Lost Dreams

“You stole them you little whore.” Marge sat in her yellow tweed rocking chair stroking the doll that sat in her lap. Her wrinkled hands were gentle, a stark contrast to the scowl she gave to the woman before her.

“What are you accusing me of now mom?” Christine sighed as she leaned her body against the door to close it. She struggled to keep her balance while hugging a bag of groceries. She was flush and out of breath from the summer heat. Sweat had begun to bead near the grey roots of her metallic red hair.

“Do you ever just say it straight you stole them don’t play dumb.”

“Mom wha- “

“Why do you keep doing that? I am not your mom, you bitch, you thieving little bitch. I want them, I want them back.”

Christine inhaled long and hard through her nose. She counted to five before she let out the air. It was a controlled hiss through her clenched teeth. Then, she limped to the kitchen still hugging the bag of groceries. She blocked out the screeching accusations and insults from her mother as she worked. It was a wonder how her dad put up with this for so long. She now saw his passing as a merciful gift.

“What do you think I stole from you, Marge?” Christine shouted from the kitchen. She had planted her hands to the blue laminate countertop. She clenched her eyes tight, and her jaw bulged as she tried to imagine what Hawaii must be like at this time of year.

“My napkins”

“You’re napkins?”

“Yes, my napkins, and the mayonnaise.”

“You think I stole your napkins and your mayonnaise.”

“I don’t think, I know. I saw you do it. I saw you do it last night, you thieving little bitch.”

“When did you see me do it last night?”

“It must have been around midnight I heard the clock so yes it was midnight. I remember now I heard the clock and was thirsty and I went to the kitchen and saw you taking the napkins and the mayonnaise and you put it in a sack and you went out to your car and you put it in the trunk and you stole them. I want them back. I want them back now!”

Christine opened her eyes and looked at a jolly little porcelain chef. His eyes were joyful, and his mouth was open wide as though he were singing. She envied him. She peeled her cemented hands from the countertop. She waddled to the plastic trash can and lifted the swinging lid. She knew what she would find. She knew the jar would be there because she had scrapped the last of its contents two hours ago to make lunch. Turkey sandwiches, her mother's favorite. She had a fresh jar in the paper grocery bag on the counter.

“Mom, don’t you remember for lunch I made sandwiches, and I said I’m going to have to get more mayonnaise because this one’s out.”

“No, I don’t, and again I am not your mother. Stop that.”

“I’m looking at an empty jar of mayonnaise in the trash right now, Marge.”

Marge didn’t answer, but Christine could hear the squeak of the rocker in the other room.

“Did you hear me, Marge?”

“You must have just put that there. Ok, where are my napkins then? Did he give them to you? They're mine you can’t have them.”

“Did who give them to me? I thought you said you saw me steal them last night?”

Marge exploded, “AH HA, you admit you stole them!”

“Marge, I did not steal your napkins.”

“Then he gave them to you.”

“Who’s he?”

“John, that cheating stupid bastard, you lying whore.”

Christine threw her head back and stared at the popcorn ceiling and the whisps of a cobweb that clung to it. Why? Why was she there? She was always the one to be there. She cursed her brother’s name and wished his perfect life would crumble one day.

“You think Dad gave me the napkins?”

“Is that what you call him? You call him Daddy? I always knew he had a sick side.” Marge snorted from the living room, and the squeaking of the rocker had sped up.

Christine clenched her teeth so hard she thought they would crack. Her father was the only one who ever showed her any kindness. He was the one who combed her hair and tucked her in at night. He was the one to hold her hand when they crossed the street. He bought her birthday presents. Most importantly, all the things he did for her, he listened.

Her mother had never done anything for her. Marge had waited on her little brother hand and foot. If the neglect wasn’t enough on its own, she also belittled, judged, and scolded. Nothing was ever good enough or up to her mother’s standards. It didn’t matter that she was on the honor roll. It didn’t matter that she had got into college. It didn’t matter that she owned a house and had a successful career. She had never had children, so she had always been a barren fruit tree to her mother.

Christine let the lid fall and limped to a cupboard. A wicker basket stuffed with aged cloth napkins was on one of the shelves. The basket was full of napkins, now a faint, aged yellow. They were anagrammed, and a few had light stains from the years of use since her parent's wedding.

“I’m looking at a basket full of cloth napkins, Marge.” Christine shouted from the kitchen

“They’re not all there, you stole them I know you stole them.”

“I thought you said John gave them to me?”

“You bitch I know you have them I know you do.”

“Fine, how many did I take?”

“Six, I counted them this morning because I saw you take them last night there are six missing.”

With an exhausted sigh, she began the agonizing walk down the hallway to the washer and dryer. Her knee was starting to flare up again. She knew she needed to get off her feet soon, or she would be too stiff to walk tomorrow. This needed to end, though.

She raked the cold laundry from the dryer into a basket and raised it to her hip. Her back ached, and her knee begged for mercy as she moved back to the living room. She set the basket on the ground between the TV and the old woman in the rocker. She struggled to one knee and then the other. She wondered how she would stand again without her cane. She would figure that out later, right? She needed to win.

“One.” She said, holding the napkin over her head. Marge’s eyes were daggers as she stroked her doll and watched Christine dig.

“Two, Three.” Christine threw two more napkins into the air and went back to digging. “Four, Five.” She began to spread the laundry out over the old carpeted floor. She shook out shirts and slacks in search of the final napkin. She found it. “And six. Six napkins, not stolen just in the drier.”

Marge didn’t say anything. Her face was still bitter, and she stroked the doll with long, slow strokes.

“Why do you never believe me?”

“Why are you always so mean to me?” Marge asked, her voice choked with a coming sob.

“What? I’m not.”

“Yes, you are! You’re yelling at me right now. I didn’t know they were in the laundry why didn’t you say that before.”

“I tried to, but you were busy calling me a bitch and a whore.’

“No, I wasn’t. I would never use that kind of language. Never in a hundred years.”

Christien didn’t have the energy to fight any longer. It was still early afternoon, but to her, it felt like she was finishing a full day's work. She stooped, collected the clothes in the basket, and crawled to the coffee table. With the help of the table, she managed to get to her feet with some labored grunts. She left the basket where it was and went down the hall to the guest bedroom.

Tears had filled her eyes and rolled down her large cheeks as she walked. It wasn’t until she closed the room's door behind her that she let out any sound. She cried. She cried like a little girl whose mother had hurt her. She felt hopeless and overwhelmed. She had done all she could and would continue to fall short. Right now, there was nothing left for her to do. She needed rest. She moved to the bed and lay as she sobbed herself to sleep.

The sound of the breaking glass woke Christine. Confused in the dark room, it took a moment for her to remember where she was. She didn’t know how much time had passed. The sun was still high in the sky when she lay down. Now, it was well past dinnertime. She dreaded the tongue lashing her mother would give her for not making her dinner.

Christine heard the fridge door open and shut. Then, the sound of scuffling feet and the rub of tennis balls on the laminate floor. She lay flat on her back, eyes wide open, letting reality materialize around her. With great effort, she shimmied her legs off the bed. She groped the bed, then the wall, as she walked towards the thin line of light where the door was.

The glow of the television in the living room was enough to guide her down the hall. She still held a hand on the wall to steady herself. Her knee was swollen, and the steps were agonizing. At the end of the hall, she saw her mother wasn't in the old rocking chair. Instead, the doll sat alone, tucked in a blanket, watching the screen.

Christine turned and looked through the doorway into the dark kitchen. She could see the shining shards of glass in the glow of the TV and turned on the light. With the light on, she could see the bloody footprints that led from the kitchen to the dining room table. There, her mother sat with a jar of mayonnaise, licking a spoon.

Marge’s eyes locked with Christine’s. Her old, wrinkled face formed an embarrassed smile, and she let out a shameful little laugh. She covered her mouth with her ancient hand. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Yeah, I heard the glass break. Are you okay?”

“Oh yeah, sorry. I had a bad dream, and then I wanted some ice cream. Do you want any? It’s pretty good.”

“Eh, no thanks.”

“Oh, Steph, stop, you won’t get fat. You're beautiful, and you always will be.”

“Steph?”

Marge let out a puff of air. “Well, don’t you have your panties in a bunch? Do you want me to call you Stephanie or, better yet, Mrs. Walker?” Marge laughed as she placed another spoonful of mayonnaise in her mouth.

Stephanie? Stephanie Walker? Christine knew her as Aunt Stephanie. She was the next-door neighbor. Dad and Stephanie’s husband, Jim or something, had been in Korea together. She remembered Stephanie being over a lot as a kid.

“Who taught you to do that thing you did with your tongue? Was it Jim? I liked it.” Marge said before giving the spoon a long stroke with her tongue.

Three thoughts went through Christine's mind at the same time. One, ok, it was Jim. Two, holy shit, that’s gross. Three, oh my god, my mom is a lesbian. Four, don’t vomit.

“Well, don’t be a stranger bring that ass over here.” Marge gestured with her free hand.

“Mo- Marge, there’s glass all over the floor.”

“Oh, just go around through the living room. Come on, I want to tell you something.”

Christine made her way through the living room, holding a hand on the wall to keep balance. She reached the table and sat beside her mother with an ungraceful plop. She caught her breath and eased her leg out straight under the table as she leaned back. Marge was staring at her with a closed-lipped smile.

“Well, what is it?”

Marge took a big breath and let it out slowly. “Steph, I love you. I love you, and we should run away together.”

Christine didn't know what to say and, out of instinct, said the first thing that came to mind. “What?” She asked.

“I love you, Steph. Let’s get out of here before they come back.”

“Before they come back?”

“Yeah, John and Jim. Fuck em. Let’s go.”

Christine shifted in her seat. The whole situation made her uncomfortable. The chair. Her knee. The conversation. The mayonnaise. This might be the only time she could ever get some answers, though. She cleared her throat and pushed the feeling of guilt and shame deep down. “What about your kids?” Christine asked.

“What kids?”

“Your daughter and son.”

“Do you think I’m having twins?”

The picture was starting to grow clearer. This was 73 years ago to Marge. Christine wasn’t born yet, and her little brother wasn’t even a thought. She was having a midnight snack with her next-door lover and wanted to run away.

“Marge, we can’t.”

“You don’t love me.”

“Stop.”

“No, it’s ok it was silly I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Marge, we have families. You’re about to be a mom.”

“I don’t want this. I never wanted any of this.”

“Marge.”

“Do you think I love John? He was just the first sucker that didn’t know I was damaged goods. My mom practically tore my baby from me and gave me to him. She would never have her name soiled.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah, I hate that woman, and I hate John, and I hate this baby, But I love you. Please, Steph, please.” Marge reached out and grabbed Christine's hand. Her thin, wrinkled skin felt cold on Christine’s flesh. Christine fought back tears and cleared her throat again.

“Do. Do you think you will ever love the baby?”

“Probably not.”

“Why?”

Marge let out a sigh. “Because it will always remind me of what I couldn’t have. They’ll cry and shit and poke and pull and take and take and take. And I’ll be expected to give and give and give. I’ll never be able to have the life I want. I’ll never be able to have My life.

Tears were rolling down Christine's cheeks. “You really think that?”

Marge gave Christine’s hand another little squeeze, and a smile of pity grew on her face. She didn’t look Christine in the eyes but looked at their hands instead. They were both old women, each wishing they had lived their lives. Instead, they lived the life their mother had dictated to them.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m going to be up a little longer finishing this. Don’t feel like you have to wait up.” Marge said.

“Ok”

They sat at the table together in the dark. Marge shoveled spoonfuls of mayonnaise into her aged mouth. Christine sat in silence. Christine thought about tomorrow. How she would call the nursing home in the morning. The next day, she would call a travel agent and finally take a vacation to Hawaii. It had to be beautiful this time of year.