Mom: Inner Dialogue

Living with my mother was a roller coaster ride, emotionally, mentally, and financially. The following dialogue was written by me, but it comes from snippets of conversation Mom had (with me and with herself) and actual circumstances during a certain period.

Morning. Time to wake up and face another day.

I love my bedroom. It's beautiful, with dark gleaming woods carved with lotus flowers, a Chinese canopied bed, green silk curtains, and a koi pond print over the small fireplace. I'm proud of the fact that I did it all myself. My whole house is tasteful and expensive, and looking at it gives me a deep sense of satisfaction.

More than I get when looking in the mirror. My hair is so much thinner than it used to be! I hope the color looks natural, red is a hard color to get just right and it mixes up a little different each time you do it. Mixing shades, that's the secret; that's why I do it at home instead of paying some beauty salon! 

My body has gone soft and droopy. There are too many lines on my face, especially around my lips, despite all the surgeries. I hate getting old! Who's going to want to look at me now? How could any man ever love me again? Those days are over, I guess. Four husbands and here I am, in my sixties, alone.

The worst thing is getting up in the morning. When I put my right foot down on the floor, pain shoots up my leg; my other foot is misshapen from that calcium spur near the big toe. It takes a few minutes for the pain to settle down to a dull roar. Then I can walk pretty freely, as long as my shoes are loose enough. My hands give me pain, too, especially the right thumb; once it locked on me and I couldn’t open my hand all the way. The doctor says it's basal joint arthritis. I need to get it fixed, but who has the money? I need my foot fixed, too, but it will have to wait. It will all have to wait.

Oh, god. It's only seven o'clock and I’m thinking of this already.

My house may be beautiful, but I need to sell it—fast. How much longer will it take? It’s been on the market for over six months. The market is so slow, even though I’ve lowered my price. People have come to see it, they’ve said wonderful things about it, but will any come back? What about the woman who wanted to talk to her attorney? What about the young couple with the baby? What will I do if it doesn’t sell? I must have money right away!

I’m afraid to answer the phone. They’re all calling now, asking for their money. Thank god for answering machines. My bills are two months late and as soon as I wake up, the panic starts. I don’t sleep well, even though I’m up until two or three o’clock, watching television in bed. If only I could sell it! And then what? Where will I go?

I should have saved some of the money from the insurance settlement. I might be a psychic but I didn't foresee the moving van catching fire and all my stuff burning up! I wish I had, I'm going to miss some of those things; I don't care about the furniture—I like what I just bought even better—but almost all the family photos were destroyed.

I shouldn’t have bought such an expensive place. But I didn’t like any of the other homes I looked at. This was the perfect location, with the hills and the water on both sides: peaceful, quiet, with the golf course to look at. Oh, well. I’ve never settled for less, never in my life. Not through four marriages and a dozen different homes, five children and numerous careers. I’ve always wanted the best. I was born wanting it, which is strange for a girl from a family like mine: blue-collar cafe keepers and cowboys, all of them. Mother never had any taste and Dad was just a cattleman, good with his hands and soft with his voice. I was the only one who got out.

Still, I loved the ranch when they had it. If I look at the picture of myself sitting on the fence, I look so happy and young. Maybe it’s just easier to be that way when you know there are years before you, stretching out, ready to be grabbed and lived. My folks just moved from small town to town, working in shops, scratching out a living in the desert or the lumber forest.

My daughter doesn’t know how lucky she is! What’s the matter with her? When I was forty, I had plenty of energy. Life was my oyster and I felt capable of anything. She says she feels like an old woman, like nothing else is ever going to happen to her again. Her two marriages have beaten her down. Mine never stopped me!

The cats are waiting to be fed, and the dog wants out. I need to empty the dishwasher and turn on the news. There’s cat food puked up on the counter again, damn it; life is a never-ending mess to be cleaned up! She didn’t put the knives in the dishwasher upside down, like I told her. I need to straighten the hall rug, it’s crooked again, and that lampshade has turned a little, too. I hope that’s not food I smell in the trash compactor. I told her to always rinse out the cans before putting them in there, otherwise the garbage smells; food goes down the disposal, anyone knows that!

I need to buy some new slacks today, to go with that new grey sweater. Maybe they have some at Nordstrom’s, I like Harvé Bernard’s, they fit me so well. I’ll get dressed after breakfast and go to the mall. My daughter gets irritated at me, she doesn’t say much, but I can tell. She hates it when I spend money—unless it’s on her, of course! I’ve bought her the best things she owns, including two new pairs of shoes and a nightgown for Christmas. Not to mention ties for my son Chuck, toys and clothes for his children, a bracelet for his wife, and that lovely whale sculpture for Chris. I even got that beaded purse for Chris’s new girlfriend. Everyone seemed very pleased with their presents. I know I was only supposed to give to the grandchildren, but these are my kids; I couldn’t very well give them nothing at Christmas! Of course, the bills are starting to come in now, and I can’t pay them. . .

Oh god, I don’t want to think about that. I have to borrow some money somewhere. It’s humiliating to let your friends know how bad off you are. I’ll have borrowed all the equity in this house by the time I sell it. Then what will I do? If only the goat ranch proposal would come through. Why isn’t anyone interested in investing? It’s such a great idea, raising cashmere goats out here. The weather is perfect and they need fine cashmere for European textiles. Someone else is going to get that property if we don’t move on it soon. I know it's kind of isolated but there's a nice little house for me to live in up there, and it would be kind of like living on the ranch, only in California, not in the desert. Of course, I'd need to hire a foreman, I can't do goats on my own, not at my age!

What if it doesn’t work out, what will I do? I can’t think or my head will explode.

Maybe I should just kill myself. Take pills and go to sleep or use the revolver in the dresser drawer. The kids could have the insurance, the house. . . My life is over, anyway.

Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know! I have to hang on, just another month or two. I’ll see if Vince or Ada will give me a loan in return for the pink slip on my Cadillac. Maybe the market will pick up in the spring. Maybe it will all happen, and I’ll be safe.

I better hurry if I want to be dressed in time for the stores to open. I think black is the best color for those slacks.