“You can’t stand to be around me, can you?”
Those were the last words my mother spoke to me.
I don’t think Mom was completely sane during her last years. She kept the house filthy, dropping chicken bones to the floor as she ate, leaving them for the mice and rats that were taking over the dilapidated frame house. I went nearly every weekend to try to help her. It didn’t help. Anything I cleared away by Sunday was replaced three fold by the next Friday.
“No, mom. I just can’t stand the way you live. Now, Mom, look at this mail and find out if there is anything I need to pay for you.” I piled the envelopes in front of her, but Mom jumped up and rushed down the hall to the bathroom.
I figured she was just slacking again, so I went out to the shed and smoked a joint. I smoked a lot when I visited Mom. It helped to be as separated from reality as possible. I took a nice long break from reality, and when I came back in she was still in the bathroom. “You ok Mom?” I tried to push it open but something was blocking it so I pushed harder and shoved harder and finally opened it and found Mom on the floor, eyes staring. Her heart had stopped.
I should have walked away from that house after the funeral and left all that was in it alone, instead of going through the mess. My Aunt Marilyn came to help try to sort through to see if there were any family treasures lost in the rubbage. She hadn’t been there in decades, and her expression when she saw the place was something I don’t want to see again. But she pitched in and took the front of the house while I took the back. In a back closet on the top shelf I found an old Pearl Beer box. Dad used to drink Pearl beer. I brought it down, brushed off the mouse droppings, and there, packed in yellowed newspaper from 1969, were Mom’s collection of toothpick holders. She never unpacked them. I remembered watching her pack them away when we were moving from Texas City.
“Why do we have to move?”
“Because your father left.”
“When will he be back?”
“He won’t be back. He doesn’t want us.” Mom shoved her collection into the box. “He left because of you. Because you’re so bad.”
Over the next 30 years Mom repeated that to me—Your father left because of you. I won’t tell you it didn’t affect me. I don’t know why, but I wanted those toothpick holders.
I dropped the box into my truck and went back into the trashed house to see what Marilyn had found. Marilyn was sitting with a box of letters and photographs, crying.
“I never knew. I never knew.” She handed me a stack of letters from my father, postmarked 1969 from St Louis.
Carolyn,
I hate that I had to leave you and Stevie, even temporarily, but the new job here is going well. I know I can finally make enough here to support my family. I can’t wait to see you and my boy again. Tell him I miss him, and I’ll see him soon.
Sweetheart,
Are you getting my letters? I tried to call but the phone is disconnected. Did you forget to pay the bill? I miss talking to you. How’s my boy?
Dear Carolyn and Stephen,
I can’t seem to reach you. I’m sending this letter to Grandma’s hoping they will be able to reach you. Everything is ready here and I’ll be coming to Texas City next week to get you. Please let me know you’ll be there.
There was also a letter from my Grandma:
Girl,
David’s been trying to reach you here but I don’t tell him anything. Let me tell you one thing, though. Don’t let him see Stevie. He may take him, and then you’ll never see him again. He sure loves that boy.
It’s been two years since Marilyn found those letters. The anger I felt towards my mother is still there, but no longer gnaws at me. I did some research on my father and found he died three years after he moved to St. Louis. It was ruled suicide.
I don’t know what happened between my parents. I guess they both died of broken hearts. I wonder whose was broken first.
