My Mother's Son
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I awaken to find myself dampened underneath grey skies. The air is much
warmer than it was yesterday, the bitter cold being ushered away by the
warm rain. It's still not very warm though; I can see the condensation
of my breath as I breathe deeply to clear my cluttered mind. My hair
has
soaked up a lot of the water around me, much like a sponge, just as it
always behaves.
I sit up to find myself against a wooden crate in an unexpectedly comfortable position. A water puddle has formed around me. Taking its shape from the crevasses in the asphalt. As I stretch my arms, I hear the slow trickle of water that is running from the building adjacent to me. A sweet smell comes from the building opposite from where I sit, which I approximate is a bakery. It could be the smell of bagels and croissants, or maybe I'm way off. It could be oil and transmission fluid; my sinuses reek havoc on my sense of smell. I reach into my pocket to find only three quarters resting, certainly not enough to buy a breakfast with any nutritional content. My thoughts turn to what I could possibly do for the day. I can't go home, that's absolutely out of the question. Returning would mean an admission of wrongfulness, of which I am not. If my mother truly wanted me to return home, she would have come to me, apologizing for yelling and pleading for me to come back with her. And she'd also have to do anyway with Gary before I'd ever consider going back home. "Home" isn't even the right word to use. It's never been a home to me. It's just been a lifeless box that we've inhabited. The word "home" implies a sense of love and family, a sense of belonging. According to that definition, I'll probably never have a home. In all likelihood, my mother hasn't yet realized that I've haven't come crawling back. Her alcoholism probably started early yesterday as a celebration of her surviving yet another pathetic day. Just to torture myself, I think back to my dreams, or lack there of. I think long and hard, as I always do, but as usual, there aren't any to remember. I have been left dreamless once again. I've grown used to the condition. I don't expect anything, so I'm not usually disappointed when I don't have any. "Expect nothing, get nothing" is my motto, a philosophy that I lived with for most of my life. But how I lie. It does disappoint me. I long for dreams that never come. Another empty wish put forth by me, another wish rejected by whomever makes these decisions. If a person wants something so bad that it gnaws at them day after day, disappointment is a certain companion. It's not the "I didn't get what I wanted for Christmas" kind of disappointment either. It's deep and painful, unlike anything felt my most. Most people wouldn't dwell on something so simple as not having a dream. Then again, most people are able to have them. A dream would be my escape to another world and, although only for a short time, I could live in a place that I wouldn't have to take seriously. No disappointments, no crying. Just pure pleasure and joy. A loud truck roaring by snaps my torturous thoughts. I realize that I have to decide what I'm going to do for the day. I can't go home, I can't do anything that costs anything; I only have 75 cents. I suppose I could spend the day in a library. It would keep me out of the rain, but I would bore myself to death trying to focus on a book. Without money nor a place to go, I simply can't survive out here. But I refuse to prove that homeless guy right, I won't run back into the arms of my mother. I'd rather die. Upon trying to stand, my bones crack as if they were a hundred years old. I feel a slow burn in my right arm muscle as I stretch to relieve some of the tension. I run my hand through my hair to try to fix it up the best I can. I know I still look like a heathen, but it's the best I can accomplish under these conditions. As I re-adjust my jacket, I realize that I badly need a shower and a place to dry my clothes. As I start off down the street, I realize that I am getting more stares than Michael Jackson holding the hand of a small boy. I try not to let the stares bother me, but they do. As I walk, I notice a billboard advertising the "traditional" family on the other side of the street. How can they lie like that? There isn't a tradition family anymore. I'm certainly living proof of that. As I expand the thought, I realize just how non-traditional my family is. My mother sleeps with every loser that she can wrap her hands around, she hasn't talk to her won mother in years, and she puts the welfare of her own child dead last on her list of priorities. Of my mother's five sisters and three brothers, she is in contact with none of them. It's really a shame that a family so large and once so tight knit has completely disintegrated. My mother probably doesn't even know where they all live, I can barely remember. Some of them may be dead for all I know, its not like I've seen them recently. I laugh as I realize just how disjointed my family is. Eyes averted to the ground, trying not to burst into giggles, I accidentally run into a woman walking in the other direction. "Watch it scumbag!" she yells. My first reaction would be to hit her. But I must hold these urges. "I'm a scumbag? What dumpster did you crawl out of?" "Excuse me? I'm wearing a 500-dollar suit; you're the one in sweats and a muddy sweater." "Don't push your luck lady. It hasn't been a very good day." "Go ahead," she challenges me. "Hit me. Make my day." As I look deep into her eyes, I realize that I recognize them. They are the eyes of my mother. "I know you!" I blurt out. "I don't think so," she laughs arrogantly. "I don't associate with people like you." "Just because I'm homeless you think I'm the scum of the earth?" "Get out of my way!" she tries to push me, though I don't budge. I reaffirm my position, "I know you. I think you're related to my mother." "And your mother would be, let me guess, homeless?" she quips. "Do you know a Jeannie?" Her face turns from defensiveness to a look of curiosity. "I do have a sister by that name. What's her last name?" "Desjardins." She smiles, "It can't be! The last time I saw you, you were just four years old!" "So what's your name," I ask anxiously. "Marie-Anne. I was born four years after your mother. She was such a goodie-goodie growing up." "Yeah," I laugh. "Come with me. I was about to get a coffee, I'll get you something to eat. You can get me caught up on all the news, I haven't talked to Jeannie in... it must be over 10 years now," she opens the door to the coffee shop. "Why are you on the streets anyway?" "It was time to leave," I explain. "I can't get along with my mother for any length of time." "How long have you been out on the streets?" "It's only been a few weeks," I lie. "It's really not that bad." "So I take it she's not the goodie-goodie she used to be." "Not by a long shot. She sleeps with everything that walks through the door, which is basically why I left." "So she continued doing that," she mumbles, just loud enough for me to hear. "What?" I ask, pretending that I wasn't paying attention to what she said. But I did hear what she said and I understand her comment. But I do have one question, was my mother always this way? I'm starting to believe so. Although I want to think that at some point she was moral and pure, all signs point in the direction that she's always been a selfish whore. "What do you want?" she asks, breaking my chain of thought. "I'll have a small coffee," I respond, putting my life savings down on the table. "No need," she says as she walks to the counter. Wow, what a day this is promising to be! I meet one of my long lost aunts, she buys me a coffee, what's going to happen next? This is one of the best days I've had in years. That may sound pathetic, but it's true. As she stands at the counter, I stare at her. I note that she looks very well. Her physical appearance is much like that of my mother, about five-foot five, a few inches shorter than myself. Her hair is a brown-blonde mix and her eyes are an intense blue. She is also slender, probably weighing no more than 120 pounds. She walks back to the table, two coffees in hand, and takes a seat. "I thought that was just a phase for her," she elaborates on her earlier comment. "When we lost contact, she was bouncing from guy to guy like there was no tomorrow. I thought that she was just in a rut, I thought she'd get out of it. But there was one really nice guy that she wanted. He treated her with the utmost respect. Then she dropped him like a hot potato for some guy from the docks." I'm intrigued. My mother actually got treated with respect at some point in her life? "Who was he?" I wait in anticipation. She looks to the floor, "My husband." My jaw drops. I knew that my mother was low, but I didn't know how low she could go. She stole her own sister's husband. That's got to be a record for her. No wonder they stopped talking so long ago. "That was the reason you two stopped talking then." "Of course," she takes a sip of coffee. "She really hurt me. I never imagined that my husband would even look at another women, let alone my own sister. And that she would go after him. But I can look back on it and smile now. I left him over 10 years ago and I never looked back." "Right after you found out they had something to do with each other?" "Yeah, after I found out. But it took a long time. It happened in the summer of 1985, and I didn't find out until 1989. We moved away in 1986. I guess the guilt of what he done was so great that he couldn't stand being in the same city with her anymore." "How'd you find out?" "Jacques, my husband, wrote a letter to Jeannie saying that he still loved her and how special what they had was," she disgustingly mocks. "I intercepted the letter and confronted Jeannie about it. She told me everything that happened, and apologized, like I cared at that point." "Then what?" I urge her. "What did Jacques say?" "Like most men, he had thousands of explanations, most pinning the blame on me," she angrily slams her cup down, spilling coffee all over the table. I pull some napkins out of the dispenser, "Let me help you with that." "Shit," she looks to her cup, grabbing the napkins from my hand. "I'll clean it up." "Where'd you move and why'd you come back?" "Why do you want to know?" she asks cynically. "Because I care," I explain. "I don't know anybody from my family. Can't I even have a chance with you?" "I don't know," she shakes her head. "I don't want to have any connection to Jeannie whatsoever." "Neither do I." "Let's change the subject," she crumples the napkins into a ball. "I still get angry when I talk about what happened all those years ago." "Understandably." "So..." she sighs. "What's your mother dating now?" "What is definitely the right word." "Well, tell me more." "Gary's his name. He's a complete idiot." "How bad?" "Really bad." "Beating?" "Nightly." "So she's back in bed with another asshole. When will she get her life in order?" "My mother?" I laugh. "I used to have hope that she'd get her life back on track, but I don't have that hope anymore. It's been too many years, too many men. I can't even stand to look at her anymore." "But she's all you got," she looks me in the eyes. "Hold onto her." "What do you mean? You're the one who spits in anger at the mention of her name." "Yes, but I have just cause." "So do I." "You may have just cause, but she's all you have. Work with out with her or you'll live to regret it." "Why didn't you work it out with her then?" I snarl. "I didn't have to work it out with her. I had so many other people in my life that she didn't even matter. I'm very close to my other brothers and sisters. They're always there when I need them the most. Family bonds are the strongest." "Are you insane? Your own sister sleeps with your husband and you still think that family bonds matter? What kind of fairy tale are you living? Maybe it's that you don't learn from your mistakes." "I learned from my mistake," she raises her voice. "That's why I cut Jeannie out of my life. But the rest of my family has always been there for me. That's what family is for. and Jeannie the only family you got." "I'm sorry," I turn to walk away. "But you're deluded." "Just remember one thing. You're only going to have one mother. Now matter where you go or what you so, she's always going to be a part of you." I storm out of the coffee shop, having grown tried of her rant about how important my mother is to me. It infuriates me when I see somebody not able to admit to and learn from their mistakes. Her mistake was trusting her family, but yet she says they'll "always" be there for her. Maybe, but what happens when Aunt Rose sleeps with her new boyfriend? What will she say then? If a person goes through a bad experience once, why would they want to relive it again when they had the power to stop it all along? Then again, if some people are so stupid as to not learn from their mistakes, they deserve what they get. |