As far back as I remember, I've had two mothers.
They live in one body.
One was for show, one was for keeps.
I still hear from people who knew my mother when we girls were little. "Oh, she was such a saint..." and even "What do you MEAN you don't see your mother often? She sacrificed so MUCH for you!"
I nod and smile, then move along. Show Mom had friends. I no longer feel the need to try to introduce them to the mom who lived behind closed doors, tucked out of their view. They never listen, anyway. You never want your heroine to fail your story. Block out the truth and look the other way.
The favorite legend of one woman back home is how she will never forget my mother's selflessness and sacrifice. I call it The Popsicle Story.
She remembers clearly how mother brought my sister and I into the cafe in our dusty little town. Poor mother only had a quarter to her name, but instead of buying a cup of coffee for herself, she bought a popsicle to split in half for my sister and I to enjoy.
Of course, she INSISTED on giving mother a cup of coffee and a load of sympathy. That kind of sacrifice just had to be rewarded.
I remember the yelling and fussing it took her to get us to sit still long enough to work the rats out of our hair and corral us into decent enough clothes to make the outing, the promise of a popsicle used as a bribe and a weapon. I remember feeling a little confused when she told the nice cafe lady how we had been begging for our popsicle, since I knew not to ask for things, let alone ask more than ONCE. That would take a lot of nerve.
Show Daughter didn't say anything, though. She had half a popsicle.
We went home, the other mother went back to whatever it was she did that wasn't cleaning the piles of junk in our little house. She put her ratty old sweater on, the inner edge crunchy from her habit of picking her nose and hiding the results. She would roll up her sleeve or pants leg and work on the scabs for a while most days. Sissy and I went out to play in the yard and stay out of her hair until Daddy got home.
It wasn't until I was an adult I learned the reason mother only had a quarter to her name. She had set up accounts my father didn't know about and charged hundreds of dollars more than my father was earning working at the bar. The money had to be safe with HIM so we could keep the lights working.
Show Mom never mentioned that, in fact, I grew up resenting my father for treating her so badly. Some of my earliest memories are of him losing his temper at poor, innocent mother. I would hide until the storm had passed, wondering what I did wrong. Real Mom would be sure to explain to us after he left for work the next day, though, so I didn't have to wait long to find out what I shouldn't have done to start trouble for her. Show Mom showed up in front of Daddy a lot, too, it seemed, and expected Show Daughters to back her up.
So it goes... years of trying to remember to NOT expose Show Mom as a fraud. I thought I was crazy at times, especially when I started to grow up and question for a change. When I got to spend a few days with my best friend Sara, I saw that HER mother was the same at home as she was in public. She was warm and kind. I kept wondering if she was just waiting for me to go home so she could be herself... but that WAS her. It blew my mind. The only woman I knew to that point who was consistent and loving had been my Grandma, and I didn't get enough time with her.
I found my voice after becoming a mother myself at a very young age. The first time my little doll found HER voice and got angry at me, yelling "I DON'T WUV YOUUUU!" it cut like a knife. Mom's words started to flow from MY mouth, and it stopped me in my tracks. My blood ran cold. I knew my mother had worked her way into my soul, and I vowed to do better for mine.
I still have my pride, and I still have things I can't show to everyone, but I've worked hard to shed the idea I can't show my real self to the world and be okay, even admired, for who I AM.
My son wants to visit his grandmother when we travel up for a family reunion soon. Show Grandma lives in a nice group home, after showing too much of herself to the last places we tried to have her live. This will give her the chance to play her Abandoned Little Sweet Old Lady role to the hilt for a new audience.
I should have turned out to be an actress, too. I can pretend to give a fuck.
