Read the entry below this one first, okay? Then come back and read this one.
I finished writing the entry below, and then my mom called me from the institution where she lives. She says my youngest brother’s girlfriend died in a car accident today, but my dad won’t talk to her on the phone long enough to give her any details. I called, but they don’t answer. They don’t have Caller ID and probably think I’m her. She said they mentioned some trouble. I don’t want to imagine what it could be.
My mom and I talked more than I usually have time for. Every time I talk to her, she’s a little different, or a lot different, depending on what kind of drugs they have her on. She goes from disconnected to lucid, from panicky to ambivalent, from grounded in reality to… well, just not. Always different, but never well.
This evening the shocking news jarred her and she needed not only to fret as usual, but also to reassess the tragedies and mistakes of her own past. Because I’m home early for once, and alone for once, I listened to her for longer than I normally do. I asked her questions and she answered.
She told me she was glad that I was never in trouble like my brothers, that I was always good and strong. I told her that she may hear about how sweet and easy my life looks, but the people who tell her about it (my brothers) don’t see how hard I’ve struggled. She said she wished she could afford to send me $50 a month. I told her I didn’t need her to. She said she wished she could win the lottery. She was sad that she’s so old and fat and ugly. I told her I loved her no matter how she looked. She talked about bad dreams she’d had — about jealous ex-friends who’d done her wrong. I asked what her friend Regina had done.
She told me a story about something bad that had happened to me and my brothers a long time ago. Two hippies got into a car with us alone in the park while she did something with another hippie or two. She didn’t want to do it, but she thought that maybe they had money and they would help her buy us the things we’d seen but not bought at the thrift shop that day. “You don’t remember that day,” she said. I could have said, “I do remember. I had nightmares about those men in that car for years and only right now do I know that they were true.” But I didn’t say anything because she felt bad enough already. That was the day my dad took us away from her, she said. I don’t remember. She says my grandmother was the one who called and had her taken to the crazy house. I don’t remember. She said losing us was what made her go crazy after that.
She said the devil had possessed her that day, and on several occassions before that. She said she’d been marked as a child, that some people were marked and that, all the time, she sees those who’ve been possessed.
I asked her, “What would you do if the devil came to you now?” (Usually I don’t play into her fantasies, but sometimes, something wicked possesses me and I do.)
She said, “That’s a good question, precious.” She thanked God that I was born unmarked and would never be possessed by the devil. She said she’d think about what she would do if the devil tried to get into her again. I think it’ll be good for her to have a game plan. She gave thanks for my goodness and preciousness, and thanked God that my father and his family were all pure immaculate conceptions, unlike her family, which was marked by the devil. And she said to stick with my Chinese friends, because they would help me make my car payments.
“I can make my own car payments,” I said. But she’s right when she says that the devil won’t possess me. And I already had my kids taken away, and then I got them back. And I’m not pure or immaculate, but it’s okay because my mom told me she’d love me no matter how I looked. And I told her I love her that way, too.
She’ll call me back tomorrow. I hope my brothers and my dad are okay.
