by Kari Lizer
My mother’s story is even more mysterious. The tidbits that have been gathered over the years are so sparse and so bizarre I’m not sure if I actually heard them, dreamed them, or am remembering scenes from an Ingmar Bergman movie. My mother is Swedish but was born in Finland. Or the opposite. My mother is a moving target. I feel whichever way I tell her story, she will insist I have it backward. Her mother, Ingeborg, had two sisters. When their mother died, the father remarried a terrible woman, referred to as “the step-monster,” who was dreadful to the three girls.
The middle sister couldn’t take it anymore, got in a canoe, rowed herself out to the middle of the lake in front of their house in Finland (or Sweden), tied bricks to her ankles, and tossed herself overboard, committing suicide. I only heard this story once from my grandma. When I asked my mother questions about it, she said, “Who told you that?”
I said, “Grandma.”
To which she replied, “Oh. I guess so then.”
“That’s what you have to say about your fifteen-year-old aunt tying bricks to her ankles and throwing herself out of a canoe?” I’m not the crazy one in this story, right? My mother never wanted to tell me too much about her mother because she feared I’d idolize her. Inga had three children by three different men, then kicked all the men to the curb, and I once said when I was in high school I thought that sounded like a good idea. It was hard to get any more information out of her after that.
At the end of her life, my grandmother lived at the Salton Sea, a briny, possibly toxic lake in the California desert, sitting right on top of the San Andreas Fault. It’s isolated and desolate, like living on the moon. I’d visit her, and we’d smoke cigarettes in her garage—away from her oxygen tank. We’d play Scrabble without talking much except for her to tell me she didn’t think I was attractive enough to be in front of the camera as an actress, but my brain was good, so maybe I could be a director. That was her idea of a compliment. When she died, she was cremated, and my parents went out to the desert and illegally threw her ashes off the side of the road.
Last week I found out that my dad’s dad had five siblings. Their parents couldn’t afford them and gave all five up to foster care. My grandfather ended up in a foster home with people who beat him on a regular basis, and he ran away at fourteen, living on his own after that. I thought my grandfather was an only child.
“Oh, no,” my dad says, his tongue much looser now that Alzheimer’s is eating away at the protective barrier that used to keep his secrets. “I’ve got something like forty-five cousins.” What? We have a giant tribe? We could have been having family reunions with T-shirts this whole time.
Finally, one recent Christmas morning, as everyone was having brunch at my house, I tried to slip in the burning question I’d been wanting the answer to for years. Taking advantage of my father’s low resistance, I casually asked, “What nationality are you, Dad?”
Without missing a beat, he said, “Jewish.” When I reacted, he corrected himself with a hasty “Dutch.”
I looked around the table. My mother was eating her quiche, unperturbed. “Did you hear that? Are we Jewish?” Nobody responded.
I know for a fact my mother would deny all of this if you called her up right now. Because that’s another thing she does, accuses me of imagining things that really happened. But that’s okay. I’m going to run with it. Because I’ve always done things differently in the family I created. I tell my stories over and over to my kids, whether they want to hear them or not. I say, “I love you.” I say, “I’m sorry.” Maybe having kids has softened me, and I’m more of a stew than I used to be. Or wanting to tell my stories is a reaction to my parents’ refusal to tell their stories. Or maybe I’m not as Scandinavian as I thought I was because suddenly I feel this urge to build a lakeside compound and start and end the day surrounded by my kids. We’ll reminisce and play cards, and they’ll ask me to tell the one about the time Grandpa said we were Jewish.
We’ll Call That Love
The college counselors at my children’s high school have asked me to speak next week at their seniors Parent Night. The theme of the event is “Dealing with Transition.” They’ve asked me to participate because I might be able to offer some insight and strategies for coping with the emptying nest. My twins graduated three years ago and sailed off to distant colleges—my daughter in Scotland, my son in Boston. My youngest is still at home, but he’s only a year away from making his getaway too. They provided me with a few suggested talking points. The first one was this: How do you stay connected to your children and attend to their needs from so far away? Should I break the bad news to them? You don’t.
I was warned when my kids were about to go off that I shouldn’t expect to hear much from them if things were going well. It’s when there’s trouble or unhappiness that you get the phone calls, so consider yourself lucky if you don’t speak to them for days on end. Well. No. That wasn’t going to work for me. They couldn’t just cut me off because they found something better to do, and I extracted promises from both of them that no matter what, they would stay in touch. I offered one hundred extra dollars monthly in the bank account to whichever one called most often—twins respond well to competition. It’s fine.
Both kids found themselves instantly enamored with their schools of choice. They made fast friends and loved the freedom of college life, which was great. But what about me? My son was completely awful about staying in touch with me.
Phone calls went unanswered, texts weren’t returned, and even though I knew this was supposed to be a good sign, I was frantic. I had to do something.
And this crisis led to strategies designed to force my son to honor my feelings of loss over his feelings of independence (we’ll call that love), which I would now share with the parents of Campbell Hall.
When days would go by without a word from him, I tried to lure him out of his silence with questions left on his voice mail that I didn’t really need answers to.
I started light and friendly with things like, “Hi, honey, I’m going to take your car in and get that scrape taken care of. Do you know the approximate date of the accident? I might be able to write it off.” No part of that was true, but he would have no way of knowing that since I’m the one who had taken care of all the boring details of his life so far. He’d never filled out an insurance form—a write-off meant nothing to him. And I got nothing back. So I’d try again twenty minutes later, injecting a little fear. “Hi, sweetheart, do you want me to make an appointment for your wisdom teeth during winter break? We really should get that taken care of before you start having pain—those teeth will start growing right into the bone, and you will want to die. Let me know!” When he still didn’t respond, I’d try again, slightly less cheerful, more direct: “Hey, bud, Donna’s son is thinking about applying to your school. I need to know if I can give him your phone number so he can ask you a few questions. Call me.” Still nothing.
I got increasingly less light and definitely more desperate. “Hey, Elias, I’m getting stuff ready to donate to the veterans. If you want to keep any of your soccer gear, you need to let me know by tomorrow. Where are you?” I thought this would get him since he’s practically a hoarder—a word he finds offensive, but the guy has held on to every pair of soccer cleats he’s worn on every team he’s belonged to since the fifth grade.
A couple of years ago, I thought one of the cats was peeing in the house. I bought a black light and was crawling around the floor like a crazy lady trying to find out where the smell was coming from—it led me straight to Elias’s room and the “cleat museum.” Turns out “old pubescent foot” smells a lot like cat piss. But even my threat of donating his prized possessions didn’t get a return phone call or text from my beloved boy, so finally, I got downright hostile: “Hey. You’re obviously busy enjoying the outrageously expensive private college education that I fucking pay for. You’re welcome. Too bad I raised a douchebag.”
This would usually get a pretty quick phone call t
hat started with him saying, “Mom! I was sleeping. What’s the matter with you?”
I would usually say something like, “What? I wasn’t serious. God, get a sense of humor.”
Him: “What was funny about that? I played it for my friends; they think you’re psycho.”
Me: “Well, I played it for my friends; they think I’m funny.” Not true. My friends were away at college.
I started to realize that I would have to employ the same strategy that I used to use with my potential high school boyfriends: I had to play it cool. I’d swear that I wasn’t going to call him again until he called me first. The problem with giving someone the silent treatment when they are having the time of their life away from you is that they don’t notice they’re being frozen out.
So then I’d have to call to inform him I wasn’t going to call, which made me seem super desperate and not all aloof and mysterious like I was going for. God, I was totally blowing this. Very much like I did with my potential high school boyfriends.
When the passive-aggressive and purely aggressive phone calls didn’t work and the cold shoulder seemed to make him happy, I realized I had to develop a new strategy to make him dependent on me (we’ll call that love), and this is what I would share with the parents of Campbell Hall: If they aren’t responding to your texts and emails, call the bank and tell them your credit card has been stolen, the one that he has for “emergencies.” The first time he tries to charge his “emergency” burrito at Chipotle and that card gets rejected, you can be sure you’ll get a phone call in no time.
When you give up on direct contact and are just looking to stay abreast of their movements and activities, another strategy that is effective but slightly evil requires iPhones connected by a family plan with your service provider. Simply go to the settings menu, text messages, add your child’s number to your preferences, and instantly you’ll start receiving copies of their texts, ingoing and outgoing, without them knowing. This can be very informative and definitely makes you feel like you’re part of their lives once again. In my defense, I discovered this by accident. Our phones got linked through some iCloud glitch. I just didn’t look for a way to unlink them right away. Three weeks. It was the only way to make sure he was alive! It’s the college equivalent of looking into their crib and making sure they’re still breathing.
When the texts started coming to my phone, I felt like I was really in the know, and I liked it. I knew where everyone was meeting after soccer practice. I knew where the parties were this weekend. I knew some unwanted details about what some friend with a New Jersey area code did with a dance major named “Haley” after the party at “Toad’s” house. I also knew that it was very, very wrong to invade another person’s privacy like that. Even if you gave birth to that person and they’re being a dick by not staying in touch even though they know how much that hurts you. It’s wrong and can end up biting you in the ass when the text tone wakes you up in the middle of the night and there’s a message to your son: “Dude. Did the police just let you go?” There is such a thing as too much knowing.
Which then brings me to Annabel. My daughter has decided she loves Scotland. She uses expressions like queue up and tells me that her new flat doesn’t have a lift, so she has to walk the stairs. She refers to some guy in town named Hash as her bartender. She doesn’t freeze me out. She tells me everything. When she’s at school, she Skypes me sometimes daily. Sometimes drunk. Sometimes hungover. Sometimes when she should be in class. Always in bed. She thinks she’s my bud. She laughingly tells me, with the bluster of nineteen, stories of friends who got lost on their way home from a party and were found the next morning sleeping on the beach that they thought was their couch. Or someone who thought they were being kidnapped by a weirdo taxi driver but managed to jump out of the car when he stopped to light his cigarette. It’s all adventure to her, and I know that she exaggerates the details to make her seem wilder than she is, the same way I exaggerate my stories to make me seem crazier than I am—but it puts a knot in my stomach. Because I know that in spite of their good fortune and big brains and mostly good sense so far, bad things can happen out there.
I know because Stephanie Cohen, the coolest girl in our group, got lost to heroin addiction. And Mark Wilder, our nineteen-year-old small-time pot dealer, wrapped his car around a tree. And Marie Merrick killed herself over a bad breakup at twenty-two.
And now we’re supposed to turn our babies loose in the world and just hope for the best? The unknowing is unacceptable, and the knowing is unbearable. Okay. Maybe I won’t share this with the parents of the current graduating class. They’ll learn it soon enough on their own. Maybe I’ll just skip over that talking point.
The second thing they’d like for me to discuss is this: Since you still have one child at home, how has the family dynamic changed given that two left at once? Right. My poor youngest child, who has become the focus of my laser-like attention (we’ll call that love) in the absence of his brother and sister. Because it’s just the two of us now, we are able to enjoy a much more intimate relationship since I don’t have to divide my attention among three human beings. Things have loosened up around the house. Not wanting to repeat the mistakes of the past—like urging his brother and sister to get as far away from home as possible and experience the world!—I’m slightly less concerned with his SAT scores. Would it be the worst thing to bomb out at your college of choice and spend a couple of years regrouping at our local community college? No, it would not. Think of the fun we’ll have! We can eat pancakes for dinner and keep the pool heated all year round. I’m trying to make home the best place there is. We watch TV while we eat; there are no chores or pressure to do something meaningful with his weekends. It’s all about keeping my man happy… keeping my son happy.
And mostly he’s enjoying the extra attention and perks that come with being an only child, though sometimes it’s too much and he pretends to have more homework than he actually does just so he can stay in his room and take a break from me. I get it. I’m a lot.
The final topic they’d like for me to discuss is this: What strategies do you recommend for adjusting to your new empty-nest status? Different parents cope with loss differently. I worked through my abandonment issues the only way I know how: I wrote a TV pilot about it.
THE MIDDLE AGES
Pilot
INT. DORM ROOM—MOVE-IN DAY
A small, standard dorm room at a private East Coast college. Zach, eighteen and unsure, and his dad, Brad, fifty-one and good-natured, stand helplessly off to the side while a manically upbeat Amy, Zach’s mother, Brad’s wife, is sucking the air from a space bag with a hand pump.
Zach’s dorm room has been organized and color coordinated within an inch of its life. There are perfectly contrasting linens, a pop-up hamper, desk caddy, mini-fridge, laundry drying rack, iPhone charger/speaker, etc. It’s an ad for the Bed Bath & Beyond college catalog.
AMY
(AS SHE PUMPS) You’re going to want to swap out your summer clothes for the winter ones around October. I’ve got Boston weather on my phone, so I’ll text you. Then you just put it all in these bags, suck out the air, pop it in the under-bed bin, and ta-da, no storage problem!
Amy seals the collapsed space bag, places it in the under-bed storage container, rolls it under the bed, and looks around.
AMY (CONT’D)
There you go! All the comforts of home!
REVEAL ZACH’S ROOMMATE, sitting on his bare mattress on the other, undecorated side of the room. His parents are nowhere in sight. He’s staring at Amy’s masterpiece and clutching an Xbox.
Amy crosses to Zach, holding a large framed picture of the two of them.
AMY (CONT’D)
(RE: THE PICTURE) Um, I don’t know where you want to put this, sweetie. There’s not much more room on the desk, but maybe you can use some of that sticky putty I put in your desk drawer to hang it on the wall. It doesn’t damage the paint.
ZACH
It’s kin
d of big.
AMY
Oh, I get it. You don’t want a big picture of your mom in your dorm room?
She laughs, as if she’s a good sport, then snatches the picture away.
BRAD
Okay. Well, I guess we’ll leave you to it, buddy. (SEARCHING FOR PARENTAL WISDOM) Drink responsibly.
Amy looks at Brad as if to say, “Seriously?”
ZACH
Okay, Dad. Bye. Bye, Mom.
AMY
Bye? Eighteen years and then just bye?
Amy looks to Brad and realizes that’s exactly right.
AMY (CONT’D)
Right. Well. Bye.
There’s a moment where nobody moves. Brad breaks it by hugging Zach.
BRAD
I’m proud of you, Z.
ZACH
Thanks, Dad.
Zach turns to Amy.
ZACH (CONT’D)
Thanks, Mom.
AMY
I didn’t do anything.
Amy quickly hugs Zach, then pulls away with a crisp pat on his shoulder.
AMY (CONT’D)
You’re going to be great!
ZACH
I love you, Mom.
AMY
Yep. Yep.
With that, Amy, picture in hand, turns and walks out the door, a frozen smile on her face. Brad follows.
EXT. DORM—MOMENTS LATER
Brad and Amy come out of the building into the September sunshine. Amy still has the smile on her face.
BRAD
Oh shit. I forgot to give Zachy a credit card. I’ll be right back.
Amy nods, smile still frozen. Brad exits back inside. A beat, then Amy drops to the ground like a stone. She clutches the photo and starts to cry. Quiet and contained, at first, then progressively louder and messier. The crying gains momentum until she’s crying so hard it looks like she might hurt herself. Other parents and students stop to watch, unsure of what to do.