Infinite. Indefinite.

6. Ghar•Home

As I enter my driveway I see something that almost makes me reverse and peel straight down the street. And I would have. I truly would have if not for the stout, plump, blond lady who comes rushing - shuffling really - out.

"Oh dear lord! Could you have been any tardier!"  My mother comes rushing - again, shuffling is more like it - toward me and starts patting and smoothing and poking and prodding.

"Ow! Mom!"

"Hush! What have you done to your hair and why do you smell so... Weird? Is that alcohol? Were you drinking at work? Didn't you have perfume? Goshdang it Rosa! Are you fired? Never mind, tell me later it's not important right now! Oh Rosa I wish you would be more concerned with how you present yourself!"  I start to correct her but she hushes me again. I guess in her mind "presenting yourself in a certain way is more important than being able to support yourself. My mother.

As she weaves her way through the sea of cars pulling me behind her, I squint at the licence plates. "Mom who are all these people?" I honestly don't  recognize any of the cars.

"Just some friends." She said gleefully.

Whose? I don't press any further.  I had long since given up authority over my house.

When my mother showed up at my doorstep a year ago it was, she claimed, just for a short visit. I had obligingly given her entrance because really, what else could I do? Tell her no? Send her out on the streets? But after two months of late nights, unexplained night guests, additional house guests and perpetual noise I was starting to feel that my dear old mother had overstayed her welcome.

So I started dropping hints. Simple things like 'how is Charlie Sinclair back home' or 'you remember Joe's bar? I bet he misses you round there' at first she used to answer quickly and happily like she was remembering old memories. Me on a swing in front of joe's. Dancing to Billy Joel in our kitchen. At first I thought it worked. I thought that she had an epiphany and realised how she needs to go back home and be with the people she belongs with. I thought that the nostalgia would be enough to compel her to go home. But as the beginning of the fourth month of her stay rolled along I was starting to get a little impatient.

I decided that it was time to say a little white lie. I told my mother that I needed to go to Ohio for two weeks for a work thing thinking that this would nudge her to her go home. The problem was that she was happy that I was leaving. She said 'about time I have the house to myself'. What part of that sounds right? It doesn't right? That's what I told myself, so I told her 'no mom, that's not right. You need to go. Now.' Okay, so I didn't tell her in those exact words. What I said goes something along the lines of ' I can't put you through all that trouble mom. It's okay the house will be fine on its own for a few days. You can go home. I'll be okay.'

You may have guessed what her answer was. She was way too obliging. Way too willing to take care of the house. So I went to Ohio  because I couldn't just not go after she refused to leave my home. That would be too suspicious. She would realise that I was just lying to her to get her out of the house. So I went to Ohio.

I checked into one rather nice motel establishment and enjoyed myself. I needed a vacation and I got one. I had wine. Not beer, wine. Red wine. Not the expensive kind. But it was nice. The only other time I had wine was when I went on a date with some big shot executive and he ordered some really expensive red wine with a label I couldn't pronounce. We never went out again. I regret that. Would have meant more good tasting wine. But it would have also meant listening to him talk. Oh well. This one wasn't as good as that one. But I soaked up in one of those standing tub things with golden painted legs and drank the entire bottle while listening to some artist with a pretentious name but a stunning voice. Best sleep I ever had.

On the drive back home I resolved that this would have to end. I had spent way more than I could afford on my secretary salary. Not just the vacation but these past four months have been more spendthrifty than I could afford. Mom would have to leave and I had resolved to tell her as soon as I got home.

So I did.

As soon as she opened the door I told her that she needed to leave my house. Looking back it probably was the absolute worst way to break the news to her. And I thought that her bursting into tears and running to her room and locking herself in it was a result of my tactlessness.

I didn't find out the real reason for her mini-breakdown until the next day when she told me. She had woken up early that morning and walked into the kitchen while I was scrambling eggs. This is how that conversation went:

"Mom, I didn't mean-", I started.

"Damian was in a boating accident,"
that's what she said. She stared at me. There were no tears even though there was a bright rim of red lining her eyes. I racked my brain for a while. Was Damian the fisherman back home? No that was Frank. Who was Damian?

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Looked at her. Looked away. Opened my mouth again. Closed it again. Looked at my eggs. Put them on two plates. Put the pan in the sink. Looked outside the window. Cleared my throat. Looked at my mom. Took a deep breath. Cleared my throat again. "Uh, mom, I, uh, don't..." I cleared my throat again,"who's Damian?"

She didn't hear me. She was staring out the window. I asked her again. She either truly couldn't hear me or was just ignoring me. After what I had done I was betting on the latter. I was wrong. Turns out it was the former.

"He went fishing. Next thing I know he's in the hospital" (ugh, hospitals again) "he needed surgery. I didn't have the money,"

I looked at my mother carefully that weird feeling was clawing at my chest again, the panic. "Mom...."

"I sold the house."

"Mom...."  I may have left Springoakes a long time ago because I thought there was nothing left for me there, but our house there was haven for me. I had always counted on going back if I could find something worth going back for. I can still hear laughter, my laughter, echoed in the walls of that house in my memories ambivalent with the more suppressed memories. But whoever is Damian? Who is this person that my mother sold my house for?

"The Money got him the surgery," my mother hesitated.

"Mom? Who is Damian?" She closed her eyes. "Mom? You're scaring me." She really was. I could feel the monster in my chest stirring.

I walked around the island we were standing around and took her trembling, cold, stiff hands.

Mom blinked and water escaped her eyes. "He doesn't remember me," she blinked several more times before she started to cry. "He's-" hiccup "lost-" hiccup "his memory,"

"Mom? Who is he?"

Damian turned out to be her boyfriend. (How is it that my mother has a boyfriend and not me). He's alive but he doesn't remember her. I can't imagine what that feels like. I wonder if she feels like the house paid well. That at least he's alive. Or does she rather he was dead? I guess there's still hope that he may remember her someday. Maybe she's holding on to that hope.

Now I can't throw her onto the streets after finding out all she's been through. So I don't  broach the subject again. I wake up every morning and make us breakfast, sometimes I have to take her breakfast to her and we eat together on her bed. Mostly it's a quiet affair but sometimes she'll comment on my hair or face. Simple things like 'your hair is wonderful' or 'you have a pimple'. One day she shows me picture of Damian. He's a nice bloke. Has nice brown hair and a soft face. Leaving her at home alone is hard. I leave her with magazines and books and the remote. After a few days she's back to normal. She has her friends over and cooks all the time. She keeps busy and I keep busy.

As she flaunts me to all her friends in my house. I try to remember that this is what keeps her sane. After a bit of mingling with her friends who pretend that they are my friends too, I go to my room and lie down. It's been eleven months, three weeks and two days since my mother came to live with me. It's freezing in Seattle. My job doesn't pay me enough. And there's something wrong with me.

It could have been worse.