That Spot

by M. Ingrid Wiese

I hear her before I see her, my mother’s distinct bellowing laugh from the back of the restaurant. It is the laugh I listened for as a child, when I was lost in the grocery store. I meet my mother and her sisters at Rain on 82nd and Columbus. New York is enjoying its first summer day, and I’m warmed by the lingering rays of early evening sunshine. Inside, I shiver in the air conditioning.

I find my mother Mom at the head of the table, flanked on either side by an Aunt. Aunt Kay is on her left, Aunt Sandy on her right. My sister Maiken is sitting conveniently close to the exit. I squeeze Maiken’s shoulder, give her a wink and slide into the seat next to her, directly across from Mom.

I can’t help but notice that she looks fuller since I last saw her in the dressing room at Nordstrom’s over Christmas. She was trying on prosthetic breasts, twisting and turning and sucking in her gut to get a better angle in the mirror.

“How do these look?” She asked me after she had taken out the B pads and inserted the C’s.

“Great, Mom. Your fake breasts look great, Mom.”

“I’m serious.” She takes off the bra, and I try not to stare at the concave skin where her once magnificent mammaries once sagged.

“Well. The B’s would be great for everyday, but the C’s would be nice for those special nights when you and Dad go down to Harbor Lights. Why don’t you just get both? I mean, how many women get to wake up in the morning and pick out their boob size? It might be the only perk of a double mastectomy. You just went through chemo, I think you can spoil yourself a little.”

She laughed in the dressing room that day, the way she is laughing now. But after a her second drink her laugh changes a little bit. I'm guessing she is on drink two, after allshe has been here for nearly fifteen minutes and her hands are still shaking. She catches me looking at her hands and hides them under the table before calling the waiter over to order another bottle of wine. Those hands, now hiding under the table, once entertained me through Father Flavian’s Sunday Homilies by delicately tracing animal shapes across my back. People always tell me that I have my mother’s hands.

I watch her, watching our glasses, wondering how much longer before she can take another sip, wondering if we will notice that her glass is almost empty while ours are still full. She looks around the table to see if there is anyone here who can drink like her, looking to find an accomplice or someone to hide behind.

She drinks number three quickly, and by number four, she no longer feels the need to hide her consumption. She barely notices that one side of her Chico blouse has raised up under her chin, while the other has dropped down to mingle with her ever-changing waist line. She boldly drinks the fifth and sixth with no fear of what anyone around her thinks. By the time the food comes, she is slurring her words and speaking loudly.

“How is the wine? Shall I order you another? Are you ready? You need a red?” She asks the table.

Those who drink with her are her allies. I, the sober daughter, the one who counts every glass, the one who won’t allow her to drink in my home, the one who planned that intervention ten years ago, I, am the enemy. My presence is an intrusion on her plan to drink. She resents me before I even arrive.

“How was your flight? Did you have a good visit with Kirsten? What’s new at home?” I ask.

She ignores me. These questions she happily answers over the telephone, but tonight she pretends it is too loud in the restaurant for her to hear me. She doesn’t want my attention. She turns herself away from me to avoid my “abandoned kitty” routine, the one where I push myself up against her leg, purring and posturing and begging for her to touch me. Thankfully, gone are the insecurities that haunted my youth, that this behavior is because of me, that I’m not loveable, that I’ve done something wrong.

Before therapy and ACOA meetings, Al-anon and AA, I would have thought Mom’s performance tonight was about me. But it’s not. It’s about Mom getting drunk, and I am standing in the way. Her sisters don’t drink as much as her, but she doesn’t realize it. She hides from me, behind them.

Aunt Sandy knows. She knows Mom is a drunk, and she looks down her nose at her, rolls her eyes at my Uncle when she doesn’t think anyone else is looking. She does the same thing when I get sensitive or loud or try to control my mom so she doesn’t embarrass herself or us.

“Want to drive in the car with me, Mom?”

“No, we can all take a taxi.”

“I drove here. I’m parked right outside. I could give you a ride. I rented a convertible and we could put the top down and drive through the city and talk.”

“Why?”

“Because I haven’t seen you since Christmas, and I’d love to have five minutes alone with you.”

“Well that’s silly – we can all go together.”

“But Mom – I came all this way. Can’t I borrow you for five minutes in the car?”
She’s back to pretending she can’t hear me. Aunt Sandy rolls her eyes, and I know someone’s being judged. But is it me, or is it Mom? Am I feeling pathetic, or defensive?

I look through the droopy lids and try to find a window into my mother. She’s gone, the woman who planned my birthday parties, chaperoned my sixth grade class to Disneyland and taught my Girl Scout troop how to make hats from weaving reeds together. Gone, the woman who wrote short stories, macraméd bikinis, and painted Picasso like masterpieces that my Dad proudly hung over the mantle. She’s gone, been kidnapped by a selfish stranger who’s afraid to be alone in the room with me.

I try not to be offended when she refuses my ride.

She knows what will happen if she takes my outstretched hand. I’ll get embarrassed when she flirts with the waiter on her way out or trips on the sidewalk as we walk across the street. I’ll have to help her into the car and buckle her into her seatbelt. She knows I’ll try and wake her when she falls asleep during my sister’s play and begins snoring. She knows I’ll try and help her down the stairs, when in her mind she’s perfectly fine. She thinks I will try to keep her from ordering a glass of wine at the intermission.

But I won’t.

It's not that I've given up, the truth is that I kind of like it when her buzz reaches that spot when she relaxes. That special spot between high and obliterated, when Her crankiness and insecurity fade. Right after bottle one, right before complete and utter intoxication. Right then, she is sweet and lovely and likely to put her arm around me – her lids half open, her body weight pushing against my arm like a dead body, her lips against my ear, “I love you honey. Mommy’s favorite. You turned out okay.” Right there, between the shame of having everyone judge my mother, and the pure joy of having my mother touch me and tell me that she loves me.

I push her and her sisters in the cab, "I'll be right behind you. I'll meet you there."

As the cab drives away, I see her throw her head back. I hear her laughter streaming down 81st street.