My Mother's Son: Chapter 19
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So much for the real world.
With much anticipation I set out upon the world, looking to be a fresh breath in the city of Montreal, wowing people with my lightening quick wit, thrilling them with my superb language skills. Three weeks into working at the container peer, the most I've accomplished is judging a burping contest and screaming at people that "something" is going to fall on them. So much for the real world. As I trudge home from yet another bland day at work, I can't help to think, wasn't it supposed to be better than this? Wasn't the real world supposed to be fresh and exciting? Mornings at a downtown cafe, work in the afternoon, dinner at a restaurant on Peel Street. Instead I drag myself onto the metro everyday at 8:30am, when it's jammed with people, struggle through back breaking labour until 6pm, then trudge home from work, sit down to a TV dinner and catch up with a few old "Friends." It has been a productive month though, I must admit. I've learned how to be a valuable member to society, not just a child who cries their way through the night and plots murder all day long. I am single handily responsible for moving palates from one building to another, containers filled with goods destined for American children who will throw them away after first use. Life sure does pay off. So why do I continue? Sometimes I really don't know. I hate my job, I have no respect for the people I work with, and the most intelligent conversation I can possibly have is with Jean-Luc, a guy from Chicoutimi who smokes marijuana on his breaks. But it is a humbling experience. I no longer feel superior to others as I once did, in some perverted, hard to understand way. Although I had nothing to feel superior about, I still felt that way, giving myself credit for the years I spent growing up in number 305. Who else could survive that, I used to believe. It turns out that a lot of people could have survived that, and have survived worse. I work with people from all walks of life, with every story imaginable. Jean-Luc smokes up on his breaks because of incredible back pain, inflicted from a 30-foot fall from scaffolding. He was left paralysed for a year, and when her finally drew the strength to walk again, he found that nobody wanted him on the job. He lived on the streets for a time, scrapping by, finally picking himself up in the last year. Gatien grew up in a place called Natashquan, on the north coast of Quebec. There was no future, nothing to look forward to, so the kids used to huff paint to numb themselves. Thanks to an aunt who lived in Montreal, he got a second chance, but so many others didn't. Lucien has five kids by three different women. Normally, I would hate a person like him, a close incarnation of my own mother, screwing indiscriminately. But when you hear the other side of the story, somehow it makes it different. Somehow you can sympathize with anybody just by becoming aware of their plight, what they've gone through. I suppose that's where I am with my mother right now. I never used to feel anything for her. I was too involved in my own pain, grieving over the things she had done to me. My first thought in the morning used to be what a miserable life I was leading and how she was solely responsible for it. I used to punish her for everything that went wrong, whether it was her fault or not. In reflection, it usually wasn't her fault. Some bad luck here, a wrong choice there, and things can go downhill pretty quickly. But she was my scapegoat. I never realized that she had a story of her own, even less, I never cared. It was all about me. I suppose that's only natural for a child, to be worried only about themselves, but I do feel guilt now for what I didn't feel then. After knowing everything about my mother, finding out things that she had tried to keep from me for whatever reason, I don't know what to think anymore. Two of her own babies have died. She didn't even have time with them; they left her before they were born. I can't imagine what that must feel like, what that does to a person. I can only compare it to Evangeline and I losing our baby. I'd be crushed, absolutely devastated. We've been looking forward to this immensely, a fresh start for the both of us, finally a family to call our own. If I were to lose that, I would die. My mother's lost that twice. It's a miracle she's still alive. I understand now more than ever what she feels towards me. I can understand why she's seemed so distant at times; she had so much to over come in her own life that she didn't have the energy to love another child. And even more, like she said, I was like a slap in the face. A perfect baby, despite her best efforts, taking the place of a dead baby that she had tried so hard to nurture. The result of a rape, a perfect curse, the result of an affair with her one true love, a dead dream. But still, I don't know what to make of all of this. She tried to kill me before I was born, gorging on drugs an alcohol, living like there was no tomorrow. It's a miracle that I was born healthy. I know I should hate her for that, trying to take me life, but I just can't bring myself to feel it. She did a horrible thing, yes, but the circumstances were unfathomable. I don't know what I'd do if I were in her position. I'd probably have an abortion, simple and easy, clearing my mind of a horrible experience. But for some reason, she thinks this unimaginable. What a contradiction. She was trying to kill me anyway, wouldn't it have been much less painful to have it over with in a matter of minutes? But this is my mother, a bevy of contradictory beliefs. Since that day she let go of her big secret, I haven't heard tell of her. I thought that at least that grandma would have come up to help her get through this tough time, but maybe it doesn't matter anymore. My mother probably didn't even tell her what happened, resigned to the thought that nobody cares about her anymore. It's hard to care about somebody who no longer cares about themselves. She's probably bottled up in her room, drinking and popping pills, drowning herself in a sea of false happiness. But I don't even think that alcohol and drugs would work this time, she's too far past the point of redemption. Walking past number 305, no sound whatsoever indicates that somebody is dying inside. No crying, no whimpering, no fighting. Just dead silence. Indicative of what's left of my mother's life: a dead, overwhelming silence. I try to cleanse my mind of thoughts of her; I want to be fresh and clear when I first see Evangeline as I come home from work. We have this little routine going, where I walk in and throw my coat on the rack. I say "Honey, I'm home." She kisses me on the cheek, asks "How was your day dear?" And we go on from there. Perhaps it sounds corny, but in a way it's sweet, a reminder of why I love her so much. She's willing to play along with me, making life whatever we want it to be, despite what we've been through. She makes living worth while. I walk in the front door, where my senses are immediately aroused by the smell of a roasting turkey. Every day that I come home, it's a surprise as to what I'll smell. Maybe the drifting aroma of a lasagna, the spicy remnants of a pizza. I can count on it, as sure as the sun will shine. I would have given anything to have had that with my mother. I take off my coat and instinctively throw it on the rack beside the door. "Honey, I'm home!" I yell, knowing what the next step in the game is. She runs out of the kitchen, baster in tow, leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "How was your day, dear?" She already knows the answer, but that doesn't stop me from trying to put a new twist to it. "Like a tornado in a trailer park." "What is that supposed to mean?" she laughs. "When I know, I'll tell you." With that, she runs back into the kitchen to check on the turkey. I silently watch her, admiring the way she carries herself. It's always with the utmost dignity, despite everything that's happened to her. Head held high; she goes on, not letting her past get the best of her. She reminds me of the way my mother used to be. She used to walk like the whole world was watching her, giving a glamorous feel to everything she touched. I always thought my mother would have made a great super model, the way she carried herself was second to none. Despite everything that had happened to her, things that I didn't even know about at the time, she still held her head high. Of course that's all gone now. The only thing she holds high is her bottle as she lifts it to her mouth. "Whatch'ya thinking about?" Evangeline tries to break my thoughts with her angelic voice. If anybody else were to do that, I would be annoyed to the point of breaking. But when she does it, it's like I've been waiting for it my entire life. That's the magical power she has over me: somehow she clears the clutter from my head, she makes me think of somebody other than myself. "Hello?" "Oh, sorry, I'm just going on to myself in my head, you know how I do that," I explain. "A little too often, I'd say," she stared at me in a pensive manner. "Maybe we'll have to get you checked in for a while to straighten that out." "You and what army?" I challenge her. "With as many kids as I feel like I'm carrying, there'll be a huge army before long." "You look fine." "Don't lie to me. I'm getting huge." "You're pregnant. That's what happens to pregnant women." "You lose it, I gain it," she sighs. "That's the way I see it." I wander in the living room, leading her by the hand. I collapse onto the coach, my body exhausted from a long day at the pier. She lies down beside me, resting her head on my lap. She stares up at me and we lock eyes. It's not that we don't do this often: we do it all the time. She stares at me, I stare at her, not a word is spoken. But this time she seems different. Usually it's a carefree soul that stares back at me, this time it's a woman seriously pondering a nagging question. "What are you thinking about?" I ask. "I don't know," she sighs. "I've been thinking about things." "Which means what?" I become a bit concerned. "About us things." "Like," I try to draw an answer from her. "Like about us being together for the rest of our lives." "You know how I feel about that," I remind her. "You have me for as long as you want me. I only hope it's forever." "Me too," she says, looking to the floor. "So..." "Well, I've been thinking about making it official." "You mean getting engaged?" "We could do that too, I suppose." I think I know where she's going with this. "Do you mean marriage?" "Now that you mention it..." she not so shyly admits. "Do you want to get married?" I venture into uncharted waters. "I think I do," she turns her head back to me. "Don't you?" This is something I don't even have to ponder. Before I would have been disgusted at the idea, utterly repulsed by the thought of waking up to the same person for the rest of my life. But then again, the only relationship model I had in my life was between my mother and Gary, hardly a textbook case of a healthy partnership. But now I'm in a different place in my life. I welcome the idea. "I would love to marry you." She smiles, but looks to the floor again. "So, when would you want to?" she shyly asks. "Whenever you're ready," I leave the decision up to her. "I think I'm ready now." That, I have to admit, kind of takes me by surprise. I was thinking next June, after the baby's born, maybe next year, but now? "Why so sudden? Do you think I'm going to leave you?" "No, it's not that... not that at all." "Then what is it?" "I want to do this right," she explains. "I want to be married, have a baby, a house, the whole nine yards. But I want to do it in order." "I understand that, I really do," I try to talk her down from the ledge she's standing on. "But under the circumstances, don't you think it's better to wait?" "I normally would agree with you," she says in a tone that makes me know there's a "but" coming, "But, I just... I just love you so much. I want to keep what we have forever. And if we're married, it makes it so much easier to keep that. We can't just walk away when the going gets tough, we'll have to work it out." From my own experiences with my mother's relationships, I know this to be true. When the going got tough, the guy just picked up and left. I don't want to be that guy. I want to be there for this baby like my father never was for me. I want our baby to have the family that I never had, I want it to grow up knowing that we love each other until death do us part, no matter what comes our way. I want to give this baby everything that my mother never gave me. "What do you say?" she asks, teetering on the edge of the cliff. "I think," I answer, grabbing her hand and steeping onto the edge beside her. "That we should do it. Let's get married." "I couldn't be happier right now," she smiles, caressing my body. And together, hand in hand, we jump. Out into the blue, through the unknown, we plunge to whatever may come our way. "So when do you want to do it?" I ask. "As soon as we can," she answers with the response I so desperately wanted to hear. "Do we go for the church? I am Jewish, so..." "What would be the point in getting a church?" she asks redundantly. "Neither of us have anybody in the city that would show up." "Then the justice of the peace?" I mention, anxious to hear her opinion. "That sounds good to me. We could do the church wedding in a few years, when we're better settled." "When do you want to it?" I ask, the idea exciting me more with each passing moment. "We have to do the standard stuff like blood tests and the marriage license, but I'm sure it won't take too long. So as soon as we get that done, we're ready to do it." "Wow, this is so big," I exhale so long that it seems like I've been holding my breath for years. In a way, I've been holding my breath for my entire life. Always shunning love, always looking to my mother as the reason why it just doesn't work. But now one look to Evangeline is all the reason I need to prove that love does work. As amazing as it seems to me, I have found love. I can finally stop holding my breath and let life filter back into my body. And god, it feels good. "There's only one problem," she sighs, once again looking to the floor. "We need a witness." "That's no problem at all," I offer. "I'm sure one of the guys from work will do it, you could even get one of your professors." "I don't want that," she says matter-of-factly. "I want somebody there who means something to the both of us." "Who could we get?" I ask, completely dumbfounded by her demand. "I know one person," she says. "Who?" "How about your mother?" And with that one simple word, I come crashing to the ground. My euphoria only temporary, I'm stunned by her request. "What do you mean my mother?" "She lives in the city, she's family," she tries to explain. "She's the only family we have." "So? I could get my grandmother to come in from Ottawa; she'd do it in an instant." "But your mother lives right here in Montreal." "So what?" I come off as defensive. "That doesn't mean that I want her there for what would be the happiest day of my life." "Look, I know that she did a lot of bad things to you, but I would like to have her in our baby's life. I don't want it grow up without a family." "But it'll have us." "I know, but sometimes parents are not enough." "And you think my mother is?" "No, I'm not saying that, but I would for you two to at least be able to speak to each other. Please," she begs. "Do it for the baby and me." "I'm sorry," I deny her. "I but I can't." "Then let me have her phone number. I'll call her, I'll start talking to her. Maybe I can build some kind of friendship with her, to slowly get you two back on speaking terms. We have to do this." "You don't need her phone number." "Yes I do. You don't understand how I feel about this. I love you so much, but every time I look at you, I know you're thinking about her. I know that she's constantly running through your head, holding you back from, still hurting you. I don't want her to hurt you anymore, don't you understand that?" "I know, I know that you love me and don't want to see me hurt. I don't want to see you hurt, which is why I can't let her into her life. Everything she touches turns to shit." As I say that, rumblings arise from next door. Though I can't really hear what's going on, I know it must be a screaming match, otherwise I'd never be able to hear it. I wonder what he's doing to her now. "Then at least make your peace with her," she pleads. "Do it so that we can start will a truly clean slate, an absolute fresh start." "I know what you're trying to do, and I love you for it," I credit her as the yelling grows louder. "But it's just not going to work." Evangeline looks to the wall, which is the only thing separating us from my mother and Gary. "They must be at it again." "We should probably call the cops," I suggest, trying to save my mother from what might happen tonight. "They won't do anything," she resigns. "They won't do anything until somebody dies." "I know," I say, speaking from one too many run-ins with the city police phone operator who, despite by pleads, would only tell me to go to bed and ignore what was going on. "But about your mother, just give me the number, I'll take it from there." "You don't need her number," I repeat myself, trying to quell her insistent requests. "Don't do this," she says. "Just please, let's get this over with." "No, you don't need her number," I repeat as the screaming grows louder and louder. It drills inside my head, just like it always would when I was a kid. Curled up in the corner of my room, I trembled in fear, wondering when he would turn from her to me. I spent every night in tears, shaking with fear, hoping that someday it would all be over. I used to cry myself to sleep, praying that he would just go away and leave us in peace. But he never did. He always came back that very same night, ready to spar again, my mother ready to take it. She convinced herself that it was okay, that it was the price you pay for love. As she stood in front of the mirror, trying to think up new ways to cover her black and blue eyes, I would watch her, wondering how she kept going on, how she could get up in the morning knowing that this is what she'd face day after day after godamned day until I wanted to die for her. I wanted to give up my life so that she could lead a better one, start anew, be happy for once. But I never did give up my life, I just cried in the corner, holding my blanket, trembling in fear until I feel asleep. And now I lay her on the coach next door, the yelling growing louder, interspersed with banging against the wall. I have to wake up. I have to stop crying, dry my tears, and finally help my mother through the dark night. I stand up off the coach. "You know why I can't give you her number?" I ask, not leaving time for an answer. "Because she's next door getting the shit beat out her right now." He marched out of the apartment and down the hall. Without thinking, he slammed his body against the door, oblivious to all pain. After a few strong hits, it finally popped open. The screaming was intense; they were blood curdling. Screams that took him right back to his childhood, back to those dark nights hiding in the shadows. The memories as fresh as yesterday, he felt sick to his stomach, yet more solid in his convictions than ever. He walked down the hall, knowing that it was time to finally do something about it, to make it stop once and for all. Throwing open the bedroom door, the scene was just as he had always imagined it would be. His mother lying in the corner crying, her face gashed and arms weak, she just laid there, not doing one thing to defend herself. The man beating her was taken aback when he walked into the room. With a look of shock, he could barely compose a sentence. "What the fuck are you doing here?" he screamed. "This is exactly what we were talking about. You knew this bastard was living in the building all along and you didn't say anything. You fucking whore." He raised his arm to her, but her son grabbed it before he was able to strike. Pulling the arm back, her son drew the man closer to him, getting a clear look into his eyes for the very first time. It was a look of hatred, of evil, of ignorance. They were the eyes of every man she had ever sought a life with. With his other hand, the man attempted to punch her son in the face, but the son responded by throwing him to the ground. Climbing on top of him, the man's back against the carpet, the son wrapped his hands around his neck. "This is for everything you ever did to her," he said with conviction. "You will never hurt her again." His grip tightening, he watched the man struggle for air. Gasping, flailing his arms, anything, but nothing worked. The son looked back at his mother. She still laid in the corner, crying, trying to shield herself from what was transpiring directly in front of her. The son felt more love for his mother at that point than he ever had. And he felt more obligated to her than at any point in his life. He had to rid this man from her life; he had to be the one to save her this time. Looking back to the man, his eyelids started flickering. His arms dropped to the ground as he lost the energy to struggle, but this only encouraged the son more. He wanted to see every last bit of life drain from this cock sucker, the way the man drained every last bit of life from his mother. As his eyelids slowly closed and the last breath escaped his body, he let out a slight moan. Then he turned completely limp, his chest stopped moving; he looked like a rag doll. The son closed his eyes, hoping to experience the exact moment when his last drop of life left his body. I open my eyes, look down, and see Gary. Dead. Just lying there. And me with my hands around his neck. I fall off of his body and onto the floor. I smash my head against the nightstand, but I don't even feel anything at this point. I look up and see my mother in the corner; her face locked in a look of disbelief. She just cries, huddled in the corner, groaning as she breathes. I try to reach her, try to be near her, spend this moment beside her. I reach out for her as I slowly make my way to her spot on the blood stained floor. Most of the blood is coming from my own body, I realize, my eyes blurry and out of focus. As I come to her, I collapse, my head landing on her lap, the rest of my body turning limp and numb. She grabs my head and caresses me, her crying sounding like the wind slowly leaking in from a window. I feel her tears fall onto my cheek; they're warm, inviting, even though I'm not fully aware of what's going on. I slip in and out of consciousness, every time I come to, I feel myself going again. I look up to her. She looks into my eyes. "I love you mom," I tell her, the blood curding in my throat. "I love you." "You're finally free." |