7:23 a.m. - 2005-06-18
Family Dynamics Rant
Tragedy averted, everyone returned to normal. My father's face softened. He started doing his famous impression of Laurel upon waking up. Hair sticking in all directions, he would scratch his head, looking appropriately bewildered and say to my never-tired-of-the-skit mother, "another fine mess ...". She never mentioned the surgery or anything to do with the 'it' that had no name in our house. On Saturdays, she would go to the horse races with her two friends, Kay and Adele. My mother always prided the three of them on their refusal to directly address any problems that might arise amongst them. Adele was raven haired eccentic with the 24 carat heart, dressing like a 1950's 'sweater girl' well into her seventies. Kay was the volatile redhead who, if my mother inadvertently bet the same horse, would spitefully tear up her own winning ticket, scattering it across the bleachers. My mother was the fragile blond, proverbial damsel in distress. She would cry in the stands while racing fans would reprovingly click their tongues in Kay's direction. Lower lip trembling, my mom would call home. My father, on cue, would make the long drive to Santa Anita. A week later, Kay would leave a Norman Rockwell coffee table book or maybe some carnations on the porch and they would once again be off to the races. It was never mentioned between them. That was the way things were to be handled according to some invisible handbook I had no doubt been issued at birth, but never had the interest or ability to decipher. Who was I to dare speak the despised language of what actually is? Where had I even learned that foreign tongue so unpleasant to my collective family ear? What kind of changeling was I? And so I shrunk back into a cautious and awkward banality around them. Like a ballerina desperate to please her audience of two, I obligingly navigated around the obvious, teetering en pointe. The most subversive I got was perhaps a Led Zeppelin t-shirt at Thanksgiving dinner, shocking my Uncle Henry and embarrassing my mom. Basically, there was only one rule in my house. Whatever happens and whatever you may feel about it, do not under any circumstances talk about it. Other than that, they were self-sacrificing and devoted parents, always more than willing to bail me out of the fine messes I routinely got myself into. The messes that reinforced their purpose in life and, over time, seemed to become my purpose in life. The messes that alone seemed to engender what felt close at times to a real connection with these virtual strangers whose worldview remained a compelling mystery to me. Why was it such an impossible concession for me to embrace that one rule? To be anyone but me. Simple enough at first blush. I actually have spent much of my life being anyone but me, yet never anyone that fit nicely into the designated slot. And so, I practiced my steps, becoming ever more adept at ushering love from my life as soon as it reared its unwelcom head. My radar had been programmed early on to identify any such interloper as nothing but enemy. My third husband, whose focus became diffused as the crises disappeared, returned to t.v. wrestling, cartoons and remote-controlled cars. I began, as was my wont, to look at him askance. It became increasingly easy for me to build a case for bolting. And, if the husband du jour resisted, well, I just upped the ante. Tom, initially, did resist. He hated change, preferring to soak in his tub and get his drama from paperbacks rather than actual life. He had always alluded to his alter ego, the one who held all his childhood pain and anger. He had affectionately dubbed him "Frank". One Sunday, bored with Tom's predictable behavior, I decided to meet with Frank in person. Drinking an entire bottle of cheap champagne, I poked and prodded at Tom's rather formindable defenses. Finally, Frank emerged, looking surprisingly threatening. He yelled much louder than I ever thought Tom could yell. Eventually, I got him to chase me. I ran from the apartment and found myself cowering in a pay phone at the Von's up the street. Like my mother, I called my dad, who came on cue to rescue me. While Tom was at work, they helped me remove my and my son's few belongings. I was once again the escapee bride, a recurrent theme. It was the only role I could successfully play and for which I received such accolades. I moved back into the 'nice little apartment where I could presumably come and go' that was, in reality, the den my dad had constructed for just such a purpose. Business as usual, I awoke to see Laurel playfully encouraging me to smile. I was home.
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