Don't Call Me Mother (25 page)

I enjoy orchestra, but the high school group isn’t as much of a challenge as Monday night symphony. But it is an opportunity to play, and I need that. My cello technique is not what it should be, because Gram doesn’t send me for lessons any more. For a couple of years after Mr. Brauninger left, she took me to study with a wonderful teacher in Oklahoma City, but Gram doesn’t go out any more. Still, it’s understood that I’m to major in cello in college.

For now, my musical development is focused on the piano, where I’m learning concertos, Liszt Etudes, and Chopin Preludes. Maybe it’s Gram’s own life-long love affair with the piano that makes her continue those lessons. I am gratified to be seen as a better-than-average pianist, but playing in recitals and concerts is torture for me. I have never admitted to anyone the extent of my stage fright, which for some reason reaches truly terrifying proportions when I’m to play the piano. Each time there’s a performance on my schedule, I go through hell as the day approaches, as if I’m waiting to be shot at dawn. Memorizing long pieces means hours of labor, my sweat literally falling on the keys. By the time the recital comes, I have to trust that the music is in my hands, that they will play on even if I do forget the music.

When I’m on the brightly lit stage, my mind can shift into a complete blank. Sometimes it whirls into a panic about what Gram will say if I make a fool of her, as she puts it, by making a mistake in my playing. So far, when this fear takes over, my hands keep running up and down the keyboard as if they had a life of their own. Maybe they do. It’s comforting to think that part of me is invulnerable to my bouts of panic.

Sweet Sixteen

Mother comes to visit for my birthday. As always, the hot wire tension zings between her and Gram. I’m relieved when they fight, because it means Gram isn’t focused on me for a change. I feel guilty about experiencing relief at my mother’s expense, but I can’t help it.

On this occasion, I recognize a strange camaraderie between Mother and me. Gram half-raised both of us, so in a way we’re more like sisters than mother and daughter, both of us at the mercy of the same powerful madwoman. Mother whispers things in passing, hinting at her true feelings, that she’s always felt like a lost child, too.

“It’s wonderful that Gram gives you the best things, your clothes and your lessons,” she says. Then a warning tone creeps in. “But you need to be yourself. I don’t want you to be like her.”

Sometimes Mother’s comments are critical of Gram: “I can’t understand why she hates your father so much; there’s no good reason for it. He’s a very nice man, and you should love and respect him.” Or her tone is plaintive: “My mother is so mean to me.”

Sorrow fills my chest on these occasions and I reassure her that it’s all right, I’m not like Gram, I’ll never be like that. I don’t tell her much about the reality of my life. It’s clear she doesn’t want to know too much, and I’m sure the truth would worry her. I sense that she’s genuinely grateful that Gram is taking care of me because she simply wouldn’t know how. My life looks pretty good from a certain angle—my clothes, music, and grades—and Mother chooses to take that view.

A big birthday dinner at Aunt Helen’s is planned for me. Over the last few months, she has cautiously returned to Gram’s good graces. The depth of their friendship shows in their ability to be in the same room with no sniping. I credit this mostly to Aunt Helen’s huge, happy Southern heart. Once she loves you, nothing short of murder can end it. I have never spoken of her betrayal of me, sensing that she has her own fragilities, though they are well hidden from the world. She’s still my wonderful Aunt Helen, and I love it when she says, “God love ya darlin’.”

Today even Gram is putting on a nice dress and some make-up. I can’t remember the last time she left the house. As we wait for her, my mother’s face and my own are reflected in the hall mirror. Mother leans up close to the mirror to touch up her mascara and eye shadow. She glances at me and touches the line of my jaw. “Hmmm, you could use a little make-up now. Here, stand still.”

Carefully she applies a touch of eye shadow above my eyes. It tickles, and she tells me to stop wiggling. She sweeps blush on my cheeks with a huge fluffy brush, and gently applies mascara to my eyelashes.

“You’re turning into an attractive young lady,” she says, and my heart laps up her praise. “It’s okay for you to wear just a little make-up, but not too much.”

Gram comes out of her room and snorts.

“Now Mother, it’s a special occasion for Linda. You should let her have make-up.”

“This isn’t Chicago, and she’s only sixteen.”

“She’s a young lady.” Then Mother turns her attention back to me. “Open your mouth, like this.” She demonstrates, opening her mouth slightly and making a taut circle of her lips.

It thrills me for my mother to dip her lip pencil into the creamy rose color and carefully outline my lips. It tastes good, I’m careful not to smear it. We look into the mirror together, our faces side by side. My mother is much more beautiful than I, with her dark eyes and wavy hair, but we do look a lot alike now that I am growing up. Mother leans toward me and kisses my cheek. My chest aches, my heart opening to her sweet affection. If only she would be like this all the time.

Together, happy as mothers and daughters, we all go to Aunt Helen’s for the celebration. “God love ya” greets us with big, warm hugs. I have for the most part forgiven Aunt Helen for letting me down, though we have never talked about it. Tonight, I just want unblemished happiness. Uncle Maj clipped yellow daffodils for the vase on the table. I blow out all my candles.

You Can Wish
Upon a Star

By the end of our junior year, Jodie has auditioned at the Eastman School of Music and won her scholarship. I have a scholarship for the music school at the University of Oklahoma, but it isn’t far enough away to suit me. Sometimes I feel a pang of guilt about wanting so badly to leave Gram, but then she goes into another one of her tirades and I remember that my only chance to live a normal life—whatever that might be—is to escape her.

The best result of Aunt Helen’s intervention with Gram has been to give me a new perspective: I see now that my grandmother isn’t perfect. Before last year, no matter what Gram did, I thought of her as an omniscient god, but she has fallen from her high perch. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but I’m certain that her view of life—and of men, in particular—is twisted.

She has no friends. I think people are afraid of her oddities, even though they don’t know the half of it. When Keith comes over to pick me up for symphony, she puts on a nice dress and acts aristocratic, so he has no idea that she’s a screaming banshee the rest of the time, chasing me around the house, slapping and berating me.

I’ve learned to go underground, to hide from her who I really am and what I really think. As much as I can, despite her attempts at absolute control, I try to carve out a life of my own. At first I felt guilty about this—my Baptist voice yelled at me—but after a while, I realized it’s natural to want a peaceful, positive life of my own.

The daily routine I have with Jodie gives me comfort: We are together in the morning, and we eat lunch together. Each day after school—in winter and summer—we walk the eight blocks to downtown. We go to the music store and listen to records, or stop at the drug store for a malted milkshake or an ice cream sundae. When it’s cold out, we huddle in the padded booths sipping hot chocolate, making faces at our reflections in the mirrors. I wait for the last bus from town, which gets me home after five in the afternoon.

From that point on, I have it all mapped out. When I first poke my head in the door, I size up Gram to get a sense of how bad an evening it might be. Then I fix dinner for us, do the dishes, and practice piano for two or three hours—this usually keeps her quiet. After that, I pore over five college prep subjects in the kitchen, writing papers and essays on a typewriter set up by the stove. Throughout all this, Gram hunches in her couch, watches TV, and smokes. Frequently, despite my best attempts to stay out of her way, she goes on a wild tear, and we have another loud and physical fight.

In the evenings, whenever Gram is out of the room, I peer through the window panels of the front door, sending my thoughts into the moon as it rises over the plains in the east, into the trees that blow in the wind. There, I find some beauty and peace.

To my great surprise, shortly after I turn sixteen Gram buys a gold Nash Rambler. She says she’ll let me drive it, emphasizing that it’s her car, not mine. She won’t let me drive it to school, but on weekends I can take my time doing errands, and even meet Jodie on the fly. One afternoon in the spring, joyful with my newfound freedom, I drive the car out to the edge of town where the wheat is spread out under the sky. The stalks are green now, but soon they will become beautiful amber fields that undulate like a great sea in the wind.

I get out of the car and close my eyes—here, truly, God is in his heaven and everything is perfect. I run my fingers along the wheat stalks not yet come to a head, pondering creation. Birds fly by and cicadas start up their rhythmic chant. I vow to always immerse myself in nature, where the light and the natural forces of creation keep away Gram’s darkness.

I’ve developed many strategies to help me survive, but I wonder if I’ll ever be normal. Am I so damaged by what has happened in our family that I won’t find anyone to really love me? Little do I know that at this very moment, my first love is not far away.

A few weeks later, Gram surprises me by arranging a visit to the Brauninger’s in Kansas with Keith. Keith and I, together, on a car trip? I can’t imagine anything more wonderful.

It’s a warm July day when we set off, Gram acting unusually cheery. I wonder why she lives in the dark for so long, then perks up and becomes almost normal again for a short while. She’s dressed up, wearing make-up; she even got her hair done for the occasion. She’s like another person today, and I’m delighted. Maybe things will get better for good now.

Keith and I are sitting close enough for me to see the fine hairs on his arm and smell his aftershave. I’m soaring with happiness. For all these years he’s been a constant in my life, the only boy to treat me with unwavering friendship and respect. He calls me “Little Linda” and always bows when he greets me, carries my cello, and teases me mercilessly. Jodie says that means he likes me, but I know he doesn’t like me in that special way, just as a friend. For the last year, Keith has given me rides to Monday night symphony. Sometimes a group of us go out afterwards for ice cream at the Wagon Wheel or Goldspot’s. Gram allows me these occasional forays into social life because she trusts Keith implicitly.

Today, the landscape is vast and golden, puffy clouds building into castles. Gram drives us up route 81, the old Chisholm Trail north into Kansas. When we arrive, Mr. Brauninger and Eva gather us into their arms. Mr. B. looks at me lovingly. “Our Little Linda sure has grown up.” We have a joyous dinner, updating the Brauningers on the other musicians in Enid. Gram is charming and sophisticated, regaling everyone with tales of her trips to England. She has returned to being the Gram I love.

That evening, Keith and I sit next to each other at a symphony concert, watching Eva and Jim together on stage once again. I blink my eyes; it’s almost as if no time has passed, yet I’m sitting next to Keith, and we are no longer children. I can see it in his eyes—Keith is looking at me in a new way. When his fingers brush mine and he gently clasps my hand, I am certain that things have changed. My heart is pounding hard by the end of the concert.

He asks Gram if we can take a walk around the campus while the adults go back to the house, and she agrees. The warm air caresses our faces as we stroll along, holding hands. I can hardly breathe, but I try to act calm, like Sandra Dee in the movies. This romantic moment with Keith seems unreal, yet I can feel the warmth of his fingers, hear his voice murmuring close to my ear.

I’m burning with confusion and unspoken questions as we walk toward a fountain in the center of campus. He talks about the moon and stars, physics and complex mathematics. I listen with only part of my mind; most of my attention is focused on how close he is to me, the heat of his body, the scent of his skin. We sit by the fountain, water splashing our hands. Keith is so close I can see the curve of his lips, his teeth. When he slips his arm around my shoulder, I fear my heart will burst. “See that star up there,” he says softly, pointing. “Want to make a wish?”