“Knowing Wasn’ t the Point,” Collaboration with Oliver Bryce Yates, Part 2/8
(See Oliver Bryce Yates, Image 1)
The moving van was there when I got home from school. My dad had moved out by then; he was staying at a hotel, and my mom was handling the move, alone. I said he should be the one dealing with it, since it was his fault we were moving, but Mom said no, it was easier if she handled it, and I didn’t ask why; I was learning not to ask.
You know, I didn’t think about it then, because I was so sure he’d fooled us both, my dad. I thought we were in the same boat, sort of, my mom and me, but now, I don’t know, really. I mean, I always thought the hardest part was that I didn’t know about my dad, what was really going on. Now I think it would be so much harder if I had, like if I had known what was up. Now I wonder what Mom knew, what she suspected—I mean, she had to know. She had to.
I mean, I don’t know, maybe she told herself it was just a fling. Or maybe she didn’t tell herself anything, she just hoped it would go away, but then it didn’t. I think about asking her sometimes, if she ever suspected he was cheating on her, but I don’t. Like I said, I learned not to ask. That was when I learned what it means when people say that it’s better not to know.
Anyhow, we were spending Christmas vacation with Gram, my mom’s mom, down in Maryland, so Mom decided she wanted to get the move over with before we drove down to Bethesda. She said she wanted a clean start for the new year, and I was just like, Yeah, well, good luck, because it’s going to take more than a move to clean this, Mom, but whatever. But I didn’t, of course. I didn’t say anything, and really what was there to say?
The plan was I went home after school, the last day before winter break, and soon as the movers were done, we’d follow them to the storage unit Mom had rented for all our things. She hadn’t worked in years, but she’d been offered a job as a paralegal or office manager or something, in some town, upstate, so she drove up one day to meet with them. Of course the whole time, I was hoping she’d hate it there, so we could at least stay in Poughkeepsie, but no such luck. I knew the minute she pulled into the driveway, when she opened the car door. Don’t ask me how I knew from the sound of a car door, but I did.
Of course my plan was to avoid her, and maybe if we didn’t talk about it, she’d change her mind. So I stayed in my room until dinner, but then, when she called me down to dinner, she told me she got the job, and she tried selling me on it, the move and everything, saying the town was so pretty and safe and clean. She said we’d stay in a motel, hotel, whatever until we got settled, and that we’d go apartment hunting together. Isn’t that fun? A whole new life, she said, and I just looked at her, like, As if.
For two weeks, I’d hoped she’d change her mind or that once they met her, they wouldn’t offer her the job, or that there was some way we’d stay in our town. I mean, I wouldn’t even let myself think about moving, really, but that night, I had no choice. Can we just not talk about it? I said, eating pizza at our kitchen table, the night before we moved out, and she looked hurt. But seriously, did she think I was going to be like, Great, can’t wait! I mean, what was I supposed to say? I loved my old town. I loved my old house, all my old friends. I loved my old life, and just because she didn’t, I’m sorry.
We’ll give it a year and see what happens, she said, returning to the table with a beer, and for a moment, I don’t know why, but out of nowhere, I wanted to hurt her. I’m sorry, but honestly, for a second, there, I wanted to say, Yeah, well, I might end up living with Dad, so you can give it a year or however long you want. But of course, soon as the thought crossed my mind, I knew there was no way. Living with my dad? For real? No way.
I got up to carry my paper plate to the trash, which at that point was a black Hefty bag on the floor, in front of the back door, and the rest of the kitchen was packed. There were boxes stacked everywhere, all marked in my mom’s perfect handwriting, and it looked so sad. I didn’t understand our things, boxed like that, but, then again, I didn’t understand anything, really. There was so much space, but it was hard to breathe, so I started walking upstairs, wanting to be alone, and my mom called my name.
What? I said.
Come here, she said, and I stood on the staircase, wanting to say no. Thea, come here, she said, I was just so annoyed, I wanted to scream. I don’t know why, really, but I was annoyed with her all the time by then. So I rolled my eyes, turning around and walking back into the dining room.
What? I said, not asking her, telling her, making sure she knew how annoyed I was.
Good night, she said, looking like herself again for a second, with that look in her eyes, telling me I knew better, because we always said good night, especially the last night in our own home.
Good night, I said, turning around, heading back to my room. I think that was the last time I saw my mom, I mean, the woman I remember her being. It didn’t hit me until I grabbed the rail, and then, walking upstairs, I felt like I was going to cry all of a sudden. I made it to my room, and I closed the door, and I really wanted to—I even sat down on the side of my bed, getting ready for it, but then nothing came.
Well, so the next day, when I got home from school, the movers only had a few boxes left to load into the truck. It only took about five minutes for them to finish up, while Mom and I stood in the living room, looking around, nothing to say for ourselves. So when we heard them open their doors, we locked up for the last time and we got in Mom’s car, ready to follow the moving van to the storage unit. Mom wanted to make sure everything was unloaded and properly stacked in the storage unit, before heading to my Gram’s. I’d been thinking about that moment all day, all week, for a couple weeks, actually, and to be honest, I was glad they’d taken the boxes away, because it was just too painful. But once we got in the car and I put on my seat belt, looking at our house one last time, I couldn’t do it.
Wait, I said, and I told my mom I had to pee. I held my breath while she reached for her purse and took some Kleenex out and handed them to me with her set of house keys, because I didn’t even have my own keys anymore. I don’t know if she knew or not, but I didn’t have to pee, I just wanted . . . I wanted to be in our house, alone, for a few minutes. I guess I wanted to say goodbye in my own way.
The thing is, when I walked in, it didn’t feel like our house anymore, and I guess it wasn’t, really. I’d never seen it like that, so empty and naked and . . . lonely. Our house had never been lonely before, you know; it always had us there. It was too much, so I went upstairs, heading toward my room, but before I got to the end of the hall, I stopped in my parent’s bedroom, their old bedroom, whatever, facing the driveway. The curtains were still there, because mom was just too burned out by the very end to pull them down, and she didn’t want things from that room anymore, anyway, she said. So I walked over, and I stood, looking out the window. Mom had gotten out of the car, too, and she’d turned her back to the house, leaning against her car door.
She was smoking. I guess she’d smoked until she got pregnant with me, but I’d never seen her smoke before my dad left. We’d gotten into it a few times, because I was just like, What are you doing, Mom? You’re smoking? And then she gave me, Who’s the mom here, you or I? And I said, Well, if you have to ask, that’s a problem, don’t you think? At least she knew she couldn’t smoke in the car, because I get really carsick, but still. It was gross, and to me, it just seemed like she was turning into this sad, old divorced woman, overnight, and it made me so angry.
Standing there, catching her, sneaking in another cigarette, I wanted to knock on the window, yell at her, but I didn’t. I just stood there watching her exhale clouds of smoke, her shoulders relaxing. And then it happened again: I felt nothing. Every time I felt something, it pushed up in my chest, almost like I couldn’t breathe, and then it disappeared. Along with the rest of my old life, I guess.
You know I walked in on her once, in the bathroom, my mom. It was after we were at my Gram’s house, and I should’ve knocked, but I thought she was with Gram, at the grocery store, because the house was so quiet. She was taking a bath, and she scared me, even though she was the one in the bathtub, naked. She didn’t move, either.
I’m sorry, I said, and I was about to turn around, but the problem was Gram only has one bathroom, and I really had to pee. I didn’t, the day we moved out, and I went back inside, but that time, I really did. I mean, I really had to go, but there was my mom, sneaking cigarettes, sneaking in the bath, just . . . strange, you know. It was all just so strange, I didn’t know what to do, really. And honestly, for a second, I thought I might have to pee outside, behind the tree in the back yard. I’m not even kidding.
Go on, Mom said, knowing, reaching for something in the water, and I wanted to say no. Not because I wouldn’t pee in front of her, but because she was smoking in the bathroom. She knew, too.
Last time I smoked in here, I was your age, she said. My parents went to some convention in Florida for my dad’s work, and it was the first time in my life I had the whole house to myself. So, first thing I did was take a hot bath and smoke a cigarette. I wanted to drink a glass of wine, she said, I had this romantic idea of a hot tub, a cigarette, and a glass of wine, very French, very sophisticated, I thought. But my parents didn’t drink wine, so I had a beer.
You want a beer? I asked, not knowing what she wanted, really, and then I saw she had a glass of wine, already. But she didn’t seem very French or very sophisticated.
I’m fine, thank you, she said, and I could see her smile, hearing herself, because she was not fine. She was so far from fine, but whatever. I started smoking at your age, Thea. Disgusting habit, she said: never start.
I’m not planning on it, I said, knowing she wanted to say something, but was that it? Was that really what she wanted to say?
Thea? she asked, looking over her shoulder.
Yes?
Don’t tell Gram, she said, meaning about her smoking.
You think she doesn’t know? Mom, it stinks in here, I said.
Please, she said.
I guess Gram knowing wasn’t the point, really. But seeing her there, I knew one thing. When she was fifteen, smoking in the bathtub, I bet she never ever imagined she be here again, twenty years later. Like my mom always says, it’s not what you think it’s going to be. Then again, my question is, what is?
Note: This week, I’m enlisting the help of eight guest artists/DJs/collaborators in editing eight separate sketches, written since the start of this project. This is an edit of Family Gatherings, written January 1, 2010.