For her—someonethat valued a hard work ethic— Vera’s dad, Hank Delane, was everything a manshould be. He loved his dead wife fiercely and honored her memory by stickingaround and doing right by their kids. He worked as hard as possible to providea good life for them and see that they were well taken care of.
Because of him,Vera and Vann had also learned to work hard. My mom saw them owning their ownbusinesses and doing well for themselves as a tribute to the father that raisedthem. As a kid, she’d encouraged me to spend as much time over at their houseas possible. And now as a grown-up, she pushed me to be as much like Vera andVann as possible.
And if you hadn’tpicked up on it by now, she did not think I was doing a very good job ofemulating them. Something she blamed on my dad.
It didn’t matterhow many times I told her that I worked for a great company or that I could payall my bills or even that I had a benefits package—which, by the way, was morethan Vera could say until recently.
She took myinterest in painting as a sign that I was two days away from giving my lifeover to the bottle and quitting everything I’d worked so hard to achieve.
Art was just anoutlet for the lazy deadbeat in me.
Because obviouslythere was a lazy deadbeat living inside me, listlessly scratching at myinterior walls in a half-hearted attempt to slump its way out. “Get out of myway, Work Ethic!” it would yell from the couch of my heart, throwing empty twoliters of Diet Coke at my brain all while scratching its hairy butt. “I can’tsee the TV, Retirement Plan!”
Then it would yawn,revealing Dorito-stained teeth and grumble, “Okay, fine. I give up,” beforeit’s head dropped back and it started snoring loudly.
Thank you ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be here all week.
“Molly,” my momsnapped.
“I’m listening,” Ianswered quickly, half wondering if my daydreaming hadn’t accidentally turnedinto real dreaming. There was a line of drool down my chin. A good indicationthat I might have fallen asleep for a second.
“Your father wantsto know when you’re coming home for dinner.”
I shoved my faceinto the pillow and breathed until my pillowcase was hot and smelled likemorning breath. I loved my parents. I really did. And they loved me. At least Ihoped they did. But family dinners were always stressful.
Deciding it wouldbe better to get it over with rather than drag it out for the next month or tenyears or whatever, I said, “I’m free this weekend.”
“Tomorrow then.” Mymom turned her head from the speaker to cough. When she returned she soundedolder than she had before. I knew she was tired, but this version of her firstthing on a Saturday made her sound worn out. “I’ll make your favorite.”
My heart softenedwith her gesture. She could be sharp-tongued and impatient, but she was gold onthe inside. Pure gold.
“Thank you, Mama.”
She chuckled at myendearment. I only called her mama when I wanted something so it had become akind of joke to us. “All right, Molly. You’re awake now, so go make the mostout of today.”
“Love you.”
There was a slighthesitation because she grappled with expressing emotion. Finally, she admitted,“Love you, too.”
I hung up the phonewith her and flopped back on my pillow. My mother was the person I loved mostin this world. She was also the person that had messed me up the most.
I tried to consolemyself by believing that was the norm. Most moms meant well. That didn’t meantheir children weren’t loaded with baggage that they had to carry for the restof their lives.
Right?
Was I crazy tothink that maybe, just possibly, my mom had overburdened me?
I’d tried to talkto Vera about this before, but she hadn’t had a mom growing up. She looked atmy family the same way I looked at hers—with longing and subtle feelings ofwishful what ifs.
Sure, through hereyes, I had two parents and family dinners every night. She saw my mom take meshopping and help me sort through drama at school. She had been there for myfirst period and given me the most awkward sex talk in the history of sex talks.She’d gotten her nails done with me once inawhile,if it was summer and she didn’t have to work in the lunchroom.
But from myfirst-hand perspective, I also knew family dinners came with a price. And Ioften wondered if it would be better with only one parent if that meant youdidn’t have to listen to two parents fighting all the time. She took meshopping, but only bought me outfits she deemed appropriate and mature enough.She’d spent many nights talking to me about friends from school, as in which onesto hang out with, which ones had potential, and which ones I should avoid atany cost lest I end up catching their dead-beat tendencies. She’d handed me abox of tampons and told me that I could now get pregnant. And that if I evercame home knocked up, she would never speak to me again. And yes, I’d satthrough the sex talk with her, but I walked away feeling more confused thanever.
I was also fairlyconfident that my parents had only had sex the one time and that Iwasmagically conceived in the accidental process.
Getting our nailsdone now was mainly me forcing her to do it in a desperate effort to get mymother to relax. Because I was terrified she was going to give herself a heartattack, or an ulcer, or a wart on the tip of her nose or something.
One of the greatthings about Vera being my best friend was that she was a constant reminder ofhow grateful I should be to have a mom. And I was. But there were parts to mymother that drove me absolutely crazy.
