One Person for Two Hearts
The stakes of this dinner were high because I more than loved them both; my heart was made inside my mother and given to the person making our meal.
The only way that makes sense for Tracy when it comes to making dinner is to intentionally, colorfully, and tastefully do it. For this particular meal, it was a simple menu of salad greens and protein, toppings that can do just fine on their own but command the full attention of your senses when mixed. Tracy was preparing the dressing with fevered alchemy, mixing acids and oils, bitters and sweets when the activity begged me to find the metaphor for the occasion: we were expecting my mother’s company.
It was the first time they would be meeting each other, and impressions of the first kind are weighty. I had projected and protected them both in my mind in several different ways. I used history to inform the things my mom might say to rehearse my reaction and preserve our pride. I anticipated Tracy’s impression to manipulate a decent post-visit dissent complete with exhibits and humor.
My mother was a mystery novelist when it came to me. From the earliest moments of my life, she never understood; it was clear I was hard to define and thus went nameless for days. Her frustrations with parenting me were apparent; the struggle filled every room we occupied. I walked early, moving my tiny frame in and out of danger, getting my hands into expensive rouge, and filling my mouth with the diet pills I mistook for candy. It was always hard to tell if the panic was for my safety or hers; which of us will survive this dangerous dynamic?
To satisfy my curiosity, I began to read. If I asked a question she couldn’t answer, I was off to the encyclopedias. I worried about death and thought Jesus was real. I listened to adult conversations and protested sleep. It was straightforward; I wanted every last drop of her pride and joy, and at the age of forty-three, nothing has changed.
The stakes of this dinner were high because I more than loved them both; my heart was made inside my mother and given to the person making our meal.
I feared Tracy would meet my mom and that my mother would introduce them to a version of me that I had not approved. Stories were my mother’s language, and she told them so vividly that disputing the details seemed foolish. Mom found some aspects of my adolescent shame adorable, the child psychologist’s instructions to challenge my intellect exhausting, as well as her grandchildren’s colic and nocturnal nature sweet karma. I worried that she might tell Tracy things I forgot to mention over the year we had dated at a distance. Would she recount the UTIs I repeatedly got as a sexually active teen? The time I threw myself in the pool as a toddler to see who might save me? Might tonight be for remembering the irritating parental roles I stole right out from under her for my brother’s sake? I never knew, and that was the problem.
Tracy could feel my discomfort and assured me of the night’s success; “parents, animals, and kids love me!”. “I am not worried about that,” I said. There was no more time to predict the future as my mom was present at the door.
Once the introductions were complete, we sat down to eat, basking in the edible art. Florida is a safe enough subject when used to it, so I got things started by asking my mother about her first transitions to the area. She explained that my grandparents had settled on retiring here, moving the family after high school, while her youngest sibling was still enrolled. “Your Uncle Steve went to Northeast High School,” she said, “and I reeled in being away from my fiance.” It took me seconds to realize this was not my father. The math was off, and I settled into the relief of this particular recollection.
For the next hour, Tracy and I finished our meal before my mother even began. Mom only paused to take expertly placed sips of water, holding space so we could catch our breath. The fiance was a foreign betrothal, not a secret but a relic. She had committed to an idea of marriage she could trust. The love she had for this fiance, Jay, was immutable, the college she attended a distraction. He went to Germany thanks to the Vietnam war, and she went to work preparing to be his wife. They wrote letters, so many letters, staying in touch before it was easy.
During this time, my Aunt Susan, her older sister, was living in D.C. and working as a flight attendant. Serving drinks and delight, she met every kind of passenger, and based in the nation’s capital; remarkable ones were flying between positions of power. She established shareable connections, and my mom was a willing recipient. Aunt Susan arranged for a White House official to extend phone privileges to the German base. At the time, phone calls were not ubiquitous; they were for dignitaries and emergencies.
Although her plate was untouched, she made room to finish the story and wiped her mouth, ceremoniously setting the napkin aside.
“Your aunt handed me the phone, and I waited for Jay to speak, thinking this was a traditional exchange. I would say hello, and then he would reply, right?” she paused, remembering it and laughed. “Well, an unfamiliar voice asked me to hold, and I heard a strange tone, like a ding or beep. After what seemed like ten or so minutes, another voice interrupted the confusing silence, confirming the connection to the base. None of this made sense to me, but I was so excited to hear Jay’s voice; finally, it didn’t matter who was on the line now as long as I eventually got to hear it.” Mom glanced at me and then at Tracy, back to me and then down at her plate, smiling. “I romanticized the greeting in a million ways, thinking he would get on the phone, and I could hear tears of joy; instead, what I heard was sheer terror; I could tell he was not feeling any of the things I had planned. He was cold and distant, full of duty. Our energy was unmatched, but I was undeterred.
‘Jay,’ I said. ‘It’s me, Diane! I love you so much.’
He said, ‘Diane? Diane! What in the hell are you doing at the White House?’ I was so confused.
‘The White House?’ I was in my parent’s house in Florida. ‘Jay, I am in Florida. Why do you think I am at the White House? That makes no sense!’ he didn’t answer right away.
‘Diane, this call is from THE WHITE HOUSE, they told me the President of the United States was on the phone. I was expecting Richard Nixon, not my fiance.’
He didn’t think any of this was joyous, but it gave our family something to laugh about for years.”
She began to eat finally, full of herself in the most delightful way.
“Obviously, due to my presence and my father, this relationship did not work out.” I laughed.
She was chewing, so she just smiled with a confirming nod.
Instead of entertaining us at my expense, she managed to enthrall us with a chapter from her autobiography. It had everything and nothing to do with me. She was telling me, she was telling us, that she understood how frequently life could give you love and then make you wait. How grief never gets easy; it just becomes funny.
I could say she was unrecognizable in these moments, but that wouldn’t be true. She may have authored an unfamiliar story, but the delivery was cellular. The bones of entertainment have painful marrow. Huer structures were mine; we grew up wanting more than love. She had violent parents, teaching her to retreat from herself and expect the unacceptable. She had to mother herself alongside me, one person for two hearts.
“Your mom is amazing, Emily,” Tracy said as we cleaned from this night of firsts. “I feel like an asshole, Trace. I expected her to tell you something embarrassing about me, to remember something I purposely forgot. I am so hard on her; I don’t give her any credit or benefit.” I sat down and put my head in my hands, ashamed of myself.
Tracy began to remind me that I am not an asshole, that I am human-not entirely good nor entirely bad. I come around and agree, appreciating the reminder of my spectrum.
The healing from whatever hurts us may look very different, but it sounds the same. We tell stories for our living. We aren’t working to earn anything; our stories have value outside of common currency. If this is the way she and I come to terms of endearment, so be it.