Daughter Dearest

The phone in the kitchen demands attention.

            I sprint to answer it, holler through the house as I run. “I got it.” I grab the mustard receiver from its wall mount and press it to my ear. “Hello?”

            “Hey. What’re you doing?” It’s Karen, my best friend. She only lives a block away but it’s too cold and too late on a school night to meet on the corner to yack. I stretch the phone cord taut and huddle, legs criss-crossed-applesauce, in a corner of the dining room. 

             I cover my mouth so Mom can’t hear me. “Algebra, but it can wait. What’re you doing?”

            Karen and I chat for over an hour. Even though supper was ages ago, Mom doesn’t leave the kitchen. At one point I hear her announce to no one in particular, “Think I’ll make Toll House cookies.”

             More than once I spy her shadow as she hovers near the doorway. I twist myself even closer to the china cabinet, tuck the phone between me and the wall. 

~~~~~~~       

One day during my lunch hour in downtown Cincinnati (I lived and worked there in the 80s), I was walking toward Fountain Square and these two gals—mother and daughter—came at me, arm in arm. The younger woman’s grin was the spitting image of her mom’s.   When I stepped in front of them, they stopped walking and talking, their limbs suddenly stiff, their eyes wide.

            The mom gathered her girl close. “Yes?”

            “You all don’t know how lucky you are,” I said. I swatted my hand at their togetherness. “I wish— I wish me and my mom were like you two.” I blinked away the burn of close tears.

            In that moment, they seemed to melt. The mother reached out tentatively, rested her manicured hand on my forearm.

            “Why, you should tell her that, honey. Surely she wants the same.”

            I bit my lip and shook my head. “Nah, we’ll never be like you two. Enjoy what you have.” Before they could say anything else, I ducked inside Lazarus Department Store.

~~~~~~~

A couple years back, I got to thinking about the Ten Commandments, the one that says honor your father and mother.  I did okay with Dad but Mom was different. We were never  close but that afternoon as I puttered around the house, I thought maybe, just maybe, things'd be better if I came up with a list of good stuff I remember instead of . . .  

            I arranged myself, my journal, and fountain pen at the dining room table, cradled a mug of coffee, drew its hazelnut steam into my nostrils. Seconds then minutes passed as I tapped my pen on my front teeth, crinkled my forehead, and waited for good stuff to arrive. Then all of a sudden, there it was: good stuff.

            I like scallops, but Mom loved them first.

            My mother adores stories. I do too.     

            Mom used to take me shopping and in between Stone and Thomas and Nassar's, at McCrory’s five and dime, we'd order club sandwiches, wavy Lay's potato chips, and made-in-front-of-you cherry Cokes.

            "This'll pick us up," Mom always said.

            In the evenings, we’d sit side by side on the sofa and she’d teach me how to embroider. My French knots never got as good as hers.

            My mother was a nurse. I never told her but I thought that was pretty cool. She got so freaked out when my brothers beat each other up, it was hard to believe she could stomach blood and guts. From the hallway outside her bedroom, I used to watch her bobby pin her stiff and quirky nurse’s cap into her dark curls. No one told me how much I resembled her, not till years later.

            Sometimes we'd dress up and drive downtown to the Elephant Room in the Hotel Frederick for lunch. I’d clutch the armrests of my chair as the sweet, super old waiter with shiny mahogany skin scooted my chair in. I’d peek under the snowy table cloth to watch my patent leather Mary Jane shoes dangle above the plush, crimson carpet.

            When the waiter asked for our drink orders I’d cross my gloved hands in my lap and peer up at him.

            "May I have a Shirley Temple, please? With two maraschino cherries on a pink plastic sword?"

            Every year, out in our backyard when the weather warmed, Mom showed me how to grow lilies of the valley, zinnias, and Shasta daisies.

            "Poke your finger inside there," she'd say as we crouched beside a clump of snapdragons. "It's like a tiny mouth, don't you think?”          

            On summer mornings our Keds sneakers would leave green trails in the silver dew as we made our way to the pussy willow bush on our property’s edge. Mom would smile as she stroked the furry catkins.

            "Don't they feel like kitten paws?"

            I don't remember Mom saying no much.

            "Since I'm in fourth grade now, can I have my birthday party at the roller rink?” I asked her that one night as I sliced green olives for the salad.

            “That sounds fun.”

            One evening as we watered the garden I presented her with my heart’s desire.

            "Can I take horseback riding lessons with Karen? I checked, a half hour lesson costs ten bucks."

            “I think we can manage that.”

            “I’ve had my driver’s license a month now. Is it okay if I take the car tonight?”

            “Ask your father.”

            “Can I go to Myrtle Beach with Suzy, Stretch, and Natalie after graduation?”

            “Is it okay with their folks?”

            Mom did tell me no once, after she found Suzy's Eve cigarettes in my room, in a drawer, under my undies.

            "Do not ever, ever smoke cigarettes,” Mom said. Her mouth was a thin, coral-colored line. “You'll die of cancer. My best friend from high school's husband had to get a talk box put in his throat because of cigarettes."

            “But you smoke.”

            “That’s beside the point.” I whimpered as she gripped my wrist hard and marched me into the bathroom.          

            "But Mom, they're not mine. Suz— This girl I know asked me to hold them for her and I forgot to give ’em back. I swear."

            She pursed her lips and squinted. "Nice try. Now flush them this instant. I mean it.”

~~~~~~~

For the past few years, from time to time, I’ve been sending her my stories, some of them real, some not. I fold then crease them, tuck the pages into the stamped and addressed envelopes and hand them to the mailman. It’s wonderful to get real mail these days, not just bills. I wonder if Mom feels like she’s getting a present when she opens her mailbox and sees a letter from me?    

            When the phone rings these days I squint at the caller I.D. screen. Is it her? What’d she think of the last story I sent? Did she think I did good?

            “I liked your latest story,” she told me just the other day. “You’re getting better, you know.”

            Now here I sit with this one. And a stamped addressed envelope. It’s almost Mother’s Day. To send or not to . . . 

Then I Saw Her Face

“Hey lady, did I yank you away from a hot date?”

            That's what I wanted to ask the nurse midwife. She was supposed to be rubbing my back. Spooning ice chips into my mouth. Instead, she leaned against the wall in her periwinkle scrubs. Kept snapping her gum.

            "For crying out loud,” I said. “I’m almost all the way dilated. Think you can get over here and break my water or something? So we can get this party started?"

            She uncrossed her arms and shrugged. "Sure."

            The long crochet hook-looking instrument felt cold against my thigh. The urgent rush of fluids almost burned me. Within moments, hard labor ensued and I wished I hadn't been so eager for the party.

            The tears came. Then the cussing. I gripped the bedside rails. Spoke through the fence of my teeth.

            "I know I said I didn’t want an epidural,” I told Frosty the Snow Midwife, “but on second thought, I do. ’Cause this feels like I'm pooping out a globe."

            My husband petted my hair. "There, there. Won't be long now."

            I heaved myself up on my forearms. Flung eye knives and words in his direction.

            "Get your face out of mine. You're stealing my breath."

            Twenty minutes later, twenty minutes after Mother’s Day 1995 was over in fact, you slipped into the world. Looked like a mini golden buddah. Except you weren't bald. You had heaps of black hair that stood on end once they wiped you dry.

            Later, when I was alone with you, I plucked off your pink pompommed baby cap and twisted your hair into little Billy Idol, standup spikes. Whispered into your wee and warm, almost purple ear.

            “I have no idea what you’re gonna be when you grow up, Flower Doll, but I’m pretty sure you’ll be awesome.”

           

For some reason, when you hit six months, you stopped growing.

            "Is there a history of growth disorders in your family?” The young doctor asked me that. Didn't rest her hand on my shoulder, pat my knee, or anything.

            I lifted you off the exam table. Clutched you close to my heart.

            "I'll ask around,” I said, “and get back to you."

            Thing was, you were such a mellow baby. You never yelled. You didn’t pitch fits. Not for a diaper change. Not because you were hungry. I just fed you whenever I remembered.

            After that appointment though, I did everything everyone told me. Drank fennugreek tea. Set an alarm for every three hours to nurse you. Guzzled a shot of Guinness Stout every day. Bit by bit, you grew. Not a lot, but enough to smooth out the ditches in the young pediatrician's forehead.

           

When you were two, you wore a dress every day. And a high ponytail. That's the way it had to be. And those red glitter Mary Jane shoes from WalMart? You wore them out because you loved Dorothy. And her little dog too.

            You didn't talk much until you hit three and then it was like your mouth was a river and someone released the locks and dam. There was no way we could stop the words from gushing. Sometimes we sat you in the dining room while we ate. To give our ears a rest.

            Right before you started kindergarten, I cut your hair. I couldn't get a brush through it without you needing a timeout, so I located my big, blue sewing scissors and sheared off six inches of brunette shine. I still have it. In a jar, on a shelf, in the TV room.

            When you were in first grade, you let me know where babies come from. Some ornery boy had told you all about it on the school bus. Right after he kissed you, French style. I heard that and thought, "Oh, so this is why some people homeschool."

            I remember your first sleepover. “She’s so funny,” the mom said when I picked you up. “We videotaped her. In case cable ever goes out."

            You’d informed her of your plans to adopt a Chinese baby girl someday.

            "'Cause I know where babies come from, and no sperm’s getting in this body!"

 For five years you wanted to be a marine biologist. "I’ll take my pet rat down in my sumbarine every day and I'll live with you and Daddy forever."

            "Sub-marine,” I said as I tucked the covers under your chin. “And just so you know, sweetheart, there's no ocean in West Virginia."

            "I don't care."

            One day you didn't want to be a marine biologist anymore.

            "Drama's my thing," you assured us.

            That didn’t surprise us one bit, but five years and a dozen plays later, you squirmed out of the grip the stage had on you.

            “I’ve decided to get a PhD in history,” you announced one night at the supper table, “with an emphasis on World War II, specifically The Holocaust. I’m going to be a history professor.”

            My gaze met your dad's and we grinned. I leaned toward you. Secured a hank of your brunette shine and twirled it around my pointer finger.

            “Whatever you end up doing, Flower Doll, making history or teaching it, I’m pretty sure you’ll be awesome.”

          

A Star Is Born

Did I pull you away from a hot date?  That's what I wanted to ask the nurse midwife.  This wasn't what I expected at all.  She was supposed to be rubbing my back.  Spooning ice chips into my mouth.  Instead, she leaned against the wall in her periwinkle scrubs.  Kept snapping her gum.

"Can you break my water, or something?" I said.  "So we can get this party started?"

'Cause I'm not smiling anymore.  Not like I was when I walked into the hospital two hours ago.  Back then the nurses had talked me into going natural.

"You can do it, honey," they said.  "If  you're smiling and cracking jokes when you're seven centimeters dilated,  you'll be fine."

Found out later, they needed natural births to even out the statistics of all the epidural labors.

The midwife uncrossed her arms, checked out her manicure.  "Sure," she said.

The long crochet hook-looking instrument felt cold against my thigh. The gush of fluids was warm.

Almost instantly, hard labor ensued, and I wished I hadn't been so eager for the party.

The tears came.  Then the cussing.  "It feels like I'm pooping out a globe."

"That's bowel pressure," Miss Personality Plus said.  No duh.

My fingernails bit into my husband's arm. 

He petted my hair.  "Won't be long now."

I squinted and hissed at him.  "Get your face out of mine.  You're stealing my breath."

And then 20 minutes after Mother's Day was over, you slipped into the world.  Looked like a golden buddah baby.  'Cept you weren't bald.  You had loads of black hair.  It stood on end, once they wiped you dry.

I marveled how your head was round, unlike our firstborn's.  She'd looked like a conehead from Saturday Night Live when she came out.  Way back when.

"That's one of the benefits of a quick, natural delivery," the midwife said.

That and being able to get up and walk to the bathroom five minutes after the baby squirts out of your body.  I thought that was pretty cool too.


I craved sour stuff when I was pregnant with you.  Pickles, mustard, Subway veggie sandwiches with Italian dressing.  I paid the price for that.  You turned out feisty.  We called you Sour Flower and Sass and Vinegar.

But when you were sweet?  Oh my!  You'd hold the sides of my face and say, "I love  you, Mommy.  With all my heart."  You stole my breath, but I didn't mind at all.


When you hit six months you stopped growing.  Everything but your head circumference. 

"Is there a history of growth disorders in your family?"  The young doctor asked me that.  Didn't put her hand on my shoulder, or pat my knee, or anything.

I looked at my feet.  "I'll ask and get back to you."

Thing was, you were such a mellow baby.  Never yelled for nothing.  Not for a diaper change.  Not 'cause you were hungry.  I just fed you whenever I remembered.

After that, I did everything everybody told me.  Fed you every three hours.  Drank fennugreek tea.  Had a shot of Guinness Stout every day.  Bit by bit, you grew.  Not a lot, but enough to smooth out the ditches in the young pediatrician's forehead.


When you were two, that whole year?  You wore a dress every single day.  And a high ponytail too.  That's the way it had to be.  And those red glitter Mary Jane shoes from WalMart?  You wore them out 'cause you loved Dorothy, and her little dog too. 

You'd clutch a throw pillow to your chest and stick the middle and ring finger of your left hand in your mouth.  You'd suck 'til your knuckles had little teeth impressions.  The sucking always started when the flying monkeys appeared.  And when you laid down at nap and night, you were fine as long as you had those two fingers in your mouth, and a cloth diaper to rub against your peach skin-feeling cheek.


You didn't talk much 'til you hit three, and then it was like your mouth was a river and someone opened the locks and dam.  We couldn't stop the words from coming out.  Sometimes we had to put you in the dining room while we ate.  To give our ears a rest.


Right before you started kindergarten, I cut your hair.  I couldn't get the brush to the end of it without you pitching a fit, so I took my big, blue sewing scissors and cut off six inches of brunette shine.  I still have it.  In a jar, on the shelves, in the tv room.

One day you told me where babies come from.  You were in the first grade, and some little boy had told you on the schoolbus.  Right after he kissed you on the mouth.  I remember thinking, "Oh, so that's why some people homeschool."

One time you slept over at my friend, Barbie's house.  She had a daughter about your age.  Barbie called me the next day, full of giggles.

"She's so funny.  Me and Jeff videotaped her.  In case cable ever goes out."

You told Barbie you were gonna adopt a Chinese baby girl someday.  "'Cause I know where babies come from, and that's not happening to me!"


For five years, you wanted to be a marine biologist.  "I'm gonna have a pet rat, and it's going to ride on my shoulder whenever I go down in my sumbarine."

"Sub-marine."

"Right.  Sumbarine," you said.  "And I'm never gonna move away from you and Daddy."

"But there's no ocean in West Virginia."

"I don't care."

And then one day you didn't want to be a marine biologist anymore. 

"Drama's my thing," you said.

Your dad and I looked at each other.  "We know, honey," we said.  "We've always known."

We knew it from the first time you sang, 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow,' with Judy Garland.  We saw it when you twirled around in the size 2, yellow Belle dress, when you were six.  You had skills.

You still do.  When you walk onto a stage, all eyes are on you.  How can they not be?  You have it all.  Beauty. Presence.  Voice.

And you're still wee.  For the longest time, I thought it was all my fault.  That I wasn't a good mommy.  That I didn't feed you enough.  Then, when you were 11, we went to that family reunion on Daddy's side, and your daddy and me?  We were about the tallest people there. 

I looked at him, and he looked at me, and we lifted our chins.  "Oh.  So this is why she's so--"


This week marks 15 years since you arrived.  Since the party started.  And well, since a star was born.  Happy Birthday, Plum Ball.  Cookie.  Sandwich Child.