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 . . . 

*Prince of a Guy*

           Some gal wrote a book claiming every girl wants to be swept off her feet, rescued, a bride. That wasn't my wish. There's a picture of me when I was small, at a toy ironing board, in a dress-up wedding gown. Mom must’ve made me do it, probably tickled me at the last minute to get me to grin. That was never my dream. I was like the dentist elf in “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.” I wanted to be in-de-pen-dent. I didn't need anybody, least, that's what I used to think.

            I always told my girlfriends, the ones who were husband-hunters, "You'll never meet Mr. Right in a bar." Like I knew. Heck, I could practically count the dates I'd been on with five fingers. For some reason guys seemed scared of me, maybe because I could hit hard and burp loud. That's what happens when you grow up with three older brothers.

            I wasn't with my gal pals that night. I was with my buddy, Dave. We were on the prowl for guys to dance with. He and I spotted you at the same time, through a Kool and Camel haze, through the Purple Rain.

            We liked that you were dressed up, wore a skinny leather tie and dress pants. Dave and I agreed that was way better than a t-shirt and Levi's. Your mustache was pencil-thin and beneath it, you had a puffy half-smile, lips like Angelina Jolie before anyone knew who she was. I couldn't tell until we slow-danced that your eyes were the color of Kraft caramels. As I played with the hair brushing your shirt collar, I wondered if maybe you curled it around a Popsicle. 

            Later that night, per your request, I wrote my phone number on a cocktail napkin with my aqua Maybelline eye pencil. One day and night came and went, then another. I thought I remembered your last name and I was flipping through the phone book looking for it when you called. My heart forgot to beat, then remembered.

            After we went out a couple of times, I decided you were some kind of fairy tale prince. I liked the way you opened and closed doors for me and how when you reached across to buckle my seatbelt, the citrusy freshness of your Drakkar Noir cologne came off your warm golden neck in waves. You had a habit of picking up trash and arc'ing it at garbage cans. You always laughed whenever I said, “He shoots, he scores!” The day you helped that dowager-humped lady across Walnut Street, I went all wooshy-gooshy inside. It didn't take me long to figure out you always did what you said you would. Always. I liked that fact every bit as much as your curly hair and puffy mouth.

            But then you didn't kiss me on the first date. Or the second. I started thinking maybe you weren't a fairy tale prince after all. Maybe you were just a... And then you did kiss me, and once again, my heart forgot to beat, then remembered.
           That night it was cold in the hallway of my third floor, over Rite-Aid on High Street, apartment. I was leaning against the frame of the front door and you said maybe we should go see— Suddenly the heat of you pressed against the heat of me and it was so very nice I thought my knees would give out then and there. It was like the ketchup commercial said: Anticipation. You could’ve asked me anything and I would’ve said yes, but you didn't because you're a gentleman. That's what happens when you grow up with four older sisters.
          Later on you said you wanted to marry me even though I wanted to leave West Virginia and never come back, even though I didn't want kids, even though I didn't need you.
          After three years of living in D.C., we decided we wanted a smaller city, a safer one, so we closed our eyes, stabbed a map, and that's where we moved--Cincinnati. I worked downtown in a fancy brownstone. Your insurance office was up north, outside city limits.
          One day I said, "Oh, all right. I reckon I can have one baby. For you.” When she was born, I fell in love instantly with her and her full, cherry mouth. 
          A couple years later at Forest Fair Mall, you stunned me when you said, "I want to move back to West Virginia.”
          As we stood next to the children’s sand pit where our daughter was filling up and spilling out her pastel pink Stride-Rite shoes, I threw a quiet fit. Finally I faced you with sob-squinty eyes. "Don't you remember me saying I'm a big city girl?" 
          I watched you think hard before you answered. "If you hate it at the end of the first year, we'll go someplace else." I didn't want to squash your dreams, plus I knew you always kept your promises, so I agreed.
          Not long after we moved back, I decided our only child needed company. A few years later, I thought, wouldn't it be wonderful to give you a son? Funny, the way having kids can stir up things inside you. When my childhood caught up with me and you at last learned the details, you cupped the shards of my broken littleness in your hands. 
          “Everything'll be all right,” you said. And it was.
          One morning after you left for work and before the kids woke up, I sat at the kitchen table in our hundred-year-old house and pondered things in my heart. I held my thumb and pointer finger in front of my eyes, noticing how they almost touched. I spoke out loud even though there was no one to hear.
          "This much. I might just need you this much.”

*Forever Changed*

On the steering wheel, my husband’s knuckles shown white. I leaned forward to watch the pink dawn illuminate the Cincinnati skyline.

            He glanced over. “May I speed?”

            I winced and nodded. “I reckon this is the only time you can.”

            He snickered as he ran a red light. I stared out the window and murmured. He kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, but leaned his body toward me.

            “What’d you say?”

            I spoke louder. “Nothing’s ever gonna be the same, is it?”

            My husband shook his head as he skidded to a stop in front of the emergency room entrance at Christ Hospital.

            “Nope,” he said. “Today everything changes.”

~~~

The beautiful, willowy brunette nurse perched beside me on the hospital bed. She picked up my hand and flipped it over, traced the creases of my palm with a maroon fingernail as she talked.

            “Did no one give you an enema?”

            My eyes bugged out. “No, ma’am,” I said. Kinda glad about that, I thought.

            She huffed. “I swear. So many nurses think it’s old-fashioned, but I don’t want my ladies pushing out poop with their babies. It’s not sanitary.”

            I heard a gagging noise. I peeked in my husband’s direction. He stared at a spot on the ceiling and cleared his throat.

~~~

When Dr. Lum arrived, I immediately noticed the peace signs on his socks. He'd rolled up his scrub pants so they'd show. He patted my cheek before he sat down at the foot of the bed.

            “Sorry I’m late. Had to finish recording a Pink Floyd concert.”

            He stood suddenly and struck an air guitar pose.

            “We don’t need no ed-u-ca-tion.”

            He grinned as he tugged on latex gloves.  “You feeling okay, missy?

            I felt fine. I’d had my epidural. Tall, pretty nurse made sure of that as soon as I hit four centimeters dilated. I hadn’t checked out the needle, but my husband did. When his eyes bulged, I gulped and leaned over the bedside table, did snifftas like our Lamaze teacher had taught us. Sniff in with the nose, ta out through the mouth.

            “Husbands,” the instructor had said, “you can use this technique too. Like when you’re in line at the grocery store and you have to go to the bathroom—number two.”

            I liked my epidural. A lot. Too much really. Because of it I never had the urge to push.

            Dr. Lum waved stainless steel tongs like a conductor’s baton. “These are forceps,” he said. “If need be, we can use these to yank baby out.”

            I squeaked. “Fine!  I’ll push.”

            I couldn’t feel pain but I could feel pressure, and its absence. I was fully aware when the baby slicky slid out of me.

            “It’s a . . . . girl!” Dr. Lum said. “Nancy’ll take her over and shine her up, bring her back in a jif.”

            I reached down to touch my belly—empty now—after almost a year. I pressed my fingers in as far as they'd go. My flesh felt like a pouch of Cool-Whip, all wooshy and gooshy.

            “I need you to bear down one more time,” Dr. Lum said, “to deliver the placenta.”

            I wrinkled my nose. “Ew!”

            I pushed half-heartedly. Surely the exodus of an empty membrane sack didn’t require the effort a seven pound baby did.

            The blob Dr. Lum held up resembled a large man ’o war jellyfish. “What’s your baby’s name?”

            “Josephine Joy,” my husband said.

            Dr. Lum pounced the placenta from side to side—first left, then right.

            “This is the house that Josy built, Josy built, Josy built. This is the house that Josy built—” He paused to look at his watch, “on December 7, 1991 at 12:34 p.m. on a Saturday.”

            I tilted my head and squinted. Thought him a bit odd but didn’t say so out loud.

            He peered at the giant Jell-O jiggler. “If we were in—can’t remember which country—we’d cook this puppy and eat it for dinner.”

            My stomach lurched. I cupped my hand in front of my mouth, just in case. 

~~~

The lovely labor and delivery nurse finally brought us our baby girl. Her face, the baby’s, was alarmingly scarlet. Dark, silky hair wisped out from under her white-with-a-pink-pom-pom beanie cap. The nurse cooed as she tucked the warm flannel package into my arms.

            “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

            I gazed down at her. How long had it been since I’d held a baby? Was it my niece? Six years ago? I stroked my daughter’s velvety cheek with my pinky. 

            “She kinda looks like a Conehead,” I told my husband. “You know, like on Saturday Night Live?”

            Nancy the nurse snapped her fingers. I glanced over at her. "What?"

            She came close and gripped my face, rotated it toward the baby's. Josy seemed even redder than before and her chin was like an ocean wave, coming at me then retreating, over and over.

            I turned to Nancy. “What do I do? What’s she want?”

            Nancy cocked her head. “You really don’t know? Did you never babysit?”

            I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I had a paper route.”

            She grimaced. “Oh, my.”

            Making tsk, tsk noises, Nancy placed one hand on my shoulder, the other under the baby bundle.

            “How do I say this, honey? Nothing’s ever going to be the same for you, ever again.”

(Happy 21st birthday, Beauty!)

A Month of Love--Story #4

A Prince of a Guy

Some gal wrote a book that says every girl wants to be swept off her feet.  Rescued.  A bride.  I never did.  There's a picture of me when I was little.  In a dress-up wedding gown.  At a toy ironing board.  My mom must have made me do it.  Probably tickled me at the last minute to get me to smile like that.  That was never my dream.  I was like the dentist elf in Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.  I wanted to be in-de-pen-dent.  I didn't need anybody.  Least, that's what I used to think.

Martin Luther King introduced me to you.  See, his birthday was on a Monday.  That meant an extra night to get dolled up, belly up to the bar, and shake a leg.

I always told my girlfriends, "You'll never meet Mr. Right in a bar."  Like I knew.  Heck, I could practically count the dates I'd been on with five fingers.  For some reason, guys seemed scared of me.  Maybe 'cause I could hit hard and burp loud.  That's what happens when you grow up with three older brothers.

But I wasn't with my girlfriends that night.  I was with my buddy, Dave.  We were both on the prowl for guys to dance with.  He and I spotted you at the same time, through a Kool and Camel haze, through the Purple Rain.  

You had a puffy half smile.  Lips like Angelina Jolie before anyone knew who she was.  And a pencil-thin moustache.  Your eyes were the color of Kraft caramels, but I couldn't tell 'til we slow danced.  Your hair was almost ebony and looked like it had been curled around a popsicle.  You were dressed up.  Had a skinny leather tie on and everything.  Dave and I thought that was neat.  Way better than a t-shirt and Levi's.

Per your request, I wrote my phone number on a cocktail napkin with an aqua Maybelline eyeliner.  Tuesday day and night came and went.  Then Wednesday day.  I was looking up your number in the phone book when you called.  My heart forgot to beat, then remembered.

We went out a couple times and I decided you were some kinda fairy tale prince.  You opened and closed doors for me.  You always smelled nice when you reached across to buckle my seatbelt.  I liked the citrusy freshness of Drakkar Noir as it came off your warm golden neck in waves.  

You picked McDonald's cups off the sidewalk and put 'em in garbage cans.  Helped little dowager-humped ladies cross Walnut Street.   You did what you said you were gonna.

But then you didn't kiss me on the first date.  Or the second.  I got to thinkin' maybe you weren't a fairy tale prince.  Maybe you were just a  . . .   And then you did kiss me, and once again, my heart forgot to beat, then remembered.  

It was cold in the hallway of my third floor, over Rite-Aid on High Street, apartment.  I was leaning against a door frame and you were saying maybe we should see--  Then the warmth of you pressed against the warmth of me and it was so very nice I thought my knees would give out, right then and there.  It was just like the ketchup commercial said.  You know, anticipation.  

You coulda asked me anything and I woulda said yes.  But you didn't.  'Cause you're a gentleman.  That's what happens when you grow up with four older sisters.

You wanted to marry me even though I wanted to leave West Virginia and never come back.  Even though I didn't want kids.  Even though I didn't need you.

We closed our eyes and stabbed a map and that's where we moved.  In Cincinnati, I worked downtown.  Your office was out in the 'burbs. 

One day I said, "Well, I reckon I can have one baby.  For you."  

A couple years later you made me cry when you said, "I wanna move back to West Virginia."  

I said, "Don't you remember me saying I'm a big city girl?" 

You held my face in your hands and said, "If you hate it after a year, we'll go someplace else."  

I knew you always kept your promises, so I said okay.  

Not long after that, I decided the first baby needed company.  Then a few years later, I got the notion you should have a son.  Funny thing.  The way having kids can stir up things inside you.  When my childhood caught up with me, you held the sharp shards of my broken littleness in your hands.  You didn't flinch.  Your eyes didn't bug out. 

You said, "There, there.  Everything'll be all right."  And it was.  

And then one day, when I was all alone in our hundred year old house, I held my thumb and pointer finger in front of my eyes.  They were almost touching.  I whispered, "This much.  I might just need you this much.”

 

Forever Changed

On the steering wheel, my husband’s knuckles shown white.  I leaned forward to watch the pink of dawn illuminate the Cincinnati skyline.

He glanced over at me.  “Can I speed?”

I winced and nodded.  “I reckon this is the only time you can.”

He snickered as he ran a red light.  I stared out the window and murmured.  He kept his hands on the steering wheel and his eyes on the road, but leaned his body toward me.

“What’d you say?”

I spoke louder.  “Nothing’s ever gonna be the same, is it?”

My husband shook his head as he pulled up to the emergency room entrance of Christ Hospital.

“Nope,” he said.  “Today everything changes.”

The beautiful, willowy brunette nurse perched on the side of my hospital bed.  She picked up my hand and turned it over.  Traced the lines on my palm with a burgundy fingernail as she spoke.

“Did no one give you an enema?”

My eyes bugged out.  “No, ma’am,” I said.  Kinda glad about that.

She huffed.  “I swear.  So many nurses think it’s old-fashioned, but I don’t want my ladies pushing out poop with their babies.  It’s not sanitary.”

I heard a gagging noise.  I peeked in my husband’s direction.  He squinted at the ceiling and cleared his throat.

When Dr. Lum arrived, the first thing I noticed was the peace signs on his socks.  He'd rolled up his scrub pants so they'd show.  He patted my cheek before he sat down at the foot of the bed.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.  “Had to finish recording a Pink Floyd concert.”

He stood up suddenly and struck an air guitar pose.

“We don’t need no ed-u-ca-tion.”

He sat back down and smiled between my knees.

“You feeling okay, missy?

I felt fine.  I’d had my epidural.  Tall pretty nurse made sure of that as soon as I hit four centimeters dilated.  I didn’t look at the needle, but my husband did.  I gulped when I saw his eyes bulge.  I leaned over the bedside table and did snifftas like our Lamaze teacher had taught us.  Sniff in with the nose. Ta out through the mouth.

“Husbands,” she'd said.  “You can use this technique too.  Like, when you’re in line at the grocery store, and you have to go to the bathroom.  Number two.”

I liked my epidural.  A lot.  Too much really.  I never got the urge to push.

Dr. Lum held up stainless steel tongs.

“These are forceps,” he said.  “We can use these to get baby out.”

I squeaked.  “Fine!  I’ll push.”

I couldn’t feel pain, but I could feel pressure.  I was fully aware when the baby slicky slid out of me.

“It’s a . . . . girl!” Dr. Lum said.  “Nancy’ll take her over and clean her up.  Bring her back in a jiffy.”

I reached down to touch my belly—empty now—after almost a year.  I pressed my fingers in ‘til it felt like I hit the back of me.  My tummy seemed like a pouch of Cool-Whip, all wooshy and gooshy.

“I need you to push one more time,” Dr. Lum said.  “To deliver the placenta.”

I wrinkled my nose.  “Ew!”

I pushed half-heartedly. Surely an empty membrane sack didn’t require the effort a seven pound baby did.

Dr. Lum held up what looked like a large man ‘o war jellyfish. 

“What’s your baby’s name?”

“Josephine Joy,” my husband said.

Dr. Lum pounced the placenta from side to side.  First left, then right.

“This is the house that Josy built, Josy built, Josy built.  This is the house that Josy built—“

He paused to look at his watch, “On December 7, 1991 at 12:34 p.m. on a Saturday.”

I tilted my head and squinted.  Thought him a bit odd but didn’t say so out loud.

He peered at the giant Jell-O jiggler.  “If we were in—can’t remember which country—we’d cook this puppy and eat it for dinner.”

My stomach lurched, and I put my hand in front of my mouth, just in case. 

The lovely labor and delivery nurse finally brought us our baby girl.  Her face, the baby’s, was alarmingly scarlet.  Dark, silky hair wisped out from under her white-with-a-pink-pom-pom beanie cap.  The nurse cooed as she tucked the warm flannel package into my arms.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?”

I looked down at her.  How long had it been since I’d held a baby?  Was it my niece?  Six years ago?  I stroked my daughter’s velvety cheek with my pinky. 

“She kinda looks like a Conehead,” I said.  “You know.  Like on Saturday Night Live?”

Nancy the nurse snapped her fingers.  Pointed at the baby.  Her tiny, round face was turned to me.  She seemed even redder than before.  Her chin was like an ocean wave, coming at me, then retreating, over and over.

I looked up at Nancy.  “What do I do?  What’s she want?”

Nancy cocked her head.  “You really don’t know?  Did you never babysit?”

I shook my head.  “No,” I said.  “I had a paper route.”

She grimaced.  “Oh, my.”

She put one hand on my shoulder, the other under the baby bundle.

“How do I say this, honey?  Nothing’s ever going to be the same for you.  Ever again.”