Nanowrimo 11 / Out of time

Out of time / REM









The last hang up started to be known as the “come clean my house” call. It was discussed fairly frequently as I went through cycles of picking up the phone, getting angry and putting the receiver back down. I did this almost daily, but I couldn’t bring myself to call. And she did not call me.


I replayed the conversation in my head and raised it endlessly with M. It was, as people say, ‘her attitude’ that stopped me. If she had been nicer, politer, more straight- forward…


However, the trouble was I knew the minute I gave an inch, she would take a mile. It had taken half a life time to not be manipulated and let guilt guide me. By that point the examples had wracked up too high and too painfully for me to ignore.


Thanksgivings were the perfect example. Two years before the ‘come clean my house” call was the last traumatic Thanksgiving visit. She had called to invite us and I was feeling guilty. We had begged off the previous year and I had been avoiding luncheons and various other meetings. Against our better judgment, we agreed.


Thanksgivings had become particularly tense times. They used to be my favorite holiday. Growing up, it was the one time when company came and a festive feeling was in the air. I could also count on a good homemade meal, with leftovers. By the time I was an adult, however, some of that magic had worn off. It had been an embarrassing process to realize I didn’t have to wait for a holiday to have dinner guests. More important, I could cook and have food in the house. I could even cook the full traditional Thanksgiving meal any day of the year, not waiting for the fourth Thursday of November.


These realizations made Thanksgiving with Mother that much harder. She still insisted this was a special day for me, my favorite holiday. Except all that had made it special she refused to acknowledge or accommodate. She was deeply into the vegetarian realms by then, insisting that Tofrukey (a particularly vile product for carnivores) was just like chicken. Pumpkin pie was out, too much sugar. No stuffing, as there was no bird to stuff and so on. A holiday meal of Tofrukey and seaweed was not appealing and there were not guest except for me and M because no one wanted to eat so creatively, especially on THAT day.


Two years before the ‘come clean my house’ call we had driven over the river and thru the woods on the two hour drive for faux poultry. The weather was with us; it was a clear, crisp Fall day, bright and sunny. We arrived late morning. Mother was in good spirits. She invited us in with a smile, supplied us with drinks and refused help. That should have been a warning sign.


We’d been restlessly shifting in the living room for about 45 minutes as she chatted from the kitchen when the door bell rang. M and I looked at each other warily


“Oh, M. you need to get that.” She called, sing song.


“What?” We asked in unison. This was a set up. We both knew it. M. was only a half step higher than D in her esteem, tolerated only because we had a wedding license, which she had done her hardest to prevent and failed. Usually she ignored him. So, why did he need to answer the door? Had she hired a hit man? The door bell rang again.


“M. you need to get that. It’s about the car.” The tone had started to chill, and was now about the same level she would use with a misbehaving child or puppy.


“What about the car?” He asked, making no move to stand. He always did better than I.


“It’s G. coming to buy my car. I think the paperwork is on the table. M. just go take care of it.” We were in full blown annoyance at this point as she stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips glaring.


“No.” M. and I answered again in unison as another ding dong belled. He had answered calmly. I had answered with notably disdain and growing upset.


“S. it’s not my car, I don’t know anything about the car or the sale. It will require YOUR signatures. If YOU are selling YOUR car, you need to deal with it.”


Ding-dong.


“Answer the door.” She demanded.


Ding-dong.


“Ma? He can’t do this. It needs your signatures, you know these people, it’s YOUR car!”


Ding-dong, ding-dong.


“I don’t know them. I don’t know how to sell a car.” She answered indignantly.


“If you need help figuring out the paperwork, tomorrow we can look into it, but this is your car, you need to try to deal with it. If they’re buying the car they probably can tell..” I tried, but was interrupted.


“You’re not going to answer!” She was now more enraged than I was. Her face red, the words spat between gritted teeth.


“No. I can’t sell your car.” M answered calmly, but I could tell he was mad.


With a snort, she threw the utensil that had been in her hands down onto the kitchen counter and stormed toward the door.


“Oh, hi, yes, sorry…” We could hear from the other room, her voice calm and friendly. “Sure, yes, that’s it… I…don’t know… hold on, I’ll get stuff…” She returned, shot us a look that would kill, grabbed the papers from the table and left.


M. and I said nothing. What was there to say?


About five minutes later she returned, fuming and silent and started banging and slamming things in the kitchen.


“You want to go?” M. asked me quietly.


“We can’t!” I insisted. “It’s Thanksgiving….” I sounded pathetic, even to my own ears. Perhaps I thought that the day could still be salvaged, but the tide of tension was deep. After another five minutes of silence, I tried.


“So…you sold the car?”


“No. We needed paper work.” Mother huffed and glared at M. as if this were some how his fault and if he had only gone out for the sale this wouldn’t have happened.


“So, what’s on the menu?” Usually I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. It was always best to just swallow what was in front of you and not think about it.


“What do you care?” She snapped. “I don’t understand why you are so mean.”


“Whhat?” I felt winded as if I had just been punched.


She entered the room now, to stand closer. Her voice rose.


“You are a horrible daughter and I’m sick of it. I don’t need to be treated this way by you. You are mean, hateful and abusive.”


“What are you talking about?” It was as if the humidity in the room had just increased to tropical levels, I was gasping and my eyes were welling. “What are you talking? Because we wouldn’t sell YOUR car? Because I asked what was for dinner, that makes me abusive?”


“You’re always nasty, you’ve been mean and abusive to me for years. I’m your mother, I should have to take abuse …” She began starting to yell, repeating how mean and horrible I had been for life as I melted in tears.


“Enough.” M. said, standing and coming to stand before me. “We need to leave now.” He demanded of me as she continued to yell and I continued to cry collapsed on the sofa.


“I can’t. I just can’t.” I answered him.


“You can. C’mon. Just get up and we’ll walk out of here and never be back.”


“I can’t…” I cried pleading with him, understanding his frustration but unable to take the step. In between, I was looking at Mother, still trying to figure out what I had possible done that was ‘abusive.” This was clearly the word of choice for the day as it had infiltrated between M’s demands we should walk out on the spot.


“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t mean to be abusive I’m sorry.” I tried to explain to Mother, still dazed and confused, unable to move.


After an eternity, Mother stopped her yelling and returned fuming to the kitchen.


“I’m sorry. I just can’t. I’m sorry.” I said still sniveling at M. never meaning it more and knowing, he was right.


“This is the last time I’m coming here.” He said furious and sitting back down. I nodded acceptance. One thing to walk out, another to never return. It was more than I felt I should be asking of him.


We had sat in silence, as she cooked in the next room for long enough for me to calm down and as such wonder if I was doing the right thing. M. was probably right. We could and should leave. I was considering this option seriously when Mother returned.


She said nothing at first, only came next to me and handed me a folded copy of the local newspaper.


“What’s this?” I asked confused, starting to scan the page quickly for a clue.


“The bottom left article. I thought you’d want to know.” She said tersely and left.


I located the article. It told of an odd but brutal accident that had killed the brother of a classmate of mine. Although we had lost touch, both the classmate and his brother were friends.