Stitches in Time (15 page)

O
ne thing I had to admit: my mother had taught me the basic manners in childhood. In retrospect, I knew she hadn't been a bad mother. She had just been an absent mother. For thirty years.

So early Saturday morning I headed to Maddie's florist shop and purchased a houseplant to take to dinner that evening.

I came in the back door of Koi House to find Petra sitting at the counter sipping coffee.

“Nice touch,” she said. “For your mother?”

Leave it to Petra to know me.

“Yup,” I said, nonchalantly going to pour myself a mug of coffee. “I'd do the same for a stranger. Haley still sleeping?”

“I think so. Haven't seen her yet. What's up for today? Are we due at your mother's at six?”

“Yeah,” I said, and thought about my call to her the day before. It was difficult not to hear the happiness in her voice when I said we accepted her dinner invitation. “Well, you can't go back to Jacksonville without our visiting Angell and Phelps chocolate shop. So we can go down there and then have lunch out.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She took a sip of her coffee and placed the empty mug in the dishwasher. “Well, I'm headed to the shower. See you in a bit.”

I sat there lost in my thoughts when she left the kitchen. Over the past few days I had been getting flashbacks of various incidents from my childhood, when my mother was still in my life. How she was always there for school events, even when my father was working and couldn't make it. Her worry and concern the time I had chicken pox at age nine. My eighth grade graduation when I insisted I wanted a perm for the ceremony—and proceeded to do it myself at home, resulting in me looking like a French poodle. I then insisted I wasn't going but my mother took me to her hair stylist and had my hair straightened, cut, and styled. Little things—but things that a loving mother does for her daughter. And yet—she was able to just walk away as if she never cared at all. All these years later, I still found it difficult to understand.

I looked up as Haley walked into the kitchen and came to place a kiss on my cheek.

“Good morning,” she said, and I knew that although I might have lost my mother, the gods had shined down on me when I had Haley.

“Good morning,” I told her. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah. And Mom, I'm really glad you agreed to go to Nana's tonight. She's excited about us coming for dinner.”

No doubt
, I thought, and once again the old resentment returned.

* * *

A little before six I was driving down Granada to The Trails and wondering whether I should have left well enough alone and refused the dinner invitation. Too late now.

I pulled into the cul-de-sac and my mother's driveway. Before we even got out of the car, my mother had the front door open to welcome us.

Hugs were exchanged and she waved a hand toward the family room.

“Come on in,” she said. “I'm so glad you came.”

I passed her the plant. “For you,” I said.

“Thank you so much, Isabelle. It's lovely.”

She placed it on the counter and shot us a huge smile.

“Okay. Dinner will be ready shortly. How about a drink? Wine for you gals and a soda for you, Haley?”

“Thanks, Nana.”

“Sounds good, doesn't it, Izzy?” Petra said, when I mumbled sure.

She only called me Izzy when she was irritated with me. I had a feeling she thought I wasn't being friendly enough.

I walked into the family room and glanced around. Beautifully furnished, just like our home had been when I was growing up. My gaze caught framed photos on a credenza and I walked over. I was surprised to see one of me with Buster, my childhood dog. I had begged and begged for a dog, and on my fifth birthday my parents took me out to the country to choose a pup from a litter of cocker spaniels. Buster lived to be ten years old, but we lost him to cancer a few months after my mother left, making his loss doubly hard.

I picked up another frame that was a collage of photos of me. On family vacations, dance recitals, and my eighth grade graduation. The other frames were the few photos of Haley that I'd sent to my mother over the years.

“Here you go,” she said, passing me a glass of wine.

“Something smells delicious,” Petra said.

“I made roast pork with cheese potatoes and fresh green beans.”

“Sounds yummy, Nana. And my favorite ice cream for dessert?”

My mother laughed and nodded. “Yes, I got Rocky Road.”

“You have a beautiful place, Iris,” Petra said.

“I love it here. Come on, I'll show you around.”

I followed them as she pointed out the two bedrooms, a room she called her knitting room filled with shelves of yarn and a day bed, and then the kitchen/dining area.

I noticed that the French doors in the family room led to an enclosed patio outside.

“This is really ideal for you,” Petra said. “And you like the area? You're keeping busy?”

My mother laughed. It was then I noticed that she was sipping ice water and not wine.

“Probably too busy,” she said. “I joined a salsa class and I'm starting a yoga class next week. And the first week in May I'll be helping out at the yarn shop while Mavis Anne and Chloe are gone. In addition to my meetings, yes, I seem to have plenty to do. And I do love the area. I've made a few new friends and I love that the beach is so close.”

“Sounds like it was a good choice moving here,” Petra said, and I caught the glare she sent in my direction.

I knew she felt I'd been too quiet and was making no attempt to join the conversation.

I took a sip of wine. “Well, it certainly sounds like you're the social butterfly.”

I had to acknowledge that I'd been secretly hoping my mother would feel her relocation here was a mistake. But apparently, that wasn't happening.

Dinner was cooked to perfection. We were enjoying coffee while Haley savored her bowl of ice cream.

“Haley tells me you have a special man in your life,” my mother said. “I'd love to meet him some time.”

“Why?” I blurted out before I realized how hurtful the question was.

But she had never met any of the fellows I had dated in high school or college. And she hadn't even met Roger until long after we had gotten married.

I saw the wounded expression that crossed her face and said, “Well, I mean . . . we've only been seeing each other a short time. Who knows where it will lead or if it will even continue?”

I knew this was probably a fib, but it was the best I could come up with.

My mother nodded. “Yes, true. Well, I just want you to know that I'd be happy to meet him. If you thought that I should.”

“You know, Iris,” Petra said, “it's only a ninety-minute drive from here to where I am in Jacksonville. If you ever feel the need for a little getaway, just give me a call and come visit.”

A smile crossed my mother's face. “Thanks, Petra. You've always been such a sweet girl.”

Unlike me
, I thought.

“Nana,” Haley said, “show Mom what you're knitting. Wait till you see this, Mom.”

My mother reached into a tote bag beside the sofa and brought out a gorgeous lace shawl. It was very intricate, done in a shade of ecru, which made it look vintage.

I had to admit it was stunning. I reached over to touch it. “It really is gorgeous,” I said. “Those stitches must be challenging.”

My mother nodded and I could tell she was pleased with my compliment. “Yes, they are. But anything worthwhile is always a challenge,” she said, and I wondered if that had a double meaning.

We made more small talk, and when I glanced at my watch I saw it was almost nine.

“Well,” I said, “we should get going. Thank you for the dinner, Mom. It really was excellent.”

“It was, Nana. Thanks. Mom, maybe Nana could come to our house next time for dinner.”

Leave it to my daughter to make me squirm.

“Yeah, maybe. We'll see,” was all I said.

My mother hugged me good-bye and whispered in my ear, “Thank you for coming, Isabelle. I know it wasn't easy, but it meant a lot to me.”

I nodded and followed Petra and Haley to the car. I resented the lump that had formed in my throat.

T
wo weeks later I drove Haley to the Jacksonville airport for her flight to Atlanta to stay the week with Roger. Petra insisted I spend the night at her house after I dropped Haley off.

I pulled into her driveway and smiled. Even though we'd recently been together, I always looked forward to spending time with my best friend.

“Hey,” she said, opening the door with Lotte in her arms. “I'm so glad you agreed to stay the night. I have lunch all ready.”

I followed her into the kitchen and perched on the stool while she uncorked a bottle of white.

“So what are your plans for the week with Haley gone?” she asked.

“Well,” I said, taking a deep breath, “I've been summoned to my mother's house tomorrow evening for dinner.”

She passed me a wineglass. “And I'm thinking you're not happy with this?”

“I just wonder what it's all about. Why would she invite me alone without Haley?”

“Maybe because she'd like some private time to talk to you?”

I shook my head. “I doubt it. What could she possibly have to say that I don't already know?”

“I guess you'll find out tomorrow night. You
are
going, aren't you?”

“I'll probably be sorry, but yeah, I agreed to go. And Wednesday morning I'm going with Chadwick to spend the night in Atlanta at his parents' home.”

Her head shot up as her eyebrows arched. “Oh, really? And what's that all about?”

I waved a hand in the air. “Don't get too excited. He has to go up there for business and asked me to go along. He'd like me to meet his parents, so we'll be staying there for one night. That's all.”

A smile crossed Petra's face. “Hmm, that's all? Sounds rather important to me. When a guy would like you to meet his parents, you've moved beyond the friendship stage. Trust me. I know these things.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “And that's because you have somebody special in your life?”

“Hey, do as I say, not as I do. Are you nervous? About meeting them?”

“I haven't given it much thought. Should I be?”

“Nah. Except for a woman's wedding day, it's only that other really major day in her life. Meeting people who could potentially turn out to be family by marriage.”

I held my palm in the air. “Hold on. First of all, I never realized what a hopeless romantic you are, and secondly, we're simply spending the night there rather than doing the drive back the same day.” I took a sip of wine. “That's all it is.” And I wondered which of us I was trying to convince more. Petra? Or myself?

* * *

I arrived back in Ormond Beach the next morning around ten, dreading dinner with my mother later that evening. Once or twice I thought about calling her to cancel, fibbing that I was sick, but I couldn't bring myself to do that.

And so here I was ringing her doorbell just before six.

As on my previous visit, she opened the door wide with a huge smile on her face. But this time I was alone and didn't have Petra and Haley to pick up the slack if conversation flagged.

“Isabelle, I'm so glad you agreed to come. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Great,” I said, and followed her to the family room, where I sat on the sofa as she uncorked a bottle of red, poured one glass and brought it to me.

She sat across from me in a wingback chair. “So is Haley having a nice time visiting her father?”

I ignored her question and blurted out, “Why don't you drink wine? This is the second time I've come here and you haven't had any.”

She took a sip of ice water and nodded. “Right. It's part of the reason I wanted to talk to you. I'm a recovering alcoholic. There's a lot you don't know about me, Isabelle.”

What? My mother was an alcoholic? I pictured a falling-down, word-slurring, unkempt person when I heard the word
alcoholic
. Surely she meant that sometimes she just had a few too many. Like I did. Besides, I couldn't remember seeing my mother drunk when I was a child.

“I don't understand,” I said.

“I know you don't and that's what I hope to fix.” She let out a deep sigh.

“Were you a drinker when you left me and Dad?” I asked.

“I was. I just kept it pretty well hidden. From you, at least. But your father knew.”

“Oh, so that's why you left? You preferred booze over me?” I knew my words had taken on a nasty tone, but I didn't care. I was angry to learn this about my mother, but also pissed that I hadn't been told before now.

“Let's get something straight right now,” she said, and I heard an edge to her tone. “I never left because of
you
and I never preferred anything above
you
. If you don't believe anything else that I have to tell you, I need you to believe this. Do you understand?”

Instantly, I felt as if I was ten again and was being chastised by my mother for something I had said or done wrong. I nodded and said, “Yes.”

“Okay,” she said and stood up. “I have a lot to tell you and I know you'll have a lot of questions, but I'd like us to have dinner first and enjoy the pasta and meatballs that I made. No discussion about the past until we're finished. Deal?”

My head was spinning, but I nodded. “Okay,” I said. “Can I help?”

“No, I'm all set. Let me just put it on the table.”

I followed her to the dining area and saw she had already set the table.

Somehow we managed to make general conversation about Haley, Petra, the yarn shop, and various other topics as we ate salad, pasta, and garlic bread.

I helped my mother clear the table and clean up and then she brewed a pot of coffee.

“I think it might be a long evening,” she said, shooting me a smile.

After we settled ourselves in the family room, each with a mug of coffee, she said, “Let's see, where do I begin?”

“At the beginning would be nice,” I retorted. All through dinner I failed to understand how anything she could tell me would take away the hurt and resentment I'd harbored for thirty years.

She nodded. “Right. Well, that would be back to college where I met your father. Your grandparents were gone by the time you were born, so not only did you never meet them, but you never saw the area where I grew up. Shamokin was a coal mining town in the middle of Pennsylvania. It was less than three hours from Philly, where I went to college, but believe me, it was a whole other world.”

When I'd asked my mother about her childhood, as I think all kids do, she'd never said anything bad about it. Only that she grew up in the country, she was an only child as I was. Because her childhood seemed so boring, I never questioned her any further.

“My father worked in the coal mines,” she now told me. “And in February of my senior year of high school, he was killed in a mine explosion.”

“Why did you never tell me this?” I asked.

She shrugged. “You never asked. Besides, it didn't affect me being your mother. But who knows . . . maybe it affected me more than I realized. I had worked hard all through high school and managed to get a full scholarship to college. I remember the day I left home. I think I'd felt smothered by coal dust all my life and I felt like I was getting a chance to gulp fresh air when I arrived at college. Meeting your father was another gulp of fresh air. He came from the city and a middle-class family. I knew he was going places and I wanted to join him.”

“Did you love him?” I asked.

She paused a moment before saying, “I did. But probably not in the way I should have. Over the years I came to see that his love for me was no greater than mine for him.”

I recalled that I'd never really witnessed any great affection between my parents, but as a kid I think I assumed everybody's parents were like that.

“So why did you stay together?” I asked.

She let out another deep sigh before taking a sip of coffee. “Why does any couple? You're in a rut. You're not sure where to go or what to do. You just keep putting one foot in front of the other—thinking maybe tomorrow will be different. I don't know, Isabelle. I can't answer that.”

“But you had no problem leaving when I was fifteen. Was it because you had a lover to make the leaving easier?”

“What? Is
that
what your father told you? That I had a lover?”

I saw the genuine look of astonishment on her face.

“Yes,” I said, and for the first time in thirty years I began to question what I had been told. “Yes. After you were gone about a month, he sat me down and explained that you wouldn't be coming back. That you had been in touch with him and told him you were in Oregon. He told me he wasn't surprised because you had been seeing somebody—another man.”

My mother slowly shook her head from side to side. “Oh, Isabelle, there's so much you don't know, but no . . . when I left it had nothing to do with another man. It had everything to do with protecting myself and ultimately protecting you—but maybe I was wrong about that.”

“I don't get it,” I said. “I have never understood why . . . not why you left him . . . but why you left
me
. Why didn't you take
me
with you?” I was fighting to prevent the tears trying to form in my eyes.

“Because I was not in a good place and I didn't want to damage you. We had always been close, but when you turned thirteen we began to drift apart and that's not unusual. Most teen girls go through this with their mothers. But you had grown even closer to your father during this time and I knew the best thing to do was let you stay with him.” She paused for a moment as if formulating her thoughts. “What I'm going to say is in no way an attack on your father. I want you to know that, but it's time you know the truth. He was a wonderful and caring father to you, but he was a difficult husband. Your father was demanding and a perfectionist and that in itself is fine ... except when it destroys another person's confidence and identity.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, but I remembered that my father always expected only the best from me. Instead of rebelling, I acquiesced and became a model daughter and student.

“I'm saying that emotional and verbal abuse can be every bit as bad as physical abuse. If a woman hears long enough that she's a disappointment and a failure as a wife and mother, over time she just might come to believe it. And I did. By the time you were ten, I was convinced that while I might have been an average mother, I really sucked as a wife and a woman. And so . . . that was when I began to find solace in alcohol.”

“I don't remember you drinking very much. Yeah, you'd have a glass or two in the late afternoon and with dinner, but so do I and so do many other women. That doesn't make you an alcoholic.”

She nodded. “That's true. But remember all those migraine headaches I had? When I locked myself in the bedroom most evenings? That's when there is truly a problem. When you hide away with a bottle or two and claim you're resting because of a headache.”

My mind immediately flashed back to Atlanta shortly after Roger left and how I had done the very same thing—hidden out in my bedroom with a bottle of wine. And I did the same thing last summer when I came to visit Chloe at Koi House. Was I headed down the exact same path my mother had taken?

“And so, what happened? Dad said you were staying with some guy out in Oregon. But you weren't?”

“No, I was not. Do you remember Sylvia? My very good friend from college?”

“Sure,” I said. “She came to visit us a few times in Philly. Wasn't she a social worker in Portland? Is that where you were?”

“Yes, but even if your father didn't tell you this, I told you in those first letters I sent.”

Letters?

“What letters?” I felt a twinge of anger course through me and I wasn't sure whom it was directed toward.

“I wrote you quite a few letters, Isabelle, when I first got to Oregon. It was such a difficult time for me, but I wanted you to know my leaving had nothing to do with you. Your father kept those letters from you, I guess. But I'm not surprised.”

Oh, sure
, I thought.
Blame it on my father.

“No, I can see now that you're right. It had nothing to do with me. And everything to do with your selfishness. You were unhappy in your marriage, so you chucked it all, including your daughter, and headed out west.” I stood up and reached for my handbag. I'd waited thirty years to find out why she'd left and it all boiled down to my mother being selfish.

“Isabelle, sit
down
. You are not leaving until you hear all of my story.”

As if on cue, I heard the ringtone on my cell phone telling me I had a call from Chadwick.

“I have a call,” I said, stating the obvious. “It's Chadwick.”

“You can take it on the patio, where you'll have some privacy,” she said, in a determined voice.

I walked outside and for the first time in months I craved a cigarette.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey, beautiful. How was the dinner at your mother's?”

“I'm still here.”

“Oh. Okay. I hope it's going well. Give me a call when you get home.”

“I have no idea when that will be.”

I glanced at my watch and was surprised to see it was already eight.

“If you feel it's too late, then I'll talk to you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“And Isabelle . . . you're doing the right thing. Giving her a chance to explain.”