Chapter & Verse

My mother knew chapter and verse about soap operas and games shows.

She made beds to "Search for Tomorrow" and started supper to "The Match Game". Each day she sat with her crocheting or knitting and worked by feel with her ears and eyes captivated by the old black and white tv. She disliked interruptions of any kind and often wouldn't even answer the telephone except during the commercials. We learned to fend for ourselves after school and not bother her - there were always egg tarts or brownies to be had if we were hungry - and homework to hide behind. If she was at all aware of our comings and goings, she paid no mind. We didn't bring friends home or have sleepovers or have someone stay to supper. The unpredictability of addiction was paramount and the risk of some irrational and unexplained upheaval was too much to chance. She simply wasn't like other mothers who helped with homework or took you shopping or picked you up from a practice game. She didn't attend parent teacher conferences, didn't come to watch little league, skipped the Christmas pageants, was too busy for any of the recitals and couldn't spare the time to help with school projects. If parental involvement was called for, it fell to my daddy or someone else's mother and we were grateful - none of us wanted her exposed or out in public. We might not have been able to articulate the notion of shame, but we understood it and it's repercussions all too well.

There were no fingerpainted pictures taped to the refrigerator, no blue ribbons or gold stars or A+ papers on the bulletin board. No school events made the calendar, she didn't know the names of the teachers, had no idea of the grades we brought home. Addiction insulated, protected, and isolated her from the routine of motherhood. As a general rule, it did the same for her children. It was a very long time before we realized that our's was not an ordinary home, that other mothers were active and interested in the lives of their children, that they were involved and participated. Other mothers showed up when it mattered while our's hid behind alcohol. It was a conflicted and confusing time, caught between shame and gratitude at her absense, and feeling that neither emotion was exactly right, but without knowing precisely why.

In the first grade when we began to learn to draw and color, Miss Edwards asked that we paint a picture of our family. I painted my daddy, our dogs, my brothers and myself. When Miss Edwards asked about my mother, I said the first thing that came into my head - that I didn't have one. The lie came easier and it wasn't all that far from the truth.