really going to need your help now, you know," he said, his voice crackling through the headphones I wore.