Sins of the Mother

How deep do they take root?

I am not a fan of “Hallmark Holidays.” I never understood the concept of needing one day a year to tell a parent or grandparent that they are “loved.” Or, even, to tell a secretary that they are “appreciated.”

Perhaps it’s fallout from our self-absorbed society that we need to be reminded to exhibit such human emotions as love and appreciation on a specified day.

Whenever one of these manufactured holidays rolled around, I was often frustrated, trying to pick out just the right card, and there never seemed to be a one that came close to defining my relationship with my mother or father. I do not gush, and neither did they. So, after deliberating way too long, I would snatch the one that’s prose came closest to what I was feeling.

And of course, for those of us whose parents have passed, or who no longer have a relationship with them, these “holidays” can be very painful, indeed. They dredge up long-repressed memories of hurt and resentment that do far more harm than most people deserve.

But, I do not, nor do I mean to disrespect those folks who enjoy their day of celebration and who deserve to be feted with brunches and gifts and overpriced cards. Not every family is dysfunctional, after all, as much as some of us would like to believe otherwise. The members actually talk to one another, rather than let hurt feelings fester to the point of no return.

I feel compelled to inject a bit of conversation here between Jack Nicholson’s and Helen Hunt’s characters in As Good as it Gets, to illustrate my point. If you’ve seen the film you know that Nicholson, as Melvin Udall, is a lifelong OCD sufferer, and Hunt’s character, Carol Connelly, is the waitress he falls in love with.

Carol: We all have these terrible stories to get over, and you…

Melvin: It’s not true. Some of us have great stories, pretty stories that take place at lakes with boats and friends and noodle salad. Just no one in this car. But a lot of people, that’s their story. Good times, noodle salad. What makes it so hard is not that you had it bad, but that you’re that pissed that so many others had it good.

Mother’s Day is on the horizon and I can’t help but reflect on my own mother, who has been in the cold ground for over five years now, along with my father.

I won’t go to the cemetery, as I don’t see the point. Neither would my mother.

Oh…my mom was a piece of work. She was stunning and stunningly unsentimental. She didn’t give a toss about Mother’s Day, or even actual holidays for that matter.

Her lack of sentiment made it easy on us kids, but it was also rather disarming. What do you buy for someone who doesn’t really give a damn? Perfume? Flowers? A new pot for her signature Italian sauce?

We never knew, so we just winged it. To her credit, she pretended to love everything, but we…I…knew better.

My sister and I talk about it, now. We agree that our father was the exact opposite, a stickler for recognition when it was due. God forbid we should miss a birthday or Father’s Day because the man could hold a grudge like no one else.

My brother often let shit slide so naturally, he was high on our father’s shit list. Of course, as he is estranged from my sister and me, we couldn’t venture a guess as to his relationship with his own kids, who are grown now.

My mother had her secrets. I always had a feeling that, behind her dark, fathomless eyes, there was something there that I could never be privy to. Another life, or a dream of one.

As I found out, one day, sitting in my sister’s kitchen and reminiscing over coffee, there was some substance to that dream. Something that, as her child, I wouldn’t necessarily want to know, but suspected nonetheless, for years. Especially as I got older and had a couple of decades worth of experience playing witness to my parents' one-on-one savagery.

Those arguments — no, fights — fueled by alcohol, reside at the forefront of my memory, still. I try with all my might to conjure up the loving moments because they happened but you know how memory is. Often not as “selective” as we’d like it to be.

Because my sister cared for our parents in her home while they were battling stage four lung cancer, she has all of their personal effects. Everything that meant anything. Even the inconsequential, like a hood from one of my mother’s jackets that she can’t bear to throw away.

I love my sister. She did everything for them, and in turn, saved me from a lifetime of regret.

That afternoon, we talked about our parents, of both the good and the bad times, of which my recall is stronger as I’m ten years older than my sister and was around for some of the really bad shit, you know? As I said, I love her and am happy that she didn’t experience some of the tougher stuff that my brother and I were around for.

While we were chatting she excused herself to get a box of our dad’s “stuff.” He was an excellent writer and often scribbled little poems and notes and he also held onto all my written ramblings.

In the box was a letter that he wrote to our mother. A heart-rending diatribe about her “allegedly” cheating on him. He begged for answers that he never received.

I wasn’t as surprised as one might think because I knew that men were attracted to my mother. And her love/hate relationship with my father was so combustible and also, so unthinkable at times, in its absolute virulence, that I’m more surprised that she didn’t take off one dark, stormy night to parts unknown.

They married too young, as so many folks did, back then. In the early fifties, to be exact. My mother had never lived on her own. She’d spent her whole life at home, with her parents and four siblings. In fact, my sister told me that when our parents honeymooned in New York, they had to cut it short because our mother missed her own mother, our grandmother.

So, they wed when my mother was nineteen and my father twenty, after which, he quickly got her pregnant with me and then went off to Korea.

It didn’t take long for my mother to give up our apartment and move us back in with her family, where I was spoiled rotten.

Babies. My parents were just babies when they vowed to love and honor one another ’til “death they do part,” and they did…within two weeks of one another. And I miss them, terribly.

I never saw the letter. My sister read me snatches of it and I don’t know if our father accused her of consorting with one man, or several. But we both believe that our father was telling the truth.

When I think about the pain they must have undergone, just trying to make a life together — one that worked — my heart breaks for them both.

Do I think less of my mother because of what I’ve learned? No. Because I understand that she was stuck between a rock and a hard place. She was abused yet she chose to stay in her marriage. I believe she alternately loved and hated my father, yet was afraid to try to go it alone, like many women of her generation.

I wish she could have talked to me. I mean, really talk. But how do you disclose a secret like that to your child? It would have been easier as I got older, but it seemed as if we were often at odds. I regret that now, along with so many other things.

Maybe I knew all along that something was “going on,” but chose to ignore it. I honestly cannot say as I try not to dwell on it.

Something I do think about, and often: As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become ever more like my mother. In my appearance, the things I say, and the demons I harbor. So I can’t help but wonder if I’m capable of the same missteps.

I hope to hell I never find out.

© Sherry McGuinn, 2021. All Rights Reserved.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s soon-to-be-ex-manager is currently NOT pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.

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