Mom would pour herself a cup of coffee at 8:00 p.m. and offer sweets and pies, and we adults would settle into a cozy room to chat about life. We talked about politics, faith, schools, funny things our kids said or did, and the Russian and Chinese missionaries Mom and Dad hosted in their home several times. Most of all, we enjoyed each other’s presence.
My parents had done everything they wanted to do in life. In their early sixties, Dad had retired, and they didn’t need or want anything more. They were in a place of contentment, and they wanted to enjoy their grandchildren while still young and active enough to do things with the kids and make an impact on their lives. They wanted to leave a legacy of their time, their love for family, and their love for the Lord. Their actions undoubtedly spoke louder than words. Their kids and grandkids knew how much Beauty and Pop loved them, and in the busyness of life there was nothing like being home for the holidays.
“Hey, Beauty?” I piped up over a slice of pecan pie when we were all chatting after dinner. “You want me to help wrap your Christmas gifts before I leave?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I can’t believe all of my Christmas shopping is about done. Thank you, Sarah.”
I beamed. This year I’d brought a car full of Christmas gifts for the family and grandchildren. Back in October, I’d offered to help Mom with her shopping, and she happily obliged. Usually she refused help because she was a very strong and independent woman, so I was surprised and pleased when she accepted. I also wanted to get ahead on my own shopping, especially if I could do it without taking along three small children.
Later that evening, she led me to the room where we’d hidden the presents and pulled out a big box of Christmas wrapping paper and ribbons. Together we began to wrap gifts. Suddenly, I noticed Mom struggling as she tied a bow on one of the gifts. She kept opening and closing her fingers, then grabbing her right forearm with her left hand and massaging the muscle as she clenched and unclenched her fist.
“Beauty? What’s wrong? Is your arm bothering you?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” she said, brushing me off. “It’s been tingling on and off for a while now. It’s numb sometimes, and all of a sudden I can’t feel my fingers or move my hand. But it’s nothing to worry about. I probably keep sleeping on it wrong.”
“What do you mean by ‘a while’? A few weeks or several months?”
“Probably a few months. It’s fine, honey. I’ll just let you tie the bows.”
I chewed my lip. “Have you told Dad? Does he know?”
“He knows. I still work out with my trainer, so it’s possible I’ve injured something. It will be fine. No big deal. It will go away.”
“Well, I think I know the answer to this question, but have you considered seeing a doctor? Tingling and numbness can be a sign of something going on in your brain.”
Mom looked frustrated. “You’re right, Sarah. You know the answer to me seeing a doctor is no. No doctors. All a doctor would do is tell me I need to get in some machine and take pictures, and then they’d put me on some medication.”
“Mom, you know I hate it when you say that. I wish you would be more open to seeing doctors. There’s a reason we have them. You are so stubborn it makes me crazy.”
“Blah, blah, blah,” she said, mocking me. “I’m fine, honey. Now, what about this necklace? I got it for Patricia. Do you think she’ll like it?”
My heart sank. Mom was very good at changing the subject. I looked at her hand—it did look normal. Physically, her hands and toned arms still looked young. She was sixty-four, but she was perfectly healthy and didn’t look her age. Five-foot-eight and one hundred and thirty pounds, she walked four miles nearly every day, planted flowers in the yard, and swam in the pool. She also worked out with a trainer two or three days a week. Her nails were strong, long, and painted red. Just a few days earlier, she showed off high kicks from her Kilgore Rangerette dance team days to the girls. She had also lain on the floor that morning to play “Superman” with Emery. She placed her feet on Emery’s tummy, clasped her granddaughter’s hands, then spread their arms like wings. With a “Wheee! Superman!” she hoisted Emery into the air. Emery loved it.
Emery was Mom’s Mini-Me: She smiled like her, she was constantly moving, and she had Beauty’s dark brown eyes. They had an instant bond—I call it the “English bond,” for Mom’s maiden name, because of their dark coloring and their strong wills. Mom especially didn’t like to be told she couldn’t do something, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer.
I had to bring my worries up just one more time.
“Please at least think about going to see a doctor, Mom,” I said.
She shook her head. “Trust me. I’m just sleeping on it wrong.”
And I knew then that even if Mom wouldn’t take no for an answer, she expected me to.
FROM THANKSGIVING ON, SOMETHING WASN’T right. I was concerned, and I wanted answers. I called Mom on the phone and occasionally asked, “How’s that tingling in your arm? Is it any better?”
Her response, as expected, was, “Yeah, it seems much better. I’m fine!”
At Christmastime, my parents came up to Dallas.
Dad rang the doorbell, and I ran down the stairs to greet them.
“Y’all made it! Come on in.”
We helped them carry their things to the third floor.
Beauty and Pop always slept in what we called the “in-law suite.” We put a little refrigerator up there, and they had a sitting area with a TV in addition to the bedroom and bathroom. If they ever felt in the way, they would go up there and hide out, knowing it was their space.
Mom and I got some last-minute things at the grocery store for Christmas brunch, and as we loaded the car with bags, I noticed she was doing the same thing she’d done at Thanksgiving: opening and closing her fist, then rubbing her forearm with her left hand, massaging it. We got in the car, and she did it again. My fears screamed in my head.
Suddenly, she realized I’d seen her do it. Her fingers went still. As calmly as possible, I set my keys in the cup holder.
“Mom, I’m worried about your arm. I don’t understand why you won’t go see a doctor. Maybe it’s nothing, but if it is something, wouldn’t you rather catch it earlier than later?”
She angled her body away from me, and I sighed. “I know you hate doctors, Mom. But doctors can tell you if there is something wrong, and then you can choose if you want to do something about it. At least get someone to look at it.”
She just looked down and continued to massage her arm.
“It went away for a while, and it just came back. I’ve been doing arm weights a lot with my trainer, and I think I’ve just pulled something. There isn’t much you can do about a pulled muscle. It will heal, and I’m fine, honey—really, I am.”
“All right then. But you aren’t in your forties anymore, Mom. And if you catch something early, you can treat it. It just doesn’t feel right.”
I knew how much Mom didn’t trust doctors. At that moment, I realized she would never see a doctor unless she’d fallen to the ground unconscious. In other words, I thought, unless she didn’t have a choice.
Her distrust of doctors arose the moment her father died. I’ll never forget that night in the hospital. It was just the two of us there, and she came in the small waiting room sobbing. She jabbed me in the shoulder and cried out, “They killed him! They’re the reason he’s gone.” We hugged and cried for what felt like an eternity. She blamed her father’s death on too much morphine toward the end. According to Mom, it was all the doctors’ and hospital’s fault. There wasn’t much convincing her otherwise, no matter how hard I tried—her heart was broken to pieces.
“One more thing I am going to say,” I said, “and then I will try not to say anything more. The ‘no pain, no gain’ attitude should not apply in this situation. Please don’t be selfish. If something is wrong with you, it’s not fair to keep it from Dad and your children and those who love you and can help take care of you. D
ad especially. He would want to know if you had a brain tumor.”
The thought that it was a brain tumor terrified me. I couldn’t breathe. That night I cried as I told Thad how I couldn’t stand how stubborn my mom was and asked him to remind me of my mother if I ever became like that. I, too, lived my life with the “no pain, no gain” mentality.
Growing up as a competitive gymnast, I constantly heard Mom say, “No pain, no gain, honey. No pain, no gain.” So I powered through competitions with two broken toes, a jammed finger, terrible heel and knee pain, and eventually lower back pain. I would lie and say I was ready to go when I wasn’t. I had a terrible back injury that took several months to heal, but I wasn’t going to let the state meet pass me by. I had worked and trained way too hard to let that go. I was mentally prepared to compete sooner rather than later, no matter the cost.
It wasn’t just my mom—it was the coaches. They were incredibly intimidating, and they would mentally (and occasionally verbally) abuse me in front of everyone. Mom didn’t know, though. She was in the soundproof waiting room, talking with other mothers and watching practice. I didn’t dare tell her because I would get in even more trouble with my coach—I feared I would not move up a level or get to compete. Or if I told her, she probably wouldn’t believe me anyway. She got sucked into the manipulation as much as I did.
Little did I know then that the brokenness of keeping those secrets of abuse and embracing the “no pain, no gain” mentality would stare right back at me twenty-five years later through the eyes of my mother.
TWO
JUMBLED NUMBERS
2010
MOM ALWAYS REMEMBERED PHONE NUMBERS, addresses, and the cost of things. She rarely used her address book or looked up a phone number, and it always amazed me.
Beauty and Pop would drive around and look at different properties—homes, lake houses, and even ranches—as potential investments and discuss pricing. Dad owned a construction company in Houston, so he dealt with numbers on a daily basis. A great team, they had fun estimating the value of houses and real estate.
One day as they were driving, Dad pointed to a property. “Hey, Beck, look at that one. It’s seven acres. How much do you think that costs?”
Mom stared intently out the window, deep in thought. She confidently replied, “Fifty thousand.”
Dad laughed. “Yeah, right! If that was fifty thousand, we would be in trouble with the land we own not too far from here.”
“Well, you asked, and that’s what I think. And you know I’m right.”
Dad arched his eyebrow and gave the back of her neck an affectionate squeeze. “Oh, Beck. You make me laugh. It’s more like five hundred thousand. You only missed a zero!”
Mom pulled away from him, questioning what he had just told her.
“No, I didn’t. I said fifty thousand. You are just copying me, because you know I am right. Listen to yourself. You don’t want to be wrong because you know I’ll win this one!”
Mom had begun saying one number while thinking of another. This began a challenging time for Mom, Dad, and everyone around them, because while she thought she was speaking her thoughts, the words were coming out jumbled.
She didn’t notice it, however. She didn’t notice that “fifty thousand” did not sound like “five hundred thousand” and that they weren’t the same number. Dad ignored it until she tried to persuade him she was right and repeated the number a second time.
He told me later he was thinking: “I wonder why her numbers aren’t right? She must be tired. It’s been a long day.”
BEAUTY CALLED ME ONE FRIDAY morning and told me she was going shopping with her dear high school friend, Kelly Maness. When they were young, Kelly and Mom were often mistaken for twins. They looked alike, acted alike, and if a boy who wasn’t very cute asked one of them out, she’d give the boy the other one’s name. Kelly was from Beaumont, Texas, and had the most precious Southern accent. Mom lit up whenever Kelly walked in the room.
The phone rang, and I answered. “Hey, Daughter! Whatcha doin?”
I smiled. “Hey, Beauty! I just dropped the kids off at school, and I’m heading to the gym. What are you up to today?”
“I’m going shopping for makeup with Kelly. She’s driving over from Beaumont. I wish you were here. She’s so much fun.”
I sighed with jealousy. “Awww, man. I love makeup shopping! I’m so glad you are doing that, Mom.”
She quickly answered, “Yep!”
“You can let someone do your makeup and then buy whatever you like that they use. And buy several brands. It’s fun to get a lipstick from one counter and mascara from another. I wish I could go.”
Mom paused. “Me, too. I miss you, Sarah. I just wanted to say hi and tell you I get to see Kelly today. I’ll call you later and tell you what I bought. Maybe Kelly and I can get our picture taken once we are dolled up.”
“That would be great. I can’t wait to see. Give Kelly a hug for me.”
Kelly’s daughter, Gillian, texted me several hours later. Mom and Kelly were so close that I felt like Gillian was a long-lost sister. Her text was a beautiful picture of Mom and Kelly. They had shimmery, smoky eyes, soft pink lips, and bronze cheeks with a hint of pink. They looked stunning and so happy to be together.
Not long after that text, Mom called me.
“Hey, hey! We had so much fun. I got all sorts of makeup. But Sarah, I need to tell you something: I thought the makeup was only $150, but I think the lady overcharged me because the receipt says I spent $1,500! One thousand, five hundred dollars, Sarah.”
I gasped. “What? What in the world did you buy? Why did you spend so much? Makeup can be expensive, but fifteen hundred bucks? Didn’t you see the receipt before you signed it?”
She paused. “Well, yes, but I thought it read $150. I didn’t think I got that much stuff.”
I was in disbelief. “Mom, I want you to get all of your makeup out right now and tell me what you bought. There should be a price on your receipt for each item, so let’s double-check that you did not get overcharged. And if you didn’t, then you need to return some of it. I’m annoyed the makeup lady even let you buy that much.”
“I should have paid closer attention, but I was having so much fun and letting them do whatever they wanted on my face.”
Mom was not overcharged. She did, in fact, purchase two foundations, two mascaras, three blushes, three eyeliners, and the list went on and on. It was insane. My mom, usually content with buying cosmetics at the drugstore, would never spend that much money on makeup.
I told her she should keep one foundation, one blush, the black mascara, and the red lipstick. That’s it. That was all Mom needed anyway. She was a natural beauty, which was another reason why I loved to call her Beauty.
• • •
ANOTHER WEEKEND THAT SUMMER, I drove to Houston with Ginny, Mom’s other close friend who lived in Dallas. She wanted to spend some time with Mom, and I wanted to take the kids to see Beauty and Pop. All they wanted to do was swim, swim, and swim some more.
That Saturday afternoon, Ginny and Mom went to the Houstonian, a hotel with a private club, for a spa treatment. The kids and I would meet up with them later for an early dinner. When I arrived, Ginny seemed distracted.
Beauty took the kids to get a snow cone, and Ginny leaned over to me. “Sarah, I’m concerned about your mother. Have you noticed anything different about her? When I say different, I mean she’s not as sharp as she’s always been, and she seems a little confused with her numbers.”
I hesitated but knew she was right. “Yes on the numbers, I guess. But I haven’t noticed that she’s lacking sharpness.” I told her about the $1,500 makeup purchase.
Ginny pressed her lips together and stared over at Mom. She turned to me, and, with her deep stern voice, said, “I’m worried about her. I don’t like to say that to you because I know how much you love her, and I don’t want to scare you, but there is something not right with her. I’ve known her almost my entire
life. We were roommates. She has always been right on with numbers and sharp as a tack, but she’s not the same. Has your dad said anything to you? Probably not, because he wouldn’t want you to worry either.”
She paused, then said, “When we got to the Houstonian today, she couldn’t remember the gate code to get in. Even she realized she should know it. It’s been the same code all summer, and she couldn’t recall the digits. We had to talk to the security guard. Luckily, he knew your mother.”
As Ginny spoke, I watched Beauty with my children. She was smiling and laughing and holding Elijah on her right hip. She was in her element. She loved being with those kids. She would ask Thad and me, “Sarah, when are y’all going on your next trip? We are ready for them to come stay with us!” Or, “Sarah, how about meeting us halfway to Houston and leaving the kids with us for a few days? It will give you and Thad some time together, and y’all can go on a date night and have a little break.”
As I watched Beauty carrying Elijah with his rainbow-colored snow cone, I saw her acting like a child, not knowing that one day her mind would revert back to a child’s forever.
GINNY, MOM, AND I WENT shopping for clothes while Dad took the kids fishing on some property they owned nearby. They loved fishing with Pop. Dad would let Emery and Frensley drive the pickup truck while Elijah napped in the car seat. The kids felt a sense of freedom out in the open fields as Pop let them have some fun. I trusted Dad and knew he would make sure they were safe. He let me drive at a young age, so I knew exactly what my girls were feeling.
While Mom was in the dressing room, Ginny brought a fuchsia silk top for Mom to try on.
“Becky, you have to try this on. It’s to die for! It would look striking on you, and it’s only $50.”
Ginny could always find the bargains. She could put on a $500 sweater or a $25 sweater and make either of them look like a million bucks.
Broken Beauty Page 2