Debi Orton's Editor's Pick:
This Is Your Mom
by Kathleen Lindstrom
I can't tell you my precise reaction when I saw the plane slice into the tower. I only know it scared my cat. She was on her way to the litter box when I did what I did. It made her stop, study my face for a second or two and then dash off to her safe place — under my bed.
All I remember is turning on the TV, seeing Katie Couric looking sad and serious, and then watching the image of that plane, that huge twisted bird-of-a-thing, flying sideways, it seemed to me, as it slid into steel and concrete — as slick and unseemly as a finger poking into a stick of butter. And then came the explosion — those rapturous reds and oranges, yellows and blacks (the colors of pain and blood and unbearable loss) surging out and into the New York skyline.
I must have screamed. That's probably what scared Scarlet, my cat. Then I think I doubled over and came back up with my hands over my mouth. They stayed there most of the day as I sat in front of the TV absorbing the minute-by-minute horror of what was happening in our country. Life, I realized, would never be the same.
My name is Patricia. I'm a 38-year old mother who abandoned her children 11 years ago. I know what you're thinking. And you may be right. All I can tell you is that leaving home was the worst decision I ever made and the best decision I ever made. It was both those things at the same time. That's all I can say.
Jake and I got married when we were 18. I was pregnant, of course. Why else would anyone marry so young? We were two know-it-all kids, hot for each other and fed up with following everyone else's rules.
Jake got two jobs to support us. We found a one-bedroom apartment with a small kitchenette. Millie came first. Irene was born 16 months later. I think the arrival of Carrie, however, was the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak. She's two years younger than Irene, but was much harder to raise. Carrie squirted out of me with a piercing cry that lasted for months. Nothing I did could console her.
Then, when Jake left two years later, Carrie turned as silent and still as stone. The pediatrician said she was a sensitive child and was picking up on the grief of a family falling apart. Or words to that effect. "She'll be talking up a storm," he said. "Just give her time."
Jake told me the same thing when he left us. "Just give me time," he said. "I'm only 24. I need to spread my wings, sow some wild oats, feel free for awhile."
Six months later he got engaged to his boss's daughter.
But I have to admit, he was a good dad to our children. He paid child support faithfully, took the kids every weekend and helped me make those big decisions — like sending Carrie to therapy when she was five and showing signs of bulimia. "She's needing to control some area of her life right now," the therapist told us. "She's in a power struggle with mom and feels overwhelmed."
I guess that's what did me in.
I have a large capacity for rejection and failure and can take whatever hurt the world has to give. It's like this huge reservoir inside my heart that can hold bucketsful of bad words, such as "you're a terrible mom," or "you can't even hold onto your husband," or "you hurt your kid just by being yourself," or "they'll be happier without you."
And so on and so forth. Fortunately, over time, the hurts evaporate like water, freeing up space so I can take in more of the same.
Because of my struggles with Carrie, however, that reservoir not only filled up, it overflowed its banks and swept me down a river of such pain and confusion I thought I would die. Some deep flame was flickering out inside, and I knew I had to save myself. So I dropped the kids off with my parents, telling them I was going to the movies with a girlfriend. Then I got on the first bus out of town and ended up in Seattle.
That was 11 years ago. They eventually tracked me down, of course, but I made it clear I wasn't coming back. I know Jake and his wife have made a good life for my kids. Millie is in college right now. Irene was elected president of her senior class. Carrie is a cheerleader and straight-A student.
Imagine that. A cheerleader and straight-A student.
As for myself, I'm as happy as a runaway mom can be, I guess. I own a successful boutique and have exhibited my watercolors in several small museums. Friends and lovers come and go, but I am getting better at choosing the ones who will enrich my life and show me how to love. At the same time, however, I am filled with a grief that goes down to my bones and I will forever mourn the empty space in my heart that once held my three baby girls.
Now, here it is, September 11, 2001. I lay in bed, listening for bombs, or explosions or gigantic jets aimed at destroying the life I have built. Nothing is safe anymore. We know that now. But Scarlet's sweet body is warming the back of my knees. And in this cold black night, I hear the hum of jets patrolling our skies, protecting us from the raging fires of fury and hate.
It's time, I finally tell myself. I can no longer trust in the possibilities of tomorrow. So I reach for the phone and dial a number I know by heart but have never used. When she answers, I say, "Carrie? This is your mom..."