Donna & Sharry

Donna opened her eyes.  Was it a school day?  Yes, she remembered with relief.  Another school day was better than being home with her step-mother.  She looked over at the alarm clock.  Two more minutes and the alarm will make that loud bell-ringing sound - the annoying alarm.  She reached over and turned it off.  After a few stretches, she looked over at her younger sister Sharry who was curled in a ball, sleeping soundly.  "Wake up!" Donna called out.  Sharry, three years younger, did not stir.  Donna pulled her pillow from under her head and threw it at her sister. Sharry stirred, but did not open her eyes.

Donna sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her sister.  To her, Sharry was whiny and never listened.  Seemed like she made her life harder by not paying attention.  Like the time that Sharry put her hand on the gas stove flame even though she had been warned many times not to or the time she walked across the street holding her umbrella in front of her, not seeing the cars that almost hit her. Didn't matter that Mom had warned her many times not to hold her umbrella in front of her face.

Mom.  Donna sighed.  Why?  Why was Mom not here?  Why did she die?  Why did life have to change? Why was Ruth here?  What had they done so bad to deserve Ruth?

Donna stiffened as she heard footsteps in the hallway.  The bedroom door opened with a jolt and Ruth stood there glaring at the two girls.  "Why aren't you up?  Why do I have to come up here every morning to get you out of bed?" Ruth asked as she entered the room with a commanding walk.

"We are getting up," Donna said as she stared back at her step-mother.

"Your sister isn't moving," Ruth retorted as she pulled the covers off of Sharry.  "Get up, Sharry.  Now!"

Sharry slowly opened her eyes and immediately started to cry.  Crying had become a daily occurrence for Sharry.  Her sobs grew louder.

Ruth grabbed Sharry and pulled her upright.  "Stop crying.  Get ready for school,"  Ruth said in a tense voice.

But still the sobs continued.  Ruth turned abruptly and walked out the bedroom door, calling over her shoulder, "Get her up, Donna.  Breakfast in ten minutes.  Don't forget the blinds."

Donna sighed and stood up.  Mom used to come in softly every morning and open the blinds so the morning sunlight would help wake the girls.  She would tickle them until their eyes were completely open and then the three of them would talk about the day ahead before Mom went to make breakfast and the girls got dressed.

"Hey, Sharry, stop crying and get ready," she said sadly to her sister.  "I don't, don't want to," Sharry stammered.

"So, you would rather stay here all day with HER?"  Donna asked with contempt.  She caught the harshness of her tone and tried to soften it.  "Come on, lets go."

"I want Mommy, " Sharry wailed.

Donna sighed deeply, "Stop it, Sharry, just stop it!  Every morning, the same thing.  She's gone.  Don't you get it?  She is gone - GONE - as in forever.  It will be the same every day, forever." Then pleadingly, "Please stop putting me through this every morning.  Please."

Donna went to the bathroom and finished up quickly.  Sharry was still sitting on the edge of the bed when she returned.  She pulled Sharry to her feet and pushed her in the direction of the bathroom.  Donna frowned as she saw the clothes that Ruth had set out for both girls the night before.  Why does she do that? she thought.  Donna had been choosing her own outfits since she was seven years old and now at eleven, she was being treated lke a stupid little girl.  No sense in arguing, so she dressed in what was laid out, combed her hair, and slipped on her saddle shoes.

Still no Sharry.  Typical.  Donna knocked on the bathroom door, "Come on.  She will be up here in a few minutes if we aren't at the table."  Sniffles were Sharry's answer, but she opened the door and followed Donna to the bedroom.  Donna looked at her eight-year-old sister's swollen eyes and blotchy cheeks and then grabbed one of the laid-out pieces of clothing.  Sharry stood completely still, so Donna was forced to dress her sister.  Like dressing a doll, Donna thought, a big, motionless doll.

"Ten minutes, I said, ten minutes!" Ruth yelled from the bottom of the stairs. "Can't you two tell time?"

Donna combed Sharry's hair, grabbed her arm and hurried her to the stairs.  Ruth stood at the bottom glaring up at them.  The girls reached the bottom step before she asked, "Blinds?"

Donna sighed, turned Sharry around and they climbed back up the stairs.  In their room, the closed blinds on the three sets of windows seemed to be mocking them.  Donna opened the blinds on two windows and Sharry on one.  Why the blinds were such a big deal for Ruth was beyond what they could understand, but if the blinds were not opened every morning, Ruth had a meltdown.  Both girls noticed that they had not made their beds, which was another huge issue with Ruth, so they quickly pulled up, fluffed and tucked.  Having those morning chores was not that bad, but to brush teeth and hair, get dressed and do the chores was a lot to accomplish in ten minutes and ten minutes was all that Ruth allowed.

The girls went back down the stairs and into the kitchen where the bright yellow walls belied the heavy atmosphere.  Becky sat in her high chair, her light brown hair curling around her face, her gray eyes dancing with joy as she reached out to her big sisters.  Sharry and Donna stopped to hug her, but neither said a word.  They sat down and slowly began to eat the watery oatmeal that Ruth made nearly every morning. Mom used to make eggs and bacon or blueberry pancakes or waffles with syrup.  Now, they had to eat this disgusting, tasteless oatmeal, day after day.

Ruth sat down and fed Becky, cooing to her.  Donna and Sharry ate as fast as possible in silence.  As soon as they were done, they went to the dining room to gather their schoolbooks and then to the hall closet for their coats.  Ruth, with Becky in her arms, came to the front door to say good-bye.  For a moment, Ruth tried to sound motherly, "Have a good day at school, girls.  Be careful crossing the street."  She even smiled, for a second, but then her lips pursed as she warned them, "Those blinds better be open and the beds made or you will both be in trouble when you get home."  Both girls knew that trouble meant a long lecture and sitting in chairs in a corner for an hour or more and writing "I will open the blinds and make my bed every morning" one hundred times.

Sharry and Donna did not reply or even look at Ruth. They just hurried down the stairs and then down the stone path to the sidewalk.  They pulled on their jackets as they nearly ran to get away.

Donna heard the front door close and turned around to look at the two-story home that had once been happy.  She imagined how her mother used to look standing on the doorstep, wearing one of her colorful shirtwaist dresses and low-heeled pumps, smiling and waving at her older girls as they went off to school. Donna wiped away tears as they slipped down her wind-chilled cheeks. Then, she rushed to catch up with Sharry who was already at the sidewalk.

Ruth

Ruth walked out of the doctor's office into cloudy, cold weather.  The frigid breeze actually felt good.  She was flushed and her mind was spinning.  She needed to sit down.  She walked two blocks to a small park and sat down heavily on a wooden bench.  Just the movement of sitting down made her stomach lurch and she struggled not to throw up as she'd done for the last several weeks, multiple times a day.

As she feared, the doctor confirmed that she was pregnant.  Feared?  Well, maybe not. Her feelings were so confused.  Since marrying Ed a few months before she had been a mother to his three children - Donna, Sharry and Becky.  The older two, Donna and Sharry, were a daily challenge; so much so that she tried to convince Ed to send them to a boarding school.  Neither girl accepted her as a replacement for their deceased mother.  The girls seemed to plot against her, convincing their dad that she was mean, demanding and unreasonable.  She did not see herself that way.  She was strict, yes.  She expected the girls to behave a certain way, to have responsibilities.  Was that mean?  The girls complained to Ed every night.  Ed was annoyed to be in the middle of the drama and spent most evenings being angry with her.  No matter what she said to defend her stance, he remained aggravated.

But, then there was Becky.  She was the joy of Ruth's life.  Becky made the bad days better.  Becky was a kind, affectionate child.  Ruth watched with fascination as Becky learned more every day, amazed at each new bit of information that expanded Becky's world.

Ruth sighed.  She grew up never imagining having a baby.  Unlike other girls, she was more interested in sports than boys or planning weddings or dreaming of motherhood.  Loving Becky as much as she did came as a surprise.  Maybe she could love this new baby growing inside of her just as much.  But, pregnancy and childbirth were not her dreams.  The last few weeks of constant nausea just convinced her more that she was not cut out for what lay ahead.

And, what about her marriage, which was already stressed?  What would be Ed's reaction to this news?  He was a distant husband and father.  He had a strong since of obligation and followed through on what he thought he had to do, what was expected of him, but he was not that involved in the everyday lives of Ruth and the children.  He was only engaged when Donna and Sharry complained about Ruth.  Yes, that is when he definitely got involved, Ruth thought, always siding with them and never with her.

As the animosity with Ed increased, Ruth worried about the life of their marriage.  What would she do if he told her to get out?  If he divorced her?  Yes, their family life was often stressful and Ed could be moody and even explosive, but their lifestyle was still better than anything she had ever experienced.  She definitely did not want to go back to being a struggling legal secretary and going back to life in rural Maine was not an option she wanted to consider.  She shuddered from the thought and from the cold wind that blew across the park.  Maybe this pregnancy would assure that her marriage would continue, would save her from the much less attractive alternatives.

Nausea came in a wave that she could not control.  She leaped up from the park bench and vomited in a nearby trashcan.  Pulling a tissue from her pocket, Ruth cleaned her mouth and looked about her as she returned to the park bench.  No one was around, no one saw her disgusting action.  Why did pregnancy have to be so repulsive?

Ruth saw darker clouds gathering.  Snow?  She rested a few more minutes and then rose from the park bench.  A glance at her watch told her that the next bus would arrive in ten minutes.  She slowly walked toward the bus stop thinking about the conversation she would have with Ed that evening.

Oofie

Al pulled into the parking lot of the Glen Arm Lumber Company.  He was there to have a personal talk with his friend and the owner of the business, Ed.  Al's compact, sturdy body emerged from his car. Since the summer heat was already present on this early June day, Al was wearing shorts, a polo shirt and deck shoes.  His muscular legs hinted at his favorite pass-time of bicycle racing.  He was thirty-nine, but could have passed for a decade younger if not for his graying hair.

Al walked into the small store.  The wall to the right displayed carpentry tools of all sorts and sizes and the wall to the left contained various painting supplies.  In the center of the room were several display shelves with bins of nails, screws, and other such small items.  The wall on the other side of the bins had ceiling to floor shelves lined with cans of Dutch Boy paint.  Ed's one employee, Ronnie, was taking newly arrived paint cans from a carton and arranging them by color on the shelves.  To the far right was the service counter behind which sat Ed's desk, but his black executive chair was empty.

"Good morning, Al" Ronnie said as he turned around, "You're out early for a Saturday."

"Came by to have a talk with Ed, but it doesn't look like he's here.  Didn't see his car in the parking lot," Al replied as he walked around the center display racks.

Ronnie bent down to take another paint can from the carton. "Should be here any moment.  He called awhile ago.  Said he was running a little late.  Some problem at the house."

Ronnie was a tall and thin and in his mid-twenties.  He started working for Ed shortly after the lumber company opened three years before.

"No problem," Al replied, "I can wait. How's your wife doing?"

"Great. Thankfully this pregnancy is going smoothly," Ronnie said.  The big smile on his face showed how happy he was that he and his wife were not experiencing another miscarriage. In the past two years they had endured that heartbreak three times.

"Well, that's good news. I know the two of you are excited about becoming parents," Al said as he moved toward the door leading into the paint-mixing room. "I'm just gonna wander around in the yard while I wait."

Al went through the paint-mixing room and out into the yard where boards of lumber in various lengths and thicknesses were stacked eight to ten feet high.  He heard the sound of tires crackling over the gravel parking lot and walked to the front of the lumber yard where a large metal gate opened out to the parking area.

Ed was walking away from his car as Al called out his name.  Ed waved and walked over to his friend.  Al noticed for the first time that the hair in Ed's crew cut was totally gray and there were lines around his eyes.  He was not yet 42 years old, but he looked at least fifty.  The 18 months since Virginia's death had sped up the aging process for Ed.  Raising three daughters, even with the help of his mother and a part-time housekeeper, was not easy.

"Didn't know you were coming by," Ed said as he shook his friend's hand, "Chaos at the house this morning, so I'm running late.  My mother and the housekeeper just cannot get along.  Mom is too old to do the housework herself, but she insists on interfering with everything that Evelyn does.  She even accused Evelyn of stealing food from the kitchen."

"That's a tough situation, Ed.  Evelyn has worked for you for quite awhile, hasn't she?" Al asked. "You don't think Evelyn would steal, do you?"

Ed shook his head and leaned against the fence. "I don't think so.  She helped out when Virginia was pregnant with Becky and then I hired her to work 20 hours a week after Gin died.  Hard to imagine she would do that."

"See, you need a wife, Ed. Come to our house for dinner tomorrow night and meet that rider I was telling you about. Who knows, maybe you'll click and your kids will get a new mother," Al said with a smile.

"Damn, Al, I don't know if I am ready for that.  And, a bike rider!  What kind of a woman races bikes? She really does not sound like my type," Ed said as he lit a Camel cigarette.

"Your situation at home is getting worse. Your mother can't take care of the girls until their grown. No time to be picky," Al replied, "Ruth's got a lot of good points. Hell of a racer.  Races like a man, but she cleans up nice and can look really feminine when she puts on a dress and heels." Al winked at Ed.

Ed took a long drag on his cigarette and just stood silently for a moment, thinking.  This single father stuff was rough and he was tired of the fights between his mother and Evelyn.  "Okay," he said to Al, "I'll come. What time?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ed looked in the mirror as he straighten his tie.  He really did not want to go to dinner at Al's house, really did not want to venture out into the dating world again, but he at least wanted to make a good first impression - just in case. He glanced over at the photograph of Virginia on his dresser.  "Damn, she was a beautiful woman," he thought, "A real lady.  What the hell am I doing going to meet a bicycle racer?"

Thirty minutes later, Ed arrived at Al's house. He closed his car door and looked up at the house that he built for his friends several years before.  Besides running his lumber company, he also built houses and did carpentry work. He started his lumber company in a small town near the Baltimore suburb where he lived because he was told by a county commissioner that a large, new highway was going to run right past his property there.  Unfortunately, the highway plan was not a done deal. By the time the lumber company was ready to open, the highway construction had begun in another area, leaving Ed's business on a seldom used small town road.  He was barely making a living with the lumber yard.  Things would really be tight if Virginia had not left a tidy sum of money that she inherited from her mother.

Ed was reaching to knock on the door when it suddenly opened revealing Al's lovely, petite wife Millie dressed in a light blue chiffon dress that accentuated her baby blue eyes. "Ed!" Millie exclaimed in her high little-girl voice, "I am so glad you came.  Come in and meet Ruth."

Millie grabbed Ed's arm, pulled him forward, closed the door behind him and quickly led him to the living room.  A woman sat in a green chair facing Al who was on the pale yellow sofa.  Her back was to Millie and Ed, but she turned around as they entered the room. "Ruth, this is Ed.  Ed, this is our friend Ruth," Millie gushed as she pushed Ed towards the occupied chair.

A tall woman stood up and turned to present her hand to Ed.  She had a slender athletic build and short medium-brown hair.  No one would call her pretty, but she was not unattractive.  Ed took her hand and she pumped his vigorously, more like how a man would shake hands.  "Good to meet you, Ed," she said with a strong New England accent.

"Same here," Ed replied as he withdrew his hand and walked over to an empty chair on the other side of the room.  He watched as Ruth sat back in her chair. Her back was ram-rod straight. In fact, her whole body seemed to be at attention.  

The next thirty minutes were spent in one of those get-to-know-you conversations that always annoyed Ed.  Ruth, he learned, was from Maine. She was 15 years younger than he was and had never married. She worked as a legal secretary in Washington, D.C. and spent her free time bicycle racing on Al's racing team. In fact, she was the first female racer in their league, and the year before she won a race in which all the other contestants were men.  Ed was put off by her mannish activities and the masculine way she presented herself, but he tried to appear interested and engaged in the conversation.  At least, she was talkative and intelligent.

Ed suffered through the dinner, barely tasting the food.  Millie was not the best cook and everything was overdone.  The table conversation revolved around bicycle racing, a topic that did not interest Ed in the least, and Ruth's childhood in Maine and her job in Washington, D.C.  Over dessert Millie steered the conversation toward the subject of Ed and his children, but really Millie and Al did most of the talking while Ed ate his cherry pie and sipped his cup of coffee. Ruth listened intently to all the details of Ed and his family, constantly nodding her head and grinning broadly.  

Ed's initial assessment of Ruth was that she was not at all his type, but perhaps she was wanting to change her life - quit her job, stop bike racing, settle down.  Maybe she was worth a shot, he thought. So he invited her to go to dinner the next weekend and she accepted. That was followed by an invitation from Al and Ruth to attend their next race in four weeks.  He reluctantly agreed.

Ed saw Ruth every weekend for a month.  Dinner dates at restaurants, another meal at the home of their mutual friends, a concert in Baltimore, and, of course, the race.  Ed was disconcerted to see Ruth in a tight fitting bike racing outfit that he thought only belonged on the body of a man.  He frowned when he saw that her hair was slicked back with some sort of greasy hair product that plastered it to her head, preventing strands from coming loose and distracting her during the race. This was a different woman than the one with whom he'd been keeping company. At the race, Ruth was competitive in what Ed thought was a very masculine way. She was focused, determined and very disciplined when she raced, leaving many male racers in her wake. She came in second in the race and although he was pleased that she placed, he also thought it was not at all becoming for a woman to be competing in a man's sport.  He could not help but compare Ruth to Virginia.  Ginny was a refined woman who only wore pants to clean house and the only game at which she competed was the decidedly female card game of bridge.  But, still, he was interested enough to see if Ruth clicked with his children. So, after a month of casual dates, he invited her to his house for dinner and to meet his family. Ruth seemed pleased to be invited and acted enthusiastic about meeting the children.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ed and his mother Margaret prepared the meal for Ruth's first visit.  He was actually a decent cook and often he and Virginia had cooked together.  He thought how much he missed her as he put the roast in the oven.  As food baked and simmered, Margaret dressed the children in their best clothes and Ed set the table.

Margaret knew Ed needed a mother for his children, but this Ruth woman did not sound like a reasonable choice.  She was much younger than Ed and sounded entirely too masculine.  "A woman bike racer!" Margaret thought as she combed Becky's blonde hair. She smiled at the sweet baby that never knew her own mother.  "You don't want a mother that acts like a man, do you?" she asked out loud.  The 20-month-old child giggled, reached out her chubby little hand and touched her grandmother's cheek. "Gramma," she said, "I love you."  Margaret sighed and held the toddler tightly against her chest.  She knew she could not keep up with Ed's children much longer.  She was already in her early seventies and the daily demands of the house and the girls were taking a toll on her.  Every night she fell into bed exhausted and each morning she was slower and slower to get out of bed.  She loved feeling needed, something she had not felt since her husband Charles died ten years before, but her body was just not up to this much work anymore.

A few minutes before Ruth was to arrive, Ed sat the three girls on the living room sofa.  They all looked clean and presentable.  Becky looked adorable in the new pink dress that Margaret had purchased for the occasion.  She laughed and played hand games with her sisters while they waited for their guest to arrive. Donna and Sharry were not at all happy about meeting Ruth.  They were old enough, 8 and 11, to understand what was going on.  Ruth was actually interviewing for the job of their mother and they did not want a new mother.  They missed their real mother and since they could not have her back, they just wanted Grandma to continue living there and taking care of them.  She was nice and they were usually able to manipulate her to get their way.

Ruth paused on the doorstep of Ed's house.  Everything about this dinner seemed wrong.  She knew Ed was sizing her up as a potential wife and mother for his children.  She never imagined herself as a mother or even a wife.  But, her parents had made it very clear when they paid for her to move from their isolated farm in Maine to Washington, D.C. that they expected her to stop all her "boy" activities and find a husband. Her interest in sports and lack of interest in domestic activities during high school worried her parents.  She did not date although she had many male friends. She had few female friends and she and her much more feminine sister Marian had nothing in common. The fact that she was a successful legal secretary in the nation's capital did not interest or impress her parents in the least.  They just wanted to see her married.

Truthfully, her "successful" job barely paid her living expenses. Washington, D.C. was an expensive place to live. In fact, four months ago she made more in bike racing prizes than she made working 40 hours a week for the whole month. Getting married appealed to her simply because it would ease her financial burden.  Ed appeared to be a successful business man and the house before her, though not fancy, was definitely very nice. Perhaps being a step-mother for three girls would be enough to please her parents and she would not have to ever get pregnant herself.  She took a deep breath and rang the door bell.

Ed opened the door, greeted Ruth with a light kiss on her left cheek and immediately introduced his mother. The three adults stood in the entrance way chatting for a few minutes.  Margaret was impressed with Ruth in certain ways and not in others.  She was well dressed, had good manners and seemed to be intelligent, but her New England accent was annoying, her hand shake was too strong for a woman and she spoke in a clipped, curt way that came across as unfriendly and cold.  Margaret had a strong feeling that she just met her future daughter-in-law and the feeling was unsettling.

Margaret watched as Ed led Ruth to the sofa where the three girls were sitting.  Margaret was proud of her granddaughters' appearances, but she knew that Donna and Sharry resented meeting this woman that may become their step-mother and she worried about what they might say.  Although both girls politely greeted Ruth, neither acted warm or welcoming.  It was obvious they wanted to be anywhere but there. Ruth sat on the arm of the sofa and tried unsuccessfully to engage the two older girls in a conversation about school or their favorite games.  Each girl only answered direct questions and then with as few words as possible.  Margaret actually felt sorry for Ruth because she was trying to connect with the girls and they were being distant and uncooperative.  It was a relief when Ruth finally gave up on Donna and Sharry, stood up and moved closer to Becky.

Ruth put her arms out to Becky and the toddler did not hesitate to reach her own arms upward to be picked up.  Ruth lifted the child in her arms as Donna and Sharry quickly made their getaway and moved to the loveseat on the other side of the room.  Ruth sat down on the now empty sofa and held Becky gently on her lap, cooing to her in soft motherly tones.  Margaret was impressed with how the woman handled Becky and how Becky responded to her.

Ed, too, watched closely how the introductions were going.  He was dismayed with the cold reactions of the older girls, but he also knew how much they missed their mother and resented another woman being in his life.  He admitted to himself that his mother was too lenient with his oldest girls, allowing them to be pouty, demanding and self-absorbed.  As much as he was disappointed in their attitudes, he was relieved at how open and loving Ruth was to Becky and how Becky reacted to her.  Ruth was talking to Becky about her pretty dress; she asked about her toys and listened quite intently as the very talkative Becky babbled her answers.  Becky was smiling and reaching out to Ruth often, completely engaged in what she was saying. Watching their interaction pushed Ed to think that he may have found a mother for his children.  He was sure that Donna and Sharry would adjust in time and he felt deeply that Becky needed Ruth.  Did he love Ruth?  No, but he thought he might learn to love her - certainly not as he had loved Virginia, but in a way that might be enough for a successful marriage.  He just needed Ruth to soften up, be more feminine, and it might just work out.

Ed listened as Ruth encouraged Becky to say the nickname version of her proper name.  "Ruthie," she said over and over again touching her left index finger against her chest each time while her right arm was tenderly wrapped around Becky's back.  Each time Ruth said her nickname Becky either giggled or babbled words that sounded nothing like Ruthie.  Ruth, however, did not give up and finally Becky flashed one of her earth-stopping big smiles, pointed at the woman before her and said, "Oofie!"  Ruth laughed heartily and responded, "Well, Oofie it is! I guess I have a new name."

On that summer day in 1956, no one watching the interplay between the strange woman from Maine and the motherless little girl had any idea that until Ruth's death in 2012, Becky would always call her step-mother "Oofie".

Ed & Charles

Ed hurried along the sidewalk to his house.  The Chicago day was bitter cold with a strong wind blowing against his back, pushing him along a little faster than he could walk.  He stayed late at the school library and was rushing to get home before his father arrived for dinner.  Being late for dinner was not tolerated under any circumstances.

The sun, not visible the entire day, had already set and what little daylight there had been on that bleak day was receding fast.  The shutters and drapes on the windows of the houses Ed rushed by were already closed in an attempt to keep some of the howling wind from penetrating into the warm living and dining rooms of his neighbors.

He turned into the stone path that led to the home he shared with his parents, Charles and Margaret, and his siblings, Jack and Dorothy.  He opened the unlocked front door and felt a welcome rush of warm air.  Ed was puzzled to see Jack and Dorothy at the living room coat closet removing their jackets.  They should have come home from school hours ago so why were they just now taking off their coats?  His chest tightened as he saw the barren table in the dining room - the same table that should have already been set with silverware and plates for dinner.  Then, he caught a glimpse of his mother in the kitchen unpacking groceries, still clad in her heavy brown winter coat with a light blue wool scarf wrapped around her neck and a white and blue knitted cap on her head.  “Oh, no,” he thought with a sigh, “Not again.”  Ed laid the school books he was carrying on the small table by the door, then took off his coat and hung it up in the coat closet as his brother and sister settled on the living room sofa.

“Mom, you haven’t started dinner?  Dad will be home any minute,” Ed exclaimed as he hurried into the kitchen and began helping her with the groceries.

“I know, I know,” she sighed, “But I needed a few things.”

With exasperation in his voice, Ed replied, “You were home all day.  Why didn’t you shop earlier?  Why do you shop so late and make Dad angry?”  It was an old argument that made Ed feel tired and annoyed.

Margaret ignored Ed’s comment.  She pulled off her coat, scarf and hat as she wandered through the dining room to the living room.  Then she pulled open the coat closet where she hung up the coat, wrapped the scarf around the hanger and set her hat on the shelf above.

“I know, I know,” she said again as she walked back to the kitchen, “I just don’t think about shopping until it’s time to start dinner.”

Ed tried to calm his anger before he said,  “We all suffer when he gets mad about dinner being late.  Why do you do that to us?  Why can’t you just have dinner ready when he walks in the door like he wants?”

“Well, you would think he could wait a few minutes, wouldn’t you?” Margaret relied testily.

“He won’t!” Ed yelled.  “You know he hates to wait.  Why do you do this?”

Ed saw his mother’s eyes begin to fill with tears and he felt a pang of regret for yelling at her, but he just could not understand why she continually provoked his father’s anger.

With a slightly softer, but still annoyed tone, Ed said, “Here, let me help.”  Then he called out to Jack and Dorothy and asked them to set the table.

There was a flurry of activity as the two younger children prepared the dining table and Ed and his mother quickly started preparing the evening meal.  Ed peeled potatoes and put them in a pot of water to boil.  Then he grabbed some carrots from the vegetable bin, peeled and sliced them and added them to the pot of potatoes that was starting to bubble. Margaret sliced an onion, heated a skillet and started frying some fatty pieces of pork, adding the onion slices to the sizzling meat.

Once the table was ready, Ed ordered Jack and Dorothy to slice the bakery bread their mother had brought home and to start a kettle on the stove for tea.  Everyone worked silently so that when the front door creaked open there was an audible sound from the sharp intact of breath as the kitchen workers realized their hurried efforts were not enough to get the meal on the table before the arrival of Charles.

It took only seconds for the bellowing to begin.  “What the hell?”  Charles screamed, his face red with unnecessary furor.  “Where is dinner?  Where the hell is my dinner?  I have to wait again.  AGAIN!”

Charles did not even stop to remove his jacket.  He walked swiftly with stomping feet through the dining room and into the crowded kitchen.  Jack and Dorothy bent over nearly double in an attempt to make themselves invisible and slid past their father who was standing just inside the kitchen door.  Ed stood with his back straight, but did not look directly at his father.  Margaret kept stirring the meat in the skillet, never once looking in Charles’ direction.

“Are you deaf?” Charles yelled as he grabbed Margaret’s shoulder with his left hand and swirled her to face him.  With his right hand he reached out and slapped her with full force against her left cheek.  Immediately her skin turned blotchy red.  She held her head down, still not daring to look at him.

“What on God’s green earth is wrong with you, Margaret?  Are you stupid?  Are you a total idiot?  I come home the same time every day and I want dinner on the table!” Charles continued screaming.  “And, you,” he said pointing at Ed, “Why are you helping her?  Are you a woman?  Get the hell out of the kitchen!”

Ed briefly glanced at his mother, but she was still staring down at the floor.  As he walked past his father, Charles punched him hard on the arm and said, “Men don’t belong in kitchens and it is her job to prepare dinner, not yours!”

Once Ed had left the kitchen, he heard his father close the door and then the sound of more yelling and another slap.  As much as Ed hated the way his father treated his mother, he also hated the way she seemed to purposefully aggravate his father, over and over again.

The other children had disappeared.  Ed rubbed his sore arm as he gathered his books from the table by the door and wearily climbed the stairs to the second floor.  He opened his sister’s bedroom door and found her curled up on her bed crying.  He quietly closed the door and went to the room he shared with his brother.  The door was ajar and he could see Jack lying on his bed reading, seemingly unaffected by what had occurred downstairs.

Ed and Jack were only two years apart in age, but had little in common and, honestly, they did not like each other very much.  Ed ignored his brother as he crossed the room to the wooden desk they shared.  He sat down with a sigh, setting his books down with a thud.  He opened one and started studying, trying to forget the all too common scene from the kitchen confrontation.

Twenty minutes later Margaret's voice timidly floated up the stairs from the living room, "Children, dinner is ready."

Jack sprang from the bed and rushed into the hall and down the stairs.  Ed closed his algebra book and reluctantly followed in his brother's path.  As he passed Dorothy's door he opened it and told her to come to dinner.  Dorothy was nearly asleep, but she slowly rose from the bed, her eyes pink and swollen from crying.  She walked down the stairs ahead of Ed.

Charles was already seated at the head of the table as Margaret brought more dishes from the kitchen and sat them gently on the table.  Both of her cheeks glowed an angry red color and a small bruise was visible near her left eye.  She did not glance at anyone, just walked back and forth from one room to the other.  Each child took a seat and waited until all the food was on the table. Margaret settled into the chair at the other end of the table opposite her husband.

Charles picked up each serving dish and added generous portions of food to his plate.  He passed the dishes to Ed on his right.  Ed, Jack and Margaret took pieces of fatty pork with crisp onions, potatoes and carrots and pickled beets, but Margaret just sat with her empty plate, slowly stirring her cup of tea.  Charles and Jack tackled their food vigorously, Dorothy pushed the food around in a circle on her plate, taking a bite every now and then.

Ed looked with trepidation at his plate.  The potatoes, carrots and beets looked appetizing, but the fatty meat turned his stomach.  He reached for a slice of bread and buttered it generously.  Slowly he consumed the vegetables and bread, purposely ignoring the meat that consisted of a tiny piece of pork circled with a thick ring of greasy, slimy fat.  He glanced over to his father who was chewing one of the stomach-turning pieces of meat; the shimmer of fat was on his lips and even dribbled slightly down the corners of his mouth.  Ed turned away in disgust.

Ed finished everything on his plate but the meat.  He stared at it.  His mind was blank except for the thought that the meat was completely unappetizing.  Time and time again he had been forced to eat fatty, greasy meat, but, for some reason, on that cold, stressful evening he just could not bare to put even the smallest piece in his mouth.  He stared at his half-empty plate for several minutes.

"Eat it!," his father yelled, "Eat the damn meat."

Ed's mind felt red hot and he said firmly, "No. It's gross. I will not, I cannot eat it."

His father's hand hit his face as quick as the strike of a rattlesnake.  The strike on his face was so sudden, so intense, that Ed flew from his chair, his body banging against Jack before it hit the floor. "You will eat everything at this table!  Don't you know there is a depression? People are going hungry every day and you think you can refuse the food that I work hard to put on your plate!" his father screamed as he stood up and towered over Ed's body on the floor. "You will eat and you will appreciate every bite of food or I will put you on the streets where you can starve with everyone else, you little bastard."

Ed rose slowly from the floor, his body sore from the fall.  He silently returned to his seat and slowly, very slowly, starting eating the disgusting, greasy, fatty meat.  With great effort he tried not to vomit as each piece slid down his throat.  As he struggled with the last of his meal, everyone else ate quietly, not a word was spoken.  But, Ed felt a hot rage filling his belly, rising to his chest.  He wanted to yell back at his father, he wanted to throw a fatty hunk of pork in this father's face, he wanted to walk out the front door and never return.  But, instead he swallowed the last piece of nauseating meat and wiped the grease from his tightly pursed lips.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I was a child there was a television show called “My Three Sons” that starred Fred MacMurray as the Steve Douglas, the widowed father of three sons who was raising them with the help of his “Uncle Charlie”.  Fred MacMurray was the epitome of the fictional American father image of the 1950's and 1960's.  Always patient, always wise, Mr. Douglas solved problems with a fair measure of concern, understanding and humor.  My father was also a widower, who was raising three daughters rather than three sons, but he was no Steve Douglas.

I always wondered who my father would have been had my mother lived.  He was not a horrible father, but a very demanding, unforgiving one.  And, he became more difficult with age.  I used to imagine he would be a softer person had his life unfolded differently, but with time and after hearing stories of his youth, I came to realize he was probably always much like the man who raised me.  My mother’s presence would have influenced how we were raised, no doubt, but it would have been a matter of her ability to “win”, especially in matters of child-raising, than my father being greatly different than who he was after her death.  Our home would have been softer, gentler, kinder, but only because of her being there.

Ed was a better father than his his own father.  He never hit us, but he did have a bad temper displayed by his yelling and his silent treatments.  He woke up each morning at 4 am and if anything was amiss - a glass left in the sink, a napkin on the floor, clothes left in the dryer, school books on the dining table - he would start raging as he banged on my bedroom door or my sister Sharry's bedroom door.  One or both of us would stumble from bed and go to correct whatever trivial item had set him off.  Mistakes were not tolerated.  Even as a very young child, I knew that a spilled glass of milk, a broken anything, an unfinished chore, or a misplaced item could turn a good day into a day from hell.  After the yelling, my father would continue punishment by not talking to the guilty party - sometimes for weeks.  We did everything possible to appease him and to cover up our mistakes.

Bunk beds were in my childhood bedroom.  One December my sister Sharry and my nine-year-old self sat on the top bed and made Christmas wreaths from holly we had collected in the woods near our house.  Once our project was complete, we began cleaning up.  Sharry could not find the hand-held whisk broom, so she brought the regular floor broom into our makeshift craft area and tried to sweep up the bits and pieces of holly that were scattered across the top bunk bed.  The long broom handle hit the light globe hanging from the ceiling, shattering the globe and light bulb and sending pieces of glass cascading to the floor below.  We both stopped breathing and just stared at the pieces of glass.  Immediately we knew that this mess needed to be covered up and rectified as soon as possible because Ed did not accept or tolerate accidents.  Should he find out about the broken light fixture, we would be assaulted by hours of his ranting and then our Christmas holidays would be ruined by his brooding silence. We cleaned up all the pieces, wrapped them in newspaper and pushed them deep into the outside garbage can.  We replaced the broken light bulb and then rearranged my room, hoping that the relocation of furniture might distract my father's attention from the missing light globe.  Fortunately, my father rarely entered my room so we were hopeful that our accident would not be discovered. Sharry called the store in a town several miles away where my father had purchased all our house light fixtures and was relieved to learn that they still had that particular globe in stock.  The following Saturday, Sharry made arrangements with an understanding neighbor to drive her to the store to purchase the globe.  She and I pooled our skimpy allowances to pay for the globe but still came up a couple of dollars short.  Our sympathetic neighbor, having run up against my father's temper herself, made up the difference.

I stood below the ladder as Sharry climbed up and screwed the globe into place.  We looked at the finished job with great relief.  Somehow we had pulled it off.  Once during the week, I left my room to retrieve a book from the living room and forgot to close the door.  I was startled and worried when I returned to find my father standing in my bedroom door.  "Rearranged your room, hey?" Ed said as he looked about.  I held my breath and prayed that he would not look up and see the bare light bulb.  "Yeah, Sharry helped me," I said as casually as possible, "I have more space this way."  Without another word he walked away and I slumped against the door jamb in relief.

Sharry and I grinned at each other.  There was no need to speak.  We were silently congratulating ourselves and each other for avoiding another confrontation with Ed.  We were not always so lucky, but, on that December day, luck was with us and our accident was a secret of the past.  Christmas might be fairly pleasant after all.

The Unknown Mother

I've been to many funerals in my lifetime - family, friends, neighbors, business colleagues - but the funeral about which I know the least is my mother’s.  I assume I was there, but maybe not.  Perhaps my father did not want to be bothered by a howling infant and left me in the care of a sitter.  I know nothing of Mom’s funeral and am clueless as to where she was buried.  We never visited her grave.  “She is not there in the ground,” my father said  when I asked why we never visited her grave.  “No reason to go to some cemetery and cry.” So we didn't.

The only tidbit of information I know about her funeral was something my sister Sharry shared with me when I was a teenager.  “She wore her beautiful blue satin dress,” Sharry said wistfully, “She used to wear it when she hosted her bridge club.  I thought she looked like an angel in that dress so I guess it was the right one for her to wear through eternity.”

My father’s mother came from Chicago to live with us and help out.  She stayed until my father remarried when I was about 18 months old.  I don’t remember Grandma being with us and again the only bit of information about her stay came from my sister Sharry who claimed that her life-long weight struggles were caused by Grandma.  “Nearly every afternoon Grandma would take us to the drug store and she always bought me a chocolate milkshake,” Sharry told me more than once, “Then, she would tell me how fat I was. No wonder I've always had issues with my weight.”

Missing from my life during that time, and all the years since, was anyone from my mother’s family.  Mom was an only child. She had an upper-middle-class upbringing that even included what was called a “finishing school” education - a pseudo college for privileged young ladies where they learned the arts of cooking, entertaining and conversation, and the management of a home.  The only job she ever had, according to my dad, was as a sales clerk in a stationery store.

My father claimed, “Your mother was an only child because her mother was a frigid woman who only had sex one time - the one time she got pregnant.”  I doubt if that hard statement was true, but it certainly was an indication of my father’s lack of affection for his mother-in-law. My grandfather, Leroy, was a successful bank supplies salesman and Grandmother Norma was a homemaker/librarian who spent most of her time hiding her husband’s alcoholism from the world.

"Your grandfather was a happy, easy-going guy.  Everyone liked him,"  my father shared, "I liked him, too, when he was sober. But, he was an obnoxious, stupid drunk.  One of those guys who lose all inhibitions and common sense when they drink too much."

Grandmother Norma kept track of the drinks Grandfather Leroy consumed and quickly escorted him from dinners and parties before his drinking got out-of-hand.  She "controlled" his drinking by letting him drink at home.  Today we would say she was an enabler; back then she was a smart wife who knew her husband's limitations and weaknesses and did her best to keep them a family secret.

Unfortunately, my mother's mother did not live long enough to make sure her husband's secret went to the grave with him.  When transporting my grandmother from one hospital bed to another after gall bladder surgery, a nurse lost her grip and Grandmother Norma hit the floor - hard - hard enough to cause a rupture, internal bleeding, and death.  The nurse was reprimanded and wrote a letter of apology to my grandfather and my mother.  No law suit, no compensation.  A very different time than our current litigious society.

With the gatekeeper gone, Grandfather's drinking spiraled out of control.  "He missed work so many times and made such a fool of himself at the office and at his clients' businesses that he lost his job," my father shared, "I was in the Army and we were stationed in Alabama.  Your mom got worried reports from neighbors and friends about his behavior.  When he was on a binge, he hung out at rough waterfront bars.  He gave away hundred dollar bills and spent nights with whores.  After he got drunk one night and set his house on fire, I had to request an hardship discharge so we could go back to Baltimore and look after him."

"Looking after him" proved to be nearly impossible.  Grandfather Leroy was forced to live with my parents, but escaped many times.  He was found each time, until the last time.  Missing for several days his body was found in the harbor near the waterfront bars he frequented.  He died from drowning or perhaps from the hit to his head that was either the result of striking something in the water when he landed there or was inflicted by someone who stole his missing wallet. I don't know if the mystery of his death was ever solved.

By the time of my birth, my mother's parents were deceased and the only relatives of hers that I ever knew, even sparingly so, were her aunt or great-aunt (not sure which) whom we called "Nanty" and a cousin Lee and her son Woody.  My father didn't like Lee much, though I have no idea why, so she and Woody were not part of our lives after my mother's death and I only recall seeing them one time.  Nanty, on the other hand, was wealthy, so my father did his best to stay in her good graces.  She lived in a private retirement home where I remember visiting her when I was very young - maybe three or four years old.  Her apartment had dark, heavy, large furniture that reminded me of something you would expect to see in a haunted house. Nanty was a tiny woman in a big wheelchair who was cared for by a short, round African-American woman who rarely spoke, but would sneak me little white shortbread cookies (Perhaps I should blame her for my weight problems!).  Nanty died sometime before I turned five, but I don't know when she passed or if my father ever received the inheritance he hoped for.

Because I had no memories of her and because what was left of her family was nearly nonexistent in my lifetime, I considered my mother’s early death to be of no consequence to my life or who I was.  I know, stupid, right?                                                                        

Fast forward to the year I was 48 and seeing a psychologist for depression caused, I believed, by my declining marriage and ongoing problems with my father.  “So, let’s talk about your mother,” Dr. L said gently.

“Why?  She has nothing to do with me,” I replied in an annoyed tone, “Why do you keep bringing her up?”

The doctor paused for several seconds, thinking of how to respond. “Because I believe she has everything to do with your current problems.  Our problems are always related to our past and losing your mother at such a young age is a big deal.”

I sighed heavily, “I never knew her.  She was not part of my life.  My problems are the people in my life now, not someone who left before I knew her.”

“It is not that simple,” the doctor replied cautiously, “The fact that she was not in your life had a huge influence on how you think and react, how you see yourself, how you let others treat you. I really want to explore how your mother’s death affected you as a child and how it affects now.”

“I think it’s a waste of time,” I replied. “Can’t we actually talk about what is going on in my life now?”

Dr. L ignored my question as she stood up and walked over to her ceiling-to-floor bookcase. “There is a book I want you to read so you will understand how losing a mother is probably the biggest influence in anyone’s life, but especially to a daughter.  Hmm, I’m sure I still have a copy,” she said as she perused the long shelves of books.

I changed position on the couch where I sat, crossed my legs and looked out the window, totally annoyed with the book hunt.  “My life is crap.  I am so depressed I have to force myself to get out of bed and she wants me to read a book,” I thought disdainfully.

“Darn. I can’t find it. Well, you can get a copy at the bookstore down on the corner, “ Dr. L said as she wrote on a pad.  “It is called "Motherless Daughters".  It’s a very famous study on how the death of a mother affects a daughter at different ages.  It may be hard to read and some parts may not seem to apply to you, but I want you to read the whole book.  I wrote the name down for you.  Buy it today, if you can, and try to read it before your next appointment so we can discuss how it made you feel.”

I took the piece of paper with the book’s name scribbled on it.  “Alright,” I said, “but I don’t see how this will help.”

I left the psychologist’s office and swung by the bookstore before driving back to work.  I was glad the store had a used copy - it would be even more annoying to pay full price for a book I did not want to read and did not think I needed to read.

I started “Motherless Daughters: Words of Courage, Grief and Healing” by Hope Edelman that night.  The chapters are divided by the ages that the mother loss occurred:  The First Five Years, Five to Ten Years, Ten to Twenty Years, and More Than Thirty Years.

“Good,” I thought, “Mine is the first chapter.  I can get my part over with fast and then skim through the rest.”

I started reading and then I started crying.  The tears came in a steady stream as I realized some of the stories under “The First Five Years” were stories of my life.  It was clear that I survived the loss of my mother, even though I never knew her, by developing certain coping mechanisms that influenced how I treated others and how I allowed them to treat me.

I feared losing another loved one, so I worked hard to be a “good girl”, thinking, as a child thinks, that if I am good, nothing bad can happen to me.  To be a good girl required me to do what others wanted me to do.  I became a people-pleaser so no one would be upset with me or not love me or even not like me because I was frightened that if they did, they would leave me as my mother had.

I was terrified of loss. I held tight to everything - people, pets, things.  People called me “soft-hearted”, but a better term was fear-hearted.  Death was overwhelming for me.  Even finding a dead bird on the beach one day left me tearful and disconsolate for days. I held onto everything, including unhealthy relationships that I should have allowed to die.

At some deep level, I thought I contributed to my mother’s death.  Of course, it did not help that one of my sisters had a theory that Mom was starving herself to lose her pregnancy weight and her extreme dieting weakened her heart.  But, more likely, my guilt went back further, stemming from the death of my brother Michael.  Michael, born before me, had a defective heart.  After numerous operations, he died at the age of eight months.  My father had shared with me that my mother was terribly depressed after Michael’s death and at the advice of their quack family doctor, I was conceived to “replace” Michael.  Intuitively, I now know that my mother was not ready physically, mentally or emotionally to have another child.  She was not through grieving Michael when she was faced with the burden of another pregnancy.  She was sad, tired and weak from Michael’s many months of medical care and his subsequent death.  She had nothing left to give me and to recommend that she have another baby as soon as possible was what would now be called  medical negligence.  At a soul level, I know she did not really want me because she was not ready for me.  She wanted Michael, not me.  I could not replace Michael.  Unknowingly, I carried this huge guilt inside of me and it flavored every aspect of who I was.

I believe my mother died of a broken heart.  Today there is medical evidence that severe stress can cause more heart damage in a matter of months than an unhealthy diet creates over many years.  The stress of my brother’s life and death did, I believe, weaken her heart.  Then an unwanted pregnancy and another child to care for just weakened it further.

And, so, I cried as I read and all of these revelations came to me.  When I finished the chapter for my age group, I continued through the others and the tears continued to flow.  I cried for myself and all the other girls and women who have lost their mothers.  I cried for my mother and the pain and sadness she experienced.  I cried, for the first time, for the loss of my mother.

Two weeks later, I was greeted by petite Dr. L at her office door.  She smiled broadly and said, “Well, good morning, Becky.”  She closed the door behind me as I sat in my usual spot on her couch.

Dr. L sat down in her upholstered wing back chair, crossed her legs and opened my file.  “Ah, yes,” she said brightly, “you were going to buy and read “Motherless Daughters”.  How did that go?”

And, the tears started. . .