My Mother's Son: Chapter 18
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A final look in the mirror is all I need to decide that I'm ready to
go.
Jacket is zipped up, boots are on, and hair is combed to perfection,
just
as Evangeline likes it. Yes, I am ready for my very first day on the
job.
The hunt was long and arduous, involving dropping off resumes at all the fast food joints within the city limits of Montreal and Verdun. Well, not all of them, but enough to degrade my self esteem to the point where I thought I could no longer go on. But I did. With thoughts of Evangeline and the baby in mind, I trudged on, refusing to go on welfare nor live a life of austere poverty. They were my beacons shining at sea, gleaming through the hurricane force gales. Ironically, end the end, all that ink and paper went to waste: I will not be working at McDonalds nor Wendy's, but rather a shipping terminal at the port of Montreal. After a long day of searching, I sat down on a park bench to recompose myself for a slather of self-depreciating meetings to come. A man sitting on the other end of the bench struck up a conversation about the weather, as all Montrealers do. That led into a diatribe on his part about how hard it was to find a bilingual person to work a hard labour job at the port. Need met opportunity. And I got a job. The pay isn't bad, not fantastic, but we all have to start somewhere. I will be getting paid enough so that we can move into a modest apartment in Notre-Dame-De-Grâce, which we have already picked out. It's small, on the third floor of a 12-unit complex, but it's cozy, just what we need. And it gets me away from this building and my mother, a boom that's been hanging over my head for two months now, just waiting for the right time to fall and shatter my fragile happiness. Miraculously, I haven't seen her since that day in the hospital. Every time I walk down the hall, I hold my breath, wondering if she'll be on the other side of her door, waiting to go down and get the mail, or walking up the hall, dragging her liquor home for a hard night of drinking and sparring with Gary. I haven't seen him either, even more miraculously. True, I do avoid leaving the apartment or coming home at either 8:30am or 5:30pm, when he is leaving or coming home from work. So I've negated the opportunity. But to be honest, I would like to run into my mother, to have the opportunity to talk to her, to find out how she's doing. I've decided to leave her to her insane little life, as she requested. But if I were to run into her, no holds would be barred. I would bombard her with questions as to why she won't have Gary arrested, why she chose such a venereal fate. Why she won't stand up for herself, just this once. As for Gary, I fear I would kill him if I ran into him, my hate cemented by what happened last month. As for him, he'd probably call the police and have me arrested, so as to finish off the job he started so long ago. The fact that I'd be in jail wouldn't bother me at all, because then I'd be able to tell the police about what he did to my mother, worry free. I could take him down too. What would kill me is the fact that I'd be leaving behind Evangeline and the baby, which I swore I wouldn't do. So maybe it's best that we don't cross paths, leaving things at the status quo. The mirror reveals Evangeline walking down the hallway, looking me up and down with every step. Arriving in the living room, she has a smile on her face, so I know I must look presentable. "Turn around," she orders, sounding like a Nazi drill sergeant. I oblige. "My my, aren't we looking good. I take it you're leaving me?" "Actually, I do have this other woman in Côte-de-Neiges. It just wasn't working out with us, and with you being pregnant, it's not going to get any better." "Que sera sera," she yawns. "Besides, it's not your baby." "I knew it." "Now hurry up and get out of here, Manuel is coming over any minute now." "So, Manuel's his name... this wouldn't be the same Manuel that I meet in the sauna at the gym, would it be?" "You little faggot!" she laughs, wrapping her arms around me. We kiss, gently, like a light snow falling on my lips. "You have a good day at work." "I sure will," I smile. "But then it's off to the gym for a little, you know..." "Shut up!" "Make me..." She kisses me again, which does the trick. "It's almost 10 o'clock" she warns me. "You have to be there at 10:30." She opens the door, and shoves me out, laughing. "Thanks honey." "See you at 6. Love ya" she says, her voice muffled by the door closing. "You too." I walk down the hall, cautiously, knowing that this is when my mother usually leaves the apartment. Her first round of the day is to the mailbox, to see if "the check" has come yet. Looking around, I realize she is nowhere to be found, which is good and bad. Good because I really don't want to know what's going on in her life, how far she has devolved since I last saw her, bad because I want to know exactly how far she has fallen. A bit contradictory, yes, but so is my existence. Walking down the stairs, I realise that this is one of my first big steps into the adult world. I'm actually going to work, eking out a living to support my girlfriend and baby. Just three months ago, I would have thought this impossible. I used to lie on my bed, wondering when my life would begin, when I would get out from under all that weighed me down. I envisioned that day like a fantasy: the sun shining, a magical feeling within. My mother would no longer be able to tell me what to do; I would no longer be at the mercy of Gary's "bad days" and wild mood swings. I would be liberated. But instead of it feeling magical, it all feels so routine and obligatory. The sun isn't shining; it isn't like my fantasy at all. I'm going to work because I have to, not because it's my choice. I always heard my mother use the saying "living hand to mouth." I always though it only applied to Africans living in the Sahel. But now it's me. It's a weird feeling coming into adulthood; things that once seemed fantastical now only seem ordinary and plain. And for how many years do people do this? The street is quiet as ever, no cars whiz by in this forgotten part of the city. A rumbling underneath indicates that the metro has just left, meaning that I'll have to wait another 10 minutes for one to come by. I search my pocket for my metro pass, but I can't find it. Stopping to investigate further, I realize I must have left it back in the apartment. With no time to run up and get it, I'll have to pay fare, which will empty me of my lunch money. Sounds like living with my mother all over again. Here's two dollars. Lunch or metro, your choice. As I turn to look on the ground around me, I feel a tap on the back. "Bonjour," a gentle female voice greets me, a voice that I vaguely remember. I turn reciprocate, "Bonjour..." I wait for a reply, not really realizing who stands before me. "Don't you remember me?" she asks in a heavy french accent. "No, not really." "About two months ago, you came to my place with this photo," she holds up a picture of a man. And it all comes back. It is, of course, the wife of Joseph Laroche. But what would she be doing here? "Mais qu'est ce que tu faites ici?" "Je veux voir ta mama," she stares, noticing the shock written all over my face. "I found this letter. I want to talk to her." "What letter?" "I was looking though some old things and I found it. It's for her." I don't know what to think. Here is the woman who denied the fact that I'm her stepson, here to see my mother, who had an affair with her husband. And she has a letter for my mother. "Viens avec moi," I order, leading her into the apartment building. I walk up the stairs with her in toe, not really knowing what to say. When I last saw her, I ended up screaming at her after she told me that I supposed to be dead. Hopefully the second encounter will go somewhat smoother. I hold the door open for her as we reach the top floor. Walking down the hallway, I pray that my mother is awake and ready, because I could have a bombshell to drop on her. I hope even more that Gary isn't home sick, because that would ruin everything. I knock on number 305 two times. There is no response. I try again, this time to a groan and a grunt, the deadbolt flicking on the door. As it opens, I don't know what to expect. A shell of her former self, or a person living in denial. And there she stands, hair a mess, eyes drooping. I suppose I'd have to go with the shell. "Long time no see," she says, clearing her to throat. "I didn't have a reason to stop by." "How about to see that your own mother was okay after she lost her baby." "I would have, but you said Gary was all you had, so I didn't want to interfere with that." "So why are you here now?" "I found somebody in the parking lot." Joseph's wife steps forward. "Who's this?" she asks, with absolutely no clue. "This, mom, is the wife of Joseph Laroche. I believe you two used to be friends." "Muriel, its been a long time," my mother coldly greets her as she draws her housecoat tight around her neck. "It should have been longer," she states. "Then why are you here?" my mother spits. "I found this letter." "And?" "I want to explain." "Then come in, why don't you," my mother coldly welcomes her. "We can reminisce about how rotten my life has been in the last 20 years and how happy you were with Joseph." "He's dead." "I know." Muriel walks in the apartment, immediately turning her head in disgust as the squalor. Mom has obviously let the apartment go to pot, garbage is strewn everywhere, and the smell of cat piss abounds. And my mother looks like she fits in perfectly. "Love how you're living Jeannie," Muriel deadpans. "I ought to get a picture so I can put in the alumni newsletter." "Fuck off. I'm not in the mood for this," she growls, walking into the kitchen. "What's wrong with her?" "She lost a baby a month ago." "Another one? Bad luck seems to follow her," she cold-heartedly commentates. Mom walks back into the living room with three cups and a pot of coffee. "Sit down, get off your feet, you're body's probably killing them," mom comes back, leaving me in giggles, only on the inside. Muriel takes a seat, which groans under her weight. She pours a cup of coffee, then hands me the pot. "No thanks." Mom takes the seat opposite her, probably hoping the distance will prevent a fistfight. I kind of hope it doesn't. "So what's with this letter?" mom pores herself a steaming mug. Muriel takes it out of her jacket pocket. "I found this when I was going through some of Joseph's old stuff. I really haven't had this time to clean out since he died, it's been a mess," she starts to tear up. "I can't believe he's gone. I loved him so much." "I did too," my mother whimpers, displaying an emotion of love that I've never seen. Muriel dries her tears with her shirt cuff, "Anyway, I found this letter addressed to you, from March of 1982." Mom grabs the letter from her hands and opens it. "What's this?" "He was telling you about how much he loved you and how much he wanted to take care of you and the child." "I know he did," mom nods, reading "But he loved you more. He wouldn't leave you for me, not matter how much I begged him. You should be happy about that." "I know. He was a good man" But I'm curious, "So why didn't the letter ever get to you?" "Well," mom tries to explain. "We had an affair, and Muriel found out about it. So they gave me money to get an abortion, to get rid of me all together. But Joe didn't want that. He gave me money and kept me going for a long time." "Then," Muriel cuts in. "I found out what they were doing. I was furious." "And he cut me out of his life altogether. I guess he wrote this letter, but forgot to send it." "So why aren't you pissed at her?" I ask mom. "She took your love away you, and wanted to kill your child. I'd kill her." "That was almost 20 years ago. One can only be mad for so long. I mean, I don't want to be her best friend, but sometimes old things are best just left alone." "You're more forgiving than I would be." "I know." But I'm unsatisfied with the explanation. Something nags at me, the dates in particular. The letter was addressed March of 1982, or so said Muriel, more than a year before I was born. It just doesn't add up. "Muriel, you said the letter was addressed March of 1982, right?" "Yes." A look of panic overcomes my mother's face, letting me know that I've hit something. "But I wasn't born until September of 1983. That's an awful long gestation." "She was mistaken," mom tries to explain. "It says right here 1983." "No," Muriel interrupts. "It says 1982." "Muriel," mom says, looking like she's ready to explode. "Maybe you should leave." "I wasn't planning on staying," she says as she stands and walks herself to the door. Mom follows her, speaking in a low voice, "Thanks for dropping the letter by. It really does mean a lot." Muriel looks to the floor, "Have you ever told him what happened?" "Nothing happened," mom's voice cracks. "You have to tell him." "Just leave," mom opens the door. Muriel looks back to me, and looks to my mother. "See you in another twenty years." she deadpans, leaving. Mom slams the door and walks back to the living room. She sits down by the table, paints a wide, fake smile on, and finishes off her coffee. "You probably should get going." she says, putting the cup down. "Gary will be home soon." "It's only 10:15, mom. Gary won't be home for hours." "Just leave anyway," she puts her head down, "I want to be alone right now." But I can't leave. I have to know what I don't already know. What am I not supposed to find out? "Why don't the dates add up, mom?" "They do," she tries to calm my suspicions, her voice muffled through her arms. "The letter was addressed in March of 1983; you were born in September." I pick up the letter as she her head. Sure enough, the date reads March of 1982. She tries to snatch the letter away from me, but I hold it back from her. "Right here mom, 1982." "He made a mistake," she tries to explain. "What are you not telling me?" I become frustrated. She breathes, "There's are some things you're better off not knowing." "Like about the rape story you made up? Remember mom, I found out then, and I will find out this time." She tries to hold back tears, "The rape wasn't a story, it was true." "No mom, it's not true," I argue, my voice strained. "Don't make me live in your lies." She turns her head, "Listen to me. The rape story was true. I was raped, and that's how you came to be. End of story." "Then what about the kid you had with Joseph Laroche?" I try to call her bluff. "Was it even a kid or was it just a scam?" "Can you please leave?" she demands, trying to hide her face. "I demand the truth mom. Who's my father? Is it Joseph Laroche or some man who attacked you in a hotel room?" "Just stop," she sobs, holding her face. "You keep fucking lying to me, mom," I drill her, her tears not holding me back. "When are you going to tell me the truth for once? Am I not worth at least that?" She uncovers her face, swollen with tears, "I was raped in the hotelroom, that's how you were conceived. A year before that, I was pregnant with Joseph Laroche's child." "Then what happened to the baby? Did they raise it on their own?" "No, they didn't raise it on their own. They cut me out all together. After they wouldn't give me any more money, I didn't know what to do. There were no shelters back then, no food banks. My mother was too ashamed to take me in. I tried so fucking hard," she struggles, tears streaming from her face. "And I thought everything was going to be okay. I spent every night praying that that baby would be born healthy, despite that fact I was starving to death. And when I gave birth it was the best experience of my life." "And what happened?" I ask, fearing the answer. She grasps me, holding my arms tightly. "The doctors looked up at me and told me the baby was stillborn. That's what happened." I am too shocked to come up with anything to say. Nothing would be able to console her. She lets me go, once again burying her face in her hands. "I didn't give a fuck anymore. I didn't have anything left to live for after that baby died. The one thing that would have saved me, and god took it from me, like he's taken every fucking thing away from me in my life." She shakes her head, once again wiping her tears away. "And then I crashed. I didn't have the man I loved, I didn't have the baby that was already a part of my soul, I had nothing. I started working downtown, scrapping by, doing whatever drugs I could. Just trying to bury it. Get it out my head. Kill whatever thinking cell was left in my brain. "I don't know what to say." "And then hotel room happened. I was raped, the second worst experience of my life. But it was like a wake up call for me. I knew I couldn't spend my whole like whoring myself out, living day to day, from one seedy apartment to the next. I was gonna change my life, I was ready. But then I found out I was pregnant with you." And once again I take the title "the thing the monster created." But this time I can't fight it, this time I feel too sorry for my mother to make her feel sorry for me. "And I slid all over again. I tried so hard with my first baby," she turns her back to me. "And it was still taken away from me. So I didn't think I had any hope at all with you. I went on, drinking, smoking, partying, living like there was no tomorrow. Because there wasn't a tomorrow. After you were born, I had planned to kill myself and end it all. That was the only way out, I had no other choice." Sadness overwhelms me. I feel more connected with my mother than I ever have. "And then you were born. You were so perfect. Absolutely beautiful. And you know what it felt like?" she bawls. "It felt like god was spitting in my face. I couldn't even kill myself. Despite everything I tried to do to kill you, you were born perfectly. It just killed me. There was no easy way out. "I tried to love you, I really did, you have to understand that," she says trying to redeem herself. "But I couldn't do it. Every time I looked at you, my rape stared back at me; my dead baby stared back at me. Every failure I ever had shone in your eyes, doomed to haunt me forever." I take a deep breath, the fresh air bringing some life back to my corpse. But my spirit is crushed, and nothing can bring that back. "Do you hate me mom?" "To be honest with you? In a way, I do. I hate you for the fact you're perfect, despite everything I did that could have made it the other way. Every time I brought a new man into the house, you became a little harder, but it didn't crush you. Every time we had a fight, I died a little inside, while you seemed to thrive. And that's why I hate you. I've been dying for 20 years and you've been just getting stronger and stronger." "Do you love me at all?" "I love you immensely, I always have" she turns to me, grabbing my hand, "I tried to drive you out because I hated you being here, thriving while I was dying. But I also did it because I wanted you to get out of here and never have a reason to look back. I didn't want you to have to worry about your mother and how she was doing; I just wanted you to run. "You see, I'm stuck to this fate. I'm never going to make anything of myself; I'm dead inside. But you, you're not. You could be anything. Just get out of here and run as far away from me as you can. Everything I touch turns to shit." "Mom," I interrupt her. "You can get out of here. We'll go far away, you me and Evangeline, we'll take off and never look back. You can start over." She stares into my eyes, but nothing looks back at me. "What the point of leaving?" she strains, her eyes swollen. "Do you know what happens when two of your children die before they take their first breath?" she clenches her chest. "Do you know? You die inside. You never get that back, no matter how far you run, no matter where you hide. I've got nowhere to run to, do you understand that? No matter where I go, it's always going to be with me." She leans in, gives me a kiss on the cheek, and runs down the hall, bawling. The bedroom door slams, sending a shockwave through my body. Today I have witnessed the death of my mother. |