Conversations with my Mother, Stephanie Parke [pdf to ebook reader .TXT] 📗

Conversations with my Mother
By Stephanie Parke

The music drifts out of the old record player, tinny and distant as if it were a whisper instead of a song. The weather has been as unpredictable as ever, with an unexpected chill sneaking into the late fall air. The trees outside sway in the fall wind, tapping like impatient fingers on the roof while the dim afternoon sunlight plays through the trees painting shadows on our kitchen floor. My mother, all vibrance and energy in blue leggings and a Mickey Mouse shirt, spins and twirls like the lightest of ballerinas, even though she is much heavier. She always holds her head high and there is a strange magic in her walk that I one day hope to copy. With a smile and a twinkle in her bright blue eyes, she sways and vibrates across the white-tiled kitchen floor towards the stove. She shimmies in time with her favorite song Thunder Island; she always listens to Thunder Island when she cooks. Her beautiful long brown hair is tied today into braids that swing and bounce around her round face as she moves. The old oven door, the grotesque color of pea soup, creaks open and the smell of meatloaf seduces my senses. My mother makes the best meatloaf in five counties. The smell and aroma have been known to cause traffic accidents, or at least the cataclysmic failure of many church goers diets. I take a deep breath and almost drool at the smell. She turns from the oven and smiles at me, a pudgy twelve-year old with long brown braids, glasses and a huge crush on her brother’s best friend. She gives me a thumbs up as she pushes the door closed with a creak. She notices my serious face and comes to join me at our creaky old table.

“ If you keep frowning like that your face will freeze that way.” she says with a smile.

“God” I mumble to myself knowing I’m pouting but unable to help it. My mother makes a face sticking her tongue out at me and distorting her face at crazy angles trying to make me laugh. She sighs as I stubbornly fold into teenage sulk.

“Boo," she starts out as she sits down with me at the old fashioned kitchen table, “Not everyone is going to love you, but as long as you love yourself you’ll be happy; I didn’t always know that, but I’m glad I do now.”

I groan at the use of my childhood nickname and then I stare at her aghast at the idea as I have trouble liking myself most days, let alone loving me. I pick at the chipping top of the table hammering away at the rooster pattern in its center not caring that the rooster now only has one leg. I don’t look at her as I speak.
“Mom, that’s stupid," I moan awash in teenage petulance,”I just have to find a way to be what he wants.” I say this in exasperation, head lowered, mumbling under my breath. I know somewhere inside me that to think this way is pathetic but I find myself sucking in my stomach as I wonder how long it will take me to go on a crash diet to get down to the size girl he seems to prefer. I always have issues with my body; I believe that somehow the weight- gain fairy comes while I sleep and zaps me with extra pounds. Just wait until I catch that bitch

I think to myself as my mom gives me a funny look. She leans back in the chair, which creaks again in protest almost as if to say enough already.

“For someone so smart that was a dumb comment,” she says as she looks at me with a weird smile on her face, You are better than that grasshopper.” She folds her hands and bows her head a little in true David Carradine fashion. Her gaze tells me that she knows exactly what is going through my mind. She smiles wider at my look, her whole face opening as she folds her arms over her ample chest and just looks at me, waiting.

“Boo," she whispers leaning closer to me tipping my face up to hers, "you need to love yourself first before anyone else will love you.” My eyes fly down to my tight shirt and snug Levis, sighing I realize that they will never fit me this winter. I feel all but invisible to my brother’s dark-eyed best friend. I examine the apples and pears marching on the wallpaper stalling for time to try and think of what to say. I feel the change in space a heartbeat before my mother sits down in the chair next to me. The last notes of the song crash over us and as Jay Ferguson finishes singing about making love in a storm my mother hums along, terribly off key, and puts her arms around me giving me a squeeze.

“It won’t always be this hard, I promise.” I snort in derision and try to pull away with a muttered “mom”, but she squeezes me tighter and continues: “Just remember life might not always be perfect but it will be good if you believe in yourself.”
I know that she is thinking about my father. He was mostly a nice guy, which I guess is why she stayed with him so long. Sometimes, though, he would come home drunk and he had no control over his anger. He used to whip my brother and I with a leather belt that left welts on our legs. It had a huge buckle on it and raccoons burned into the leather. My mom tried to protect us and I’m sure she kept us from many “whippings” through the years. We were lucky I guess that it only actually happened a few times and wasn’t any worse, but those times were enough. Back then this punishment technically wasn’t child abuse but I always found it hard to believe that someone as strong as my mother could have stayed with him so long. I guess she thought what every woman thinks: that he would change. I shudder at the memory and try to forget how I have to look away every time I see a leather belt with a big buckle. I look up at her and notice the tears in her eyes that she refuses to let herself cry. I see the shadow in them an instant before she can hide it. I know she is thinking of the recent defection of my father after twenty-three years of marriage. I look at her and she smiles at me sadly as if our thoughts were marching along simultaneously. Her smile seems to say, “I’m so sorry.” I squeeze her hand and try for a bright smile and she does too; no words need to be spoken between us now. The mood breaks and she has me laughing again in no time, even though I have taken her words to heart. She is good at covering her pain with laughter, and I think that somewhere deep down she still loves him, even if his leaving is the best thing for us all.

The fall wind whips past our trailer pulling with hungry fingers at the loose siding. Anticipation runs rampant in the air as we wait for our grandmother to pick us up. We are going school shopping. Every year before school starts grandma picks us up and takes us to get a few school clothes since my mom cannot afford them as my dad once again avoids child support enforcement. The phone rings and my mom picks up; the conversation is very one sided with a few yes’s and no’s thrown in at awkward intervals. My mother’s eyes stray toward me with a look that says that the news is not good. She places the phone down and sighs before turning to my brother and I with her hands clenched at her sides. She pulls on the hem of her oversized shirt and stands awkwardly, for once missing the grace that is usually so much a part of her. My heart pounds as I look at her and a feeling of unease drifts down my spine: I know what is coming. She motions me away from the door and my heart sinks. My brother Jacob stays where he is on the couch, spread like a pile of discarded magazines, not really caring one way or another. He burps and laughs at the antics of Ren and Stimpy on the television as I trudge over and look at her expectantly.

She sighs and puts her arm around me steering me into the small kitchen area. We sit at the table and my eyes remain glued to the one-legged rooster in its center. It seems to be staring back with sympathy in its one eye and this makes me gulp hard.

“Boo, your grandmother called and she said she is not going to be able to get new clothes for both of you.” She paused for a minute rubbing her face with her hands. I can almost hear her screaming at her mother, as this is her normal M.O. Favoritism is one of my grandmother’s favorite weapons.

“Let me guess," I say with all the fourteen-year-old resentment I can muster, “She’s taking her golden boy for clothes but not me.” I fold my arms across my chest and breathe out. The hair curled into a bubble at my forehead fails to move thanks to my super-hold hairspray, but for once I wish it would, as it always looks so cool in the movies. I eyeball my brother through the connecting opening between our kitchen and the living room and I wonder how he can be oblivious to what is going on.

“ Boo, you know how your grandmother is; she has her priorities and she believes that boys deserve more. She’s old school.” She puts her hands up and makes finger quotes in the air. Her eyes meet mine and I can see her irritation echoing mine.

I huff in agreement as I think back to those moments when my grandmother wielded her favorite weapon. My grandmother is one of those people who has problems connecting with her own sex. Our family past is littered with discord among the women. When she was raising her children she made frequent excuses for bad behavior in her boys while holding her daughters to a standard so high that even Mother Theresa herself could not have met it. I often wonder if this is the reason that my mother and my aunt Krystal married young. I grimace as I think of all those times she came and picked my brother Jacob up for a weekend away at her house or dropped off a spur of the moment gift, while barely noticing me. I remember begging to go with her and being denied because she had “promised him.” It seemed like she was always promising him something.