Call Me Tuesday (24 page)

For days I read the journal again and again, running my finger over the words “my beautiful Tuesday.” I kept thinking about my conversation with Daddy, replaying it in my head, vacillating between throwing the last shovel of dirt over my past, and digging up the old bones. Although I had taken comfort in his words, I could not get closure from what he had told me. I needed to talk to Mama. She had the answers I thought would help me move forward.

A week shy of my fifteenth birthday, I asked Aunt Macy if instead of buying me a present, she would drive me to Kentucky to surprise Mama with a visit. She was not enthused with the idea, because she, like Daddy, was afraid it might end badly. But after two straight days of my persistent begging, she caved and agreed to take me anyway, against her better judgment.

56

I was standing outside Mama’s locked bedroom, staring at the flickering television light coming from the crack under the door. She had made it clear that she did not want to see me, sending word through Daddy that she had a dreadful migraine and would likely be down for the day. But I refused to give up. I kept thinking she’d have come out to go to the bathroom sooner or later.

Two, three, four hours passed—nothing happened. Then I saw her shadow flit across the floor. A square of folded notebook paper appeared at the bottom of the door.

The sight of the note irritated me. I had a sudden urge to wad it up into a tight ball and pop it into my mouth, like a gumdrop, and chew it until it was nothing more than a sweet, starchy pulp in my teeth.

But I couldn’t. Daddy, who didn’t even know I ate paper, was standing right behind me, and so was Aunt Macy, to whom I had made a promise that I would make a serious effort to stop. And I hadn’t eaten any for almost three months, at least not a substantial amount. Every now and then, I snuck a nosh—a straw wrapper here, a section of toilet paper there—but nothing like before. The craving still remained, although not as strong as it once had been. The doctor had warned me it might, especially during times of stress.

I stooped down, picked up the note, and flipped it around to see if my name was written anywhere on the outside. It wasn’t. I unfolded it and read, in Mama’s familiar backward-slant handwriting, these few words:
I’m feeling under the weather, and wouldn’t be good company today. Go home with Aunt Macy and enjoy your birthday.
It was unsigned.

Carefully I refolded the letter, following the creases Mama had created, wondering what she had been thinking as she’d run her fingers across the seams.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, but she’s not ready yet,” Daddy said.

Aunt Macy put her arm around me and pulled me in to her. “It’s getting late, honey. It’s time we go home now.”

In the car I looked out the passenger window as Aunt Macy backed her old Buick out of the drive. I had been so sure about my idea to surprise Mama with a visit, so sure it was the right thing to do, the right time. On the drive up, I had daydreamed about our reunion, envisioning it to be tender and cathartic, culminating with both of us in tears, our arms wrapped around each other, the beginning of a new life together. It never once occurred to me that she might refuse to see me on my birthday. If she would not see me, I had no choice but to walk away. But I knew if I walked away, and we had no contact, we may never bond again as mother and daughter, and the damage to our relationship, and the pain between us, would never be resolved.

“Want to stop at Shoney’s for supper?” Aunt Macy asked, trying to infuse joy into her voice. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. And after all, it’s your birthday! We should be celebrating!”

Normally the mention of supper at my favorite restaurant would have perked me up. Not this time. “I’m not very hungry,” I said. “I just want to go home.”

She didn’t press. She never did. She always knew what to say, what not to say. I kept my face turned to the window the entire trip. I knew if I looked her, I would start to cry.

Back home, in my room, I pulled a dusty shoebox from under my bed, and put the note from Mama in it.

I was placing the lid back on, and a photograph inside caught my attention. It was of Mama and me on my eighth birthday. We were outside on the back patio, sitting in her lawn chair. I took the photograph out of the box, turned it over, and read what was written on the back:
Ladybug and me.

I sat on my bed and began removing, one by one, the remaining contents from the box, arranging them in a row in front of me. There were two pictures of Daddy, taken when he was a coach in Spring Hill, crinkled because I had once thrown them away out of anger and confusion. One of Grandma Storm and me that Aunt Macy had taken after church, at Centennial Park in Nashville. I looked so happy in my new yellow pin-dot dress, Grandma holding my hand. I then came across a photo of Audrey and me when she was about fourteen and I was five. I was leaning up against her wheelchair, with my arm around her shoulders. Our heads were touching, and both of us were smiling. I saw a resemblance I had never noticed before.
I sure could use a sister right about now,
I thought, and stuck the photograph in my mirror where I could see it. There was also a photo of Mama when she was younger, a few years before she’d given birth to me. She was sitting on the front steps of our house on Maplewood Drive, squinting against the sun. She had on a dark plaid dress, cinched tightly at the waist. Because the photograph was in black and white, I couldn’t tell what color it was, but I imagined it to be coral. It was a color she liked to wear, a color that became her. “She was beautiful,” I whispered.

I came to the letter from Mama that Daddy had given to me the day I left home. It too was crumpled, because I had thrown it in the trash at the bus station. I had decided to keep it for reasons that were not clear to me then, but I had not yet gathered the courage to read what was written inside. I hoped, as I opened it up, that she had started with “Dear Tuesday.” If she had, it would’ve been the first time she had acknowledged my name since I was eight. I smoothed out the wrinkles with the palm of my hand, and read the single line written inside:
We are never more discontent with others than when we are discontent with ourselves.

Only Mama knew what she had meant by those words when she wrote them. She could have been trying to give me some kind of message about the anger I had shown toward her before I left home. Or maybe she was referring to her own discontent, taking ownership for what she had done, and letting me know it wasn’t my fault. But, if she wouldn’t talk to me about our past together, I would never find out.

All that remained in the box were napkins from fast-food restaurants, gum wrappers, and pieces of notebook paper, on which I had written memories from my early childhood. Not long after I left home, things began to surface, thoughts I had kept secluded in a dimly lit corner of my mind, thoughts too ugly to expose in daylight.

I wrote what I remembered, as it came to me, on any scrap of paper I could find, and then tucked it away in the box. Transferring my anger and pain onto paper turned it into some thing tangible, something that could be shredded or burned, or at the very least, sealed shut in a box.

After I had written down all that I could remember, I stored the box on a shelf in my closet, not sure what I ultimately intended to do with it. Later, when Aunt Macy and I did our annual spring-cleaning, clearing away the accumulated clutter from our closets and drawers, I ran across it. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, but I wasn’t ready to open it either, so I moved it under my bed, out of sight, and that’s where it stayed, dusty and untouched, until now.

I gathered up the scraps of paper, and lay back on my bed to read. It was time to remind myself why I had to leave home in the first place.

57

December 15, at 11:00 p.m., the phone rang. It was my brother, Nick, calling from Florida. He had recently joined the Air Force and was stationed in Fort Walton Beach. He had bad news: Daddy had been killed in a car accident earlier that night.

“I just talked to Mama, and she asked me to call you,” he said. “She’s pretty messed up about everything.”

He said the funeral was going to be held in Spring Hill. The family had recently moved back there, and Daddy had gotten a job teaching government at the high school, as well as coaching the golf and tennis teams. Mama had attained a GED and was in the process of fulfilling a longtime dream of earning a nursing degree. She was now employed part-time at the local hospital as a physical therapist.

Nick had to get off the phone. He said he would call back with the details later. As he was about to hang up, I stopped him. “When Mama told you to call me, did she say my name? Did she tell you to call
Tuesday
?”

“I can’t remember…”

“Well,
think,
Nick.”

“What difference does it make, anyway?”

“It’s important to me.”

“I remember now. No, no, she didn’t. She said your sister, call your sister.”

“Thanks Nick. I’ll talk to you later.”

After I hung up, the first thought to enter my mind was the last conversation I had with Daddy, when he had visited me at Aunt Macy’s just weeks earlier. Once again he said he was sorry for what he had allowed Mama to do to me. He told me it was the only thing left in his life he needed to make right, almost as if he knew what was to come. Although he didn’t ask, I sensed he wanted me to forgive him then, to say the words. But out of bitterness, I refused to give him what he needed. Now that he was gone, I wished I hadn’t let him leave with his guilt that day, forcing him to carry the burden of it with him up until the last tragic moment of his life.

Right before he left, he had told me he loved me, like he did every time we talked, whether over the phone or in person. I always told him back, but the words, shrouded in my anger and pain, often came through as insincere. But I did love him. I’d always loved him, and I wanted to tell him like I meant it, but I couldn’t. I had never completely given up on him. I was still waiting for him to rescue me, but now I had to face the truth that it was never going to happen. All this regret settled like a rock in the pit of my stomach.

Two days before Daddy’s funeral, Aunt Macy and I drove to Spring Hill for the showing. We pulled into the crowded funeral home parking lot, and circled around a few times until we found an empty spot.

I flipped down the sun visor and checked my makeup in the mirror on the back. In the natural light, I saw the little scar that jutted into my upper lip, and was suddenly taken back to the day it happened. I shook the memory from my head and fumbled around in my purse until I found some lip gloss. I smeared it on, pressed my lips together to spread it out, fluffed my bangs, and got out of the car.

Walking into the funeral home, I could feel Aunt Macy’s hand trembling at the base of my back. I had been so wrapped up in my own emotions I had forgotten she had lost both her mother and her baby brother in a short period of time. I looked at her, beside me, and was struck by how much she’d grown to resemble Grandma Storm, now that her hair had turned silver around her temple.

We paused just beyond the threshold. The murmur of condolences filled the room. Through the tears welling in my eyes, I saw a blur of black suits and dark dresses milling around, and the somber faces of Daddy’s family and acquaintances.

Several young people were there, most of them Daddy’s students. He had touched many lives during his years as a teacher and coach. Off in one corner of the room was a group of about six teenage boys in purple letterman jackets—tough jock types—huddled together, crying openly.

There were flowers everywhere; the air was thickly perfumed with the smell of them. One of the largest arrangements was done up in purple and gold, the colors of the high school where Daddy taught. It had a satin banner draped across the front, with “Coach” written in glitter.

Daddy’s accident made the front page of the local paper. He was described as a well-rounded person and respected longtime educator, touted for his sincere depth of interest in how his students developed as individuals. No one ever suspected that a man who gave so much of himself to so many children could betray one of his own.

As Aunt Macy and I approached Daddy’s casket, I saw, propped in front, a framed black and white photograph of him when he was a much younger man. The casket was closed because his body had been mangled from the accident and was not fit to be presented to the public. The authorities said he never saw the tractor-trailer rig pull out; he didn’t even hit the brakes before he plowed right into the side of the flatbed. The paper stated he had died from severe injuries to the head, but Nick had told me he was nearly decapitated.

Most all of my relatives from Daddy’s side of the family were there, and a few from Mama’s. Some of them smiled and then darted their eyes away from mine. Others searched out my face as if they wanted to say something. Aunt Barbara was the first one who had the nerve to come up to me.

As she was walking my way, my mind was filing through everything I had heard Mama say about her over the years: she was plain and big-boned; she never had many dates growing up, and she had to go to college to develop her mind because she wasn’t pretty. Mama’s derogatory remarks were an example of the insecurity she experienced after her accident, of her trying to make every woman around her less attractive, so she would look better. In reality, Aunt Barbara was beautiful, a taller version of Mama.

She embraced me warmly. After salutations, condolences, and general niceties, she turned the conversation to my childhood, saying she knew Mama didn’t treat me “the same as her other kids,” and that she was sorry she had allowed it to continue. I understood she needed to unload the guilt she had been carrying around, and I tried to listen, but I was having difficulty focusing. My mind was somewhere else.

“Aunt Barbara, I wish I could tell Daddy that I don’t blame him for what Mama did to me. I wish I could tell him how much I love him.”

“Oh, honey, he knows, he knows.”

“No, you don’t understand. I was trying to punish him, to make him suffer…”

“Tuesday, don’t. Don’t do this to yourself.”

All at once the sweet smell of flowers made me queasy, and I was overcome by the urge to bolt from the room. I excused myself from Aunt Barbara, telling her I was going outside for some fresh air.

On my way out the door, someone touched me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw it was Uncle Max, Daddy’s older brother. I hadn’t seen him since Grandma Storm’s funeral. He lived in Michigan somewhere.

“Tuesday, you mind if I talk with you for a minute?” he asked. “There’s something I need to tell you.” He took me by the arm and pulled me aside to a private area of the funeral home. “Did you know your dad put away some money for you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It’s in a savings account at the bank where I work. He sent me a check several years ago, and asked me to use it to open an account in both your names. Every month he sent what he could manage. It’s not a lot of money; your dad wasn’t a rich man, but it’s enough to get you started in college when the time comes.”

“Why did he have an account all the way up in Michigan?”

“He didn’t want Rose to know about it. He told me she was having some complications from her accident, and she might not understand. Didn’t make much sense to me either, but he was my baby brother, and it seemed important to him.”

“Well, thank you for doing it, Uncle Max, and thanks for letting me know.”

“He asked me to make sure you got it if anything ever happened to him. I said I would, but I never imagined he would die before me.” He squeezed my hand. “I know it’s a hard time for you right now, but I wanted to tell you in person. I’ll send you all the information in the mail next week. You’re still living at Macy’s, right?”

“Yes.” I reached up and hugged him around the neck. I had to stand on the tips of my toes, because he was tall like Daddy. “Thank you so much.”

“Take care, Tuesday. You’ll be hearing from me soon,” he said as he walked away.

Outside I filled my lungs with cold air, and tried to process what Uncle Max had just told me.

Aunt Macy came out and joined me. “There you are. Are you okay, sweetie?”

“I’m fine. Aunt Macy, did you know Daddy had been saving money for me?”

“Yes, I did.”

“But why?”

“He wanted to help you go to college.” She walked around in front of me and took hold of both my arms. “You know, Tuesday, we Storms are pretty good at making lemonade.”

“Lemonade?” I asked, puzzled. Then I remembered and grinned. “It’s what Grandma used to say—when life gives you lemons, make lemonade.”

“That’s right! Now, take what you’ve been through, and turn it into something positive.”

As soon as we walked back into the funeral home, I saw Mama. She was drifting from person to person, soaking up their sympathy. Her eyes were swollen from crying, her face was flush.

As I had expected, my initial emotion was anger. Then fear of how she might react when she saw me. I was even a little sorry for her, now that Daddy was gone. But what I hadn’t expected to feel was the same love and longing for her approval as when I was eight years old.

As always, my three brothers were close by her side. They had been conditioned from an early age to believe her negative treatment of me was because I was bad, the same way I had been conditioned to believe it. I wondered as I looked at them now if they had struggled with memories of the horrible things they had seen happen, and if these memories had caused them to have conflicting emotions. Or if they had simply chosen to deal with our past the same way I was dealing with it, the way Daddy had dealt with it, by not dealing with it.

Jimmy D. saw me first. He whispered something in Mama
’s
ear, and the instant she spotted me, she started walking my way. I wanted to run. Run away from her. Run to her. Frozen, I stood there, watching her as she came closer and closer. She stopped in front of me. I tried to read her expression, but her grief was like a mask. Aunt Macy squeezed the back of my arm to show her support.

Why did you come? Go away! I hate you!
These were the words that scraped through my head like fingernails across a chalkboard. But in my ear I heard a soft sweet voice. “Ladybug, I’m glad you’re here.” I felt her arms around me. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered again, and I was relieved when she did, because I thought I had imagined it the first time.

Suddenly, I was eight years old again, and in my mama’s arms. My knees buckled, and I could feel Aunt Macy holding me up.

Two days later Aunt Macy and I came back to Spring Hill for Daddy’s funeral. Mama sat beside me during the service. Once she reached for my hand.

Afterward we held each other again, but this time it felt obligatory. Then she went back to her house in Spring Hill, and I went home with Aunt Macy.

A week later, when I got in from school, I found a package on the front porch addressed simply to Ladybug. I opened it and inside found a gold bangle bracelet with delicate flower etchings. Immediately I recognized it as the one Jerry Stevens had given me for Christmas in seventh grade. No note of explanation was attached, no return address. But then, there was no need for either one.

Later on that night, I gathered up the nerve to call her, but she didn’t answer the phone. In the days and weeks to follow, I tried to reach her many more times, with no luck. Eventually I gave up and got on with my life.