Unsaid's Still Communication

Miranda's dad escaped from his native Hungary during the revolution in the 1950s. He settled in Kasas City, got married and had two kids. He drove a bus for a living. Every time I would come over to Miranda's house to play he'd greet me with an, "Ah, Sydney!" He'd hug me and kiss me on the cheek. Then he'd release me to play and go back to cooking in the kitchen.

I wanted him to be my dad. The only time my dad put his arm around me was when he'd introduce me to some extended relative I didn't know, only he'd squeeze my shoulder so tight it hurt. Maybe it's like when you don't use a certain part of your body it goes numb, and so it physically hurt when my dad tried to side-hug me. "This is my youngest daughter," he'd boast. His voice sounded like an announcer at a dog show. He'd finally release his grip from my shoulder so I could run back to the field where I had been befriending a feral cat before I was called up to meet some family. I'd heard the term pissing contest and that's how I felt at Dad's family reunions. "Look at me. Yeah, I fathered a kid when I was 43. I'm not irrelevant yet!"

With Miranda's dad, he enjoyed his kids. They were not his tax deductible or his fountain of youth.

Miranda's mom was stricter than mine. She made Miranda brush her teeth and wear shoes outside, and sunscreen, and she was constantly reminding Miranda that she wanted the dishes in the dishwasher before she got back from work.

But when she'd come home, whether the dishes were done or not, simply because she missed her and wanted to hold her, Miranda's mom would blop down on their cushiony chair, hold out her arms and say, "Where's my girl?" Miranda was a year older than me, so she had to be at least seven or eight, and yet each time her mom would call out to her this way, Miranda would run into the living room, jump into her mom's lap nuzzle cheek to cheek, and hug and kiss their hellos. It was time for Miranda to stop playing and go finish the half loaded dishwasher which had gotten ignored when we heard the ice cream truck outside, which led to a spontaneous sprinkler fight in the front yard. But it was hard for me to turn and walk away. It was so beautiful to see Miranda sitting in her mother's lap. It reminded me of that picture I saw when Miranda's family took me to Mass with them that one time. The little baby Jesus and his mom, so proud of her baby.

The first time I saw this magnificent display of a contemporary Madonna and Child I was transfixed. I walked down the street to my house and saw my mom's Vega pull into her side of the garage.

"Hi, Mom!" I jumped up and down.

"Hi punkin. Hold on a second, I've got something for you." She dug through her bag and took out this cool ankle bracelet style jump roap with a lemon attached to the end that you have to skip over.

"Thanks, Mommy!" I jumped around the driveway with my new toy until Mom had gathered all her things.

I followed her upstairs. I could tell she was tired from standing on her feet cashiering all day. She plopped her bags in her corner and sat on the couch. My dad had the local TV news blaring. He looked over at us walking through the garage door and with no change of expression on his face asked, "What's for dinner?" then turned his head back toward the TV.

Mom ignored him and went to change out of her work clothes. I went into the kitchen, pulled a chair over to the cabinets and inspected our choices. I started pulling out dark red kidney beans to help Mom make some chili when she came into the room wearing her terry cloth onsie. It was my favorite of her lounge clothes. It was periwinkle which made her grey-green eyes twinkle.

I helped her open the cans and dump the ingredients into the pot. She let me stir it for a minute but not too close so I wouldn't get burnt on the range. She brought the bread and butter to the kitchen table, handed me a plate and herself a plate, handed me a butter knife and herself a butter knife, gave three pieces of bread to both of us, and away we buttered bread. Mmm. The smell and taste of buttered bread to this day makes me feel like Mom is with me.

While we waited for the chili to finish cooking, Mom plopped down on the couch. Dad's eyes were focused completely on the screen like he was an anthropologist studying a strange culture. Every Sunday morning Dad would get up and makes breakfast. The breakfast was always horrible: usually sausage gravy and biscuits or something with runny eggs and bacon. But waking up to the music he played on the turntable while he cooked was wonderful. Ninteen-forties era Big Band Swing and balads by the great singers of the day. It's one of those nice memories of my Dad that pop into my head from time to time. They're nice little visitors and I appreciate their reminder that no one is all bad or all good. Another one is when I was anorexic and always had cold hands so he'd puff on his own hands and rub them together really fast, then wrap his hands over mine. It really did warm them up.

I walked over to the couch, but instead of sitting next to her, I took the crochet hook out of her hand, moved the afghan she was working on to her side, and sat in her lap. My mom sat frozen.

"I love you, Mommy" I said as I nuzzled her cheek with mine.

"I love you too, Punkin, but you're too big to talk baby talk."

She gently pushed me off her lap, picked up her needle and went back to work on an afghan, one that no doubt would feel snuggly warm when I'd come home from school, wrap it around myself on the couch, watch "Tom and Jerry" and "Scooby Doo" while eating Doritos until my tongue is so raw and my fingers stained so orange that it kinda hurts to lick my fingers but in a good way while I waited from Mom to bring me my Blue Light Special.

Once a bunch of neighborhood kids and I were outside during the summer playing night games. Somehow as we all sat down to take a break it was decided by unanimous vote that if we could choose our parents we'd choose Miranda's dad and my mom. I voted along with everyone else, even though I secretly wished that somehow my mom and Miranda's mom could meld and become the perfect mother. I think my mom isn't lovey-dovey enough and Miranda thinks her mom is too naggy. But we also know that Miranda's mom is a super snuggler and my mom knows what kinds of toys kids like. We wanted a mother who didn't make us pick up our Barbies or do chores, but one who also had a lap and a cheek and some lips whenever we felt the need to have them near.

I have never once doubted that my mom loves me. The circumstances of my childhood were not ideal, but my mom did the best with what she got. She wasn't comfortable with physical affection or negative emotions, but I can think of no other person in my life who has consistantly made me feel like I realy could do anything I wanted if I put my passion and my rational mind to it. She's my biggest fan. And as society in general is becoming more emotionally demonstrative these last few decades, so has my mom. Now we regularly hug and kiss, we say "I love you" to each other and it's not quite so awkward.

I think Mom has fairly well controlled Posttraumatic Stress Disorder, but I over-pathologize quirks in people. And I could be projecting. When I was dating girls for the longest time I assumed everyone was bisexual. Mom's getting better at expressing the happy emotions: hugging, kissing, saying I love you. But she still crumbles when she's hit with negative emotions.

A few weeks before Murray died we had a Christmas gathering at Marty's house in St. Joe. We were all there: Mom and Frank, Walt and Adrienne and their daughter Lily, Marty and Dan, Murray, Hazel, Keith and their son Jordan, Hank, Stella and me. We knew it would probably be the last time we'd all get together before Murray would pass away. I forgot to bring my camera.

After about a half hour of sitting up in a chair, Murray suddenly ran to the bathroom where we could hear him retching. The rest of us kept talking like nothing was happening. Except Mom. She was silent and digging in her purse. I couldn't see her face.

Murray came back into the living room and asked Walt if he could drive him back home. his arms were shaking and he needed Walt to grab ahold of his elbow so he wouldn't fall. As they crossed back over the threshold to the front porch, Murray turned his head toward the living room and shouted, "Hey everybody. Thanks for coming up. Sorry I couldn't stay longer. This medicine's jacking me up."

He turned, adjusted the fake leopard skin hat he'd been wearing since he got there, tightened his zebra striped robe over his neck and clomped away in some of Walt's borrowed slippers that looked like they had been worn during the painting of at least five houses. And the fur looked suspiciously not fake and like one of the taxidermied animals of which Walt is an avid Ebay purchaser.

I watched Walt get Murray into the car and drive off. Then I turned my attention back into the living room. Everyone was milling around, eating candy and cinnamon rolls or standing in the corner texting. Everyone except Stella, who had built a fort under Aunt Marty's Winter Wonderland decorative table. She was playing with both snowmen and the nativity scene and I thought snow would actually be a really nice gift to bring someone in Bethlehem.

Then I saw Mom in her stiff backed chair. She didn't like the cushiony chairs she said because they were too difficult for her 72 year old ass to get out of. I think it has to do more with her martyr's personality than her ass. Grandma Ruthanne instilled in Mom the belief that only certain people deserve the nice seat and Mom was not one of them.

I noticed Mom was slouching over and her back was shaking. She was crying. Without thinking, I rushed over and wrapped my arms around her. "It's ok, Mom. It's ok."

She looked briefly into my eyes. Hers were bloodshot and filled with tears that streamed down her face onto her knit pants like sad polkadots. I've never seen so much suffering in another person's eyes.

"Please don't touch me. Leave me alone. Pretend I'm not here." I could barely understand her gravelly whispered voice. It was as if it pained her to speak.

I wanted so much to keep holding on, to let Mom know we can all get through this together. I wanted her to know I wouldn't change her, even in this miserable moment. I wouldn't want any Mom but her. That no matter how much I complain about my unhappy childhood, it got me here to where I am now, and that's right where I want to be.

That's what I wanted to tell her, but I could feel her quivering back stiffen the longer I held on, so I let her go.