“Not really,” I said. “It sounded about right to me.”
Despite my dismissal of her words, it was an odd thing for a woman at a day care center to say. Then again, you never know what a person might say. People step over lines of propriety every day.
“I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Look. I know my mother. And now so do you. It’s actually a relief to me when other people see the problems, too. Makes me feel a little tiny bit vindicated. I’m not proud of that, but it’s true.”
“She just seems to have a big cloud of negativity surrounding her. And that’s hard on a kid.”
“Tell me about it,” I said.
She took a moment to appear deeply embarrassed before speaking.
“Right. Sorry. You grew up with her. But it’s good that you seem to be more positive. That’s all I meant to say.”
“Well, you know how it is. We either grow up to be our mother or we make a solemn vow to the universe to be her polar opposite. Doesn’t work every minute of every day, though.”
Etta noticed me for the first time. Her face lit up. But she didn’t run to me. Just waved with vast enthusiasm and went back to riding her horse. More stridently, though, as if riding took on a whole new meaning with me watching.
“I can’t tell you how hard it’s been,” I said, “going back to living in her house. After the divorce my finances had me over a barrel. But I’ve been watching how my mother behaves around Etta and how it affects her. And this week I just got to a breaking point with it and put her in day care. But I’m creating a vicious cycle, because my salary doesn’t cover much more than the day care. So I’m not entirely sure how to break this cycle I’ve gotten myself into.” I glanced at the woman’s face and wondered what she was thinking. I regretted going into such detail. “I’m sorry,” I said. “This is more than you needed to know.”
“No, it’s okay. I must admit, I wondered.”
She walked up the steps to the second terraced level, where Ella rode her bright red steed.
She tried to gently steer the girl off the horse, but Ella only fussed, just at the edge of a tantrum. She was clearly tired, which didn’t help.
I walked up to them, thinking I could do better.
“Honey,” I said. “We need to go home to Grandma’s.”
Then I regretted bringing up Grandma. Who would want to go home to that? Even a two-year-old knows better than to want that. Hell, a two-year-old probably knows better than anybody.
“Horsey,” she said, and started to cry.
“Honey, we’ll see the horsey again tomorrow. I promise.”
I shouldn’t have promised.
Be careful what you promise your kids. We ask them to believe that the world is a deeply predictable place, and you can always know where you’ll be tomorrow. But how sure are we?
We were closed into our room as a way of steering clear of my mother.
She had the TV on far too loud. She doesn’t have trouble with her hearing. I have no idea what she thinks she’s doing with that—what need it fills in her. My personal theory? I think she’s trying to drive all the thoughts out of her head. Keep her own mind at bay. Then again, it’s just a theory.
As though that din weren’t bad enough, she kept yelling in to where Etta and I were hiding in our room. And of course she had to shout at the top of her lungs to be heard over the blare of the TV.
I don’t know what she was watching, but something with a laugh track. And that was getting under my skin. It was beginning to feel like the worst, most irritating moments of my life came with amused onlookers.
It felt like the ultimate insult that any of this could be considered funny, even if the laughter was mostly in my head.
“Brooke?” she bellowed into our room. She always started with my name, though there was really no one else she could have been talking to. These were not statements one would make to a two-year-old.
I squeezed my eyes closed and sighed.
She kept yelling.
“You need to take Etta out more.”
I sighed again. Walked to the bedroom door.
Etta was sitting on the circular rag rug, playing with some blocks. Well, banging them against each other more than anything else, but I guess for her that’s a kind of play.
I opened the door a crack to give my mother half a chance of hearing me over the TV.
“I’m tired, Mom. I’m on my feet all day.”
“But your daughter’s been without you all day. She needs to get out. She needs to spend time with you.”
“Why do you think I’m spending all that money on day care? So she can be out all day.”
My mother was in poor physical condition. Hugely overweight and out of shape, with bad knees, hips, and feet. She couldn’t be expected to get Etta outdoors, which was another brick in the wall of my expensive day care decision.
“That’s not spending time with you,” she barked.
“I am spending time with her,” I shouted. “Right now! We’re playing!”
I don’t mean shouted as in yelled at her in anger. More like shouted as in attempted to be heard. I tried to be civil to my mother whenever possible. Two uncivil parties in that household would have been unlivable. It was so close to unlivable as it stood.
Besides, it was her house. And I was fortunate to have it as a place to land, uncomfortable a landing as it may have been.
“But she needs to go out. You torture that girl. She likes to go out.”
I almost blew my stack at that. At the pronouncement that I “torture” my beautiful little daughter. Instead I closed
