Sorting through stuff

“There’s something wrong,” Teddy tells me. “Mum’s sorting . . . through stuff.” 

“Of course she is,” I reply.  “She’s got almost a century of Gran’s memorabilia now occupying their double garage, the spare room and half the lounge room.”   

Mum’s mother, our Gran, died three months ago.  Gran always said that a nursing home would be the end of her – and it was.  Gran might dispute my logic, but I also believe it had something to do with the fact that she was ninety-seven, had one kidney, and a somewhat recalcitrant liver.   While her death may have been expected, it was quite understandably traumatic for Mum; even more so because Mum’s not one to share her feelings.  I can totally see why it’s taken so long to stroll down what must be an acutely painful memory lane.  Besides which, Gran was a notorious hoarder; though not the kind of hoarder who amasses valuable antiques; more the old bus ticket, shopping list and scribbled note kind of collector - stuff with sentimental value, the type of stuff you’ve got to hold, read, and reminisce about before finding the courage to relegate it to the ‘throw out’ pile.  Sorting through that kind of stuff takes time. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Teddy says, clearly unconvinced.  He pauses then adds, “It’s just that she finished Gran’s stuff six weeks ago.  Now she’s started on everything else.” 

“Hhhm, probably just got the bug.  You know, simplifying, de-cluttering.  It’s excellent feng shui to have a good clean out.”   

“I guess,” he says even less certainly.  “I’m just worried how far this clean out is going to go.” 

“Well, Mum is her mother’s daughter so it’s probably only going to get as far as the spare room cupboard . . . at worst the garage.” 

Teddy doesn’t laugh.  Maybe it is more serious than I’m assuming.  Teddy, his wife Joelene and their three children live five houses away from my parents.  This means they have babysitters on tap 24-7.  The trade-off is that they get all the dramas first-hand.  A dying rose bush, a burnt roast, a cancerous growth identified and removed, a dispute over a neighbour’s fence, the death of a beloved pet or life-long friend are all played out with the emotional restraint – and illogicality - of a daytime soap.  I’m no longer afflicted with a dying-to-know type of curiosity, but rather the cautioned interest of a player who’s seen several theatrical seasons come and go.  Same themes.  Same cast.  Same outcome.  It gets predictable.  But if Teddy’s noticed something out of the ordinary, well, maybe there is something worth investigating. 

I sigh.  “Okay Ted, I’ll call her, ask her to a girlie lunch.  We’ll order a mid-range Semillon blanc, a seafood platter and she’ll sit back, relax and tell me all that’s going on in her world.” 

“You think so?”  Teddy asks, half hopeful, half doubting. 

“No,” I tell him. 

Prying information out of my mother is like trying to extract a beloved teddy bear from the chocolate-covered fingers of a screaming three-year-old.   She’s not given to revealing her inner emotions – at least not in a way that might give me a hope of understanding.  The closest she’s come was a couple of months ago at the nursing home.  Gran was slowly slipping away.  Mum was pacing and wringing her hands.  I tried some comforting words like, “It’s for the best”, “She’s in pain and really, you don’t want her to live in pain” and finally, “You know you’ll meet her again . . . er. . . . in Heaven.  I mean, not soon of course, but eventually we’ll . . . er all be reunited . . . a family . . . a whole family . . . together forever.” 

Mum stared at me, her expression a jostling of emotions that stretched mere seconds into minutes.  Then she erupted into a drought-breaking deluge and ran down the hall to the Ladies.  One of the nurses had to crawl under the door and administer a sedative.   Needless to say, I’ve been reluctant to probe the subject of emotions.  Despite the desperate need for rain, I certainly don’t need a repeat performance.   

“But look Teddy,” I say, “since you’re obviously concerned enough to pick up a phone and dial my number, I’ll willing to give it a shot.” 

*****

As usual when I meet my mother, I have chosen my wardrobe carefully.  There certainly won’t be a repeat of the Cyndi Lauper mistake of 1987.   No siree, no spiky technicolour hair, dog-collar belt and thigh-exposing mini here.  My youthful exuberance has been replaced with a pair of black woolen slacks, an apricot-coloured cashmere top and a tailored black jacket.  I’ve chosen my shoes and handbag, both patent black leather, to match.  I even sacrificed a ‘can’t miss, must-see, thrilling, new blockbusting’ episode of Law and Order to strategically daub globs of hot wax on my eyebrows and rip the errant hairs out by their unsuspecting roots.  And although I am generally not inclined to wear much more make-up than a hurried slash of lipstick, I have taken great pains to rifle through my bathroom cabinet and resurrect some foundation, blush and mascara.  So great is my disguise that Marc, my part-time lover, says, “Who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?” 

I leave a smudge of Autumn Rose on his cheek and flounce, as best as a retired tomboy can flounce, out of the kitchen.  Marc grabs my hand and swirls me round.  How romantic, I think, and smile widely.  Marc points his index finger through my lips and rubs my front teeth.  “Lipstick,” he says. 

I approach the café – mum’s choice - wonder if there is hidden meaning in her selection, then chide myself for reading too much into too little.  It’s a café, I tell myself.  Now if it had been a hotel with banquet hall and side chapel I could easily anticipate a “when are you going to get married” speech.  Since my brother bless him, bless him, bless him married Joelene, and Joelene bless her, bless her, bless her took it upon herself to bear three wonderfully boisterous little boys, Mum has eased up on the idea of encouraging more grandchildren.  It frees her up to focus on why I haven’t found myself a lifelong mate, conveniently forgetting that since my first experience of having a lifelong mate did not go so well, perhaps I’m a little more cautious about leaping into that supposedly final frontier.   

Besides, I’ve been sorting through some of my own stuff – emotional that is.  My therapist, a spritely young nymph in her mid-twenties, has helped me unlock a startling truth:  My first marriage was a mere convenience.  Apparently my tying the knot with Steve was a futile attempt to stop my mother trying to squeeze me into a mold of herself.  This, it seems is a trap many women fall into.  We want to please our mothers and think that giving them the wedding they’ve always dreamed of will be just the ticket.  Unfortunately, that’s simply the tip of the iceberg.  After the wedding comes the perfect house, then the perfect promotion – for hubby – then the perfect first child, the perfect second child, even the perfect pet.  The challenge is that nothing in life is perfect.  Our mothers, having obviously had relations with the opposite sex, should be well-versed in this natural imperfection.  Alas, it seems that imperfection applies only to their lives.  Their daughters’ lives will be a magical fairytale.  

Ah yes, a magical fairytale that ends in a place called Splitsville.    It was a nice thought though.  I could have used a Prince Charming rather than a Prince Cheating.   According to little Miss Psychology I am wracked with guilt over my failure to produce said fairytale ending.  This is why I am flitting all over town trying to snare the perfect mate.  Though of course the perfect mate does not exist.  So basically I’m looking for someone worthy of my mothers’ approval all the while knowing such a beast is as available as a living unicorn.  It’s totally illogical.  And still I dart around town playing the dating game, hoping I’ll meet The One who evokes an unwavering need to don a frou-frou frock and throw a bouquet.  When the bells, wedding or otherwise, don’t start ringing I become despondent and abandon all hope – and the relationship.  Oh yes, it all makes perfect sense now.  What a relief!   

Not only that, Miss Psychology’s discovered another gem:  I hide my true thoughts and feelings behind a sardonic humour.  “Oh Piffle!” is my only comment to that.    

Besides, Marc loves my sense of humour; says it’s what attracted him to me.  At thirty-eight, Marc is a struggling artist who barely ekes out an existence teaching artistic expression to senior citizens and pre-schoolers.  He has absolutely no long term prospects and, unless he “commercialises his art by selling his soul to tasteless corporate ignoramuses who wouldn’t know real art if it leapt out of their Perrier and snorted some of their choicest cocaine,” he’ll never be able to keep me in the style to which my mother would like me to become accustomed.  All this makes me deliriously happy.   

Little Miss Psychology claims I’m perversely gleeful because I’ve finally found someone who’s life is shittier than mine.  And she’s right.  Marc’s life is so far down the toilet he’s rounded the s-bend and is heading into the sewer pipe.  I, by comparison, am merely poised on the edge of the bowl wondering if to pee or get off the pot.  

Miss Psychology also reasoned that once I’ve sorted through any lingering mother-daughter issues, Mum and I will be best buddies able to share our deepest, darkest secrets.   I protested, of course, that my mother firmly believes I already tell her everything.  Apparently it was Miss Psychology’s turn to proclaim, “Oh piffle!”  In her ordered mind, my mother is not only fully aware, but quite lamenting of the distance between us.   She tells me this so often, I begin to wonder if it’s true.  Have I been deluding myself that Mum really didn’t know there was more to my life than the trivialities I’ve shared?  Could she really be patiently waiting for me to feel comfortable enough to come clean on all my escapades?  Arrgh, I shudder at the thought.  Surely a little mother-daughter distance is a good thing.  Just imagine the mess if all those skeletons tumbled from the closet.   Still, I might find a viable spine among them and finally be able to live my life totally guilt-free.  Oh yeah, a girl’s gotta have a dream. 

***** 

When I arrive, Mum is sitting in the alfresco dining area under an expansive umbrella.  She waves at me, then stands to kiss my cheek. 

“Hallo, love,” she says. 

“Hey Mum.” 

We sit.  Mum pours me a glass of water and hands me a menu.  I pretend to peruse it, though really I’m trying to read her body language.  She’s looking at her own menu, running the index finger of her right hand down the items. Her eyes dart to assess the price.  Her eyebrows rise.  Her index finger continues down the page.  Seems normal enough.  Though in reality, that means nothing at all.  My mother is the el supremo of poker faces.  Anything less would ruin the element of surprise. 

Sometimes the dramatic suspense is not at all worth the wait, like the time she told me Joelene was pregnant.  I’d promised the expectant parents that I wouldn’t spoil her fun and thus endured fifteen minutes of the “You’ll never guess what?” game.  Then there was the time when Uncle Freddy ran off with a Presbyterian minister’s son.  Now that was a bit of fun.  Though if I’d realized that Uncle Freddy not only sewed cabaret frocks, he also wore them, I may not have been as surprised.  But since our family is so, so boringly staid, so, so mundanely normal it never occurred to me that we would have a member of such vibrancy hidden in our midst.  Too late now.  Freddy and his lover escaped to San Francisco.  The only hope for some real shenanigans in our far-too-sedate family and we’ve surrendered him as an export. 

Our waiter’s shadow falls across the table.  Mum leans away a little and looks up at him.   

“I’ll have a toasted turkey and cheese sandwich with mayonnaise,” she says. 

“Ham and cheese toasted, a side of chips and a glass of orange juice,” I add. 

He takes our menus, leaving only the carafe of water and two tumblers to command our attentions.  

“Any developments with you and Philip?” Mum asks.   

I frown.   

“That’s his name isn’t it?  Philip, or Phil?  The stockbroker?” 

Oh, I realize, I haven’t got around to telling her about Phil.  Admittedly it has been three months, but it was also around the time that Gran’s condition began to deteriorate.  Since Mum was very emotional and her mother’s death is infinitely more poignant than another of my failed romances, I declined to mention Phil’s departure from my life.  And really, is there a pressing need to do so right now?  Despite Miss Psychology’s prodding to sort through the issues and blaze the trail to a more open and honest mother-daughter relationship, I think whatever Mum’s hiding is far more important. 

Fortunately I’m mid-sip so I simply shake my head and continue slurping water.  Mum raises her eyebrows and sighs.  Every now and then I have the urge to ask her why marrying me off is so important.  It’s not like I need the financial support and even more pointedly, it’s not as though her own marriage is an example I’m breaking my neck to emulate.  Oh sure Mum and Dad have been together for over forty years, but I’m looking for quality over quantity.  I want more than grunts across the breakfast table and a habitual peck on the cheek.  Sometimes I wonder if she resents my single status; if marrying me off isn’t just a ploy to make me as miserable and bored as I would be if I were in her position.  What is it they say, “a trouble shared is a trouble halved”?   

Instinctively Mum refills my glass.  “How’s work?” she asks. 

“Fine,” I say.   

Mum smiles tightly.  Asking about work is a dead-end because, although she can ask general questions, she really has no idea what I do.  Admittedly, sometimes neither do I.  Officially I’m a public relations professional.  Unofficially I’m a writer, image consultant, events co-ordinator and general punching bag.  Yes, yes, shout at me, let those frustrations fly, as long as you promise to be sweeter than fairy floss in your press conference.   

“I’m working on a new account.  One of the big construction firms.” 

“So things are going well?” 

I shrug.  “Sure.” I

’m about to inquire after the wellbeing of her roses when our food arrives.  The waiter takes a step back and asks, “Can I get you anything else?” 

Mum picks at the edge of her sandwich, breathes deeply and says, “Yes.  I’ll have a scotch and soda.” 

*****

Though I joked with Teddy about Mum and I sharing a bottle of wine, my mother and alcohol have never really made merry on a regular basis.  In fact, the last time I can remember Mum having a tipple was when I was in high school.  She went to a farewell luncheon for a friend and came home plastered.  It was weird watching my always-together mother leaning into the taxi to pay the driver, then tottering up the driveway on clearly uneven heels.  Dad stood at the top of the stairs, arms folded across his chest, barring the doorway.  Mum leant on the rail at the bottom of the stairs, stared at the petunia bed for a moment, then raised her head and said, “Don’t start.”  Then she stomped up the stairs, passed Dad and into the house.   

Dad released the obvious tension by throwing pots and pans around the kitchen.  I could almost see the lasers shooting from Mum’s eyes into his back, just daring him to speak.  It was like she wanted him to challenge her, and yet, at the same time, wanted nothing resembling a confrontation.  Dad, for his part never said a word; just made scrambled eggs on toast for me and Teddy.  Then he sighed, shook his head and locked himself in his workshop.   

After Teddy and I had eaten, I went to find Mum.  She was slumped in a lounge chair nursing a glass of sherry.   I guided her into the bedroom, took off her shoes and eased her head onto the pillow.  Suddenly, she grabbed both my arms, focused intently on me and said, “I don’t know how much more of this I can take”.  Then she passed out.  Though at the tender age of fourteen  I hadn’t had much to do with alcohol consumption, even I had to agree that she seemed to have reached her limit.   

*****

Mum continues to pick at the crust of her sandwich.  Surprisingly, Teddy was right; clearly something is up.  And equally as crystal, I must bide my time.  Don’t want to scare her off.  I might never uncover this juicy kernel that’s causing so much angst.  What can it be?  I wonder. 

Maybe Mum and Dad can’t decide where to go on their next holiday.  Or maybe the prize-winning roses aren’t going well.  Perhaps she wants to re-decorate and they can’t agree on colours.  She might want a cat.  Dad would never agree.  He’s a dog lover who claims a life-threatening allergy to felines.  Ah, the trials and tribulations of the long-married couple.    

Of course my view is from the outside looking in; a position which makes it easy to criticize.  I’m sure they look at my relationships - my flip-flopping around commitment, my inability to settle down and raise a brood, even my propensity to take group holidays with like-minded adventurers stalking through rainforests, scaling rock faces or zooming down boulder-filled rivers on foamy white waves - roll their eyes and openly wonder what they did to raise a daughter so intent on spinsterhood. 

And equally I’ve got to admit, my parents have stuck at it.  They’ve never holiday’ed apart.  Never stormed off to huffily spend the night at a motel.  Never had affairs; in fact, never seemed to be remotely interested in any other members of the opposite sex.  Never missed an anniversary dinner.  Never invited people round, then argued over the lobster bisque.  Wow, how can you do that for forty years?  I’d have blown a gasket a long time ago.  Still, maybe that’s what true love is and I just haven’t found it yet.   

Anyway, since something is obviously bothering Mum, I take a deep breath and dive right in to a mother-daughter heart-to-heart. 

“Roses going okay?” I ask. 

She nods.  “Oh yes.  Fifty blooms this year.” 

“Impressive.”  I sip my orange juice.   

Mum looks down at her plate.  There’s only one eighth of her sandwich left.  She stares at it, as if strength of will might make it expand and thus delay the revelation she’s clearly dreading. 

“Here, have some of my chips,” I say.   

She smiles meekly.  “Thanks.”  She nibbles alternately on chips and sandwich, like a mouse, though probably taking much smaller bites.   

“I’ve planted a herb garden,” I say.  “Parsley’s doing okay.  Coriander’s gone to seed though and the snails have eaten the basil.  Water restrictions don’t help either.” 

“I had to water the roses with shower water,” Mum says, staring into a space where she seemingly imagines her blooming charges.  

The waiter arrives with Mum’s scotch and soda.  He puts it on the table and she eyes it nervously, reaches for it, holds her hand in mid-air, then takes up her sandwich.   

I stuff three French fries into my mouth.   

“Yes, we’re all having to learn new ways of living aren’t we?”  

Mum looks up like she’s a rabbit chewing at my lettuces and I’ve got a shot gun aimed at her fluffy little cotton tail. 

“Wh-hat?” She stutters. 

“With the drought – we’ve all got to change the way we do things, gardening-wise.” 

“Oh, yes, yes of course. Gardening-wise.” 

Mum reaches for the scotch and soda.  She sucks in enough air to dive to twenty feet, then in a single swift motion, downs the contents.  Before I can propel my stunned mind to probe her on the merits of composting, she grips the edges of her chair and blurts, “I’ve left your father.” 

*****

I join my teeth together in a broad television news presenter grin and signal for the waiter.   

“We’ll have another scotch and soda and I’ll have a rum and coke.”  It’s not that I’m in need of a medicinal bolt, I just don’t think women who have recently left their husbands should drink alone.  Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m gob smacked.   

“You’ve left Dad?  Wow, that’s . . . well, that’s pretty huge.  Are you .  . . are you sure?” 

Mum nods.  “Oh yes.  I’ve found a little flat, a bed-sit really.  I finished moving my things in this morning – while your father was at lawn bowls.”   

“Okay then.”  I’m momentarily stymied.  “So he doesn’t know?” 

Mum shakes her head.  “I’ve left him a note.” 

After forty-odd years that’s it?  “I’ve left him a note.”  And hang on, what happened to the ‘til death do us apart crap that she’s always shoving down my throat?  Or is there suddenly a statute of limitations on wedding vows?   

I can feel my lifetimes worth of repressed emotions gurgling to the surface.  It just doesn’t seem right to be sitting across from my sixty-four-year-old mother who’s calmly confiding that she’s left my father in the same tone that someone else’s mother might announce they’ve cooked your favourite dinner.   

What’s worse is that this revelation makes my entire life a sham.  I’ve spent my four decades trying not to stress my parents with too much reality.  Oh yeah I told them scumbag Steve cheated on me three times, but it wasn’t three, it was ten and half of those were hookers he paid for.  I didn’t tell them that I only found out because he gave me a sexually transmitted disease.  Oh no, I’ve been sugar-coating the truth and this woman, my mother, calmly admits she’s left a faithful, financially secure, non-alcoholic, socially acceptable husband with all the sense of occasion of someone proclaiming they’ve bought a new couch.   

“You’re upset,” she says. 

“No,” I mutter through gritted teeth.  “I’m perfectly fine.” 

“No, I can see you’re upset.”  She looks down at her lap and picks at her dress.  “I know I’m breaking up the family . . . it’s just . . .” 

Breaking up the family?  I want to scream.  Breaking up the family?  God we’re all adults here.  It’s not about breaking up the family.  It’s about me living a half-lie all my life and finally discovering that all that Brady Bunch niceness was a load of 1950’s Housewife’s Almanac phooey.   And what brought this on?  This sudden burst of humanity?  What happened to repressing all negative emotions and living in a bubble of denial?  Wasn’t that the civilized way to do things?   

The drinks arrive and I take a gulp.  I consider ordering another, though restrain myself.  After all, I did drive.  I could call Marc to collect me.  Then again, maybe Mum’s not quite ready to meet my struggling artist.  I grind my teeth.  There I go again.  Protecting her.  When clearly, she is more than capable of protecting herself, even able to find her own flat and sign her own lease. 

“So, er, what’s the plan from here?” I ask. 

She wriggles in her chair and smiles like a naughty school girl caught checking out the male teacher’s butt.  “Well,” she says conspiratorially, “I’m going on a holiday to South America.  I’ve always wanted to see Mexico.” 

“Mexico is in North America,” I tell her. 

She shrugs.  “Wherever.  There’s a whole group of us going.  Like a Contiki tour for us oldies.”  She sips her drink.  Her back straightens slightly, as though her confidence is growing.   

“They speak Spanish,” I add. 

“I know.  That’s part of the fun.  Dos cervezas y un plato de papas fritas por favor.” 

I stare.   

“That’s two beers and a plate of chips, please,” she tells me. 

“You don’t drink beer.” 

She shrugs.  “You never know, I might just take it up.” 

I restrain my uncharitable thoughts and stare at this woman.  She has my mother’s face, her deep brown eyes, the worry lines etched in her forehead.  Her voice is the same, it’s just the words that are foreign and that tone.   Now that she’s spilled her dirt, she sounds . . . excited.  Is that possible?  Could my mother be truly excited?  I don’t know.  I’ve never seen her excited.  Oh there’ve been tiny lapses, like when I got into university, and then when I graduated; when I got engaged and then finally married; when I bought a house with the divorce settlement instead of blowing it on two years of decadent overseas adventures.  But this is different.  This is a glow that emanates from her very core.  And who’d have thought that my mother has a core from which to glow? 

“But why leave Dad?” 

Mum rolls her eyes.  “As if he’s even going to notice.  I cleaned out half the house and he just grunted and asked where I’d put the potato peeler.  Oh, he’s okay in his own way, but life’s short and I’m not getting any younger.  If I don’t do this now, I may never get to do it.  Besides, your father hates travel, doesn’t even cross the river if he can help it.” 

Yes, she’s right there.  Still, I think, it’s been over four decades.  Doesn’t that count for something?  How do you wake up one morning and suddenly want out after forty years?  I mean, I could understand if she’d been visibly unhappy.  Then I remember her friend’s farewell lunch.   

“It’s not a whim, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she tells me.  “I’ve been wanting to do this for years.  It’s just . . . well anyway, when I made up my mind, I started to put some money away.  A little bit at first.  Then I did some part-time work and started my escape fund.”  She giggles.  “That’s what I called it.  My escape fund.” 

I nod.  

She continues, “I mean, your father can keep the house.  I’ve got my super and my pension.  I don’t need much so I’m sure I’ll be fine.  In fact, I’ll be better than fine.  I might even be . . .” 

“Happy,” I say. 

She smiles, a genuine, though somewhat nervous smile, “Yes, happy.” 

And suddenly I see a woman who’s spent more than half her life waiting to start living.  Who am I to stand in her way now she’s found the courage to take the plunge?   

I’ll have to be there for Dad, of course.  Let him cry on my shoulder.  Or better still, suggest that he cries on Beryl McArthur’s shoulder.  I saw the way she looked at him during the club championships.  Yeah, I’ll bet she’d polish his bowls any time he wanted.   

Then I might even join Mum in Mexico.  Ah yes, I can see us  lounging on Mexican beaches under shady palapas, drinking piña coladas and swapping stories of our latest toy boys.   Okay, rewind over the bit about swapping toy boy stories.  My stomach lurches.  Did I just conjure up an image of Mum and I having a real relationship?  Wow!  Little Miss Psychology would be proud. I sigh.  I’m over forty.  My mother’s over sixty.  Perhaps now is a good time to start sorting through a few of those lingering mother-daughter issues.  After all, if Mum has seen how wanting her marriage has been, perhaps she’s recognised that our relationship is merely a collection of socially acceptable superficialities. 

I open what I’m hoping will be an in-depth dialogue with a very simple question:  “But if you’ve known for years, why wait so long to leave?” 

Mum drinks the last of her scotch and soda.  “I wanted to do it sooner,” she says.  “But . . . well . . .”  She leans in close.  “I know you might find this difficult to believe, but I couldn’t tell my mother everything.  She wasn’t very good with bad news; always wanted everything just so.  And really, what would it have done to upset her?  So, well, I just waited . . . until . . .well, until she died.”   

She shakes her head and shivers.  “Can you imagine that?  Not being able to tell your mother the things that are closest to your heart?” She looks at me with serious eyes.  “I am so, so very glad that we’re not like that.”  She pats my arm.  “Now, tell me all about your Philip.  Are you sure there isn’t a pressing need for me to buy a new frock?”     

--- ENDS ---