Chapter One
mother’s day
May 9, 2004. One of those aloof-seeming spring days: very sunny but not
very warm.
Gusts of wind rushing down from Lake Ontario in mean little skirmishes
like hit-and-run. A sky hard-looking as blue tile. That wet-grassy smell
lifting from the neat rectangular front lawns on Deer Creek Drive.
In patches lilac bushes were blooming up and down the street. Vivid
glowing-purple, lavender like swipes of paint.
At 43 Deer Creek, my parents’ house, where Mom lived alone now that Dad
had died, there were too many vehicles parked in the driveway and at the
curb. My brother-in-law’s Land Rover, my Aunt Tabitha’s old black
hearse-sized Caddie, these made sense, but there were others including a
low-slung lipstick-red sports car shaped like a missile.
Who did Mom know, who’d drive such a car?
Damned if I wanted to meet him. (Had to be a him.)
My mother was always introducing me to “eligible bachelors.” Since I was
involved with an ineligible man.
It was like Mom to invite people outside the family for Mother’s Day. It
was like Mom to invite people who were practically strangers into her
house.
I parked the car across the street. I’d begun to whistle. It seemed to
tamp down my adrenaline, whistling when I was in danger of becoming
over-excited. My father had whistled a lot around the house.
Mother’s Day: I was bringing Mom a present so soft, so gossamer-light it
seemed to have no weight but lay across my outstretched arms like
something sleeping. I’d spent a frustrating half-hour wrapping it in
rainbow tin foil, crisscrossing the foil with multi-colored yarns instead
of ribbon; I had a vision of the sort of wild/funny/funky look I wanted
for the gift, and had to settle for this cross between New Age and
Kindergarten. I’d taken a half-day off from work to find an appropriate
gift for my mother who presented a riddle to her grown daughters, for she
seemed in need of nothing.
Anyway, nothing we could give her.
We’d wanted to take Mom out, of course. My sister Clare and me. Why not,
for once, a Mother’s Day meal in elegant surroundings, the Mt. Ephraim Inn
for instance. No need for Mom to prepare one of her complicated meals,
work herself into a state of nerves inviting guests at the last minute
like a train hooking on extra cars, careening and swerving along the
tracks!
No need. Except of course Mom resisted. Maybe when Dad had been alive, if
he’d insisted on taking her out she’d have consented, but now Dad was
gone, there was just Clare and me hoping to persuade our mother to behave
reasonably.
You know how I love to cook. This is the nicest Mother’s Day present you
girls can give me, my family visiting and letting me cook for them.
Then, vehemently as if protecting her innocent/ignorant daughters from
being swindled Pay prices like that for food? When I can prepare a meal
for us for a fraction of the cost, and better?
There were three ways into Mom’s house: front door, side door, through the
garage. Most days I used the side door, that opened directly into the
kitchen.
The door to which Mom had affixed little bells that tinkled merrily, like
a shopkeeper’s door, when you pushed it open.
“Ohhh Nikki! What have you done with your hair!”
First thing Mom said to me. Before I was through the doorway and into the
kitchen. Before she hugged me stepping back with this startled look in her
face.
I would remember the way Mom’s voice lifted on hair like the cry of a bird
shot in mid-flight.
Mom had a round childlike face that showed every emotion clear as water.
Her skin was flushed as if windburnt, her eyes were wide-open
greeny-amber. Since Dad’s death she’d become a darting little hummingbird
of a woman. Her shock at my appearance was such, I’d have sworn what I
heard her say was What have you done with my hair?
Innocently I said I thought I’d told her, I was having my hair cut?
“Cut.”
Meaning, what an understatement!
I was thirty-one years old. Mom was fifty-six. We’d been having these
exchanges for almost three decades. You’d have thought we were both
accustomed to them by now, but we didn’t seem to be. I could feel Mom’s
quickened heartbeat like my own.
This time, the situation was pretty tame. I hadn’t run away from home as
I’d done as a teenager, or, worse yet, returned home abruptly and
unexpectedly from college refusing to explain why. I hadn’t announced that
I was engaged to a young man my parents scarcely knew, nor even that I’d
broken off the engagement. (Twice. Two very different young men.) I hadn’t
quit my current job in a succession of boring jobs. Hadn’t “gone off ”
with a not-quite-divorced man nor even by myself cross-country in a
rattletrap Volkswagen van to backpack in the Grand Tetons, in Idaho. All
I’d done was have my hair cut punk-spiky style and darkened to a shade of
inky-maroon that, in certain lights, glared iridescent. No strand of hair
longer than one inch, shaved at the sides and back of my head. You could
say this was a chic-druggie look of another era or you could say that I
looked like someone who’d stuck her finger into an electric socket.
Mom smiled bravely. It was Mother’s Day after all, there were guests in
the other room. Wasn’t Gwen Eaton known in Mt. Ephraim, New York, in the
Chautauqua Valley seventy miles south of Lake Ontario, as uncomplaining,
unself-pitying, good-natured and good-hearted and indefatigably
optimistic?
Hadn’t her high school nickname been Feather?
“Well, Nikki! You’d be a beauty, no matter if you were bald.”
Rising now on her tiptoes to give me a belated hug. Just a little harder
than ordinary, to signal how she loved me even more, because I was a trial
to her.
(Continues…)
Ecco
ISBN: 0-06-081621-X
Excerpted from Missing Mom
by Joyce Carol Oates Excerpted by permission.
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