Below is the piece I attempted to submit to The Sirenland Writers Conference with Dani Shapiro. The original draft was written two years ago. I rewrote it in October of this year at which time I thought I sent it, along with a $10.00 application fee, through the airwaves to the place in clouds where it would be picked up, read and either accepted or rejected. As it turned out, my transmission failed. Oh well. This writing reminded me how important my story is and why I write. I am the manifestation of God’s love. I create through the Divine Mother for the greatest good of all.
Sally
My Mother, Sara Ellen Kistler, aka Sally, was born January 27, 1931 in Kokomo, Indiana. From the little she that told me about herself, I would say that she was an unhappy child. She did not particularly care for her father, who she said called her a whore because she liked boys. She was jealous of her sisters, who, according to her, had everything they wanted because her family was rich “before the depression.” Sally, on the other hand, had only hand-me-downs and clothes sewn by Momo, her mother.
A serial monogamist, Sally first married at the ripe young age of 18. He, who will remain unnamed, left after a few short months. When queried about the short duration of this first marriage, she coyly answered, “Well dear, he was very handsome and I was very young.”
My father, Percy Carlton Sinclair III swept Sally off her feet. They married when she was 19. A man of small stature, Carl made up for his size with charm. 5″ 6″ inches, he took obsessive pride in his appearance, coordinating ties, sport coats, slacks and hats in a manner not unlike a New York clothing designer. Longing for attention and hoping for a rich husband, my mother was an easy mark for Carl. Sally lacked sophistication, which Carl exuded. Her insecurity played into his narcissism. Together they created the perfect “cocktail.” He was the vodka and she, a splash of vermouth, the one who could not help but shake the mixer. Sally was a poker, a needler, a nudger, and a “get in your face” kinda gal. And Carl always said, “It is my way or the highway.”
Sally wanted love and attention. Carl wanted to be left alone to drink scotch, smoke cigars and pipes, and watch the fights. Sally wanted to have pretty clothes, to go to parties, to mingle with the rich and famous. Carl was a loner, a closet miscreant, who, without regret, verbally assassinated co-workers, friends, relatives and total strangers. His attacks were rarely warranted and always unpredictable.
Sally, too late, discovered she was no match for Carl Sinclair. Unaware of his capacity for vengeance, she left alone in the middle of the night, thinking she would come back for her child, or so she said. But Carl would have none of it. He convinced the judge that Sally was an unfit mother, a drunk, and a pill-popper who abandoned her daughter to chase after a married man. She did. The court awarded custody of their child to the state of Indiana who in turn made Carl the legal guardian.
Where was my mother when I was a baby, a toddler? My Aunt Liz later told me that her sister, Sally refused to care for me. She lay, silently on the couch watching TV, while I lay, unattended in a playpen. I guess my father called Aunt Liz, because she came and stayed with our family for two weeks right after I was born. Then she had to go home to take care of her three sons.
I later asked Sally why she chose not to breastfeed me. She had an instant reply. “I never considered it. Breast-feeding is so unsanitary and messy. You never know when breast milk will leak and stain your clothes. And then there is the thing of doing it in public. How improper. And what about your boobs engorging with milk and then shrinking back? I did not want saggy breasts.”
Someone, perhaps Grandma, fed me diluted Carnation Evaporated Milk from a bottle. When I later asked, “why Pet Milk?” my Mom replied, “What’s wrong with that? Look at you now. You’re fine. Besides, everybody did that then.”
I have so many questions. Did Grandma, my father’s mother, live with us then or did she live with her sister, Aunt Honey and her son, Uncle Don? Aunt Honey had a cozy little bungalow on Napoleon Street. The outside was yellow stucco. Carl occasionally drove Grandma and me to visit her sister. Aunt Honey had converted to Catholicism and was quite devout. Her walls were stamped with brown toned pictures of Jesus, bright-colored ones of the Mother Mary and multiple depictions of the Ascension. She kept her rosaries within easy reach, on every one of her side tables and on her bed stand. But I am getting ahead of myself.
Who changed my diapers? Who cuddled me and kissed my neck? The earliest memory I have of childhood is of me standing in a crib, wedged into the corner of a dark, secluded room. The wallpaper is covered with pilgrims, Indians and colonial soldiers. I am screaming, crying, sobbing in hopes that someone will pay attention to me. No one came.
Sally left when I was less than seven months old. She moved from South Bend, to Culver, Indiana to live with, her parents, my Momo and B0bo.
My Grandma must have come to live with us then.
“Grandma, please put the needle back on the record.” At three, I had trouble getting the arm to set down in the first groove. No matter what Grandma was doing, I nagged and nagged until she helped me. “Listen,” I pleaded. “It is Mommy talking to me. She is at the State Fair in Texas. She made this record just for me.”
Scratchy as it was, you could make out the sound of her high-pitched voice over the noise of the fair. “Hi sweetie. This is your mom. I love you very much. I am here in a record booth at the Texas State Fair. It is a beautiful day. I wish you were here with me. I just saw Big Tex. He has on the biggest cowboy boots I have ever seen. The statue must be twenty stories tall. I have to go now. Ed is motioning to me. Love you, baby. See you soon.” I played that record over and over, careful not to let Daddy hear. He hated Mommy.
I am now 4 years old. It is just before we move with Elaine, my stepmother, to Altgeld Street. Our duplex has a screened-in porch that doubles as an entryway. The porch spans the entire front of the house, but only half is ours. I make the entire expanse of the porch my playroom.
Inside, I am sitting on the red leather chaise lounge chair feeding nuggets of food to my dog, Pinky. “One for you and one for me,” I tell him popping a brown chunk in my mouth. Grandma drops her stir spoon and waddles over. “Give me that bag of dog food now! What have I told you about eating dog food? You know you will be constipated in the morning.”
“No, I know no such thing,” I mumble, crossing my arms tightly around my chest. “You and Mommy are so worried about me going to the bathroom. Why is it such a big deal?”
Exasperated, Grandma wags her finger in my direction. “It is important to be regular. You should have a bowel movement everyday, and you don’t.”
Little does she know that I do poop everyday, but I do it outside in the neighbor’s bushes. Sometimes I forget to take toilet paper outside. Then I have poop stains in my panties and Grandma gets really mad at me. “You need to learn how to wipe your bottom, missy,” she chides.
I like the freedom of going to the bathroom outside. I hold it as long as I can because I have to find a place where no one can see me. One day I wait too long and it all comes out in my shorts. Scared, I hide behind the lilac bush in the alley by the garbage can. Maybe I can sneak in through the back door and take my clothes off without grandma noticing. Then I can change and throw these shorts away. I like to make sneaky plans. I wait and wait, hoping Grandma will come outside to get the clothes off the line. It is getting dark and my pants feel nasty next to my skin.
“I have to go in,” I tell myself. Grandma is going to be so angry, but I cannot stay in these clothes any longer. I sneak up the back stoop and peak in the kitchen. Our duplex is really one big room with Grandma’s bedroom off to one side and my tiny twin bed stuck in a corner of the laundry room. Dad sleeps on a bed in the living room. “Where is she?” I say looking into the far corner of our tiny home. Then I see her coming from the bathroom.
“Where have you been? What is that awful smell?” Red faced, I look down at the dirty linoleum.
“Outside,” I say. “Playing. I tried to get home in time to use the bathroom, but I just did not make it. I have been hiding behind the garage afraid to come in. I knew you would be mad.”
She grabs my hand, pulls me into the bathroom and yanks off my shorts. “You know that lying is a sin. God will punish you. I knew you had been going to the toilet outside but I had no proof. Wait till your father hears about this.” She practically throws me into the tub. The water is too hot, but I do not say a word. She picks up my soiled shorts and pushes them up and down in the toilet. “We will just have to put you back in diapers,” she snaps. “Yes, that is what we will do. Won’t you be a sight playing with all your friends who have on big girl panties and you wearing diapers?”
I pretend not to hear. I know how to shut out the voices that tell me I am bad. I pretend to be a mermaid playing in the ocean. I sing, “I see the moon. The moon sees me. The moon sees the one I want to see. So God bless the moon, and God bless me, and God bless the one I want to see.”
The next summer, Mommy came to get me for our annual trip to the home of Momo, my other grandmother. I brought the record that Mommy had sent me from the Texas State Fair. At 5:00 pm, the cocktail hour, Mommy made herself a vodka tonic and me a Shirley Temple. We all sat around the kitchen table drinking and listening to Mommy’s voice coming through Momo’s stereo. Momo laughed and said, “I think I can hear the cows and pigs in the background.” She was just teasing. There were no animal sounds on the record. Momo liked to make jokes.
That was the same year I did not go back to South Bend. Mommy, snuggled up with me in the big, black, lacquered guest bed upstairs at Momo’s house, whispered in my ear, “I have a secret to tell you.” The fragrance of her Este Lauder perfume tickled my nose. “You are going to come and live with me in Dallas. What do you think about that?”
“What about, Daddy?” I asked. “Where will he and Grandma live? I don’t want to leave Grandma.”
Mommy grimaced, pushed me aside and reached for a cigarette. Momo did not like for her to smoke in bed. Now I knew she was very angry. Taking a long drag, she stared a hole right through me. “You are coming to Dallas with me. Carl can go to Hell for all I care. He took you away from me and now I am getting you back. Do you understand?”
I did not. I loved my Grandma. We shared a room and she read me stories from the Bible every night. We listened to Jack Benny on the radio and played checkers. I loved to imitate Jack saying, “Rochester. Rochester. Bring me my violin!” Rochester would groan and holler back, “Yessir, Mr. Benny. Right now, Mr. Benny.” Then Rochester would shuffle from one room to the next. Jack Benny scraped the bow across the strings. I laughed and laughed. I couldn’t miss more than a couple weeks of that and I did not want to leave my friends. I was getting ready to go to kindergarten in the fall. My neighbor down the street, Debbie Hayes would be in my class.
“NO,” I said. “NO.” I am not going with you to Dallas.”
My mother eyebrows shot up to her hairline, “Yes you are and that is final. We leave tomorrow.”
Uncle Ed, as my mother had me call him, drove us all the way to Dallas. They sat chatting in the front seat, taking turns driving, stopping only to mix drinks from the cooler that sat next to me on the back seat. Mommy told Ed, “We need to teach the kid how to be a bartender. Then we would never have to stop.”
I wondered. “Where is Uncle Ed’s wife? Did he leave her? Is he going to stay with Mommy now?” I also tried to figure out how I could talk to grandma and what I would say when I did. “Grandma, it’s me Sarla. Mommy and Uncle Ed are taking me to Texas. I don’t want to go. Tell Daddy to come get me.” That’s what I would say.
In Dallas I saw a different side of my Mother. Her voice was as sharp as the lines of the ultra modern furniture in her immaculate apartment. I did not have any clothes with me, just the ones I had packed for Momo’s house, and no toys. The minute we entered the front door, Mommy dropped her bag and disappeared. She returned with a box in her hands. “This is for you. She is very special because she came from Neiman Marcus and she cost a great deal of money. Be very careful with her. She can be your baby just like you are mine.” It was a Madame Alexander doll. I named her Elizabeth.
And so it was that I came to live for 6 short weeks with “Mommy Dearest.” We shared the same bed except on nights when Uncle Ed came over. Then Mommy would put me to sleep in bed, only to later move me out to the couch. She forbade me to enter the bedroom. No matter what happened, I was to stay on the couch.
I spent days at the house of sitter who looked like an alien. She wrapped her hair into a volcanic bun and pierced it with a fork-like ornament. Sometimes her grand-daughter came to play with me. I liked her. I had to take a nap every day. Yuk! And Lunch was awful. The babysitter was Polish and loved to cook pierogies, sticky dumplings stuffed with sauerkraut, meat and potatoes. They gave me a stomach ache. I wanted to go back home and eat meatloaf with canned green beans.
At night, Mommy dressed me up and we all went out to a bar with Ed. Sometimes my dress perfectly matched the one that Mommy wore. My favorite was the red, black and blue smocked Mexican dress my Aunt Martha had made for us. I liked going to bars. The men gave me money to play the jukeboxes. I always ordered a Shirley Temple with extra cherries. I would sit on the tall bar stools, pretending to be a grown up. It was lots of fun until I got tired.
Pulling on the hem of her dress, I pleaded, “Mommy, let’s go. I am sleepy.”
Without taking her eyes off Ed, she whispered, “Hush. Here is some more change. Go play Moon River. I saw the waitress look at Mommy and frown. I don’t think she liked her. We stayed really late and I fell asleep in the car on the way home. Ed carried me up in his papa bear arms and laid me down on the couch. He smelled like Old Spice. I recognized it, because my Daddy wore the same aftershave.
Every day was pretty much the same. Mommy worked. I played at the sitter’s until she came to get me. Then we got dressed to go out. One night, Mommy started an argument with Ed about his wife. I overheard him tell Mommy, “Sally, I am taking Kay on a trip to the Bahamas. We will be gone for 10 days.”
“You never take me anywhere,” Mommy screamed, slamming her drink on the bar. You tell me you don’t love that Bitch and then you plan a trip with her. I hate you.” Her eyes filled with tears as she grabbed her purse. “We’ll take a cab home.”
“No you will not.” He snapped, and grabbed her arm. By now everyone in the bar was watching.
I reached out for her hand, “Mommy. Mommy, please don’t leave me. Are you mad at me? I ‘m sorry, so sorry.”
She yanked her hand away and slapped me across the cheek. “Don’t touch me. This is your fault. Everything was fine between Ed and me before you came. You are always in the way.”
Ed reached down and picked me up. “She did not mean that honey. Your mother is just upset. She will be better in the morning. Now, now, don’t cry.” He carried me to the car. It was a long, silent ride home. Ed stopped in front of our apartment and we got out. I never saw Ed again.
I don’t know how he found me, but he did. When the phone rang, my mother ran to get it. She must have thought it was Ed, but it was Daddy. He and Elaine, my stepmother, were in Dallas and they were on their way to get me. When Mommy opened the door, I jumped into Daddy’s arms. Hugging him, I nestled my face into his neck, “Daddy. Daddy. You came to get me. How did you find me? I love you. I love you so much.” Elaine smiled. I was happy to see her too.
I listened intently while Daddy explained to Mommy how much trouble she was in. Because she had transported me across state line, the court in Indiana had charged her with kidnapping. Daddy told her if she did not let them take me back, he would call the police. White faced, my mother packed my bags. We left. Mommy cried.
It’s 2001. I find a stack of letters I had written to my mother in a box at the back of our office closet. They date back to 1954. Each of the letters starts with an apology, asking my Mother’s forgiveness for not having written sooner and/or more often. As I re-read the letters, I am shocked to discover how sorry I was and for how many years I atoned for failing to stay in touch, either by phone or mail.
Memories flood my mind. I see myself in the past lifting the receiver to call my mother. My stomach is cramping. I know she will be upset with me because I have not called in several weeks. I dial the number. Ring, ring, ring. Maybe she won’t answer. I pray to God she will not pick up. If she is not there, I will call again later and say that I had tried, unsuccessfully, to reach her earlier. That would sound good. Perhaps my failed effort would cushion the blow. Ring, Ring.
“Hello,” her voice is sharp and terse.
“Mom. Mom, it’s me. How are you?” Long pause.
She sounds so distant, “Hello, how NICE of you to take the TIME to call. WE know how BUSY you are. TOO BUSY to call us.”
“Mom. Mom. Please do we have to have THIS conversation EVERY time I call? I have been busy. And you know I have never liked talking on the phone. I would rather be with you, but this is the best we can do now. So what’s going on?”
“Well I just got out of the hospital.” Her nonchalant tone is alarming.
“What! Why didn’t you call me? What happened? Are you okay?’
“I didn’t want to worry you. After all you are so BUSY.”
“Mom, I am not too busy to know that you have been in the hospital. Please tell me what happened.”
“Doctor says it’s my heart.” My mother has been on heart medicine since she was 36. Never mind that she smokes 2 packs of cigarettes a day and drinks vodka tonics like athletes drink Gatorade. “I woke with a terrible pain in my chest and could not breathe. Your father (my stepfather) called an ambulance and they took me straight to the hospital. Three days later, they let me come home. I did talk to your cousin Linda. You know she calls ONCE A WEEK. She is such a good girl. I can count on her.”
I am dumbfounded. “Mom, I am so sorry. I would have come if I had known you were that sick. So what did the doctor say when you left the hospital? How are you feeling now?”
“Why do you ask? You know you don’t really care. If you did, you would call more often.”
My stomach jumps into my heart and hits the bass drum. I am breathless. The voice of reason silently warns me. Sarla, hang up now. Tell her you love her and hang up now. Nothing you say will please her. “Okay, Mom, but please promise me that you or Dad will call if anything like this happens again. I love you. You know I love you.” I want to love her. I do. She is, after all, my Mother, the only one I will ever have. I want a mother. I want to have a relationship with this woman I call my Mother, but I cannot seem to get there.
“Do you want to talk to your Father? He is sitting right here.” There is a shuffling sound as she passes the phone to Bill.
Jesus, why the Hell do I have to talk to him? I am just going to get more of the same crap.
“Hi, Dad.” I hear my voice, but I feel far away. I gaze out our kitchen window admiring the Japanese maple I planted in the back yard. Silence.
“Well, we wondered if you would EVER call.”
I hear my inner censor weigh in. Oh Great, just what I need now…another accusation. I am not now nor will I ever be the perfect daughter.
And then, the Tasmanian devil, my angry, blustery self steps into the ring. “Why don’t you ever pick up the damn phone and call me? It is always up to me to do the calling. I did not move away and leave my Mother. No, she left me when I was just one year old. Forget it. This is useless.” Silence.
I hear my inner voice screaming. I hate him. I hate them both. So shaming. What did I ever do to them? I was born. That’s what I did. I somehow entered my Mother’s toxic womb and survived. It is a miracle that I was not killed by all the smoke and alcohol she ingested. I have tried hard to love them, but they just push me away.
I am appalled by my outburst. My well-rehearsed guilt and shame chime in. How do they always manage to make you so angry? You tell yourself over and over to stay calm, but it never works. You are such a failure. When will you ever learn to keep your mouth shut? Now you’ve done it.
Jump forward to Mother’s Day, 2003.
I have been trying all day to reach my Mother. She must be home. Where would she go on Mother’s Day? Is she purposely not answering the phone? The Cuisinart of my stomach processes 51 years of abuse. Pulsing up past my heart, I taste the rancid past in my throat. Then worry replaces fear and I pray she has not fallen ill.
Finally she picks up. “What! Why are you calling? Can’t you just leave us alone?”
“It is Mother’s Day, Mom. I called to wish you Happy Mother’s Day. What’s wrong?”
“Okay, you called.”
“Mom, I don’t know what to say. Have you had a good day?” Rage, fear, dread and self-loathing color my cheeks. Self doubt whispers in my ear. Now you’ve done it.
“You said that already, in your Mother’s Day card. You made it quite clear. You have nothing to say. Let’s just leave it at that.” Click.
Demoralized, sobbing I descend the stairs to the kitchen. My husband, Jimmy, and my son Jordan, look up from the TV. “Mom, what happened?” Jordan’s eyes show his concern.
Without speaking, I open the fridge, and reach for a bottle of sauvignon blanc. I hear the voice of “Gimmeashot,” my alter ego who avoids pain at all cost. “I do not have to deal with this now. Just have a couple of glasses of wine. That’ll make you feel better. Forget the old bitch. You’ll be better without her.” The wine warms my throat. It speeds through my central nervous system and spells instant r-e-l-i-e-f. We eat a quiet dinner. I retire early, thinking by morning I will have put all this behind me. In bed I practice listing all the things and people for which I have gratitude. I thank God for my life.
The very next day I receive a letter from my Mother post marked the day before yesterday. Shaking, I tear it open and read:
Sarla:
The reason you don’t know what to say is that there is nothing to say! At one time or another you have stated about all the nasty, mean things you could dream up. Let’s just forget this whole fiasco. You don’t really like me and I don’t really like you.
We keep trying to put on some kind of pretense & it just isn’t there. You, with your whims, changes of mood & affection have made my life a living hell for the last 36 years & life is too short. I have too many people who truly love and care for me to bother with you & your self-centered demands.
We have done everything in our power to make you happy to no avail. You think only of yourself and your needs and desires. As you travel the road of life we have been a way station always there for you & allowing you to walk all over us. Well, the station is closed & we are going to enjoy what we have left of our lives without the tears & heartbreak you have caused.
Goodbye, Mother
My mother is dead. She died four years after writing this letter. I did not see or speak to her in those years prior to her death. Just before she died, I had a phone conversation with my stepfather.. He said, “Your Mother is in the hospital. She is in a coma. The doctors do not know how much time she has left. She is on life support.”
“Oh, Dad. I ‘m coming. I’ll get on a plane today.”
“No. She does not want you here. She made that very clear. She does not want to see you.”
Sobbing, “Dad, please, please let me come.”
“No, do not come. I just wanted you to know that she is dying. I will have to decide when to take her off life support. You are no longer a part of our family. Stay away.”
I did not attend the funeral. Did I grieve my Mother’s passing? I grieved the loss of a mother I never had. I struggled to process the realization that her death killed all possibility of reconciliation. My Mother and I will forever have unresolved business.
In this present moment, I take solace knowing Sally cannot reach me from beyond the grave. She can no longer shame, ridicule, demean, and slander me. Nor can she poison me with her negative beliefs and her fearful projections. I am grateful every day for the life she gave me, a life filled with limitless joy. Without her womb, I would not be the mother of my two children, Katie and Jordan. Neither would I be the grandmother of Amelia Grace, the light of my life.
My life is a miracle, one to be treasured. I have, through countless therapy sessions, hours of prayer and meditation, and a determination to never give up, managed to move beyond the horror of being rejected and abandoned by my Mother. I will never be free from the stains of her legacy, from the booze, the lying the cheating, the selfishness, the denial, the co-dependency, the abuse, and the neglect, but I will know moments of joy.
It’s heavy, lay your burden down. It’s heavy, lay your burden down
Can’t you hear the angels screaming? Is it, is it, is it, is it in my head now? Can’t you hear the angels screaming? Tell me, tell me, tell me, is it in my head?
I’m looking out my window, sky is blood-red . Sky is blood-red, yeah You got to lay your burden down. Lyrics by Chuck Girard
Sally, may you have peace. May you be free from suffering. May you never be parted from freedom’s true joy. I apologize for any part I played in the demise of our relationship. Thank you for the gift of life. I release you. I forgive you. I surrender for by surrendering, by ending this struggle, I set us free.
Writing into the Light 