Seven
“I told your grandmother that she should have come with me for this visit,” Kathy said while examining a pair of boots in the floor mirror. “I don’t know why she’s so afraid of flying.”
“Everything is scary until you do it once,” said Sarah. “Think about it: the first day of a new job, or the first time you ride a bike… they’re scary things, but not nearly as scary as the thought of something the size of a whale being able to leave the ground. It’s really an absurd concept, when you think about it. What were we thinking?”
“But statistically, it’s more dangerous to ride in a car,” Kathy pointed out, as though she needed to convince Sarah, too.
“Statistics have nothing to do with familiarity. I knew a guy once who would ski at absolutely horrifying speeds, bungee jump, ride motorcycles and go rock climbing without ropes to support him. But he was absolutely terrified of flying. It was statistically safer than most of the things he did for fun, but he wasn’t nearly as comfortable with it.”
“I just don’t understand it,” Kathy said. “And I just know that she’s sitting at home, thinking that I’m a terrible daughter for leaving town for a few days. I feel so guilty about it.”
“Don’t feel guilty. It’s her choice.” Sarah held up a pair of red mary janes. “I don’t know why, but I like these. They look like good shoes for walking the city, something nicer than my bulky running shoes.”
“So buy them,” Kathy said. “One in each color.”
“I don’t like them that much,” said Sarah. “One pair will do.”
“Your choice,” her mother said with a shrug. “Maybe I should buy a pair of shoes for Grandma. Something to show her that I’m thinking about her.”
“Oh no. She won’t keep them. It’s just one more thing to return, and then you’ll feel bad that she’s returning them. No. Just give her a call to let her know that you’re thinking of her.”
“I do call,” Kathy said. “You know that I call her three times a day.”
Sarah was amused by the way her mother underestimated the number of calls per day. As far as she could tell, her mother and grandmother had spoken at least seven times each day. But Sarah assumed that her mother was only counting the calls that might have some substance, like the end-of-day recap, rather than quickies like, “I heard on the radio that they’re running an expose on supermarkets on 60 Minutes tonight.”
The calls really had nothing to do with television schedules. It was Kathy’s way of making sure that her mother was ok, and more importantly, that she was still speaking to her. Convinced that there was a boatload of resentment about this and any other trip, Kathy lived in fear that her mother would one day cease to speak to her. After all of these years of living for and through her mother, Kathy was terrified by the thought of being out in the world on her own, having to think and feel for herself.
Sarah knew the feeling. In spite of the fact that she was subject to the same forces, she never really understood why. It was like gravity. Sure, she knew that if you dropped an object, it fell to the floor. But the complexities of the “why” behind it were somewhat more complicated. Much like physics, she was sure that whole thesis programs could be easily based on the strength of the pull between generations, and how that force caused things to be drawn together, yet simultaneously be pulled apart. Physics teaches you that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, but in families it’s modified to say, “every action has a disproportionally larger overreaction.”
“And how is she today?” Sarah asked.
“Oh, she says she’s fine, but I can tell that she’s not,” Kathy said while flagging a salesperson to bring her an 8 ½. “She’s upset with me. And that makes me more upset.”
“Mom, you have to let it go,” Sarah began for the jillionth time. “You don’t have to feel guilty about everything in the world. You can’t spend your entire life sitting at Grandma’s house because you’re afraid that every move you make is wrong.”
“I don’t have to worry that every move is wrong. Every move is wrong. This is Grandma, remember?” Kathy stopped herself, unable to even say that much without feeling guilty. “But she is my mother and your grandmother, and she deserves our respect. You just need to remember that it’s important not to upset her, and to treat her with respect. Because, you know, she deserves it. All she wants is our respect, because she’s earned it over the years.”
“Mom, you’re repeating yourself,” Sarah pointed out.
“I just don’t think you understand,” Kathy said, black stiletto boot in hand. “We have to show her respect as a sign of her authority. Otherwise, the guilt comes out. She uses guilt to get what she wants in life.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound like anyone I know,” Sarah said with ample sarcasm. “Not at all.”
“What? Who?”
“You!” Sarah said, her tone clearly stating that this was the world’s most obvious conclusion.
“I have never used guilt to influence your life!” Kathy exclaimed.
“Oh, no, never. ‘What would people think, Sarah?’ Or how about the old favorite: ‘I’m not angry. I’m just very disappointed in you.’”
“I don’t say those things!”
Sarah practically threw a snakeskin pump at her mother. “What the hell are you talking about? You say that stuff all the time!”
“Never! I would never say those things to you!”
Sarah quickly rattled off examples. There was the time that she was late getting home for Sunday dinner because she fell off her bike. The wheel of the bike—and fortunately not Sarah—was jutting out into the road and was run over by a passing car. A bloodied, scraped-up Sarah struggled home with a bike that wouldn’t roll. Kathy, having received a stern lecture about respecting others’ time, told Sarah that she wasn’t angry that she was home late, just very disappointed. When Sarah tried to protest that there was no way that she could have predicted a bike accident, her mother made certain that she knew that the guilt and disappointment were coming from two generations. Her knees would heal, but she had “breached trust” with her mother that wouldn’t be easily repaired. There was the time that she was caught eating chocolate cupcakes at a friend’s 8th birthday party, a food that her mother had forbidden. “How can I trust you?” Kathy asked. “Every time I let you out of my sight, you disobey me. I’m very disappointed in you.”
Kathy sat before her, jaw dropped. “I never said that,” she said quietly.
“Yes, you did. I remember both instances quite clearly.”
“Oh my god,” Kathy whispered. “I’m just like her.”
“No,” Sarah said, trying to cushion the blow. “Not exactly. You’re much warmer and more caring and giving. But there are times where it’s clear whose daughter you are.”
Kathy looked stricken. “That’s not the way I want to be,” she said, her tone almost begging for forgiveness. “I never wanted to be like that. Not with you.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Kathy asked.
“Well, I mean, I thought you knew.” Sarah couldn’t imagine how this could be a surprise. “You know, it would be like telling you that you have blue eyes.”
“Wow. It’s really that obvious?”
“I’m afraid so, Mom. But never fear. I still speak to you in spite of it all.” She tried to make her tone playful and light, but her mother was crushed to the core.
“Is this why you moved away?” Kathy asked.
“I moved because I was offered a job,” Sarah said. “I wouldn’t have gone anywhere without it.”
“But no one else’s daughters moved away. Just you. Oh my god, is this because you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, Mom. I don’t like everything you say or do, but I’m not supposed to. I’m your daughter.”
“You don’t hate me?” Kathy was desperately looking for validation now.
“No, clearly I do not hate you. I wouldn’t take this kind of abuse from someone I hated.” She flashed a big smile and tried to get her mother to laugh at her joke, however lame.
“Not funny, Sarah. You’re making me feel awful.”
“At least you don’t look awful. You could be wearing that hideous paisley ruffled shirt!” They both chuckled at the thought of it. “Come on, let’s get these shoes and go back to my place.”
Kathy held two mismatched boots in her hands. “I don’t know which one to pick,” she said, still reeling.
“Buy both,” Sarah said. “It’s in our genes. You couldn’t even dream of buying just one pair.”
“No,” Kathy admitted. “You’re probably right. Everything enters the house in groups. Why is that?”
“We hoard,” Sarah said.
“What?”
“We hoard,” Sarah repeated.
“Oh, I thought you said something about whores,” Kathy said.
“Why would I say anything about whores? What does that have to do with shoes?”
“I have no idea,” Kathy answered. “That really didn’t make any sense at all.”
Sarah shook her head. “So are you going to be buying these or not?”
Kathy looked at the two boots and weighed them in her hands, as though this were a deciding factor, then looked at the mates on her feet. She stood and limped over to the mirror, one heel and one flat, then turned to examine each carefully. “I really can’t decide. They’re both cute, but not really what I’m looking for.”
“Then don’t get either,” Sarah said.
“I guess I’ll get both,” her mother replied.
“Good,” Sarah said. “Grandma will be pleased.”
“Everything is scary until you do it once,” said Sarah. “Think about it: the first day of a new job, or the first time you ride a bike… they’re scary things, but not nearly as scary as the thought of something the size of a whale being able to leave the ground. It’s really an absurd concept, when you think about it. What were we thinking?”
“But statistically, it’s more dangerous to ride in a car,” Kathy pointed out, as though she needed to convince Sarah, too.
“Statistics have nothing to do with familiarity. I knew a guy once who would ski at absolutely horrifying speeds, bungee jump, ride motorcycles and go rock climbing without ropes to support him. But he was absolutely terrified of flying. It was statistically safer than most of the things he did for fun, but he wasn’t nearly as comfortable with it.”
“I just don’t understand it,” Kathy said. “And I just know that she’s sitting at home, thinking that I’m a terrible daughter for leaving town for a few days. I feel so guilty about it.”
“Don’t feel guilty. It’s her choice.” Sarah held up a pair of red mary janes. “I don’t know why, but I like these. They look like good shoes for walking the city, something nicer than my bulky running shoes.”
“So buy them,” Kathy said. “One in each color.”
“I don’t like them that much,” said Sarah. “One pair will do.”
“Your choice,” her mother said with a shrug. “Maybe I should buy a pair of shoes for Grandma. Something to show her that I’m thinking about her.”
“Oh no. She won’t keep them. It’s just one more thing to return, and then you’ll feel bad that she’s returning them. No. Just give her a call to let her know that you’re thinking of her.”
“I do call,” Kathy said. “You know that I call her three times a day.”
Sarah was amused by the way her mother underestimated the number of calls per day. As far as she could tell, her mother and grandmother had spoken at least seven times each day. But Sarah assumed that her mother was only counting the calls that might have some substance, like the end-of-day recap, rather than quickies like, “I heard on the radio that they’re running an expose on supermarkets on 60 Minutes tonight.”
The calls really had nothing to do with television schedules. It was Kathy’s way of making sure that her mother was ok, and more importantly, that she was still speaking to her. Convinced that there was a boatload of resentment about this and any other trip, Kathy lived in fear that her mother would one day cease to speak to her. After all of these years of living for and through her mother, Kathy was terrified by the thought of being out in the world on her own, having to think and feel for herself.
Sarah knew the feeling. In spite of the fact that she was subject to the same forces, she never really understood why. It was like gravity. Sure, she knew that if you dropped an object, it fell to the floor. But the complexities of the “why” behind it were somewhat more complicated. Much like physics, she was sure that whole thesis programs could be easily based on the strength of the pull between generations, and how that force caused things to be drawn together, yet simultaneously be pulled apart. Physics teaches you that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, but in families it’s modified to say, “every action has a disproportionally larger overreaction.”
“And how is she today?” Sarah asked.
“Oh, she says she’s fine, but I can tell that she’s not,” Kathy said while flagging a salesperson to bring her an 8 ½. “She’s upset with me. And that makes me more upset.”
“Mom, you have to let it go,” Sarah began for the jillionth time. “You don’t have to feel guilty about everything in the world. You can’t spend your entire life sitting at Grandma’s house because you’re afraid that every move you make is wrong.”
“I don’t have to worry that every move is wrong. Every move is wrong. This is Grandma, remember?” Kathy stopped herself, unable to even say that much without feeling guilty. “But she is my mother and your grandmother, and she deserves our respect. You just need to remember that it’s important not to upset her, and to treat her with respect. Because, you know, she deserves it. All she wants is our respect, because she’s earned it over the years.”
“Mom, you’re repeating yourself,” Sarah pointed out.
“I just don’t think you understand,” Kathy said, black stiletto boot in hand. “We have to show her respect as a sign of her authority. Otherwise, the guilt comes out. She uses guilt to get what she wants in life.”
“Oh, that doesn’t sound like anyone I know,” Sarah said with ample sarcasm. “Not at all.”
“What? Who?”
“You!” Sarah said, her tone clearly stating that this was the world’s most obvious conclusion.
“I have never used guilt to influence your life!” Kathy exclaimed.
“Oh, no, never. ‘What would people think, Sarah?’ Or how about the old favorite: ‘I’m not angry. I’m just very disappointed in you.’”
“I don’t say those things!”
Sarah practically threw a snakeskin pump at her mother. “What the hell are you talking about? You say that stuff all the time!”
“Never! I would never say those things to you!”
Sarah quickly rattled off examples. There was the time that she was late getting home for Sunday dinner because she fell off her bike. The wheel of the bike—and fortunately not Sarah—was jutting out into the road and was run over by a passing car. A bloodied, scraped-up Sarah struggled home with a bike that wouldn’t roll. Kathy, having received a stern lecture about respecting others’ time, told Sarah that she wasn’t angry that she was home late, just very disappointed. When Sarah tried to protest that there was no way that she could have predicted a bike accident, her mother made certain that she knew that the guilt and disappointment were coming from two generations. Her knees would heal, but she had “breached trust” with her mother that wouldn’t be easily repaired. There was the time that she was caught eating chocolate cupcakes at a friend’s 8th birthday party, a food that her mother had forbidden. “How can I trust you?” Kathy asked. “Every time I let you out of my sight, you disobey me. I’m very disappointed in you.”
Kathy sat before her, jaw dropped. “I never said that,” she said quietly.
“Yes, you did. I remember both instances quite clearly.”
“Oh my god,” Kathy whispered. “I’m just like her.”
“No,” Sarah said, trying to cushion the blow. “Not exactly. You’re much warmer and more caring and giving. But there are times where it’s clear whose daughter you are.”
Kathy looked stricken. “That’s not the way I want to be,” she said, her tone almost begging for forgiveness. “I never wanted to be like that. Not with you.”
“I know, Mom.”
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Kathy asked.
“Well, I mean, I thought you knew.” Sarah couldn’t imagine how this could be a surprise. “You know, it would be like telling you that you have blue eyes.”
“Wow. It’s really that obvious?”
“I’m afraid so, Mom. But never fear. I still speak to you in spite of it all.” She tried to make her tone playful and light, but her mother was crushed to the core.
“Is this why you moved away?” Kathy asked.
“I moved because I was offered a job,” Sarah said. “I wouldn’t have gone anywhere without it.”
“But no one else’s daughters moved away. Just you. Oh my god, is this because you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, Mom. I don’t like everything you say or do, but I’m not supposed to. I’m your daughter.”
“You don’t hate me?” Kathy was desperately looking for validation now.
“No, clearly I do not hate you. I wouldn’t take this kind of abuse from someone I hated.” She flashed a big smile and tried to get her mother to laugh at her joke, however lame.
“Not funny, Sarah. You’re making me feel awful.”
“At least you don’t look awful. You could be wearing that hideous paisley ruffled shirt!” They both chuckled at the thought of it. “Come on, let’s get these shoes and go back to my place.”
Kathy held two mismatched boots in her hands. “I don’t know which one to pick,” she said, still reeling.
“Buy both,” Sarah said. “It’s in our genes. You couldn’t even dream of buying just one pair.”
“No,” Kathy admitted. “You’re probably right. Everything enters the house in groups. Why is that?”
“We hoard,” Sarah said.
“What?”
“We hoard,” Sarah repeated.
“Oh, I thought you said something about whores,” Kathy said.
“Why would I say anything about whores? What does that have to do with shoes?”
“I have no idea,” Kathy answered. “That really didn’t make any sense at all.”
Sarah shook her head. “So are you going to be buying these or not?”
Kathy looked at the two boots and weighed them in her hands, as though this were a deciding factor, then looked at the mates on her feet. She stood and limped over to the mirror, one heel and one flat, then turned to examine each carefully. “I really can’t decide. They’re both cute, but not really what I’m looking for.”
“Then don’t get either,” Sarah said.
“I guess I’ll get both,” her mother replied.
“Good,” Sarah said. “Grandma will be pleased.”
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