Walking on Broken Glass - Christa Allan [62]
Ron flipped a page. “What would she be wearing? Tell me about her mannerisms, her personality.”
I smiled remembering her monochromatic closet. “Definitely understated—her clothes and her personality. She’d be wearing, hmm, probably navy-blue linen pants. A blouse, I don’t know, white? With buttons. I don’t think she owned a turtle-neck or sweaters. She despised pulling stuff over her head. Personality? Let's say she’d never have won a Miss Congeniality award.”
“That fills some gaps in your profile.” Ron's serious observation didn’t match the laughter in his eyes. “Continue.”
I told him about my mother's shyness, so perplexing at times because of her quiet ferocity when anyone, by omission or commission, hurt her son or daughter. Yet, she’d never initiate a confrontation. She fought by choosing not to participate.
Except for that one time. I knew trouble was about to get capitalized because Mom stayed home from work that day. After her morning tea and one slice of dry wheat toast, she blazed into the front office of my then eight-year-old brother's elementary school like she’d just been blown out of a welder's torch. Peter, who’d rather have every hair on his body plucked out one-by-one than go to school, had spent the day in the vice-principal's office. Mr. Eagen had taped Peter's mouth closed because his teacher said he talked too much in class. Two days later Peter started public school, and Peter's friend Lance told him Mr. Eagen announced he would be retiring at the end of the school year.
That afternoon she told the two of us, “Always remember, God never sleeps.” One day, she’d said, people were going to pay a price for their sins. “And don’t worry. With God, it's pay now or pay later. Nobody gets out of paying. Nobody.”
I kicked off my sandals and folded my legs under my butt. “So many stories died with her.” Pinpricks of sadness found their way into my heart, but I did not want to do weepy. Weepy and therapy were toxic. I concentrated on the scuffed bottoms of Ron's shoes to distract myself.
“Your mother sounds like someone I wish I really could have picked up at the airport,” Ron said softly. “Just a few more questions. This one's a shift: Did she and your father argue?”
“You know, I truly don’t remember my parents engaged in verbal warfare with one another. But if she was mad I usually knew it. You’d think Mr. Eagen had taped her mouth shut. For days. When she would answer, it’d mostly be one-syllable words. My dad would warn Peter and me, ‘It's hard to push a wet noodle, so don’t upset your mother.’”
Ron tapped his pen on his chin and stared at his notes. “Wet noodle.” He enunciated each word as if he’d just heard it for the first time. “So,” Ron said, and turned another page, “your mother was passive-aggressive.”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Telling, but,” he shrugged, “maybe not. Would you describe your mom as an affectionate woman?”
“Are you kidding?” This was a no-brainer. “Mom was the queen of the ‘air hug.’ You know, the stiff-armed hug where another person can almost fit in the middle between the two of you. When we’d kiss her, she’d give us a cheek.”
“Back to our airport scenario for a minute,” said Ron. “Let's say you, or your brother, or your dad will be meeting your mom's plane. Are we still talking air hugs and cheek kisses?”
“Oh, yeah. I remember my dad trying to be lovey in those dorky moves parents try around their kids. Sometimes she’d sputter around the kitchen, cooking supper, and he’d try to hug her. She’d lean back, look annoyed, and tell him, ‘Not now, Bob.’ My brother and I joked we could bank on their having had sex at least twice.” I smiled, but what I’d just heard myself say didn’t feel funny.
Ron swung his legs off the ottoman and sat forward in his chair, feet on the floor. “One more thing,” he said, his voice settled like a silk scarf.