Not my mother's daughter

  I’ve spent ninety percent of my adult life trying not to be my mother.

 Her mother, a hard core Italian woman whom we called Nana, was raised in suburban NJ.  From what my older aunts tell me, Nana married Johnny.  Together they had a son.  During WWII, Johnny was stationed in South Africa.  Nana had an affair with a Dutch man and soon after gave birth to my mother.  When Johnny discovered the error of Nana’s ways, he scooped up his son and moved away.  Then, Nana married Mick.  She gave birth to four daughters and a son.  The son died as an infant.  I don’t know the correct order of events, (Mother never talks about the events of her youth) but Mick and Nana divorced, and the girls, including my mother, were shuffled off to various foster homes.

 Mother met Daddy when they were 19.  Daddy was stationed in Ft. Andrews.  They had a whirlwind romance that resulted in an “unplanned” pregnancy.  They married and had their honeymoon at the Flaming Flamingo Motel in Panama City.  Daddy received his orders to transfer to Ft. Dix.  That is where I entered the picture.  As any military brat can tell you, there is no stability when you are a dependent of the United States Armed Forces.  Daddy was sent to Viet Nam and Mother and I went to live with Nana.  Before I was three, we were headed to Korea.  I have one vague memory of that trip.  We had a layover in Alabama, Daddy’s home state.  We went to visit his mother, a woman I met only once.  Evidently, my grandmother was not a happy woman.  I was sitting in the middle of the couch; Mother and Daddy were fighting with my grandmother over a bottle of pills. 

 My sister was born in Korea.  We transferred to Ft. Hood where my baby sister and brother were born 17 months apart.  Form there it was Italy. 

 Right before Christmas1973, Nana passed.  My siblings and I were fostered out to several neighbors and Mother and Daddy went stateside for the funeral.  My siblings and I watched in quiet solitude as neighbor’s homes began to twinkle with the spirit of Christmas.  My sister and I decided to surprise Mother and Daddy by putting the Christmas tree up while they were stateside.  We gathered our friends and lugged heavy cardboard boxes, filled with sparkling Christmas decorations, up the steps from the storage cage in the basement of the military housing.  Bonnie, the oldest of us all, made hot chocolate in the kitchen as my sister, our closest friends, and I, carefully unpacked children’s dreams from the musty boxes.  While my sister pulled the color-coded branches of the artificial tree from the container and piled them on the carpeted floor, I plugged in each strand of lights to make sure every bulb twinkled with brilliant color.  We sang along with a borrowed record of Christmas music, drank hot chocolate, and spent the rest of the day winding lights around the tree and windows, hanging stockings, and deciding which ornament to hang where.  When we finally pulled the kitchen chair close enough to place the silver angel at the top of the tree, the day had faded to amber.  We stood back and gazed with admiration, at the completed task.  Each evening before Mother and Daddy returned, I would run to our quarters, plug in the lights, and think of how happy Mother and Daddy would be that they wouldn’t have to worry about decorating the house. 

 Daddy was the first to enter the house.  My sister and I stood in front of the lighted tree, grinning wide, and waiting for a smile to bloom across his tired face.  Mother stepped in behind him and immediately burst into tears.  Daddy spoke two words, “Your room.”  My sister and I backed away from the tree with wide eyes and made our way to the bedroom.  We sat on our beds. Silent.  Finally, Daddy called.  Hand in hand, with slippered feet, we stepped our way from our room to the end of the hall.  We entered the living room where the tree lay across the hardwood floor, decorations and lights spilled from its sides.  Our eyes darted from the wounded tree, to the dangling black, leather dog leash in Daddy’s hand, to Mother, who was sitting, arms crossed, at the dining room table. 

 “Whose bright idea was this?”  Daddy questioned with a heated fury. 

No answer. 

“Answer me!” 

My sister and I stepped closer together gripping each other’s hand even tighter, afraid to move our eyes from the dangling black strap.  No answer.  Daddy stepped closer, “Whose fucking idea was this?”

 I winced.  He swung.  As the black leash made contact with my pajamaed thigh, my sister ducked into the corner.  With a muffled cry, I tried to escape the next swing by turning toward Mother.  She remained in her seat at the table.  I backed into the living room and tripped over the downed tree just as the leash swung at the air where I stood.  I scrambled backward on my butt trying to avoid being hit again.  I ducked behind the coffee table as the leash landed across my right temple leaving a bloody horizontal tear.  I threw my arms over my head, squeezed my eyes, and buried my face in my knees.  The next swing of the leash made contact with my rib and knocked me over to my side where I lay repeating the words to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,” until long after Daddy hung the dog leash on the hook by the door. 

Mother never said a word. 

The next morning, I fished the silver angel from beneath the green, Army issue couch and hid her in the back of my closet.