It was dark inside, with old linoleum floors throughout— floors you could never wash clean no matter how many times you mopped. The kitchen sink was so stained that you couldn’t make it look good no matter how much you scrubbed. Just like I couldn’t get my body clean no matter how many baths I took. And it only had one bedroom, so once again my mother and I had to sleep together.
In Ceres, sleeping with my mother had been fun. It had felt cozy and loving, and had helped to fill up the emptiness I felt inside from so many years of yearning for closeness with her— from so many years wanting her touch, her embrace, or even her proximity. Now being close to her, especially in the dark, felt suffocating and scary. I wasn’t comfortable being physically close to anyone. It felt overwhelming and it often brought up feelings inside me that I didn’t like. So I learned to shield my body from my mother’s energy, turning my back to her and moving as close to the edge of the bed as I could.
It was in that dark bedroom that I once again felt the feelings I’d experienced in Steve and Ruby’s bedroom. At night, as I tried to go to sleep, I felt the ceiling pressing down on me and then rising up again. I felt the walls closing in and then expanding.
It was in that dark bedroom that I had uncomfortable feelings in my groin—so uncomfortable that I had to sidle up to the door knob and press it against my vulva in order to get some relief. And it was in that dark bedroom that I would lie down on the dirty clothes that my mother piled on the floor of the closet. It was there that I felt comfortable, there that I felt at home among all the other dirty, soiled things.
One day, after we had been at our new place for a couple of weeks, June, my mother’s old friend from Thrifty’s came over. I heard a “yoo hoo!” as she rapped against our screen door. She was carrying a large sack of groceries.
“Hi, Beverly. Your mother isn’t home, is she?”
Before I could answer she was on to the next question: “I’ll bet you’re hungry, aren’t you? Well, I brought you some groceries since you are a growing girl!”
She pushed past me, went into our small kitchen, and put the bag on the counter.
“I’ll let you unpack the bag. I’ve got to go.”
And with that she was out the door. She couldn’t seem to get away fast enough.
I couldn’t wait to see what was in the bag. It turned out to be filled with things my mother could never afford to buy, like peanut butter and jelly and sourdough bread—my favorite. There was a package of chicken—the cut up kind, not the cheap little whole chickens my mother bought once in a while. And there was fruit— bananas, oranges, and peaches. The only fruit we ever had were the apricots growing on the tree outside. There were also vegetables—some I’d never seen before, like broccoli and asparagus. To my mother, vegetables meant a salad made with sliced tomatoes, onions, and cucumbers drenched in vinegar. Which I hated.
I immediately made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It tasted so good that I had to make another one. It was half eaten when my mother walked in the door.
“Momma, look at what June brought us!” I exclaimed, my mouth full of sandwich.
Momma took one look at the food spread out all over the counter and said, “Put all that back in the bag immediately!”
“But, Momma—”
“Do it!” she yelled.
Then she was out the door. We didn’t have a phone, so when we wanted to call anyone we had to use the Hills’s phone; I assumed she was going there so she could call June.
I stuffed the rest of my sandwich in my mouth and proceeded to put all the groceries back in the bag. In a few minutes, my mother came back and announced, “I called June and told her to come pick up those damn groceries. I told her I’m no charity case. I don’t even want to see her, so you give her the bag when she comes.”
When June came, I met her at the door with the groceries. I could barely look her in the face I was so embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could say.
June looked at me sweetly and said, “I’m sorry too, kid.”
That was the last time I ever saw June. My mother was good at cutting people out of her life.
After that I started hating my mother. I’d been angry at her many times, but this was different. This was beyond anger. This was out-and-out hatred. The closeness and sweetness I’d felt toward her during our time in Ceres had disappeared and in its place was a feeling of rage.
I hated her because she was so proud she couldn’t accept groceries from a well-meaning friend—food we actually needed. When she’d worked at Thrifty’s, she and June had made commissions on the cosmetics they sold, but at her new job she didn’t. She was just living on her wages and we were barely getting by.
I also hated her for humiliating such a good friend. And for not giving June a second chance. It reminded me of how close to the edge I always was—how she was capable of cutting me out of her life in the same way she had June.
My mother’s action seemed cruel and
