Memories of Marbles and Mom

My knees compete with the groan of the wooden stairs leading to the attic. Embedded in the garage ceiling, the steps unfold like the arachnoid limbs of the monster in Alien, warped by the trapped heat of Texas summers. I half-step, half-pull myself up to forage for winter giveaways, destined for the Goodwill and the homeless. I torque through stacks of miscellany and memories. Three boxes of mud brown dishes, prone to chipping at the slightest abuse, earn a spot near the attic opening, awaiting transport to their next home. I blow dust from lids blissfully free of rodent droppings.

           Finally, I open a box and find the faded fabric of old clothes. I shuffle through the pile. A trim of matted, once-white-now-gray faux fur makes me smile. I unearth it and hold it up like a newborn. Cobwebs lattice my old blue parka, just the right size for my grand-daughter, if it weren’t so neglected. Stale air scurries up my nose. The coat inspires a scene of me flying down a steep, snowy hill on a shiny aluminum Flying Saucer. I hug the coat, stroke it with affection because of the memories, and feel a lump on one side. I don’t smell anything dead or rotten. My hand works its way into a pocket and pilfers the smooth object it finds. I inspect a brilliant blue Cat’s Eye Shooter for its pristine beauty and see the obvious leader of the horde of my most precious childhood companions, marbles.

           I spent a lot of alone time in our basement. We had a console TV down there, a built-in day bed, a fireplace, and basement windows that let the sunlight mosaic the floor with gold. I had watched Dad tar the cement, smelly as the stuff used by road crews. He ironed each tile with his hand and created near invisible seams. An oval area rug, plush, furry like The Shaggy Dog, brightened the basement with circles of orange and yellow. Although it sometimes echoed from emptiness, I silently declared the basement my sanctuary.

 I poured my cat’s eye marbles in a make-shift yard, fencing them in with barriers of wooden blocks. I talked to them like intimate friends, just like I talk to my Christmas cacti so they bloom abundantly in an ambiance of love. I neither wondered, nor dared ask, how Mom spent her time, while I learned to appreciate my lonely, peaceful, imaginary life.

           One day Mom ventured into my basement domain. Since I couldn’t talk out loud to my “friends,” I let them roam wildly in their yard. None had names, but with them, I shared secrets. “We can’t upset Mom,” I whispered.

           Sun spilled down the window wells onto the floor. I sat in a puddle of light and absorbed the warmth. I rearranged blocks. One marble made its way over to the brick hearth, stopped by a cinder. Bad marble. I looked at Mom to see if she noticed. Her stillness frightened me. I spider-crawled across the floor for closer inspection.

           A jumble of pleasing red hair covered her head and helped hide a face half buried in a pillow. Her body, flaccid as a rag doll, sprawled length wise on the day bed. Her feet turned in, pigeon-toed in sleep. A dank, yeasty odor rose from her body. She wore a pair of plaid slacks. I hated them. Yellow and red lines and boxes crisscrossed the loden background. Until that moment, I hadn’t noticed Mom had put on weight. In its relaxed state, her ample buttocks strained the stitching of the rear-end seam. What was Mom doing down in my space?

            In spite of my childish mind, my self-centered focus, I learned the cycles of Mom’s despair. She’d develop a lone red blemish. Explosive fights between her and Dad occurred over nothing. Uncontrollable crying seized her body brought on by some unseen entity. A blue box appeared beside the toilet in her bathroom. Tampax, the label declared.  A scowl lashed across her face for several days. Then peace. I learned to achieve a degree of invisibility when the tenor of the atmosphere intensified.

Mom read a lot, but she spoke very little. It was like she erased any memory of the past or relegated it to a safe room. She shared one story about me as a baby. She praised me for never crying when my diaper was wet. “Your back teeth could be floating and you still didn’t cry.” What did that mean? Still in diapers, I probably didn’t have too many teeth. Why I didn’t cry, I’ll never know. Why wouldn’t she change my diaper if she knew it was wet?

An image of us driving in a car, me adrift in a sea of yellow, scorches my memory. Mom sits rigid, staring out the window at nothing anyone can see, not my Dad, not my sister, especially not me. Mom seems to be in mourning, filled with grief for some lost person only Mom knows.

I notice the marble has warmed in my hand. I think of summer.

When I was in elementary school, summer meant free time. Some days Mom dropped my sister and me off at the swimming pool and left us there all day. We practiced with our team, then loitered outside the gate until the pool opened to the public. Sis and I drifted apart, but stayed within the safe confines of the pool area. Mom picked us up at a designated time. Sis blathered about boys and how I hadn’t washed my hair for three days and it was turning green. Mom focused on the road, a model of silent intensity.

If we didn’t go to the pool, I rode my bike. I could be gone for hours as long as I checked in from time to time. I pedaled my metallic blue two-wheeler to the junior high school. Still under construction, the building sat atop a steep hill blemished by dried weeds and crabgrass. Speeding down the slope with my bike streamers almost horizontal, I enjoyed a daring freedom. It never entered my head to be afraid. As soon as my ride plateaued, I’d turn around, climb the hill, and start again. When I got home, the back door slammed and announced my arrival. I assumed Mom was there. Somewhere.

My sister left home her Senior year in high school. Separated by five years, her absence emptied the house exponentially. I took over her bedroom and expunged her existence without a shred of guilt. Dad travelled for work. Mom worked and went back to school. Except for an occasional phone call from Sis, our family disconnected. Without solid boundaries to keep us together, we scattered in all directions just like my errant marbles.

Recently I asked Mom how she saw her life if she had not had children. “Must we get into those personal things?” she snapped.

           Things are personal after a life spent wondering what I could have done to make things better for Mom, wondering why she never calls, wondering why nothing I have accomplished has lived up to her expectations.

I realize I burdened my mother more than I could ever please her. Now I rationalize her indifference. Her confrontation with the specter of mortality offers a reasonable excuse to be wrapped up in her, and only her, life crises. Mom managed to drive a wedge between my sister and me. Maybe she didn’t want us to commiserate, to share notes and insights about the pathology that is Mom. Sis and I overcame that.

I cradle the Cat’s Eye. In my hand, it warmed up, something my mother never did. I slide the radiant blue orb into the pocket of my jeans and climb down from the attic, carrying memories that can’t be given away.

 “There, there, my friend.” I pat the pocket, tap the face of my phone, and call my son.