Have Mother, Will Travel

by Claire Fontaine

  I turn down a row lined with giant red and yellow heliconia stalks. Mia yanks my sleeve to switch my direction. “Wrong aisle.”

  “What am I, a horse? Stop pulling me.”

  “I’m thirsty. I want to try the Milo at the next market.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Basically, iced chocolate milk in a bag, ten points.”

  “That’s got water in the ice cubes—are you nuts? Do you actually want gut-wrenching diarrhea?”

  “Mother, they’re my guts and I’m thirsty. It has, like, three ice cubes.”

  “Oh, that’s not what you said to me in China when I had the water.”

  “You have a point there,” she acknowledges.

  After a pause, “But I’m still going to drink it.”

  The ice must be fine, because when Aza stops at the base of a series of gleaming limestone cliffs, my guts aren’t wrenching. Tropical foliage cloaks the white cliffs in emerald, with fern leaves draping down like fluffy boas along the bare portions of rock. Two hundred and seventy-two steps carved right into the mountainside lead to the gaping mouth of a cavern with fang-like alabaster stalagmites hanging down from above.

  This is the entrance of the Batu Caves; over four hundred million years old, they’re a sacred pilgrimage site for Malaysia’s Tamil Indian population. They come to celebrate Lord Murugan, the Tamil god of war, which explains the presence of the biggest, goldest statue I’ve ever seen; at a hundred and forty feet tall, he’s nearly half the height of the mountain. In folklore, Murugan risked his life for Malaysians, including the not-so-small feat of banishing all evil, and every year a festival called Thaipusam is held to honor his bravery and willingness to sacrifice.

  The footage I’d seen from Thaipusam during college internships at National Geographic left my mouth hanging. A kavadi is a physical burden of thanks, and while most devotees carry milk jugs or fruit baskets up the temple stairs, some take it to an extreme. This ranges from shaving their heads as a sign of humility and atonement to piercing spears through their tongues or cheeks to piercing their backs with large hooks. A decorated chariot is then attached to the hooks and the poor pierced soul charges up the stairs.

  When asked if he was coming, Aza just laughed. Now I see why. I’m hooked only to a light backpack, but I’m panting by the fiftieth step and using the chattering monkeys clamoring for food as excuses to stop and catch my breath.

  The first night we spent with Aza, I assumed he was in his late twenties or early thirties but I found out today he’s only a year older than I am, and it’s bothering me. I don’t consider myself immature or childish, so why does he seem so much older? As though he’s a real adult, while I feel like Tom Hanks in Big.

  I used to think it was just me, that even with college under my belt I still had social skills to catch up on, thanks to two years out of the real world. But several months ago I mentioned to my friend Soraya that I’d been feeling in over my head, and I was surprised when she told me she felt the same. This was a girl who moved like lightning up the corporate ladder, attends black-tie charity galas, and understands the difference between a 401(k), an IRA, and a Roth IRA. Yet she was surprised that I didn’t feel grown-up, given that I’m an author and public speaker. I started paying more attention, talking to other people my age, and it seems like more of us than not don’t feel comfortable with adulthood. Once I realized I wasn’t alone, I breathed a sigh of relief and hadn’t questioned the feeling further.

  Until now. Observing Aza and other Malaysian twentysomethings makes me think that it’s only a normal part of American life (and millennial American at that; I once asked my mom if she felt like an adult by twenty-five and she looked at me like I was nuts. Of course, she said, I was married, had you, and had put myself through college). Some of it’s probably economic. Many Malaysians under thirty support themselves and their parents, while increasing numbers of their American counterparts live with or are subsidized by their parents thanks to scant job openings, meager starting salaries, and exorbitant student loan payments.

  But as I go back over our conversation with Aza last night about American culture, there seems to be more than economics. I’ve sometimes thought similarly, but it was usually in passing, the way you’d analyze a cultural phenomenon for a college paper, or dinner party discussion. Aza, on the other hand, was personally troubled and deeply concerned about Malaysian youth; he sounded like a protective older brother. You could feel the concern in his voice, the sadness at seeing them exposed to things at too young an age. He was very much aware of himself as part of a bigger picture, a member of a community in which older generations feel a duty to protect the younger ones.

  It’s an attitude that takes a certain amount of selflessness, some of which may come from Malaysian spirituality and strong sense of devotion. No matter if they’re Hindu, Muslim, or Buddhist, most Malay grow up aware of something bigger than themselves; everyone from businessmen in suits to college students blasting Snoop Dogg pull over on their way to work or school to say a quick prayer or light a candle at a shrine or temple.

  I’m not interested in badmouthing my generation, because we’re already branded as entitled, thin-skinned, unrealistic, insert your favorite Gen Me adjective here. These stereotypes aren’t necessarily untrue, but it’s also true that we’re creative, innovative, environmentally conscious, philanthropic, and great team players.

  At core, however, I think one of our main goals is to be happy and fulfilled; we are very much the center of our own worlds. And I never thought there was anything wrong with that. After all, as long as you’re not hurting anyone else, what’s wrong with wanting to be happy? Nothing—except I’m not sure it’s worked.

  Because the saddest difference I’ve noticed since coming here was that Malaysians my age seem so much more joyful, innocent even. Not innocent in the sense of inexperience—they don’t strike me as the least bit naïve—but there’s far less snark, sarcasm, cynicism.

  Sometimes I feel a palpable discontent when I’m around people my age at home, a nervous energy and anxiety. It’s not uncommon for us to switch fields back and forth or join the Peace Corps or go to grad school. We’re in and out of relationships, going from hookup to hookup. We live above our means without thinking about how we’ll pay for it tomorrow. The trappings of adulthood—bills, taxes, relationships, and so on—haven’t seemed to move us past feeling like overgrown teens much of the time. We joke and commiserate about feeling insecure or overwhelmed, but it’s stressful and unsettling to not know your place in the world. Aza is relaxed in a way that comes from knowing who you are and where you belong. In a way, we got the short end of both sticks. We’re neither innocent nor fully adult.

  It’s human nature not to question or try to change what we see as inevitable. Among my friends, I felt perfectly normal. Seeing a whole society that operates so differently, that’s perhaps happier or more fulfilled, makes me question how I’ve been living, what I could or should be doing differently.

  I’m not having an earth-shattering epiphany that’s going to make me shave my head when I get home, tether chariots to my back, and invite my parents to move in. That’s not the world I come from. But seeing the difference between Aza and me has unsettled me, and I think in a good way.

  I can’t believe he didn’t say anything! The neighbor’s tree is pushing our house up and your dad’s being polite!”

  The first time our hundred-dollar flimsy excuse of an international cell phone works for more than two minutes and that’s the news I hear from Paul.

  The ficus tree is illegal to plant in Florida, because its roots don’t grow down, they grow horizontally, shooting out like snakes in all directions, cracking foundations and water pipes hundreds of feet away to suck up water for its ever-expanding trunk-from-hell. The biggest ficus on record covers forty acres in India, which sounded like a big fat lie until I bought a house with the neighbor’s
eighty-year-old ficus on our property line.

  It is not, however, illegal to have an existing ficus. Now there’s some smart lawmaking. The tree next door, whose massive rippling base could house a family of hobbits, has been wiggling its sneaky little fingers under our house for decades, spawning a network of greedy tongues that suckle the water that pools at the base of our studs every time it rains, which is a lot. During the hurricanes, I swear I heard that monster cackling with glee.

  I’d been politely letting our new neighbor know that he’s responsible for any damage to our foundation. Being a polite person himself, he called in a tree expert for an opinion. Who’s apparently just told him the tree was no threat to us.

  “Of course he told him that,” I tell Paul, “he was paying him! You yourself were the one who found the roots growing straight up—straight up!—into the base of our house like straws! It’s tilting the house and cracking our walls! And you didn’t tell him that? Are you crazy??”

  Not only did Paul “forget” to tell him he found the roots, because he out-polites us all, he “forgot” to tell him I had four arborists come in, including one courtroom expert, who said otherwise; not to mention a contractor who’s worked on houses in our neighborhood for thirty years who looked at me as if I were a knucklehead and said, “Well, sure it’s picking up the house, look at the size of it, ma’am, it’s picking up half the block.”

  That I unconsciously bought a house that was a metaphor for my psyche—a house in need of renovating, a foundation entangled in dark roots, buried and unexamined—has not escaped me. It’s beginning to dawn on me that I may have also bought a metaphor for my marriage.

  Remind me never, ever, even if someone’s giving their house away, to move into a fixer-upper. My mom just hung up the phone and is fuming about some water-guzzling tree and its damn roots. I listen sympathetically as long as I can before blurting, “If you hate this house so much, why did you buy it?!”

  “God knows,” she mutters, pacing around the room. “I must have had a psychotic break.”

  I plop down on the bed and watch her needlessly rearrange the suitcase and move around items in the bathroom, grumbling to herself. I stop feeling frustrated over hearing her complain about the house for the umpteenth time as I realize the state of self-recrimination she must have lived in for the last four years. Living in a trap of your own making is a rotten feeling, and I think half the reason she puts so much time and energy into complaining about it is to avoid facing how and why she moved.

  When she first told me about the house I actually thought it was kind of cool. She used to get annoyed at how impulsive I was, and here she was doing something big and crazy. I didn’t think about the fact that it was so out of character for her, or question why she didn’t tell me until, literally, the day the moving van arrived.

  “Mom,” I say gently when she finally flops into a chair. “Seriously, why did you move? You never told me you and Dad were even thinking about leaving L.A.—and why Florida of all places??”

  “Because it made sense at the time,” she says with a heavy sigh. “The house was a great investment, we’d have doubled our money if we’d sold before the market crashed. Most of Dad’s clients are in South Florida and—”

  “Everything’s online now and he’d worked just fine from L.A. for years—”

  “I had a connection with a big developer and back then the market was so hot I would have made a killing—”

  “Mom, no offense, but no matter how hot a market is, you’d make a terrible realtor! You hate small talk, you’re not a schmoozer, you’re honest to a fault, and, hello, you love writing—which is pretty much the polar opposite of a sales career. Why on earth would you make such a bizarre career change?”

  “Because I can always write, but real estate would have meant a steadier income and benefits.”

  Is this what talking to me as a teenager was like? It’s like pulling teeth. Her answers feel superficial; she’s giving me the talking points for moving, the reasons that sounded good enough for others to support the move. But they’re terrible reasons for her.

  “Fine,” I say. “Let’s say that those were good reasons—which I don’t think they were and, more important, I don’t think you think they were either—why didn’t you tell me? It’s sort of a big thing to leave out.”

  She shrugs and looks at me, half-sheepish, half-exasperated.

  “Honey, the whole thing happened so quickly. I never thought, Hmm, I don’t want to tell Mia about this. I was flying back and forth, dealing with mortgage brokers, there were just a zillion things going on.”

  “Would it kill you to try—just a little bit—to be accountable? Buying a house isn’t like impulse-buying a pair of shoes. Don’t tell me you were so busy you just forgot to mention it.”

  She was avoiding me, plain and simple, just like she’s doing now. Which is aggravating, because I see no point in her calling me, excited to take this trip together, to bond, yadda, yadda, yadda, if she refuses to open up or be honest with me.

  My theory is this: I know her too well. If she’d told me about the move (before, you know, the day of), I would have cornered her into telling me what was really going on. Whether she admits it or not, a lot more was driving her to move than the housing market and Dad’s clientele. And until she figures out what motivated her to drop everything she loved and leave, I’m not sure she’ll ever be happy—and that scares me.

  It also bothers me because it shows how far we’ve regressed. Five years ago she wouldn’t have thought twice about calling me if she was feeling unsure of herself or thinking of making a big move. And, even if she hadn’t told me, I would have sensed discord in her. I thought most women became closer to and better friends with their moms as they got older. We seem to be doing the opposite.

  The only times we open up are when we’re discussing something we’ve already dealt with, moved on from, and understand in full. Talking about something while in the midst of it, while thoughts and feelings are still raw and messy, just isn’t part of our relationship now. So here we are on this incredible trip, having to guess what the other’s thinking. Though granted, the scavenger hunt has turned out to be far too challenging and fast-paced to allow for much serious conversation.

  But it’s not just the trip, and it’s not just her. I haven’t exactly been forthcoming. I’m not sure why, but my confidence has wavered a lot this past year. I’ve felt dissatisfied with my professional life, increasingly critical of myself physically, and just generally less sure of myself. I didn’t share any of this with her; if anything, I went out of my way to conceal it, telling her how much fun I was having, how well things were going at my job.

  I think most kids feel, on some level, that our parents’ happiness is contingent on our own, particularly if, like me, you’re very aware of the sacrifices they made for you. You don’t want them to feel it went to waste, or to judge themselves or feel judged by others based on how we turned out. Like they’re the chef, you’re dinner, and the world’s the assessing customer (no pressure, right?).

  You wouldn’t think anyone would miss a boot-camp school, but one thing I do miss is how easy it was to open up. Even for those of us who didn’t take advantage of it often, it was a comfort to know we could. I remember one time I was crying in a bathroom stall when everyone gathered outside of the door and sat there while I had a good cry. That just doesn’t happen often in the real world.

  Nor has it been happening between my mom and me the way it once did, even though we know that honesty and vulnerability were precisely what repaired our once-shattered relationship. Funny, I always associate the term “keeping up appearances” with neighbors or acquaintances; it’s disconcerting to realize my mom and I are doing that with each other.

  Keeping your passport and money on a string around your neck may prevent theft, but it invites other dangers. While waiting to ride the elephants at an el
ephant rescue sanctuary in the Pahang jungle, we wandered down a trail and found a baby female elephant with an injured foot. She was chained outside a big cage to keep her from wandering off but seemed otherwise happy and well-fed. She was as affectionate and playful as a puppy. She just snuffled her cute little trunkie all over us, tickling it up our arms and winding it around our necks.

  Then she ate Mia’s giant passport wallet. With eight hundred dollars and all her identification in it. While it was still hung around Mia’s neck, yanking Mia toward her munching mouth.

  “Pull it out, Mother!”

  “You’re closer, just reach in there!”

  Which Mia tried to do but it was so slimy all she pulled out was a frothy hand.

  “Eeuuww, gross!” I laughed.

  “Oh, that’s helpful, Mother! Do something!”

  “Just shove your hand up there, if the wallet doesn’t hurt her neither will your hand!”

  Which she finally did, playing tug-of-war with the elephant until, grimacing, she pulled the wallet out, drool-soaked and bunched up. It didn’t bother little Ellie at all, in fact it seemed to make her love us even more. She nosed all over me, which had Mia and me giggling like kids. Then the little pickpocket snatched my purse, which I snatched right back before she could suck it up.

  I’m holding Mia’s soggy wallet now as she mounts an adult elephant beside the river. Behind her, several adult elephants are housed in large cages around a small circle used for rides, an experience I found pretty depressing. Such magnificent, intelligent creatures going from a cage to circle people round and round and then back to the cage, day in and day out. The high point of their day is their scrub-down and river bath. Their trainers wade them into the water with several guests on their backs.