The Counting-Downers (11 page)

“What are you doing out here? I thought you were asleep.” Her voice is scratchy with tears and underuse.

“I was, I just wanted to get a drink of water before bed and saw you out here. Are you okay?” I venture to ask. Even though I know the answer, I want to see if she’ll be honest for once. How she responds will set the tone for the conversation to follow, the conversation we need to have.

She glances back down at our hands for strength before admitting on a speaking sigh, “No, I’m not. I’m not sure I ever will be again.”

Something happens as she speaks. At once, I feel closer to my mother than I have in months, maybe even years, aside from the day my father died when we clung to each other in grief and despair. We’re not just physically close, but emotionally too.

In this second, no space exists between us. Like magnets that have switched poles and now attract instead of repel each other. Making my intentions clear and giving her a chance to pull away, I rest my head on her shoulder. “Me neither.”

I don’t want this fragile connection to break, so I offer an olive branch. “I’m sorry about today,” I tell her, more because I think I should than because I am. I’m not sure if she senses this, because instead of relaxing as I expected, she stiffens against me.

She doesn’t speak for the longest while, and I wonder if the moment is broken before she says, simply and softly, “You need to grow up, Matilda.”

And it’s me that breaks it.

On the defensive, I sit up straight and untangle my fingers from hers. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.

She gives another speaking sigh which says, ‘You’ve just proven my point.’ “I mean that although you’ll always be a daddy’s girl, you’re not a
little
girl anymore. You’re nineteen, not nine. Throwing a tantrum like you did today was unacceptable and immature.

“Not to mention that Oscar looks up to you. What kind of example do you think you set for him today? That it’s okay to disrespect your parents? To cause a scene? To walk away from a serious situation to go and play in the sea? Believe it or not, I admire your strong spirit, Matilda, but there’s a time and place. And today was not it.”

“I already said I was sorry!”

“You did, but
why
are you sorry? Are you sorry for the things you said, or for your actions? Do
you
think you did anything wrong, or are you just apologizing because you know
I
think you did something wrong?

“Regrets are a waste of time because they’re just the consequences of our conscious choices. You had a choice and you made it. Not often are we oblivious we’re about to do something we might later regret, but we do it anyway. You can regret being selfish and impulsive, but there’s no point regretting the action itself. You did exactly what you wanted today, knowing there might be consequences and repercussions. So make sure you’re apologizing for the right reasons otherwise I don’t want to hear it.”

I think about it for a second. And maybe the fact I have to think about it proves her point, because she seems to take my silence as acquiescence and continues. “I know you have it in your head that I don’t understand you, and I didn’t understand your father, but we were together for over twenty-five years, Matilda. I knew and understood him better than you ever will. You only ever saw him at his best, I saw him at his best, his worst, and his in-between. And vice versa.

“I’m glad you have only amazing memories of him, and I’d never want to tarnish them, but don’t
ever
say that I didn’t understand my husband, publicly or privately. Without me understanding him, you wouldn’t exist. All of this”—she waves her hand gesturing to the garden and our family home with my brother sleeping inside—“wouldn’t exist.”

I know she’s right, and guilt flows through me for saying that to her, for
thinking
it of her. Of course, she knew and understood my father better than I did. They were soulmates in the purest sense of the word.

But then, so were my father and I. If my mom and dad were yin and yang, two parts of a whole balancing each other perfectly, my father and I
were
the whole. One and the same. To this day, I still don’t know where he ended and I began.

“I know you knew him outside and in, but I knew him inside out,” I tell my mother, doing a poor job of articulating the thought I just had. I try again. “Just because you knew him well, doesn’t mean I didn’t either. I knew and understood him in a different way than you did. Daddy and I were essentially the same person; he was my soulmate too. My soul recognized its twin, while yours recognized its counterpart.

“And when you told me today that he would have been disappointed in me, I became angry because I knew it wasn’t true. He wouldn’t have wanted me to embarrass or antagonize you, but he wouldn’t want me to do something that didn’t feel true or real to me. Oscar said something funny, so I laughed. I was dead inside, so I did something that made me feel alive. It’s as simple as that.

“I felt Daddy in the sea today with us. He was there in spirit. And if he was there in person, you know just as well as I do that he’d either be playing right along with us, or would have stayed next to you out of solidarity, but would have been cheering us on in secret.

“I’m not going to change who I am to fit a situation or please someone else. I am who I am, every time, everywhere. He’s the one who taught me that, so no way would he have been disappointed in me for following my heart, staying true to myself, and
living
.”

My speech might as well have been a soliloquy judging by my mom’s unimpressed face.

“This is exactly what I mean about growing up, Matilda. You need to understand that part of being an adult means placing limits on how much you can follow your heart and stay true to yourself. It’s not always possible to be one hundred percent yourself, one hundred percent of the time.

“If everyone just did whatever they wanted and said whatever they thought, regardless of the consequences, there would be anarchy. Adults have duties and responsibilities that sometime conflict with or inhibit their truest selves.

“Do you think I wanted to attend my husband’s funeral today? Do you think I felt like catering to fifty people when all I wanted to do was be alone with my memories and what’s left of my family?” I wince as the questions hit me hard, but she keeps going.

“Do you think I wouldn’t prefer playing in the ocean to playing hostess? Or that I don’t just want to curl up into a ball and stay in bed all day until the time comes for me to join my husband? Instead of getting up each day and looking after you and your brother, going to work, and doing mundane tasks? I don’t have the luxury of always ‘following my heart,’ Matilda!” she shouts into the silent darkness.

For once, I don’t know what to say. I guess I’d never thought of it like that, and maybe she’s right that the older you are, the less you can be yourself. I’d never seen always being true to yourself as a luxury only reserved for children, selfish people, and anarchists. The idea doesn’t sit right with me.

My mom has a point about responsibilities restricting the authenticity of self in certain situations. However, I would never want to turn into one of the world’s millions of mindless sheep, who just do as they’re told, never brave enough to do or say what they want, not strong enough to be whom they really are inside, or to become who they’ve always wanted to be.

I make a decision then and there never to be less than seventy-five percent myself, one hundred percent of the time as my concession to adulthood. It’s the best I can do, and I’ll always aim for one hundred percent, even if I’m not always able to reach it.

But I don’t need to tell my mom about my revelation and decision. It’s between me and my conscience, me and my heart. Besides, she wouldn’t understand. The gulf has once again widened, leaving us standing on two opposite sides.

Feeling the familiar distance, I lapse back into old routines and lash out, turning the focus back onto her and her faults instead of mine. “Well, maybe you should follow your heart and be yourself more often, Mom.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen the real you. I think the only person who ever did was Dad. This is the most real I think I’ve ever seen you,” I say, gesturing to her present unkempt state, “and it’s
refreshing
. You want to talk about messages to Osc, what do you think you’re showing him by never showing weakness or vulnerability? By being nothing less than perfect? By repressing your emotions and lying to yourself and others? By shutting out those around you and isolating yourself instead of reaching out and letting them help you?”

Although said in slight spite, my words are honest and long overdue. Guilt gnaws at my conscience for hurting her, but I’m relieved to have rid myself of a lifetime of words unspoken. My mother reels back in shock, pushing the porch swing backward. “I don’t do that, do I?” She seems horrified at the thought.

Her devastated expression drains my blood of the anger coursing through it, leaving behind guarded openness. I love my mom, and I don’t want her to think she’s a bad parent, especially now that she’s the only parent I have left. But in order for her to be a better one, she needs to know the truth.

“You do,” I admit. “You always have. I think that’s why Dad spent so much time and energy teaching me to be open and honest with my emotions, and that it’s a sign of strength to be vulnerable, not a sign of weakness.

“He made sure I knew that I shouldn’t waste my life with the impossible pursuit of perfection because I was already perfectly imperfect.” My lips quirk up at the last two words, thinking of the phrase my dad so often spoke to me.

The fight seems to drain from her at my words, causing her to fold into herself and tears to fall. “I… I didn’t mean to. I had no idea,” she mumbles, almost to herself. “I… I’m sorry… if I ever gave you the impression that you had to be perfect, or that you couldn’t be
vulnerable
or come to me for help and support. You can; you’ve always been able to.

“I always thought you didn’t because you preferred to receive advice from your dad, not because you believed you couldn’t come to me
at all
. I’m so sorry,” she says, looking me in the eye through the tears in her own. “Please forgive me.”

I’ve never seen this version of my mother before, but I love her. Truly, deeply, freely. I love every version of her, the antagonistic one and all the others, but this is my favorite by far.

“It’s okay, Mom.” I hold out my arms in a tentative peace offering, which she accepts with gratitude, launching herself at me and sobbing into my chest. “It’s okay.” I stroke her hair, reversing the traditional roles of parent and child, but content in being the strong one she feels comfortable enough to lean on.

I don’t want to speak too soon because I’ve been wrong before, but this seems like an irrevocable breakthrough in our relationship. And for the second time today, I sense my father’s spirit present. And I know that wherever he is, he’s
smiling
. So I smile back into the unquiet darkness.

We sit there for a while, my grieving mother, my invisible father, and I, comforting each other with love and silence.

After an indeterminate amount of time, my mother’s sobs subside and my father’s spirit disappears, trusting me to take care of her. She rights herself, and once again takes my hand for support, which I gladly give.

“You have to understand, the way I am, is the way I was raised. My parents were both very strict. They took care of me, and I know they loved me in their own way, but they weren’t big on emotion or affection.

“My father was a gruff Scotsman, who believed the opposite of everything your dad taught you. He thought me that vulnerability was very much a sign of weakness, not as you rightly said, a show of strength.

“I wasn’t allowed to cry in front of him, and I wasn’t allowed to be anything less than perfect in everything from my grades, to my behavior, and the way I dressed. Our home was neither happy nor abusive. All emotion was banned from our house, including happiness.

“And when I met your father,” she says on a smile, squeezing my hand, “he was a breath of fresh air. He spent a lifetime teaching me how to feel and how to express those emotions. Now he’s gone, I guess I’ve found myself slipping into old habits.”

“How do you mean?”

“My comfort zone is control, and even though I knew it was coming, losing him has made everything appear so entirely
out
of my control that I’ve been clinging to the only shreds I can grasp. I didn’t think about the effect it was having on you and Oscar.

“I didn’t realize I was teaching you what my parents taught me. For once, I’m glad you didn’t listen to me.” She nudges my shoulders.

“I never thought I’d hear you say that.” I laugh and she joins me before her expression becomes soft and serious.

“I know I don’t say it enough, I’m not sure if I’ve ever said it, but I’m proud of you, Matilda. Not only are you so much like your father, but you’re everything I always wished I could be. You’re the best parts of both of us, and yet completely yourself. I’m sorry if I ever made you believe you’re not good enough, you’re perfect as you are. You always have been to me.”

Sometimes, you don’t realize how much you needed to hear something until it’s been said. I never knew just how much I needed my mom to be proud of me, just how much I was craving her support, pride, and acceptance.

I’d trained myself to believe I didn’t care; that all I needed was my dad’s love and understanding, but I realize now that it wasn’t true. With her words, something clicks into place in my soul and I’m
free
. With the final release of latent tension comes the release of tears, and it’s my turn to lean on my mom for comfort and her turn to offer it willingly.

“I was scared to go to sleep tonight,” she announces into the stillness. I freeze in my position on her now damp chest, not wanting to disturb this new version of my mother, who openly shares her thoughts and feelings and allows herself to be vulnerable. It’s going to take some time to adjust to her.