Dropped Threads 3 (27 page)

STEP 2:
REINFORCE

After your son is born, your mother will burst into your hospital room. You made a valiant effort to break ties with her during your pregnancy, for the sake of your son’s health. That first phone call flagged it, when she moaned about her husband’s inadequacies and ignored your good news. You tried to hold in your disappointment and shame for having
thought she would be happy for you, but your husband watched you sob. It was when he asked Why put yourself through it? that you fully understood you had a choice. For the eight months that followed you did not call her and you felt free and clear. But now your term is up and tradition is stepping in. Know this: your husband will call her after your son is born and she will cause a commotion. She will ignore visiting hours, argue with doctors, and pull your fresh stitches as she strains to grab your son.

You will notice, not for the first time, that her eyes do not meet yours. At that moment, you know you cannot wish a mother-daughter bond into being; it doesn’t exist and never did. This realization is painful, and in your weakened state it may be too much to handle. Secure some time with your son and lick your wounds. Then, when you are alone and ready, close your eyes and begin remembering.

STEP 3: REMEMBER MR. SMITH

Drift back to when you were seven years old. It is a Snow Day and you awake excited that school is cancelled. You hear your mother swear and slam the kitchen cupboard. You do not know why and your father is not home to translate. Your mother throws a jacket on you, neglecting hat and mittens because she is late. You are cold as you walk to Mr. Smith’s house but are afraid to say anything because nothing can soothe her anger that erupts at everything lately. Recall the basement with the dim lighting and the stand-up piano in the corner where she left you. Hear her voice blend with Mr. Smith’s behind the door. Feel the wooden stairs you climb up and away from spiders and strange sounds. See her face a horrid mixture of shock and ecstasy as you open the door and watch Mr. Smith climb off her. Watch her slap you, but do not feel it. You are no longer that seven-year-old girl.

STEP 4: REMEMBER BROKEN BLOOD VESSELS

Now you are thirteen. You are washing dinner dishes in the aftermath of an argument your mother has had with her new husband. She sits at the table, head down, with a butcher knife in one hand aimed at her bare wrist. She is crying and talking to a dead relative. You have seen this before and wish now that she had completed her treatment at the
nuthouse
—as she called it—instead of kidnapping you from your father four years earlier. At the time you missed her motherly comforts—her Sears perfume, her pickled beets, the special way she tied your hair in braids—and even prayed for her to come home. So when you saw her climbing through the kitchen window when your father was at work, you happily went with her and did not ask questions. Not even when Mr. Smith moved in. But now even he is gone and you are alone with her. Left to wipe her eyes and hold her and tell her that everything will be all right. But tonight you just don’t feel like it. Tonight you want to be a child for once. You ignore her cries and head toward your room. But she is suddenly behind you with the knife at your back and it starts to dig in. She drops it and gasps. You turn to see her face cloud and distort again just before she starts hitting you, open handed, and yelling that you are ungrateful and useless and now your insolence has caused her to break blood vessels in her hands. She walks into the night without a coat, leaving you alone and clinging to a broken banister.

STEP 5: REMEMBER THE LEGION

This last recollection is of fresh memories. Approach them slowly. There, see that day in the Legion up north where she lives. You drove three hours to visit her on that weekend your husband was at a seminar. Of course you
called her, double-checked that your visit suited her well in advance of your departure. She was already drunk when you got there and out of a strange sense of obligation you drove her and her husband from their cottage on the lake to the Legion in town. There, she flirted shamelessly with a man. Her husband buried his face in a glass of beer across from her and you felt a sad kinship with him as you both tried to ignore her. Only when she stood up, pointed at you, and commanded all legionaries to look at your funny hair did you start paying attention. As you stood to leave, she pulled at your pants, slid them down mid-thigh and pointed out the difference between your build and hers. Later, as you drove her home, her head out the window like a dog, you tried to explain how hurtful her actions were. Then, by the side of the road, while you held her hair and wiped the vomit from her shoe, you were fairly certain she hadn’t heard you.

STEP 6: REMOVE

This step may seem very simple at first. And, in truth, it is. You begin by not answering her phone calls. You strike her birthday off the calendar. You hide all the photos you have of her. Then you sit down, inhale deeply, and draft your letter to her. It should cover a few essential points:

• a) State that you are writing to her neither hastily nor in anger. You have thought this over for the better part of thirty-five years and are ready to begin living your life in peace.
  

• b) State that she is not a bad person but you are done with the horrible drama. You are done jumping every time the phone rings and crying for hours after. Life is precious and short and you want to start enjoying it.
  

• c)
  Explain this new, overwhelming instinct that instructs you to protect your son and finally yourself. This means severing ties with her. You hope she will understand one day.
  

Reread the letter before mailing. It is not advisable to call her as her dry sobs will invariably sway your decision—you will only kick yourself later. Prepare for her response: commending you, thanking you for the honesty, explaining that she is undergoing new therapy and is better now. You have heard this all before. A phone call from her most recent ex-husband will make you more comfortable in this difficult time. He will tell you that she is getting married to a new man, a man she adamantly denied any involvement with. Smile at having learned the fine art of recognizing her lies. You can practically feel her web slip from your shoulders.

STEP 7: RENEW

The first morning you wake after a complete month of freedom from her you will be a little frightened. This is only natural. It is the little girl inside of you who wants approval and now has no mother to pat her on the head and tell her she has made the right decision. This is when you realize that you never really had an attentive mother in the first place. Dry your eyes, dispense with self-pity, and vow to be as good a mother as conceivably possible without smothering your son. Walk to the nursery with your head high. You are free. But now fresh worries will plague you: how will you explain the missing grandmother, and will he accept your choice? This is when you sit down by the cartoon lamp beside his crib and begin writing another letter. This time it is for him. Within it you will explain your perception of free choice and condone it when laced with a healthy dose of
soul-searching and responsibility. After all, it is your responsibility to protect him. You need not offer intricate details but be prepared to tell the truth if he asks, because you will no longer lie for her. You notice that the filth on your conscience is beginning to wash away, and you like the feeling of lightness.

STEP 8: REVERE AND REMIT

You have undergone intense deliberation and countless sleepless nights and now it is time to enjoy the fruits of your labours. Take time to revere the child who gave you the strength to sever that bad relationship like a gangrenous limb. Sit in the room with him, enjoy his innocence—for you have done a lot to protect it—but
do
stay away from it. Don’t touch it: it is his and his alone. When he is sleeping, get acquainted with yourself; admire this new confident woman capable of caring for her family. And in those moments of fading euphoria, when guilt starts jabbing at your shoulder with worn boxing gloves, learn to forgive yourself. It was never your intention to hurt her. In moments of doubt, when you wonder if your son will understand or if you are teaching him that relationships are disposable, rub that little scar on your back and repeat the word
protection
until it is no longer a word but a part of your breath.

STEP 9: RESUME

Now that the vacant space inside you has begun filling in with a liberating lust for life, know that she will often creep into your thoughts. Beware of times when you would usually think of her: holidays are hazardous. When you recall with awe the heaps of chocolate macaroons she prepared for Christmas mornings, take your hand off the phone and go back over steps 3 to 5 if necessary. Should you choose to tell
friends and colleagues of your actions, on those days you will learn to dub
weak days
, be prepared for their shocked looks. They may never understand your situation. Divorcing a mother is not for everyone. A long history of tradition and societal expectation goes against your actions. At such moments breathe deeply, find your reflection, and note the distinct absence of that frightened girl behind your eyes.

STEP 10: RESTRAIN

As you raise your son, know the difference between involvement and interference. He is entitled to make his own decisions, as you were. Be forewarned that freedom may have a price. One day, when his independence blooms and his monthly visits trickle down to a thin, infrequent stream, take this book off your shelf, read over the section on free choice repeatedly until you fall asleep, spine straight, on your bare wooden floor. When you awaken with wide, clear eyes, revisit your reflection and look for similarities between yourself and your mother. The arms may appear different: hers were loose, yours may be worn and red. After you carefully consider the term
overprotection
, allow air to fill your lungs, wrap your arms around your body, and then smile in gratitude for having lived a self-guided life, unclouded, clean, and your own.

The afternoon
my aunt’s house burned down, she was upstairs, wearing an old pair of shorts and a worn blouse with the sleeves cut off. She was barefoot and had been cleaning house when she suddenly noticed large, quick flames about to encompass the room. She did not know, at the time, that the fire had started outside. She grabbed her toddler by the wrist and dragged him downstairs and out the front door. Fire trucks and police cars arrived; sirens were heard throughout the town, and people ran toward the scene. My aunt was distraught, but refused to leave. She stood in the middle of the road, in shock, and stared at murderous flames that raced within and from room to room, devouring everything she owned—every sheet and pillow and chair, her Sunday hat, her two good skirts, the rest of her wardrobe, the silverware she kept “for best,” even her jars of pickled beets. One of her sisters was phoned by a neighbour to come and collect the child. A rumour about no insurance was whispered, with some authority, through the crowd. My aunt was put in the back seat of a police car to keep her away from the heat and devastation, but as soon as the car door was shut she wriggled across the seat and out the other side. Her pots and pans continued to melt. Her other four sisters arrived and dragged her away. The roof fell in with an astonishing crash.

I heard this story over and over during my childhood but, gradually, a second part was added on and this became the real story, the one that could make us laugh. It was the part about my aunt being driven to her parents’ farm, the home of my grandparents, several miles outside of town. My deaf grandmother, shocked at her daughter’s misfortune as well as her appearance, sat her down at the kitchen table, put the kettle on to make tea, and then disappeared upstairs. She came back down with a pair of pearl earrings and handed them to my aunt. It was all she could think of at the time. My aunt had nothing. No furniture, no food, not even a pair of shoes. But now she had a pair of pearl earrings. When this part of the story is told, along with the fire story, my mother and my aunts laugh until tears overflow from their eyes. I try to picture my grandmother, her concern and her instinct to help. I hear her voice, her oh so familiar, dulcet voice (a voice I managed to capture unwittingly on tape when my own children were toddlers). But everything else is drowned in the laughter of her five daughters. Even the aunt who lost everything she owned in the fire laughs until she cries.

I am not sure how and when I began to understand that these voices, the caring voices of the women who were in the foreground of my childhood, are the important voices inside me today. As a writer, I can only say that I am thankful. Each voice can be called up individually across the shared experience of birth and life and now death, for one of my aunts has recently died. I drove my mother several hundred miles so that we could say goodbye. When it was time for us to return home, I turned back to look from the hospital doorway. My aunt was propped up in bed, frail but vibrant, her sisters and sisters-in-law grouped around her. They were telling stories. There was a good deal of laughter while, outside in the hall, there were also tears.