Call Me Cockroach: Based on a True Story Page 11

  “We should go? Haven’t you heard anything I’ve told you about what she did to me?”

  “Yeah, I know, but she’s still the kids’ grandmother. And just because she was mean to you doesn’t mean she’s going to be mean to them. You said she treated your brothers okay.”

  I hated how flippant he and his family were about my abuse. They gave me the impression—assuming they believed me at all—that it had somehow been my fault. Or that maybe things hadn’t been as bad as I’d let on, and I should let bygones be bygones. “After all,” Bobbi had said. “She’s your mother; she brought you into this world. Family should forgive family, no matter what they’ve done.” Neither Bobbi nor Chad understood how my childhood abuse had broken my heart and my spirit, and they probably never would. They had no idea what Mama was capable of, or why I didn’t want my kids anywhere near her.

  “I don’t think I can stand to be around her,” I said.

  “Ah, come on, it’ll only be for an hour or so. I want to meet this crazy lady myself.” He turned to Molly, who’d just come in from playing. Do you want to go to a picnic and meet your other grandma?”

  “Yeah!” Molly said, jumping up and down.

  “Now you’ve done it,” I growled.

  “Baby, you know I wouldn’t let anyone hurt you or the kids; I’d kill that crazy bitch if she ever laid a hand on you again.”

  When he said that, I softened up some. “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  But the truth was, whether or not we were attending the family reunion was no longer up for debate, because now, thanks to Chad’s big mouth, Molly thought she was going to a “picnic” to meet her “other grandma.” Molly couldn’t understand that seeing Mama would be no picnic, and her other grandmother was nothing like Bobbi. Bobbi wasn’t without her faults, and God knows we had our share of differences, but she had proven to be a loving, attentive grandmother, and Molly adored her. The other grandmother, to ease her own guilt, would make a brief appearance in our life, and then disappear, leaving behind a trail of disappointment and confusion.

  There was, however, a positive side to seeing Mama. It would give me the chance to prove to her I had found happiness, and contrary to what she’d said repeatedly when I was a child, I could find someone to love me. But most of all, it would give me the opportunity to show her—no, rub her nose in—Molly’s beauty. And consciously, even though I didn’t acknowledge I needed Mama, on a subconscious level, I missed, not so much her, but the fantasy mother, the mother I’d lost, or never really had. Although I didn’t want to see her, a part of me romanticized the notion of the one in a million possibility of a mother-daughter reunion. We would make up, embrace, and become the best of friends. Once a week, we would meet for lunch and then go shopping. We’d call each other for recipes. I’d cry to her when Chad and I got into a fight, and she would always side with me, because that’s what real mothers do.

  The following day, I called Mama and told her we would be attending the reunion. She said it was going to be at my grandmother’s—her mother’s—house in Franklin Tennessee, on August 5th. She acted thrilled we were coming, and said since I had called long distance, we would catch up at the picnic. When I hung up the phone, as always after speaking with her, I was left with the perplexing impression we had shared completely different pasts.

  The night before the reunion I didn’t sleep at all. I stayed up planning how I would act in front of Mama, what I would wear, what I would say. For hours, I stood before a mirror rehearsing clever lines and practicing my smile. Smiling is a good idea, I decided. I would make sure I smiled often in her presence, an effortless smile, as if my happiness ran far below the surface.

  In the car on the way to Tennessee, I couldn’t sit still in my seat. I kept flipping down the mirror on the sun visor to check my make-up. I thought I looked fat in the shorts I had on, which I’d selected only minutes before we left, after trying on and rejecting everything else in my closet. I still hadn’t lost all the weight I’d gained carrying Daryl. At least twice, I told Chad to turn around and go home so I could change clothes, but he kept driving.

  When we arrived at my grandmother’s house, on wobbly legs, and in some sort of a self-induced trance, I followed Chad as he made his way to the backyard where everyone was congregated. A soon as we rounded the corner of the house, Mama descended upon us like a used car salesman on double commission day. It had been over five years since I’d last seen her, but she hadn’t changed much. She was on the thinner side of the thirty pounds she had constantly gained and lost over the years. She had on white pants, and a boxy, kelly-green paisley shirt that looked like a large scarf folded in half. She’d lightened her hair and she still wore it curly and snug to her head. Now in her fifties, she appeared to be aging well. She went straight for Molly, who was beside me holding my hand. “What a pretty little girl!” she said.

  “This is Molly,” I said. “She turned five in June.” Molly buried her face in my hip. “Say hello to your, grandma, honey.”

  “Hello, Molly!” Mama bent down. “Were you named after Molly Ringwald? I’ll bet you were…”

  “No,” I interjected. “She wasn’t.”

  “Well, she’s much prettier than Molly Ringwald anyway.”

  I forced a smile. “Say thank you!” I said, talking through Molly like I was a ventriloquist and she was my perfect little dummy.

  Mama turned to Daryl, who was on Chad’s hip, and took hold of one of his chubby arms. “And this must be the newest addition.” Daryl retrieved his arm and put his head on Chad’s shoulder.

  “His name’s Daryl,” Chad said. “He’s kinda shy.”

  “Darling!” Mama cooed. “He favors Ryan when he was that age.” She turned to me, and I knew she wanted me to introduce her to Chad.

  “Mama, this is my husband, Chad.” Did I linger long enough on the word husband?

  She slipped into her sexy voice, the one she always used when she was in the presence of a man. “Chad, so nice to meet you,” she drawled. “You’re a handsome cuss, yourself. Molly looks just like her Daddy!”

  Chad grinned, and I wanted to elbow him in the ribs.

  “So Ladybug, you’re all grown up now with your own family! How ya like married life?”

  The last time I’d seen Mama I’d gone off on her telling her I never wanted to lay eyes on her again until she was ready to fess up to what she’d done to me. Five years later, I was still pissed at her, because I could see she was playing the same old game of charades. But standing in front of her now, I didn’t have the guts to pick up where I’d left off at Shoney’s. Even though I knew she could no longer harm me, and if I wanted to I could beat her to a pulp, I froze up the minute she began to talk to me. I searched my mind for the clever comebacks I’d rehearsed the previous night, but like an etch-a-sketch someone had just shaken, all the thoughts that were so clear earlier in the car were now scattered in a million pieces in my head. “I love it!” I said, and managed to eke out one of the effortless smiles I’d practiced. “Tell Grandma we have to go to the bathroom now,” I said through Molly, while tugging at her arm and pulling her toward the house.

  “Oh, no, no, no, that will never do,” said Mama. She looked at Chad and winked. “Do I look like a grandma?” She turned back to Molly. “Hon, you can call me Mama Rose.”

  The way she looked at Molly made me uneasy. The coldness in her eyes didn’t match her phony smile. And Molly was acting strange too. For weeks, all she’d talked about was meeting her new grandma. Now that it was actually happening, she clamped onto my leg and wouldn’t even look at Mama.

  After Molly had used the bathroom, we came back out into the yard. On the way, I ran into Jimmy D., but we talked only a few minutes. He was still uncomfortable being friendly with me around Mama. My younger brother, Ryan, was there too. We spoke to each other, but nothing more. Across the yard, Mama was still talking to Chad, giggling and touching his shoulder. I couldn’t stomach anymore of her flirting with my husband, so to
pass the time, I carried on superficial conversations with a few of my relatives. Despite the sugary words they fed to me, I couldn’t quite clear my palate of the bitterness their refusal to help me as a child had left in my mouth. I had, however, been looking forward to seeing my cousin, Eva who, at a Fourth of July family picnic had smuggled cookies from the kitchen for me. I was told she could not attend the reunion for reasons that were unclear, but her brother, Bruce was there.

  “I’m glad you’re doing okay,” he said. “You had a rough way to go when you were a kid, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  “I want you to know that over the years, I’ve discussed how Aunt Rose treated you with my parents. Dad still regrets not doing anything to help you. He said there were many family arguments about it. Your dad protected Aunt Rose, you know, which made it much harder for my dad to do anything.”

  “Hmm, that’s the first I’ve heard about anyone on Mama’s side of the family even acknowledging my abuse, let alone attempting to do something about it. Thanks for telling me, Bruce; it helps to know somebody at least tried.”

  I chatted briefly with my grandmother, who we called “Mother” because she, like Mama, didn’t like the idea of being a grandmother. She acted as though she hardly knew me, as she sipped Catawba wine from a red Solo cup.

  Mama approached us. “My Ladybug’s grown in to such a beautiful young woman, hasn’t she Mother?” she said. Then she tilted her head downward, gazing woefully at the ground. “Just wish she’d come to see her mama once in a while.” As if I, the cruel estranged daughter, was the reason we didn’t have a relationship. To keep from tearing into her again, I got up and walked away.

  After I’d picked at a plate of fried chicken and potato salad, I was ready to go home, so were the kids, and Chad had finally had enough of Mama too. After only being there one hour, we said our good-byes and headed for the car.

  “I’ll call you,” Mama shouted out as we walked off. But I knew she wouldn’t call, and I didn’t want her to anyway.

  “So what do you think?” I asked Chad, as we got back on the road.

  “Looney Tunes,” he said. “Crazy, but in a funny way.”

  “Funny? What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean she doesn’t have a clue how ridiculous she is. All the overacting about how wonderful you are, and then she gives you a mean look behind your back. And flirting with someone half her age? She actually thinks everybody’s buying her bullshit; that’s what makes her so funny. I started to call her out when she gave you that mean look, but I didn’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “You would have done that for me?”

  “Damn straight! I’m on your side.”

  “Thanks honey,” I said. “So, do you believe what I told you about my childhood now?”

  “I always believed you, but now I really believe you. That woman’s a real basket case and I’m sure she’s capable of just about anything.”

  To see Mama—to be reminded she was never going to change—reopened old wounds that had begun to scab over. Still, I was glad we went to the reunion because it served to quell any lingering delusion I had of having a normal relationship with her. No matter how hard she tried to play mother, I would never be able to place her in that role in my mind, or in my heart.

  Most days it took a steady effort to keep my thoughts occupied so I wouldn’t turn down the dark corridors leading back to my past. But every now and then, when I wasn’t paying attention, I stumbled and fell, and suddenly found myself there.

  After seeing Mama, I knew I’d be more vulnerable, so the day after the reunion I tried to stay busy. I cleared out all the kitchen cabinets and drawers, scrubbed them down with Pine-sol, and then put in new shelf liner. I did the same in the bathroom. Then I shampooed all the carpets in the house, using Glory and a sponge mop. When I’d finished, I still had a couple of hours left before I had to start supper. Molly was playing with Joey at his house, and Daryl was down for a nap, so I decided to mow the grass in the backyard.

  I should have known better. The mindless work, the drone of the lawnmower, left too much available white space in my head. While my gaze was fixed on the tufts of grass being devoured by the mower, my mind escaped my control.

  Daddy, Mama, my brothers and I are on some sort of family vacation. “It’s good for us to get away after all that’s happened,” Daddy says to Mama. I know he means Audrey’s death and Mama’s accident. We’re in a cave—Mammoth Cave comes to mind—winding single file through a tight, rocky pathway. We pass a sign that reads “Fat Man’s Squeeze,” and make our way to a vast open area of the cave. Ahead I can see a swinging bridge crudely made of wood and rope. Daddy reads a plaque on a podium at the entrance to the bridge. “Ooh, it’s a bottomless pit!” he says. My imagination takes off. A bottomless pit? Does that mean if you fell in you would spin and tumble forever and never hit ground? Or is there a bottom after all, with dusty bones and snakes writhing in and out of skulls, but no one has made it out alive to tell? Daddy steps onto the bridge first, followed by the boys, then Mama and me. The cave is dark, the bridge, wobbly. Daddy and the boys continue to the other side, but Mama stops me in the middle. “This is where it happens” she whispers. “I’m going to push you over and everyone will think you fell.” I clutch the ropes and start screaming at the top of my lungs. Mama jerks my arm and pulls me to the other end of the bridge. “I was just kidding, Weasel,” she says. “Quit making a scene!”

  This was a memory I’d never had before. Usually I recalled episodes of abuse in vivid detail. This one came back to me in blurry snapshots, as if I were watching it happen from across a smoke-filled room. I turned off the mower, walked around to the side of the house and sat on the steps in front of the door to collect my thoughts.

  This new memory explained my mysterious fear of heights. Why every time I’d gone up the escalator when Aunt Macy took me to the mall, my stomach flopped over and my scalp got prickly. But why was it coming to me now after all this time? And why had I repressed it? Mama had done worse things to me that I had no trouble remembering. In the past the ghosts from my childhood had been resurrected by a related incident of abuse. Like whenever I went swimming, and the water crept up around my neck, a sudden sense of suffocation descended upon me and took me back to when Mama held my head under bathwater. But there was no correlation between the incident in the cave and mowing the grass. This disturbed me, because I’d worked hard to identify what situations triggered the bad memories, and took every precaution to avoid them. Even more disturbing was the chance that there were more of these shrouded ghosts haunting my subconscious, lying in wait for an opportunity to catch me off guard again.

  Weeks passed, and Mama never called like she said she would. I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t make the effort to reenter my life, or ask to become a part of my kids’ future. Molly and Daryl might have formed a bond with her only to be crushed when she inevitably disappeared. Once the kids had met their “other grandmother,” I thought they might, at some point, want to go and visit her, and I prepared myself to deal with the possibility, but they never mentioned her again.

  A month or so after the reunion, we started to get recurring late night phone calls. Whenever Chad answered the phone, the caller hung up, but when I picked up the line, a female voice on the other end said she was having an affair with Chad, and that I should leave him right away. “He’s only with you for the kids,” said the voice, faint and muffled. “When we’re together, he tells me you’re ugly and that he never loved you. He only married you because he felt sorry for you.”

  When I confronted Chad, he swore he was innocent, but I didn’t believe him. “Then why is this person saying she’s having an affair with you? Why would somebody even do that?”

  “Hell if I know! There are all kinds of nut jobs out there. It’s probably a prank call.”

  “A prank call every night?”

  Chad became so aggravated with the calls, the ne
xt time we got one he went into the kitchen and picked up the second phone so he could listen in. “It’s your mother, Tuesday! Don’t you recognize her voice?” he blurted into the phone, laughing. “Hey Rose, how ya doing?”

  The caller hung up.

  When I came back to bed, Chad said, “I can’t believe you couldn’t tell it was your crazy mother. I’d know her drawl anywhere.”

  He was right; of course Mama was the mysterious mistress. It made perfect sense. She was still trying to destroy my life. Why would anything be different because I was grown? The breathy voice, the exaggerated southern drawl, had sounded familiar, but I didn’t want to believe my mother would do that to me after all she had already put me through. We changed our phone number and made it unlisted and the calls stopped.

  After that incident, my feelings toward Mama vanished completely. I was no longer hurt, or sad or even angry—I was nothing at all. I turned my emotions for her off to protect what was left of my battered heart. I made the decision to continue to stay as far away from her as I possibly could.

  SAVING EMMA

  The day had come for Molly to start kindergarten. She was dressed in a new pink Henley and a pair of jeans with glittery stars on the back pockets. I put her hair in a high pony-tail and tied it with a pink ribbon. Her backpack bulged with crayons, Elmer’s glue and construction paper. She was ready for her first day of school.

  But I wasn’t. Like any mother, I was sad and anxious about my baby’s first step to independence. Molly wasn’t nervous at all, even as she walked into her classroom. Confidence was one thing she had taken away from the pageants. She’d become fearless and feisty and eager to face the world—not at all like her mother. I prayed no one would ever rob her of that fiery spirit. A surge of panic rose from my chest when she turned around and waved at Daryl and me standing in the hall of the school. I knew it was my cue to leave.

  A cheap plot of land became available in the rural area where Chad’s mom and dad lived, and Chad jumped on it with all fours. He still despised the subdivision. He didn’t like neighbors and complained about having to drive too far to do his hunting and fishing. The kids were excited about moving, and I loved the idea of a new house in the country, but cringed at the thought of living so close to Bobbi and Big Chad again.