by Tina Traster
Rosalie was everything to me when I was a child. Our bond strengthened as I went from my teen years to young adulthood. Even when I spread my wings and experimented with sex or smoking cigarettes, she cheered me on or caught me in a great big net of compassion. Either way, I couldn’t lose because I knew that wherever I was, she was there too. She insinuated herself so deeply into me that I had trouble understanding the difference between me and her. It was stunning to watch something I presumed to be as solid as marble chip away.
Divorce had stripped away my privileges, my whole way of living. It horrified my mother, me going solo, seeking independence. She didn’t trust it. She’d been taught that women couldn’t take care of themselves, but I wasn’t going to wait for Prince Charming to come to my rescue. I didn’t want to be like her. Maybe that’s what she understood deep down. Maybe that’s how I hurt her. Still, in the early years after my divorce, I believed she was there for me and always would be.
Letting go of my mother’s love was a choice I made, and I guess I thought I could reverse it. Julia lost her mother’s love before she even had a chance to know her. A mother’s love can be replaced and repaired, but only if a clamped heart is willing to reopen and allow a second chance. Julia’s heart has yet to decide whether it can open up, and if so, how much it can open. She’ll never recover from that first love lost.
Julia suffers, though she’s too young to understand why. Her unconscious yearning must be wrenching. I, at least, have my grudges or rationalizations to explain why I’m in pain. Like I said before, I don’t think it’s a random coincidence that Julia and I have been brought together by unseen forces. We are both afraid of mother-daughter intimacy because we know the stakes. Is it worth it to try again?
In early July, I decided to give therapy with my mother a shot.
Neal lingers on the landing. I hear my mother’s lumbering footsteps clank up the stairs. Her breathing is labored. She is on time, which is unusual.
“Are you okay?” Neal yodels.
“I’m fine,” my mother says.
“Your daughter’s here. Please, please, come in. We’ll get started.”
I am startled to see how hunched my mother is when she enters the therapist’s office. I haven’t seen her in months.
“Hello, Tina,” my mother says in a disingenuous sing-song.
“Hello Rosalie,” I say, our eyes meeting. It’s the only way we can touch. We have not physically embraced one another in years. “Find the place okay?”
“Your father drove me. He’s gone to your town library to wait for me. Do I sit here?” she asks, gesturing to the chair close to me.
Neal nods, and she settles in.
Neal is eyeing us. What does our body language say? What does he already know? What have we already told him about us? He clears his throat. He stretches his long legs into the center of our circle, his large shoes cocked upward. I look at them to avoid my mother’s eye.
“Mrs. Traster,” he says, addressing my mother. “I had an initial conversation with your daughter on the phone. She’s explained that the two of you have been at odds for many years, that there’s been a lot of strife in your family, but there is a mutual desire to repair things, especially for the sake of your granddaughter, Julia.”
He pauses, the way shrinks do, with a deep breath.
“Is that right?”
“Absolutely,” she says. “I have barely seen my granddaughter in four years. She’s a stranger to me and my husband.”
“Okay,” he says, turning to me.
“From our earlier conversation, you’ve expressed a desire to work on the relationship with your mother,” he says. “Is that right?”
I nod, thinking about whether Julia even remembers Rosalie. And if she does, does she ponder what happened to her because she hasn’t seen her in months? Did Rosalie simply disappear the way her mother did, the way adults seem to do all the time? I feel panicky. What if therapy works only in the short-term, and we introduce her again into Julia’s life and then the bottom falls out? Focus, I tell myself.
“I want to hear from each of you, for just a few minutes, a summary to explain what you view as the heart of the problem. Tina, why don’t you start?”
Heat flushes my face.
I look at Neal, not at my mother, while I explain my theories about why my mother and I have come apart. I tell him about the divorce, the disappointment we both felt toward one another, and how we’ve never recuperated because I have not felt emotionally supported.
I occasionally glance at my mother and I think and hope so completely with my whole bone marrow that she’s hearing me for the first time in a decade.
My voice is unsteady, but I continue. I tell Neal how my mother has not been able to celebrate or relate to my choices, and therefore she has missed out on so much.
“Okay. That’s a good beginning. Mrs. Traster. Your turn. Why are you here?”
“I don’t know where to begin. My daughter and I used to be best friends. My friends would always comment on this. They couldn’t believe the relationship we had. Tina was a special child. My husband and I gave her every opportunity in the world: college, Europe, traveling. A beautiful wedding at Tavern on the Green.”
I wince.
“We indulged her. Maybe too much. When she wanted to live in London, we supported her. When she and her husband—”
“Ex,” I interject.
“When she and her ex-husband came back to New York, we set them up in an apartment. It’s true we cared very much for her ex-husband and we were sad about the divorce. Who wouldn’t be? But we were there for her.”
I snort and Neal shoots me a look of disapproval.
“The thing is, after her divorce, she became very angry at us. Very angry and ungrateful. And very disrespectful. She blamed us for the failure of her marriage. There is nothing I can do about that. My husband and I are getting older. We don’t know our grandchild. It’s just a big mess,” she says, blowing her nose into a tissue.
Neal returns his gaze to me. I’m lost in thought. I can sense that Rosalie wants a reconciliation; she wants to be Julia’s grandmother. But I don’t think we’re ever going to resolve our true differences.
“Okay, ladies,” Neal says. “This is a good start. Let’s take a breath. It’s good to be able to vent.”
For what is left of the session, he keeps questions and answers clipped, guiding us as though we were on a footbridge over crocodile-infested waters. At the end of fifty minutes, he says he understands there is a lot of hurt between us, but if we are both motivated to heal the pain, it’s not impossible. It will take time and discipline for my mother and me to find a new way to relate to one another, and the best thing we can do is to practice treating one another with civility and respect. He gives us exercises, including calling one another and making plans on neutral territory.
“If you’d like, we can schedule another appointment,” he says.
My mother and I throw one another cryptic glances, but we agree to make a second appointment.
The last of the catalpa leaves float to the ground. Swish. Sounds like an animal lurking in the brush. We’re heating the house with firewood, heading into our second winter. The sun sinks early behind our mountain. I feel more peaceful than I have in a long time. My mother and I have been in therapy for four months. She and my father have seen Julia a handful of times. They bring her presents, and she looks forward to seeing them. I practice ways to be polite and noncombative with my mother, and she returns the efforts with civility. We’re in a decent place.
I am sitting on the porch, wrapped in a fleece blanket, thumbing through holiday catalogs that show me what families are supposed to look like this time of year. I walk inside and punch her phone number into the keypad. “Would you and Dad like to come for Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“That would be delightful,” she says.
“Okay, about 2:00 PM or so would be good,” I respond.
“Julia, come and help me,” I
say.
“What is it, Mommy?”
“Let’s go outside and see if there are any colorful leaves on the ground and we’ll use them to decorate the table.”
Julia bolts out the door, but I catch the back of her shirt.
“Put on a jacket.”
We gather a basketful of flaming red, golden, and burnt-orange leaves. The air is crisp and clean, the way Thanksgiving is supposed to be. When we come back inside, I tell Ricky to get the fire going. He is setting up the electric piano and a video camera.
“What time are they coming?” he asks.
“They’re supposed to be here at 2:00. What time is it now?”
“I think it’s about 1:15.”
“Do we have the Albuquerque Turkey book ready to go?” I ask.
“It’s right here.”
Julia grabs it and starts singing at the top of her lungs, “Albuquerque is a turkey, and he’s feathered and he’s fine …!”
Ricky and I glance at one another with satisfaction. We’ve spent weeks teaching her the song about a turkey who’s better thought of as a pet than a meal. Above and beyond a teachable moment on the benefits of being vegetarian, Ricky and I have accomplished something bigger. This is the first time she’s let us teach her a long song without resistance. For weeks we’ve been practicing together, slowly picking apart the lyrics until she’s gotten them all memorized. When she acted up, we didn’t give up or show our frustration or concede defeat. During an early attempt, she flew into a fit, so we tried one of the new techniques we’ve learned. While she was screaming like a banshee, Ricky and I broke into exaggerated hyena-style laughter. We laughed hard and loud and harder and louder. It stopped Julia in her tracks. Instead of protesting the drills, she laughed with us. It reset her clock. We took it from the top, and slowly she absorbed the warm feeling of accomplishment.
“In fifteen minutes, we’ll put on our costumes,” I say.
“I want to put on my costume now, Mama. Now, now, now,” Julia is chanting.
“Very soon,” I say.
“No, right now.”
I go back into the kitchen to finish laying the table, and Julia pads at my heels, tugging at me. I don’t want her to spin out of control because I’m focused on setting a beautiful table, but I don’t want to sour the festive mood Julia’s in. Ricky hears the escalation of whining and he calls Julia into the living room.
“Let’s rehearse one more time, and then Mama will take you upstairs and you can put on your costume.”
“Albuquerque is a turkey, and he’s feathered …”
I pull the gray, floor-length pilgrim’s dress over her head. It has a scalloped white collar, white cuffs, and a white apron. I tie a white bonnet on her head. She races to the mirror and squeals with delight.
“I’m going to get dressed now too.”
I wear a loose suede shirt, beads, and an Indian headdress. I braid my hair in two sections. I feel guilty about reducing Thanksgiving to the mythic Indians and Pilgrims cliché, but for now my attention is absorbed in healing two vital relationships.
Julia screams with excitement when she sees me, clapping her little hands.
She heads downstairs and bounces manically in front of the picture window until her grandparents’ car pulls into our gravel driveway.
“They’re here! They’re here! I want to go outside and see them!”
Julia charges to the front door, but we don’t worry she’ll run outside and get hurt because we have the door bolt-locked at the top, way beyond her reach. She’s furiously pulling at the knob, so Ricky leaps up, takes her by the hand, and walks with her outside to greet my parents.
“Look, look, they have presents for me!” Julia screams.
I watch this scene from inside the doorway. Rosalie has a big smile on her face. Julia has grabbed her hand.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” my mother says, stepping into our warm house.
“Welcome,” I say, taking their coats. “Welcome to our Pilgrim feast.”
“Here, Grandma, put this on. Put this on. You too, Grandpa Tony.”
Julia is handing my mother a bonnet, my father a conical pilgrim hat, white bibs, and shoe buckles.
My mother is delighted with dressing up. I can tell she already feels that we’ve gone to some length to make this day special.
“Come on, Grandma,” Julia says. “We going to sing now.”
“Julia,” I say. “Let’s offer the Pilgrims some nice spirits and cheese and crackers.”
I duck into the kitchen to bring out a cheese platter. Ricky is behind me reaching for wine glasses.
“Where’s Julia?” I ask.
“She’s with your parents.”
“Mommy, can we open presents?” Julia asks when I return to the living room.
“Let’s do our concert first, okay?”
Ricky sits down on a stool next to the electronic piano, which is resting on a small table.
“Okay, Rosalie, Tony, we’re all going to sing a song from the book that’s in front of you, and I’m going to record it,” Ricky says.
“One, two, three,” Ricky adds, readying to play the notes.
“Albuquerque is a turkey, and he’s feathered and he’s fine …”
All the adults are singing, but Julia isn’t. Instead, she’s making silly faces and bending forward over the cheese and clowning around. She’s deliberately baiting me, waiting for me to yell or become unhinged. Instead, I remain stoic and give her a couple of tight tugs, but it doesn’t get her back on track. I know she knows these words cold. We sing through the whole song.
I don’t know what my mother or my father are thinking. I have never discussed Julia’s behavior issues with either one of them.
Ricky and I glance at each other. Nothing needs to be said. We both understand that we take a few steps forward with Julia and must expect a few backward. The road is not without obstacles, but still, I’d hoped that after a month of preparing, she’d be excited to show everyone what she’d learned.
“Okay,” I say, gathering my strength. “Julia, why don’t you open your presents, and then we will do the song again.”
She’s consumed with the wrapping paper and what is hiding inside the great big box. Slowly it is revealed. It’s an American Girl doll. She lifts it up in the air and hugs it.
I’m surprised because I know these coveted creatures have a steep price tag.
“What do you say?” I ask Julia.
“Thank you,” she squeaks.
“Give Grandma and Grandpa a hug.”
Julia’s idea of a hug is standing stiffly to be embraced and steeling herself for the unpleasant ritual.
I go back to the kitchen and return with smoked salmon blinis.
Ten minutes later I look at Ricky and say, “Shall we try it again?”
Ricky sits at the piano. My parents, good sports, put the songbook back on their lap.
I pull Julia next to me and clutch her arm with force.
I whisper to her, “This time you’re going to show Grandma and Grandpa how good you can sing.”
She gives a quick jerk, but I pull her back harder.
“One, two, three,” Ricky says.
We start singing, and Julia is singing too. I’ve got her firmly contained, and she’s not resisting. We’ve learned that RAD children subconsciously want to be reined in so long as the physical contact is not too overwhelming. Julia is now belting out the lyrics in a high-pitched, elated voice. My mother is smiling at her beatifically. My body is relaxing into the pleasure of the moment. Ricky wears a satisfied grin.
After the performance, Ricky fiddles with the VCR.
“Okay, I’m going to play it back.”
And there it is. My dysfunctional family, dressed like pilgrims and Indians, wrapping paper scattered on the floor, singing a tune about a turkey that escapes being dinner. It’s precious, an American original.
The rest of the evening sails smoothly. At one point my mother remarks, “She’s an angel.”
I smile and nod.
There was a time when my mother could read me like a book. The look in my eyes was enough for her to know how I felt, even what I was thinking. We’ve lost that connection, but I can sense that she desperately wants to get to know Julia, and for now, that’s good enough.
At the end of the evening, Ricky, Julia, and I walk my parents to the door. Night has fallen. My father gives me a bear hug. I look at my mother; she looks back at me. We embrace awkwardly, but it is something. Really something, after all these years.
Twenty-four
I am on the down escalator, clutching Julia’s hand tightly, heading to the children’s department in Bloomingdale’s. I have a flashback to the day she raced out of my sight, ran to the top of the down escalator in Barnes & Noble and nearly went tumbling to her death. The memory flashes in my brain like lightning. I tighten my grip as we thread our way through housewares to the racks of little dresses and adorable pant and shirt outfits. This is my maiden voyage with Julia to a store that was the temple of mother-daughter bonding during my childhood. This is literally the first time I am “going clothes shopping” with my daughter. Until now, I ordered from the Lands’ End catalog. It was easy, affordable, and effortless—but it wasn’t special. No emotional mother-daughter collateral in the bank. I resorted to catalog shopping because I was afraid to take her to a department store and chase her around and haggle with her over trying on one thing or another. I was worried I’d build up my hopes of re-creating something special only to be disappointed—or worse, angry. So when she was at school or sleeping, I’d open the catalog, dog-ear the pages, and order online.
“Look at these great clothes,” I screech as we approach the little girls’ section. Julia darts ahead—I release her hand with a bit of trepidation. She’s circling the clothing racks maniacally, like a shark around a surfer.
“Julia, come here,” I say firmly.
To my surprise, she rounds the corner and stands next to me, waiting for instructions.
“Okay, Mama’s going to show you how you shop in a department store,” I say, bending down to look at her at eye level. “First, we’re going to choose a bunch of things that look nice for the spring. Then we’re going to take them in the dressing room over there and we’re going to try them on and see what fits and what looks pretty. Okay?”