Lady of the House for a Second

As I may have said, Mother made a quick departure from hearth and home almost before the ink was dry on the divorce papers. In fact, it may have been the same day that she returned from court a free woman again. As I stated, she and I packed up her car with clothes and a few other things she deigned to call her own. The only item I recall was her sewing machine.

I was sixteen, feeling my growing “womanhood” and felt as if a millstone had been removed as she pulled out of the driveway and away from my immediate life. I was now the woman of the house, and had several designs on some redecorating I wanted to do. Nothing all that major of course, just a thing here or there, a transfer of dishes from one cabinet to another. Just the usual reshuffling to make it user friendly to me. I had already had plenty of experience in housework, so there was little I was concerned about.

As I recall, my euphoria lasted only a short time. I was feeling that freedom, the ability to breathe deeply once again, the knot slowly giving up its tight hold on my stomach. Father of course was not much different. Morose, depressed, and always with the sad face of a defeated man, that was his normal countenance for a good deal of the rest of his life. He spoke to my mother perhaps twice during that time (the rest of his life), once when I went off to college and at least once inadvertently no doubt. He might answer the phone, and as she asked to speak with me, silently he would set the phone down, and call me, all without uttering a word more. Such was his hatred of all things woman from that point forward.

My father never dated a woman again. He nearly ruined a long friendship with a coworker who invited a nice “widow” lady from down the road to dinner one night when Dad and Gram had been invited over. Dad never said a word to the woman all evening other than to mumble one-word responses. Afterward, as I said, he threatened the end of their friendship should it ever happen again. No, dad was most intent in wallowing in self pity for the rest of his life. And that is exactly what he did.

Just as I was deep in my plans to redecorate or reshuffle things around the house, dad informed me of a change that was soon to occur. He explained that he had invited Gram to come live with us. His mistake of course, was that I was sixteen and entitled to be consulted on this momentous decision. I was not of course, just simply informed. She was there unpacking in less than a week. A new turn in my life had begun again, and again, I had never been consulted about how I felt about it.

Now, one may wonder why I was distressed at this turn of events. I was perhaps closer to Gram than either Dale or Cheryl ever were. I certainly spent more time with her, enjoyed more time at the lake, more games, more shopping. I had never as I recall had a argument with Gram about anything. But things had changed with the year of divorce, they had changed a lot.

No doubt a certain amount of the trouble came from simply my age. I was in the normal teen rebellion years, intent on finding fault with any adult about any subject. I resented any power that felt they could tell me what to do. I felt perfectly capable of knowing what to do and how to do it without further adult supervision. But it was more than that, and almost no one knew of this.

I have no doubt that Gram loved Dad more than Dorothy. Dorothy and her had always butt heads, for as long as I could remember. Perhaps they were simply too much alike, perhaps Dorothy knew her methods too well and saw the underlying manipulation. But love dad she did. And because of that, it was not illogical that she took his side regarding the divorce. Slowly but surely, she would find reason to engage me in conversation about the subject and of course over time I began to resent it heartily.

It always started the same way. “Sherry,” she would say, “I’ve always loved your mother. In fact I have always thought of her as if she were my own daughter. But, I know you dad would never tell you this, but I think you are old enough that you should know. Your mother. . . . ” And what followed would always be something either current or historical that painted my mother in a bad light. Some of it was definitely not her place to be telling a person my age, especially not a daughter. But her fierce protection of Dad drove her to make sure that I was not mistaken as to who was to blame. This was always accomplished with the requisite tears, showing her deep desire to rectify this marriage.

These conversations had occurred a few too many times of course. By the time I was informed that Gram was coming to live with us, I was deeply resentful of her attempts to play sides and the additional pressure this put on me. Things reached a big and final end for me when she actually blamed me for the divorce, exclaiming in true anger, “I only know, that if it had been my parents, I would have done whatever it took to make them stay together!” So I was advised that I was too complacent, too accepting of this divorce. If I had only thrown a few tantrums, undoubtedly they would have realized that this was wrong and stayed together. Yeah, undoubtedly that would have worked.

I had, definitely approached the divorce from a perhaps peculiar place. I was fifteen going on sixteen after all, and I was feeling more adult by the day. I considered the entire thing a personal issue between two adults. I considered that no one should be required to give up a finite life “to keep a family together” or to “make the children happy.” I never blamed my mother actually for falling out of love with dad and into love with Tom. I figured such things were not particularly controllable by the individual. I did feel that dad was essentially not to blame of course. But I sensed already that life was short, and nobody should be required to spend their life in emotional misery for the “sake of the kids.” Of course, I did not come through this mess in the untarnished way that I expected or thought. I was deeply harmed, probably as much by their way of doing it as anything, but it was not for many years that I realized that.

So when it was announced that Gram was coming to live with us, I was angry, but of course it was an anger I needed to suppress. No one would have understood how I felt. I had not conveyed our conversations to others of course. (Finally I did tell Dad to tell “her” to stop talking about my mother. He did, and she did.) I was not a very happy person when Gram came, but was required to put on a good face as it were.

I cannot say that Gram was ever mean to me. To the contrary, she delighted in constantly trying to please. That in itself could drive a sane person slightly mad. I am one of those persons who does not wake up chipper and ready to meet the day. I need quiet time to adjust my head to whatever “fresh hell” awaits me in the day. (I stole that from Dorothy Parker, a great literary wit.) The list of to-do’s for the day is overwhelming at first to me. I need time to adjust, then order the events, and start the first one. After that I am fine.

Gram could never get that about me. I would stumble into the living room and flop into a chair. Within five minutes she was hovering, “What would you like for breakfast?” she chirped. “Nothing.” I replied. “Oh, you need to eat, how about some nice toast?” “No, I’m not hungry right now. I’ll get something later.” She would tiptoe away. I would stare at the TV, doing my mental gymnastics which would enable me to get up the energy to get dressed as the first step of the day. Two minutes later, “Would you like some pancakes?” “No, Gram, I’m NOT hungry.” “Okay, I just wanted to make you something nice.” “I know, but I’m not hungry now. I’ll fix my own.” She would retreat again, only unbelievably to return within another two minutes, “How about some french toast and bacon?” Now of course, my patience, never in evidence from the start, was now in the negatives. “Gram, I said I didn’t want any breakfast. I am NOT hungry. I will fix something later. Please don’t ask me again!” Oh the hurt that crossed her face as she looked suitably hurt and attacked. I was now the ogre. “Why are you talking to Gram like that?” my father boomed, having just left the bathroom and hearing only my rather abrupt and direct retort. “Well, I keep telling her that I am not hungry and she won’t stop asking me about breakfast.” This as I stamped off to my room and closed the door and sat morosely on the bed trying to figure out why my life was so screwed up.

Next: Graduation, college and war, yes I will get to them all in time!