I sat mesmerized by her beauty and the loveliness of her voice, soaking up every line. I knew those words weren’t meant for me, but I pretended they were. I wanted to believe she was singing them to me, that this was how she felt about me. I wanted to believe it so much that sometimes I did.
Momma often cried when the song was over, and I wondered who she cried for—her mother? My father? I never knew. All I knew was that Momma seemed to feel real love and emotion toward someone, and I wished that someone could be me.
I carry a vision in my mind of my mother as she was when she left for work in the mornings, all powdered and perfumed and made up, her hair done just right, her clothes and jewelry matching perfectly. She was the Good Witch then, and I adored this version of my mother—the fantasy mother who was gracious to others, so proud and regal. I put her on a pedestal. She was a queen and I was her lowly servant. She literally made up a game in which she was a queen and I was her servant in order to get me to clean the house for her, and I happily went along with this ruse, one that continued for years.
Even as an adult, I hold this version of my mother in my mind. I respect this version. I am proud of the fact that she was so beautiful and so smart and so well loved. I eventually learned, however, that holding on to this image also made it harder for me to let go of the negative messages she conveyed to me—the messages that I was bad, that I was unlovable, that I was “less than.” It’s nearly impossible to reconcile the woman I put on a pedestal—a woman whom I loved, respected, admired—with the woman who despised me, wanted me out of her way, and seemed to want to destroy me at times. How can both of these things be true?
chapter 10
I had known Ruby for over four years, and during that time she had always been alone. Her son Don had come to visit her once or twice, but other than that I never saw her with anyone—no friends, and certainly no “boyfriends.” She mostly stayed to herself, except for some late-night talks with my mother and her afternoons with me.
But one spring day she brought a man named Steve home with her. She invited both my mother and me over to her little apartment to meet him.
“Olga, Beverly, I’d like you to meet Steve.”
“Hello, nice to meet you,” my mother said politely, eyeing him up and down.
Steve reached out to shake my mother’s hand. “So happy to meet you,” he said enthusiastically.
Then he turned to me. “Hi there, beauty.” He beamed at me.
No one had ever called me “beauty” before.
“Hi,” I said, feeling a little shy.
“Steve is an Indian,” Ruby announced. “Not an Indian from India, an American Indian.”
She seemed proud of this fact, and this made sense to me, since she liked exotic things. She seemed kind of giddy and childlike as she looked up at Steve, who was much taller than her. This wasn’t like the strong woman I was used to and I didn’t like seeing her this way.
Steve reminded me of the emblem on Ruby’s Pontiac convertible. He had the same chiseled features: a long, sharp nose and strong chin. He was very dark and very big—not fat, but tall and muscular. He was charming and good-looking. I liked him.
Although she had been pleasant enough in front of Ruby and Steve, as soon as we got back to our little apartment Momma said to me, “You know, Steve is too young for Ruby. He must be at least fifteen years younger than she is, because she’s almost fifty. And she told me he just got released from a mental hospital for beating his ex-wife. I don’t know what she’s thinking, getting involved with a man like that.”
She shook her head in the same way she did when she disapproved of something I had done.
In spite of my mother’s reservations, Steve brought adventure and romance into our lives. One night in early May he suggested we all go on a “moonlight picnic.” The very idea was exciting and mysterious. We all piled into Ruby’s Magic Carpet and sailed off into the night—Ruby, Steve, my mother, and me. We were all bursting with excitement, and for a change my high spirits weren’t squashed by my mother’s typical warning: “Calm down, you know when you laugh too hard you always end up crying later on.”
When we reached the foothills outside of Bakersfield, Steve stopped the car and we stumbled out into the night. Because there was a full moon we could see almost as clearly as if it were daylight. As we made our way up the hillside with our picnic basket, I felt an excitement growing in my chest. I’d never in my life done anything this thrilling. I was used to staying up late at night because my mother often worked late, and I was accustomed to spending most of my time with adults, but this was an entirely different experience. I wasn’t just being tolerated; Steve made me feel welcome, like my presence was part of what was special about the night.
“Come on, Bev, let’s race to the top of the hill,” he called to me. “Let’s leave these two slow pokes in the dust!”
When we reached the top of the hill, Steve spread the blanket on the ground and Ruby retrieved a bottle of wine and some glasses from the huge picnic basket. She had remembered to bring a Coke for me—the glass bottle still cold and frosty.
