My Mother's Son
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She walks through the doorway and into the apartment where I am ready
and
waiting. I watch her silently, half- heartedly admiring the way she
trudges
through life. Her journey today has taken her no further than the local
shopping centre, yet she carries herself as she has travelled to Paris.
It’s not an ordinary feat, but she manages it daily. Maybe that is how
she has survived all of these years. By propping herself up against the
backboard of society, making herself seem more important than she truly
is. However the strain of doing this is showing and I fear that she
soon
will not be able to do it anymore. That is when she will fully collapse
and wither away into nothingness.
She gracefully glides into the living room and gently sits down on the sofa. Her likeness appears odd against the filthy, hole-ridden coach. But in a way, it appears at home, like a fisherman returning from sea. “So what’s on tonight?” she blandly breaks my thought as she picks up the remote up from the floor. "A few shows," I respond equally as bland. "I rented a movie for tonight. I thought you might enjoy it.” In one way, I am in one way touched by the thought that she took out the time and energy to do something for me. But in another way I am surprised that she actually remembered I was alive. I guess the sarcasm that I have towards her will never disappear despite the efforts to mend the tears in our relationship. Maybe it’s for the best. Sarcasm has led me through life so far, and truthfully, I would have been worse without it. "Do you want to watch it?" she questions me again, knowing the first time I was blocking her out. "No, Roseanne is on Channel 12 in about five minutes." "I haven't seen that in a while," she tries to small- talk. "I never miss it." I try, though not putting much effort into it. She notes, "It reminds me so much of the way things work around here." I argue, "You're no Roseanne." "I am the head of the household." Desperately trying not to start an argument, I remain silent, although I'm screaming in protest in my mind. She reaches down beside the coach and drags up a blanket. Grabbing both ends, she throws it over the both of us. "Thanks," I respond curtly. The look on her face becomes pensive once again. She looks as though she is trying to word together a sentence in a meaningful manner. "I..I...I'm just going to ask you this," she stutters. “What do you think of the marriage?” Unable to clue into what she is talking about, I respond, “What marriage?” “You don’t remember?” Then it comes back to me, accompanied by the feeling of hitting a brick wall. With the conversation flowing so neutrally, I have to wonder why she would deliberately sabotage it. I refer to it simply, "Oh, that." "Its not 'Oh, that'," she mimics, "It's something that we obviously have to discuss, and I want to do it right now." I don’t respond, but instead go into a trace- like state. I’m thinking of the wedding, which I surely won’t attend, but I’m almost tempted to in hopes that a major disaster will mar the event. “So, what do you think?” she persists. “Do you want the honest truth, or a concocted truth that will only make you feel better?” “What do you think?” she demands. I am hesitant, "I don't know what to think about it. On one hand I'm kind of happy for you. But that's a small hand. On the other hand, I'm totally disgusted by the thought of it," I pause. "But it’s not my call. I won’t promise you that I'll respect your decision or even attend your wedding. I can’t promise that." “Why not?” "Because I don't like Gary. I never have liked him and that will never change. To me he will always be a nothing," I cut myself short, hoping not to push my words too far. She is silent. She looks vacantly out onto the fire escape as if she is about to cry. "I'm sorry," I unsympathetically try to console her. She continues to look outwards, "Why cant these parts of my life come together. I must be the biggest failure who ever lived." All is silenced by that statement. I want to say something to comfort her, but I’m unable to. "There's another reason why we're getting married," she pensively pauses, "I'm pregnant." Just two words and I have hit brick wall number two. I release a sigh of desperation as I realize that my plight has now been rendered hopeless. With a new child she will see no point in trying to reconcile our relationship, but instead focus on the baby. In a way I already envy the child for the fact that it will have two parents to be raised by. But I pity the child for having these two particular parents. Whatever the outcome, I wish it luck. Lots of luck. “What do you think?” she softly tests the waters. "Another child," I repeat my thought, "I wish it luck." "I'm going to let that one go because I plan to spend all the time with this child that I never spent with you," she smiles, then realizes her error, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I know that I made a lot of mistakes with you and I want to make restitution for them..." "Then you should be making restitution with me," I interrupt. "not with another child. The child will never know the mistakes that you made with me. You can not redeem yourself by having two children while only giving to one. The mistakes that you made with me are with me," I stress, infuriated at her suggestion. "The child will never know them." Her expression suddenly swoops from hope to despair. In a way, I am satisfied. She sobs, "But I thought..." I continue her sentence, "That you could just forget about me and start all over. That's not the way it works. I will always be here and nothing that you can do to change that." I pause, then try to be compassionate, "Give the child your best, or for you ten times your best. Start giving me that too, I deserve it." The theme music to Roseanne catches my attention. I look towards mom, but she is staring out onto the fire escape as usual, at once looking both pensive and empty. I try to feel something for her, and I do. I feel pity for her because she has such a long road ahead, yet such a long road already passed. But also feel that she has caused her problems and now has to deal with them. Why should I be compassionate towards her? She has caused me so much pain and sorrow, but I still love her. I do feel compassion towards her, but I cant. I must make her suffer for her what she has done, but truly, what has she done? I was thrust upon her; I was not a conscious decision. But that's not my fault. She could have just as easily had an abortion and saved herself. But she didn't have an abortion. Something held her back from doing it. Should I love her for that? |