My mother called before I got home from work. She left a message that Leslie dutifully passed on.
“She said she wants you to call her tonight. She wants to talk to you about her lawyer problem…She also made a request that I said I’d pass on, but I didn’t think it’d go over too good. She wants to know if she can take me and Adrian to see ‘Jimmy.’”
Jimmy was Jeanette’s name for my father. It was the cutesy version of his middle name that his mother had always called him. Although, everyone in Jimmy’s current life called him “Fro”—the shortened version of his first name. It always made me a little sick that my mother pretended that Jimmy was still around. For me, he left long ago or maybe never existed.
Leslie added, “I said I’d pass it on. I knew you wouldn’t go for it. I didn’t think he was someone we’d want Adrian to meet.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I told her you’d be home tonight.”
“Well, she can go fuck herself. I’m not calling. It’s my night off.” I thought a moment. “Well, how ‘bout you. Leslie, would you want to see ‘Jimmy?’” I added a sarcastic twist when I said “Jimmy.”
“Hell, no. I don’t want to ever see that man again.”
That satisfied me, but it wasn’t long before the phone rang. I yelled out, “If that’s my mother, I’m not here. I have a date all night!”
Leslie let the answering machine take the call. I heard that indeed it was my mother and a tremendous wave of anger rolled over me. It was the anger that gets kindled in a moment and was attached to what felt like centuries to me.
I started with the easy anger first. How many times had I listened to whatever my mother’s current crisis was, and Jeanette never, or nearly never asked me how I was doing. If she did ask, I figured Jeanette listened to, oh, maybe three sentences tops…on a good day. It made me so angry to think my mother just expected me to be there to forever pour energy and support down a hole that never ended. So easily, I was reminded of my childhood, my early adulthood, and my now.
I gingerly approached the anger about taking Adrian to see my father aware that the anger could easily spill into an overwhelming terror of my father in general. It wasn’t like I hadn’t confronted my mother about my father raping me. Jeanette’s response had been two-fold. “I don’t think he did, but if he did I’ll never forgive him.” Followed by a phone call on my answering machine weeks later threatening me if I proceeded to tell anyone else.
If I was willing to overlook my mother wanting to take my daughter to see a rapist, I could never overlook anyone wanting to take my daughter to see a killer. Although I had not confronted my mother on that issue, I knew my mother would surely deny it. In fact, my mother may not actually have it in her conscious memory. Though, I felt certain that somewhere my mother knew it, and she wanted to take Adrian to see a killer. She who allowed a killer to live with me, and she who was in such denial that she would risk my daughter by introducing her to him.
That was the unforgivable part to me. I felt my anger was justified. I knew that, although the crazy woman who called today probably meant no harm, my little kid part was more than justified at being angry at what the crazy woman had let happen in the past. I let my adult part feel righteous indignation at the thought of Adrian coming within miles of Frobisher.
* * * * * * *
Though a good part of my life felt lonely, now in particular, I felt I was facing some of my loneliest times ever.
Staying up late at night, afraid to go to bed, I seldom had someone to share my thoughts with. Driving to work and driving home from work, I toyed endlessly with whether or not I was facing a real truth—or something conjured unreliably by a mind that couldn’t be trusted.
There were no answers at this point. I was aware mostly of having a lot of work to do and face the greatest challenge of my life to date—and stay alive