Sweet Sixteen
Mother comes to visit for my birthday. As always, the hot wire tension zings between her and Gram. I’m relieved when they fight, because it means Gram isn’t focused on me for a change. I feel guilty about experiencing relief at my mother’s expense, but I can’t help it.
On this occasion, I recognize a strange camaraderie between Mother and me. Gram half-raised both of us, so in a way we’re more like sisters than mother and daughter, both of us at the mercy of the same powerful madwoman. Mother whispers things in passing, hinting at her true feelings, that she’s always felt like a lost child, too.
“It’s wonderful that Gram gives you the best things, your clothes and your lessons,” she says. Then a warning tone creeps in. “But you need to be yourself. I don’t want you to be like her.”
Sometimes Mother’s comments are critical of Gram: “I can’t understand why she hates your father so much; there’s no good reason for it. He’s a very nice man, and you should love and respect him.” Or her tone is plaintive: “My mother is so mean to me.”
Sorrow fills my chest on these occasions and I reassure her that it’s all right, I’m not like Gram, I’ll never be like that. I don’t tell her much about the reality of my life. It’s clear she doesn’t want to know too much, and I’m sure the truth would worry her. I sense that she’s genuinely grateful that Gram is taking care of me because she simply wouldn’t know how. My life looks pretty good from a certain angle—my clothes, music, and grades—and Mother chooses to take that view.
A big birthday dinner at Aunt Helen’s is planned for me. Over the last few months, she has cautiously returned to Gram’s good graces. The depth of their friendship shows in their ability to be in the same room with no sniping. I credit this mostly to Aunt Helen’s huge, happy Southern heart. Once she loves you, nothing short of murder can end it. I have never spoken of her betrayal of me, sensing that she has her own fragilities, though they are well hidden from the world. She’s still my wonderful Aunt Helen, and I love it when she says, “God love ya darlin’.”
Today even Gram is putting on a nice dress and some make-up. I can’t remember the last time she left the house. As we wait for her, my mother’s face and my own are reflected in the hall mirror. Mother leans up close to the mirror to touch up her mascara and eye shadow. She glances at me and touches the line of my jaw. “Hmmm, you could use a little make-up now. Here, stand still.”
Carefully she applies a touch of eye shadow above my eyes. It tickles, and she tells me to stop wiggling. She sweeps blush on my cheeks with a huge fluffy brush, and gently applies mascara to my eyelashes.
“You’re turning into an attractive young lady,” she says, and my heart laps up her praise. “It’s okay for you to wear just a little make-up, but not too much.”
Gram comes out of her room and snorts.
“Now Mother, it’s a special occasion for Linda. You should let her have make-up.”
“This isn’t Chicago, and she’s only sixteen.”
“She’s a young lady.” Then Mother turns her attention back to me. “Open your mouth, like this.” She demonstrates, opening her mouth slightly and making a taut circle of her lips.
It thrills me for my mother to dip her lip pencil into the creamy rose color and carefully outline my lips. It tastes good, I’m careful not to smear it. We look into the mirror together, our faces side by side. My mother is much more beautiful than I, with her dark eyes and wavy hair, but we do look a lot alike now that I am growing up. Mother leans toward me and kisses my cheek. My chest aches, my heart opening to her sweet affection. If only she would be like this all the time.
Together, happy as mothers and daughters, we all go to Aunt Helen’s for the celebration. “God love ya” greets us with big, warm hugs. I have for the most part forgiven Aunt Helen for letting me down, though we have never talked about it. Tonight, I just want unblemished happiness. Uncle Maj clipped yellow daffodils for the vase on the table. I blow out all my candles.
You Can Wish
Upon a Star
By the end of our junior year, Jodie has auditioned at the Eastman School of Music and won her scholarship. I have a scholarship for the music school at the University of Oklahoma, but it isn’t far enough away to suit me. Sometimes I feel a pang of guilt about wanting so badly to leave Gram, but then she goes into another one of her tirades and I remember that my only chance to live a normal life—whatever that might be—is to escape her.
The best result of Aunt Helen’s intervention with Gram has been to give me a new perspective: I see now that my grandmother isn’t perfect. Before last year, no matter what Gram did, I thought of her as an omniscient god, but she has fallen from her high perch. I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but I’m certain that her view of life—and of men, in particular—is twisted.
She has no friends. I think people are afraid of her oddities, even though they don’t know the half of it. When Keith comes over to pick me up for symphony, she puts on a nice dress and acts aristocratic, so he has no idea that she’s a screaming banshee the rest of the time, chasing me around the house, slapping and berating me.
I’ve learned to go underground, to hide from her who I really am and what I really think. As much as I can, despite her attempts at absolute control, I try to carve out a life of my own. At first I felt guilty about this—my Baptist voice yelled at me—but after a while, I realized it’s natural to want a peaceful, positive life of my own.
The daily routine I have with Jodie gives me comfort: We are together in the morning, and we eat lunch together. Each day after school—in winter and summer—we walk the eight blocks to downtown. We go to the music store and listen to records, or stop at the drug store for a malted milkshake or an ice cream sundae. When it’s cold out, we huddle in the padded booths sipping hot chocolate, making faces at our reflections in the mirrors. I wait for the last bus from town, which gets me home after five in the afternoon.
From that point on, I have it all mapped out. When I first poke my head in the door, I size up Gram to get a sense of how bad an evening it might be. Then I fix dinner for us, do the dishes, and practice piano for two or three hours—this usually keeps her quiet. After that, I pore over five college prep subjects in the kitchen, writing papers and essays on a typewriter set up by the stove. Throughout all this, Gram hunches in her couch, watches TV, and smokes. Frequently, despite my best attempts to stay out of her way, she goes on a wild tear, and we have another loud and physical fight.
In the evenings, whenever Gram is out of the room, I peer through the window panels of the front door, sending my thoughts into the moon as it rises over the plains in the east, into the trees that blow in the wind. There, I find some beauty and peace.
To my great surprise, shortly after I turn sixteen Gram buys a gold Nash Rambler. She says she’ll let me drive it, emphasizing that it’s her car, not mine. She won’t let me drive it to school, but on weekends I can take my time doing errands, and even meet Jodie on the fly. One afternoon in the spring, joyful with my newfound freedom, I drive the car out to the edge of town where the wheat is spread out under the sky. The stalks are green now, but soon they will become beautiful amber fields that undulate like a great sea in the wind.
I get out of the car and close my eyes—here, truly, God is in his heaven and everything is perfect. I run my fingers along the wheat stalks not yet come to a head, pondering creation. Birds fly by and cicadas start up their rhythmic chant. I vow to always immerse myself in nature, where the light and the natural forces of creation keep away Gram’s darkness.
I’ve developed many strategies to help me survive, but I wonder if I’ll ever be normal. Am I so damaged by what has happened in our family that I won’t find anyone to really love me? Little do I know that at this very moment, my first love is not far away.
A few weeks later, Gram surprises me by arranging a visit to the Brauninger’s in Kansas with Keith. Keith and I, together, on a car trip? I can’t imagine anything
more wonderful.
It’s a warm July day when we set off, Gram acting unusually cheery. I wonder why she lives in the dark for so long, then perks up and becomes almost normal again for a short while. She’s dressed up, wearing make-up; she even got her hair done for the occasion. She’s like another person today, and I’m delighted. Maybe things will get better for good now.
Keith and I are sitting close enough for me to see the fine hairs on his arm and smell his aftershave. I’m soaring with happiness. For all these years he’s been a constant in my life, the only boy to treat me with unwavering friendship and respect. He calls me “Little Linda” and always bows when he greets me, carries my cello, and teases me mercilessly. Jodie says that means he likes me, but I know he doesn’t like me in that special way, just as a friend. For the last year, Keith has given me rides to Monday night symphony. Sometimes a group of us go out afterwards for ice cream at the Wagon Wheel or Goldspot’s. Gram allows me these occasional forays into social life because she trusts Keith implicitly.
Today, the landscape is vast and golden, puffy clouds building into castles. Gram drives us up route 81, the old Chisholm Trail north into Kansas. When we arrive, Mr. Brauninger and Eva gather us into their arms. Mr. B. looks at me lovingly. “Our Little Linda sure has grown up.” We have a joyous dinner, updating the Brauningers on the other musicians in Enid. Gram is charming and sophisticated, regaling everyone with tales of her trips to England. She has returned to being the Gram I love.
That evening, Keith and I sit next to each other at a symphony concert, watching Eva and Jim together on stage once again. I blink my eyes; it’s almost as if no time has passed, yet I’m sitting next to Keith, and we are no longer children. I can see it in his eyes—Keith is looking at me in a new way. When his fingers brush mine and he gently clasps my hand, I am certain that things have changed. My heart is pounding hard by the end of the concert.
He asks Gram if we can take a walk around the campus while the adults go back to the house, and she agrees. The warm air caresses our faces as we stroll along, holding hands. I can hardly breathe, but I try to act calm, like Sandra Dee in the movies. This romantic moment with Keith seems unreal, yet I can feel the warmth of his fingers, hear his voice murmuring close to my ear.
I’m burning with confusion and unspoken questions as we walk toward a fountain in the center of campus. He talks about the moon and stars, physics and complex mathematics. I listen with only part of my mind; most of my attention is focused on how close he is to me, the heat of his body, the scent of his skin. We sit by the fountain, water splashing our hands. Keith is so close I can see the curve of his lips, his teeth. When he slips his arm around my shoulder, I fear my heart will burst. “See that star up there,” he says softly, pointing. “Want to make a wish?”
I laugh and close my eyes. Sitting beside him, I feel so safe and happy. “Okay, I wish.”
After a moment or two, Keith asks me, “What did you wish?”
I look directly into his face. “If I tell you, it won’t come true.”
His eyes grow large and serious. It’s as if he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re not Little Linda any longer,” he says in a husky whisper.
I smile, wishing I could think of something clever to say, but instead I look back up at the star. If only, I think. If only he would love me, then everything would be all right. But it’s not possible. Or is it? He is here, so close, only a few inches away. I can feel his warm breath on my face.
Suddenly childhood seems very far behind us. The future tastes sweet in my mouth as Keith leans close, brushing his lips against my cheek, my lips. Then his arms are around me and my thoughts fall silent. There is only the murmur of the water, the soft breeze, and Keith kissing me. I’m soaring as high as our star, my deepest wish coming true.
Wheat Fields on a June Evening
Grit coats my fingers when I pry open the Venetian blinds of the living room window. Keith’s two-tone green Chevrolet pulls into the driveway. I try to appear calm despite my pulse. I know I will be with Keith tonight in a way Gram would never approve. It is only three weeks after our first kiss, and I can’t wait to see him again, to feel his arms around me.
“Don’t be so easy. Get away from the window.” Gram frowns.
Keith leaps from the car and quicksteps to the porch, slicking back his pomaded hair. I want to grab my purse and cello and rush off with him, but Gram is eager to use her old charms on a man, any man, even if he’s her granddaughter’s beau. Keith raps on the door.
“When is rehearsal over?” Gram blows a stream of smoke, shaking her head to direct me not to open the door yet. This means, “How soon will you be home, back in my clutches?”
I lie, telling her that we’re going for ice-cream with the other kids, but Keith and I will park and explore the new landscape of kissing. We both know this with no words. I add for good measure, “We’re rehearsing a new symphony. It might be later than usual tonight.”
“Which one?” Gram asks. I throw a little truth in with the lies, stirring it all up in an acceptable brew. “Beethoven’s Sixth.”
Keith knocks again. I put my hand on the knob. He’s so close, on the other side of the door, but I can’t open it yet, not until Gram has had her fill of questions.
“Have you already translated your Virgil and written that paper on Charles Dickens?” She must enjoy torturing me like this, making me wait to let Keith in.
I say yes, knowing that in Latin class I can finish the translation as I go. Charles Dickens is easy. I can write the essay in study hall and still get an A.
Finally, she nods for me to open the door. Keith gives a quick bow of his head as he smiles at my grandmother, casting his eyes down lest they betray his feelings for me. We know it must be a secret for now. His mother sends her greetings, he tells her rather formally. Gram’s face lights up with pleasure at being treated like a lady. I can see that he’s nervous and eager to be gone. His kisses, by contrast, will be calm and slow.
“So you’re going for ice cream afterward?” Gram asks, surprising me with her willingness to let me go.
Keith shoots a glance toward me, aware that he must deliver the correct answer. “With your permission.”
Gram smiles, relaxing into his polite ways. “Don’t be too late. Linda has lots of homework. She has to stay on the honor roll.”
“Oh, yes, yes indeed, very important. I’d never do anything to…”
“Go on now. Play some Beethoven for me.” Gram smiles and waves us away. Keith picks up my cello, careful not to touch me in front of her, and at last we go together into the night. He opens the door, stands back to guide me into his car. I am caught up in the love I feel, the scent of his car, the way the light glistens on his slicked back hair. His eyes so dark as he glances at me.
“Well, she seems to be in good spirits.” His voice trembles as he shifts into first gear. I have mentioned to him that Gram has her bad moods, and that she mustn’t get angry with us or else. He knows that she won’t make it easy on any boy who wants to get close to me. Gram does not want me to have a boyfriend because she wants me all to herself, which makes me want to get away all the more. The few times she has allowed me to go out with boys, she knew I didn’t like them all that much. She never gave her permission if it was a boy I liked. Because Keith is our old friend, it should be okay. Still, I don’t quite trust Gram not to mess it up.
I haven’t told Keith about the yardstick or the other awful things that go on in the house on Park Street. When he asked once about the blue welts on my hands, I told him I slammed a door on them. Another time I explained my bruises by saying I tripped and fell. I know the social rules—you never tattle on your family or air your dirty laundry. Everything is always fine; everyone is always doing great. You keep the secrets behind closed doors.
This is the first time since returning from the Brauninger’s three weeks ago that Keith and I have been alone. I worry that he won’t feel the same about me. Maybe he has forgott
en how beautiful we are together; maybe I am too much trouble for him. I try to read the look in his eyes, but it’s too dark in the car to quite see his eyes. I sit awkwardly against my side of the car. What does kissing mean to him? I don’t want him to think I’m bad or loose because I enjoy it. Despite the Baptist in me, if it is wrong to kiss Keith, I don’t care. It is the best feeling I’ve ever had—like flying.
At a stop sign, he looks over, his eyes full of warm affection. “Missed you,” he says, reaching for my hand. I lift off the earth. The smoke-filled house and Gram’s darkness is far away now.
When we get to rehearsal, Jodie reacts to us with wiggling eyebrows and sly looks. Dr. Wehner, the conductor of this adult symphony, whom we’ve all admired since we were young, steps up to the podium; the concert master sounds the A for us to tune up.
Beethoven sweeps me up in the swell and rise of sound, each instrument a voice in the conversation of intricate melodies and colorful chords. I see the green forests of Germany, castles, and majestic landscapes. The images and sounds soothe the hurt places inside me—fear of Gram and the future, the shakiness I feel that no one knows about. Beethoven is large enough to contain everything and transform it into hope.
Jodie looks at me knowingly, as only a best friend can. She understands that Keith is a wonderful oasis in the desert of my life with Gram, but even Jodie doesn’t know the truth about what goes on. It’s up to me to hold myself together until I’m old enough to escape. My survival is up to me and no one else, but it helps to have Jodie, Keith, and music to relieve my high-wire anxiety.
After rehearsal, Keith drives to a dirt road at the edge of town. He pulls over on the shoulder and turns off the motor. I can hardly breathe, anxious to be close with him again. The wheat fields are plowed under, the tops of the furrows catching flakes of moonlight. In spring these fields will be golden undulating waves. Now, in September, you can still feel some heat in the breeze, yet a hint of winter too.
Don't Call Me Mother Page 17