“Mothers don’t leave their children. Dads may go. Even that is bad. But a mother never leaves.”
My brother Pete stomped out of the room with his fists clenched at his sides. He shouted over his shoulder as he left, “Mothers never leave.”
Grandpa stood on my left with this desperate look on his face. The letter, the culprit that started Pete’s tirade, laid on the floor. It was simply written and made a simple request.
It’s my birthday. Please come spend the weekend with me.
When the letter came, I was 12 going on 13 and Pete was 15 going on an ulcer. When anyone mentioned our mother, Pete went crazy. So when the letter came, I thought it would be interesting to meet her for the first time. I had mentally packed my bags already and was ready to go. This was what Grandpa liked most about me. He said that I was more mature than my 12 years and didn’t let life bother me too much. I liked to hear him say this because I wanted to feel more mature.
However, Grandpa said that Pete acted like a 16 year old who didn’t want anything to change. He also had no interest in meeting our mother.
I spent days trying to convince him to take the trip with me. I used the “I’ll miss you” tactic. Then I tried the “you’re being a big baby” tactic. Finally, I went with “don’t you want to give her a piece of your mind.” That last tactic worked. Pete’s stony face broke into a boyish grin and I think I actually saw the strands of his red hair stand to applaud the idea. He did want to give her a piece of his mind.
A week later, Grandpa was taking us to the bus station. By this time, Pete had developed a habit of removing the letter from its envelope, reading it, then scowling. His light brown eyes grew dark and he’d say, “Wait until I see her.”
I thought Pete really hated our mother. I waited for the right moment to ask my question. The moment came on the bus ride when my brother was neither scowling nor reading the letter. He was actually drifting into sleep. I gently touched his arm and quietly asked, “Pete, do you hate our mother?” Without hesitating or opening his eyes, he said, “Yes.”
With this knowledge, I was beginning to regret talking my big brother into coming along. I thought he had enough venom to bite her head off. Since we were little children, I had seen this venom in Pete. He could be a raging volcano if he wasn’t properly cared for. Grandpa and I had mastered “Pete control” but as he grew older, it became more difficult to quiet his storms.
I knew Pete was mad about something. I didn’t understand that it was our mother until we took that long bus ride to Waukegan, IL. He was kind to me, but he seemed most happy when he shared what he would say to our mother. I truly believed that Pete was going to give her a piece of his mind and then get right back on the bus to go home. I thought he had no intention of staying for her birthday weekend.
Five hours later, as our bus pulled into the Waukegan bus station, I sat straight up in my seat. I scanned the heads of the people waiting for buses to arrive. I was looking for our mother’s bright auburn hair. It was the only thing anybody ever remembered about her. When I asked about her, Grandpa would include a remark that she had the “most beautiful auburn hair.” He knew that Pete and I had inherited our red strands directly from her side of the family. Grandpa said that our mother’s hair was always shiny and that it fell straight down her back.
I thought if I could just see that hair before Pete, then I could warn her to run for her life. But no one with bright auburn hair was waiting on the bus platform. I decided that all Waukegans looked just like everybody else the world. It was far away but it was very different. Before the bus could come to a complete stop, Pete was out of his seat and gathering our belongings-his jacket, my sweater, and the snack bag that Grandpa had packed for us.
“Come on, Jill,” he said. “I can’t wait to meet our mother.” He spat out the word “mother” as if it tasted bad.
I cringed. I didn’t want a scene, and Pete could make a scene. He was in such a hurry that we were the second and third persons off the bus.
On the platform, we continued to search among the waiting throng for that bright auburn hair, but we didn’t see it. I watched the back of Pete’s neck. I could actually see the hairs rising with his anger. He was getting madder with every passing second.
After five minutes of searching, I felt a hand rest softly on my back and a voice quietly said, “Jillian.” I turned to face a woman who was an inch shorter than me and two inches shorter than Pete. She had a petite frame, but her face was the most interesting part on her. Her noise was small and dainty. Her smile was small and gentle. And her eyes were the light brown hue that was in Pete and my eyes. However, the light seemed to twinkle in each of her eyes. And true to every mention of that auburn hair, it was really beautiful. It fell straight down her back and stop just above her waist. It was shiny and when she moved, it glided.
Our mother was beautiful. She was too beautiful to be evil. She was too quiet to be evil. She was too gentle to be evil. In my mind, I was now ready to begin my quest-to find out more about this woman. I didn’t see any reason to hate her. She was here now. I hugged her. Then I quickly glanced at Pete. His face showed that our mother’s appearance had unsettled him too. He looked torn between carrying out his plan to give her a piece of his mind and hugging her. He settled for shaking her hand because he must have thought that there was still one reason to hate her. After all, she had left us.
The ride to our mother’s home was filled with her acting as a tour guide. She was a very good one too. I sat in the front absorbing every detail about the town of Waukegan. Pete sat in the back behind me and mumbled responses to any question our mother asked. Occasionally, I glanced in the rear view mirror to see if I would have to control my brother. I thought at any moment he could launch the “piece of my mind” plan. But the mirror showed a solemn Pete. He was confused and he didn’t like the feeling nor did he know what to do with it. Our mother could sense his restraint as well. She didn’t prod him to answer or to speak up, but she didn’t shut down on him either. She just kept guiding the tour and asking gentle questions.
“How was the bus ride?” “Do you like the town’s fountain?” “Are you hungry?” Do you have any idea what Peterman’s sells?”
A half hour later, we were at our mother house. Like her it was small. It was a single brownstone with a narrow path that led right to her front door. There were daises on each side of the path which welcome you to take a walk to the front door. The house itself was simply furnished and very comfortable. It had only two bedrooms and our mother profusely apologized to Pete because he would have to sleep on the pull out sofa bed. Pete mumbled that it would be fine with him.
Once we were settled, our mother told us about her weekend plans, which included many activities that only we could really appreciate. I thought that there was no way our mother could get much fun from riding on a ferris wheel at the local carnival. But on the next day, she surprised me. She laughed and sang as we rode every carnival ride, ate cotton candy and peanut covered caramel, and went into a fun house to be scared to death. Throughout the day, Pete slowly began to enjoy himself. He spoke full sentences and even stopped mumbling. He became amiable and I knew it was because of our mother. She was a very contagious woman who made you have fun even if you were trying very hard not to.
The rest of our weekend went well. Our mother celebrated her birthday by celebrating us. “You make me feel young,” she said. We just smiled because she already looked young. All was great until we packed our bags to leave. Our mother was filling brown paper bags with sandwiches, apples and drinks for our ride back home to Grandpa. I felt like I had so much to tell him that I couldn’t wait to see him. Pete was helpful but had resorted to another stage. He was very quiet. As I watched his every move, I was uncertain. All we needed to do was get on the bus and return to Grandpa without any blowups. I hoped and prayed that we could do just that.
On the bus platform, our mother kissed us goodbye. As soon as her lips left his cheek, Pete decided it was time to launch his plan, but he spun off a mini version. Plainly and without emotion, he asked, “Why did you leave us?”
I closed my eyes. When I opened them, she was hugging Pete. “I don’t expect this weekend to change much for us overnight,” said our mother. “I just wanted to see you. Because you see I too understand. Mothers never leave, Pete. Fathers do and even that’s bad, but mothers never leave. Somehow I broke the code. I don’t expect you to understand or to forgive until you’re ready.”
And Pete said, “No. Mothers never leave.”