died.”
“Oh.”
If this information disturbed her, she did not show it. Instead, she all but swallowed the sandwich and gulped down the milk, as if she hadn’t eaten for a while. She probably hadn’t.
I did not know what to say to her, how to make conversation. I was surprised by the feelings of intense dislike that sprang up within me. Dislike and not a little bit of hatred. Everything about her disgusted me: the way she looked, the way she talked, the way she ate, the way she ridiculed everything that was important to me, sometimes with little more than a sneer or a curl of the lips. I did not see how it was possible that this woman was my mother.
“Look, it ain’t gonna be like last time,” she said again, after taking a huge gulp of milk and wiping at her lips like a child. “It’ll be different now. You’ll see. I know I fucked up. I know that. Ain’t gotta rub my goddamned nose in it every chance you get. I got a condition, you know. It ain’t my fault if I’m seeing things that ain’t there.”
No, it wasn’t.
“So, look, Tommy, just give me a chance. Okay? Just fucking cut me a break here.”
“You’ve used more profanity in the last five minutes than this house has heard since the last time you were sent away,” I pointed out.
“Oh, forgive me, ‘Father Ascension’. It’s been twenty years since my last confession. I’ve been a naughty fucking girl. I’ve been sticking things in my cunt again.”
“Do you have to swear in my house?”
“Oh, who gives a shit?”
“I do,” I said.
“You always were a pious little prick,” she said, making a face and shaking her head back and forth.
“Tone it down a bit. That’s all. Most normal people know how to hold a conversation without constantly using foul language.”
“Yeah, well, who ever said I was normal?”
She had me there.
“Anyway, if you knew half of what my dad did to me, you’d probably wonder why I’m not crazier than I already am.”
If you knew what my dad did to me. If you knew what it was like. If you knew what he put me through. If you knew how many times he came to my room at night. If you knew how many times he beat me. If you knew what it was like when he was drunk. If you knew how my fucking mother sat back in silence and let it happen….
Whenever the subject got around to what she had done to me, off she went with the “If you knew” routine. I let this pass in silence. I did not want to be drawn into a pissing contest.
“That was the happiest day of my life,” she said, “when that old fucker wrapped his truck around a tree. You think I cried so much as one tear? Not a fucking chance.”
How many times had I heard that one before? How many years would go by before she would start singing a new song? Or would she sing this same tune for the rest of her life?
“You’re quiet,” she said, with uncharacteristic sensitivity.
I said nothing.
She shook her head back and forth. “You know, that’s the problem with you. You don’t say nothing. I got no fucking idea what’s going on in there. What, I gotta play games with you, try to read your mind since you can’t be bothered to talk to me?”
“I just don’t have much to say.”
“Fucking liar.”
“Would you stop cussing?”
“Well, you’re a fucking liar.”
“Well, maybe what I have to say isn’t very nice.”
“Well, say it anyway, you stupid faggot. You think I give a shit? You think words are going to hurt me or something? You think I ain’t been through worse? You think I don’t know how much you hate me, how much you blame me for your miserable childhood? You’re just like every other fucking spoiled little brat—give you the whole goddamned world and all you do is fucking whine about it. You think you’re actually going to say something new, something I ain’t fucking heard a million times already?”
I retreated into silence.
“You know what I think?” she demanded, aggressively. “I think it’s time you
“Oh.”
If this information disturbed her, she did not show it. Instead, she all but swallowed the sandwich and gulped down the milk, as if she hadn’t eaten for a while. She probably hadn’t.
I did not know what to say to her, how to make conversation. I was surprised by the feelings of intense dislike that sprang up within me. Dislike and not a little bit of hatred. Everything about her disgusted me: the way she looked, the way she talked, the way she ate, the way she ridiculed everything that was important to me, sometimes with little more than a sneer or a curl of the lips. I did not see how it was possible that this woman was my mother.
“Look, it ain’t gonna be like last time,” she said again, after taking a huge gulp of milk and wiping at her lips like a child. “It’ll be different now. You’ll see. I know I fucked up. I know that. Ain’t gotta rub my goddamned nose in it every chance you get. I got a condition, you know. It ain’t my fault if I’m seeing things that ain’t there.”
No, it wasn’t.
“So, look, Tommy, just give me a chance. Okay? Just fucking cut me a break here.”
“You’ve used more profanity in the last five minutes than this house has heard since the last time you were sent away,” I pointed out.
“Oh, forgive me, ‘Father Ascension’. It’s been twenty years since my last confession. I’ve been a naughty fucking girl. I’ve been sticking things in my cunt again.”
“Do you have to swear in my house?”
“Oh, who gives a shit?”
“I do,” I said.
“You always were a pious little prick,” she said, making a face and shaking her head back and forth.
“Tone it down a bit. That’s all. Most normal people know how to hold a conversation without constantly using foul language.”
“Yeah, well, who ever said I was normal?”
She had me there.
“Anyway, if you knew half of what my dad did to me, you’d probably wonder why I’m not crazier than I already am.”
If you knew what my dad did to me. If you knew what it was like. If you knew what he put me through. If you knew how many times he came to my room at night. If you knew how many times he beat me. If you knew what it was like when he was drunk. If you knew how my fucking mother sat back in silence and let it happen….
Whenever the subject got around to what she had done to me, off she went with the “If you knew” routine. I let this pass in silence. I did not want to be drawn into a pissing contest.
“That was the happiest day of my life,” she said, “when that old fucker wrapped his truck around a tree. You think I cried so much as one tear? Not a fucking chance.”
How many times had I heard that one before? How many years would go by before she would start singing a new song? Or would she sing this same tune for the rest of her life?
“You’re quiet,” she said, with uncharacteristic sensitivity.
I said nothing.
She shook her head back and forth. “You know, that’s the problem with you. You don’t say nothing. I got no fucking idea what’s going on in there. What, I gotta play games with you, try to read your mind since you can’t be bothered to talk to me?”
“I just don’t have much to say.”
“Fucking liar.”
“Would you stop cussing?”
“Well, you’re a fucking liar.”
“Well, maybe what I have to say isn’t very nice.”
“Well, say it anyway, you stupid faggot. You think I give a shit? You think words are going to hurt me or something? You think I ain’t been through worse? You think I don’t know how much you hate me, how much you blame me for your miserable childhood? You’re just like every other fucking spoiled little brat—give you the whole goddamned world and all you do is fucking whine about it. You think you’re actually going to say something new, something I ain’t fucking heard a million times already?”
I retreated into silence.
“You know what I think?” she demanded, aggressively. “I think it’s time you
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