The Looking Glass

By River Holmes-Miller

 

For as long as I've known her, my mother has possessed the astonishing ability to simply not see what others see.  I've watched her walk past a steaming tower of dog poop in the middle of a brand new ivory rug, and not bat an eye.  I've listened to her express dismay over a friend's weight gain, seemingly oblivious to the fact that she herself has the kind of protruding gut that makes complete strangers stop and ask when the baby is due.  I've sat across from her at a table piled high with everything from dirty socks to used dental floss, to a mound of calcified cat puke partially obscured by a dab of toilet paper, signaling both the beginning and end of the clean-up effort, while listening to her lecture on the importance of good housekeeping.

Maddening, for sure, but other than the countless hours my sisters and I have spent commiserating over the phone (is it crazy in here or is it just me?) it has all been relatively harmless. 

At least until Rick came along.   

Now my mother is getting married, and it's as if, instead of simply walking past the dog poop on the floor, she has reached down, scooped it up, and declared it a wonderful new addition to the family.

 

Since Rick's arrival three years ago, we are supposed to pretend like it is normal for someone to make it to age 52 and not actually own anything.  Not a house.  Not a car.  Not a single stick of furniture that wouldn't melt in a heat wave.  Just like we are supposed to pretend it is normal for someone to spend whole weeks stretched out in front of the television with a cigarette and a pint of Jim Beam, and normal to complain to people you've only just met about the terms of your parole.

Of course, my mother is quick to defend her boyfriend.  "It's not parole.  It's probation.  And, it's only for a DUI." 

This from a woman who manages to make her single exposure to marijuana (in the form of an unmarked brownie in the 70's) sound like a harrowing, life threatening experience.

Rick's hard times are attributed to a nasty divorce and a vindictive ex-wife.

"She took everything from Rick," my mother laments.  "Everything!"

"Even his front teeth?" I want to ask, but don't, largely because I've found that one cheap shot at Rick only leads to another and another, and then my mother, with her electric puff of red hair and big green eyes, turns her sad clown face on me, and I feel like the lowest form of daughter.

As a grown woman married with children of my own, my mother's remarriage should be a good thing.  After all, she's buried one husband already, not to mention a son, and I believe that if Rick were added to that list, my mother would die.  She loves him, that much is clear, and for a woman who believes that men have been put on this earth to fix things, move things, fetch things, and program the VCR, Rick might even be considered a catch.   

And yet, in spite of my mother's apparent happiness, I find myself tossing and turning at night, plagued by dreams so clumsy and obvious (Rick succumbing to his deadly shellfish allergy, his drink addled eyes popping as his throat slams shut like a miniature pink accordion) that I am afraid for my eternal soul.  

As much as Rick annoys me though, it's my mother who seems to have lost touch with reality.  In one breath she is wondering aloud why I don't seem to like Rick, and in the next she is asking after my pregnancy and suggesting, with a sincerity that defies logic, that we consider naming the baby "Richard," a.k.a. Rick. 

When I protest that I don't much care for the name, she is indignant. 

"Richard is a very elegant name! 

Then there is the fact that, in the weeks since Rick, feeling overworked and under-appreciated, quit his job at the local chain hardware store, my mother has taken to driving through the massive parking lot and making dire predictions about the future of the business.

"I bet they don't last six months without Rick!" 

Comments like these prompt the usual flurry of phone calls between my sisters and me.  My older sister recently reminded me that our mother's condition, whatever it is, is likely genetic.  Like our mom, our Grandmother Max was hardwired to see only what she wanted to see - in a person, in a room, in herself -and not one iota more.  Well into her 80's she had a "beau" more than 30 years her junior, and though his monthly visits always coincided with requests for large sums of cash, she believed he was deeply in love with her, right up until she caught him trying to steal her car.

"But Grandma was funny," I remind my sister.

"Yeah," she concedes.  "We thought so.  But maybe that's just because we never had to call her Mom." 

 

The day of the wedding is appropriately gray and rainy.  It's not the light, warm rain one might expect in June either, but a cold, steely downpour.  And although she repeatedly instructed me to be here no later than 9am, my mother herself is nowhere to be found.

Standing at the window, I trace a finger along the glass, outlining the vague silhouette of the Rocky Mountains.  Rain or no rain, this is a beautiful place to get married.  One of those big old mountain houses with all the trimmings - a large reception room, a grand staircase, picture windows, everything as dewy and hopeful as the thousands of brides who have traipsed down the aisle here over the years. 

That said, this place is all wrong for this wedding.  There are less than two dozen guests coming today - and only one person, besides the minister, outside the immediate family.  My mom chose the biggest room - a room clearly intended for a wedding ten times the size of this one.  She did so because she had a vision of a wedding; a vision that she guarded jealously, careful never to let actual facts interfere. 

For a generation of women expected to channel themselves into children and housework, my mother was different.  When I was growing up, she couldn't be relied upon to change the sheets more than once a year, but she could be relied upon to pull up in front of my high school in her convertible, blasting bad 80's pop music with the top down (rain or shine).  She always chose to interpret my mortification as proof of certain staidness on my part. 

As embarrassing as she could be back then, she could also be a lot of fun.  The neighborhood women flocked to my mother, hungry, I suppose, for the relatively safe splash of color she provided in their otherwise bland suburban landscape.  But in the years since my father died, the colors that had once seemed so vibrant turned garish, and as her eccentricities grew more pronounced, one by one, her friends drifted away. 

That this exodus went largely unnoticed became more and more apparent as the day of the wedding approached.  The mammoth hall, the elaborate wedding favors, the hand-sewn gown - all of it suggesting that, in spite of the stack of invites marked "regrets," in spite of the countless unreturned phone calls, and the endless polite excuses, my mother is amazingly and against all reason, still playing to the bleachers. 

 

When she does arrive, a mere thirty minutes before the wedding, my mother is nervous and chatty, tossing out questions in the half-frantic tone of someone unable to fully process the answers.  How do I look?  Have I met Rick's Aunt Dot?  Where are the flowers?  Have I met Rick's Aunt Dot? 

I ignore the Aunt Dot question and compliment her on her dress, a custom made, greenish-gold floor length gown that goes nicely with her pale skin and red hair. 

"And the makeup?" my mom asks, dropping her face into mine.  "How's the makeup?" 

I pause, carefully weighing the consequences before answering.  Unfortunately, the makeup artist had a heavy hand, and so the top half of my mother's face looks like the bottom of an ashtray.  But as always with my mom, there is the question she is asking (how is the makeup) and underneath the question, the subsonic screeching need for approval that, to my finely tuned ears, is the mother/daughter equivalent of a dog whistle.  

I assure her she looks great (ravishing, radiant, and yes, her eyes look fabulously green) and then, almost as an afterthought, mention a teensy-little-spot-under-the- eye that I can take care of, no problem, all the while grabbing Kleenex by the fistful from the box on the counter.   My strategy works, and my mom offers her face up without complaint.  The look she gives is so trusting, so sure of my ability to make things right, that I feel a sudden tenderness for her.  Because she may be my mother, a woman who has challenged my patience and sanity for the better part of my life, but, for today at least, she is also just a woman on her wedding day; one of the countless who have sat in this very spot, balanced on that precipice between ignorance and regret, before and unhappily ever after.  Listening to my mother prattle on, hand fluttering about, discount diamond glinting on her finger, I feel a strange sort of nostalgia: I miss my mother, and she's right in front of me.   

The caterer pokes her head in, and I take the opportunity to excuse myself and head downstairs.  Probably taking their cue from the size of the hall, someone has set out about fifty chairs in front of the altar, though just fifteen minutes or so before the ceremony is scheduled to begin, the room is still mostly empty.  Maybe a half dozen people are scattered around the room, looking like leftovers from some other, grander affair. 

I slip into the seat opposite my husband, and as I do, he takes my hand, smiling at me in a way that is meant to convey a certain amount of sympathy, though I happen to know better.  In spite of my turmoil and personal angst, Adam seems to find this whole thing - my mother, Rick, the wedding itself - terribly funny. 

"You wouldn't think it were so damn hilarious if it were your mother,"

I like to remind him, and Adam always agrees, though we both know it is a preposterous argument.  Adam's parents have been married thirty-five years, and will, no doubt, be married another thirty-five.  When they do die, they will likely have the gracious good sense to do it together, in a way that does not overly complicate the lives of their children. 

 

The music starts up, a swingy Tony Bennett number, and I brace myself for what I know is coming.  Somehow, somewhere along the way, Rick convinced my mother they should use the march down the aisle to try out a series of complicated new dance moves.  My mom who, five years ago, would have relegated this to that category of things one just shouldn't inflict on invited guests, has spent the last month working to perfect the steps Rick has choreographed for her.

I don't know if it's because Rick is nearly a foot taller than Mom or if it's just that, as a couple, they lack some kind of essential rhythm, but from the moment they step out they look more like they are headed for a nasty rug burn than the altar.  Mom is pitched against Rick's chest, one cheek smashed into his lapels, her feet shuffling beneath her like unwilling passengers going down with the ship.  Though she is smiling, there are bright parentheses of alarm around her eyes, as though she's suddenly realized this is a very bad idea.

As for Rick, he is drowning out Tony Bennett's perfectly good voice with his own wobbly baritone, his hands leaping off my mother's back in dramatic flourishes.  With his shiny new teeth and tuxedo, he looks like the Big Bad Wolf to my mother's Little Red Riding Hood, and the general effect manages to be both comic and frightening. I glance around to see if anyone is laughing, but, other than Adam (who is literally shaking with the effort of stifling his amusement) no one is.  Rick's sister, a prim school-marmish woman in her fifties wears the same curdled expression she's had on all morning, while Rick's brother (his empty mouth puckered around a cigarette - what is it with these people and teeth?) is hunched over in his seat, discreetly trying to crack the label on a pint of Jim Beam. 

To his credit at least, Rick does not appear drunk - yet.  When drunk, he swings wildly between a general sort of nastiness and grating self-pity.  It is a personality that puts me on edge, and always makes me miss my father.  Soft spoken and kind, sweet almost to a fault, sometimes I like to imagine what my dad would have to say about Rick. But then again, I never heard my dad say a bad word about anyone.  He just wasn't that kind of guy. 

After the dance (a full 7 minutes on the clock) the ceremony is mercifully brief.  With five marriages between them, the minister, an aging hippie-type with the requisite bolo tie and lank ponytail, sticks to the Cliff-note version of the vows.  When he gets to the part instructing guests to, "Speak now or forever hold your peace," for one fleeting second I actually consider voicing my objection. 

 

"This is a travesty!" I imagine shouting, to the shock and horror of everyone assembled.  And then...what?  Would The Big Bad Wolf slink away with his tail between his legs, never to be heard from again?  And if, miracle of all miracles, he did, then what?  Would my mom be any happier without him?  Because the reasons why I don't like Rick-- his drinking, the spotty employment history, a criminal record that, I suspect, is far more extensive than my mother lets on - have, I suddenly realize, nothing to do with how my mother feels about Rick.  My mother looks at Rick and sees the man she loves with all her heart - the man of her dreams.  And as much as I hate to admit it, who am I to say she's wrong?  I mean, what can anyone really know about another person's heart?     

After all, five years ago when I called my mom and told her I was getting married to a man she'd never met, after a courtship that amounted to little more than three months of boozy sex on a futon, she not only gave her blessing, but offered to plan the wedding.  She bought me a dress, and paid for a lovely reception in a fancy French restaurant.  She did this in spite of the parade of losers that had passed through my life for the better part of a decade.  She did it because I told her I was in love, and that marrying Adam was my heart's desire.  She did it because I asked her to. 

As the minister pronounces them "husband and wife," and the happy couple turns toward us, basking in our meager applause, I think again of my Grandmother Max.  Maybe my sister was right, maybe proximity is the key. 

"I am the grand prize winner in the Mexican lottery!" Grandmother Max had proudly announced during our last conversation, about two months before she died. 

"My ship has finally come in!" 

It seemed that she just needed her check to clear (taxes on the prize money, of course) and then she would receive her jackpot. 

 

"Honey, how much is a billion pesos, anyway?" 

Maybe if I'd been her daughter instead of her granddaughter, I would have been angry at her (The Mexican Lottery!) for yet another example of her childish lack of common sense.  But as it was, I felt only a sense of admiration in that moment. 

Admiration for the part of my grandmother that, even at the ripe old age of 89, was still capable of greeting the day with a sense of hope and wonder.  Still capable, in spite of all evidence, of dreaming the outsized dream. 

 

I find my mother in the dressing room.  She is standing in front of the full-length mirror, gazing at herself.

"Congratulations, Ma," I say, and then, because the moment clearly calls for something more, I lean in and give her a hug.  As a rule, my mother and I do not touch, and our hug has the stiff, unpracticed feel of strangers.  Still, I suppose it is the thought that counts, and my mom looks genuinely happy - surprised by this last minute endorsement. 

"How did it go?  Was the dance okay?  It wasn't too over the top, was it?

What about the chicken?  Was it dry?

I find myself telling her exactly what she wants to hear.  The cake was great.  The dance was lovely.  She made a beautiful bride.  It was a lovely wedding. 

Pleased, my mother swivels back to the mirror and, dropping her hip and slinging one leg forward, sucks in her cheeks to make her eyes appear larger in her face.  No matter that she's sixty years old.  No matter that she's a mother of four and a grandmother to three, or that she weighs nearly twice what she did when she briefly made her living as a model.  This is how she has always greeted her reflection.  I stand in the doorway and watch her.  As always, I wonder what she sees.

 

River Holmes-Miller lives in Fort Collins, Colorado with her husband and two children.  She writes every chance she gets.