Joy in the Turmoil

My teeth clamped down on my straw, obstructing the flow of raspberry tea I had enjoyed up until a few moments ago. Had my older sister truly just spoken those words? I rolled them around in my mind, staring at her from across our patio two seater cafe table. The liquid I swallowed was tasteless; every bit as bland as her tone had been upon delivery.

“Mom said she cried when she found out she was pregnant with you.”

I chuckled, nervous but light, as I always did when my sister dropped her blunt statements. This one was no different than any of the other callous judgments aimed at my life choices through matter-of-fact delivery. No one could grasp her sense of humor. Wisdom from my past spoke louder than my urge to ask for clarity.

Don’t engage, just ignore and move on.

No, this was different. It was a stated fact concerning someone else’s opinion of me; not just my sister’s abysmal viewpoint.

She moved another sizable bite of food to her mouth while my youngest nephew reached for her with tiny, chubby hands. He had been blubbering with increased urgency through our entire visit. His protests were now reaching ear-shattering levels. I had previously tried to appease him with a bite from my plate. He shook his head madly, his cries more insistent.

After three children, my sister had honed the unique ability to tune him out. In a way, I was respectfully dumbfounded. How could she ignore all responsibility in favor of adding to the bulk building around her middle? Did she enjoy that onlookers could assume the child was mine, and I was the neglectful parent? Or did she expect me to do what other relatives do and simply take over her duties when in her midst?

This was not okay. It never had been. But, to me, it was normal.

As the waitress scuttled over with a stiff countenance, a toy in her grip, and other disturbed patrons near our table whispered and eyed first the toddler, and then the two irresponsible women sitting beside him, I was far, far away.

I had been nineteen back then. Twenty, perhaps. A costume party loomed ever closer, and I was determined to make my outfit from scratch. My friends and my boyfriend were attending. The event promised to be full of laughter and shared excitement over creative costumes.

This time, mine would be worthy of lengthier commentary.

The Singer sewing machine sat on the end of the dining room table. It remained there untouched since the day my mother agreed to impart the proper amount of her extensive sewing knowledge to me while we enjoyed a shared project. 

Two months had passed. The party was tomorrow.

I stood alone in the formal dining room, my feet sinking into the plush cream carpet. It was always so cushy and clean; as if it were just replaced. It had been coating that floor for years. On my phone screen was a text from my mother that morning.

“We can do it all when I get home for lunch, sweetie! Plenty of time.”

The picture window behind the machine drew my eyes. It was too dark to see the outlines of the reaching pines in the back of my parent’s house. All was quiet. 

Usually, my mother would be in the kitchen now, filling the entire house with the delectable scents of a southern dinner. I had never understood how she managed shuffling the truly important into her crammed schedule. And there I was, upset she couldn’t squeeze me in, even when I knew how thin she was stretched at all times.

How utterly selfish. I was the worst to expect special treatment when more pressing matters existed. Act prudently, and do anything possible to stay off her pressing to-do list. I learned early on that was the best I could do to help her. Everything else was her territory; her messes to wipe spotless.

The humming electric garage door shatters the silence and shoots hope through my system. She was home. Could there still be time? Dare I request it again? Remind her once more? If I ran now, I could make it to my bedroom and pretend I had forgotten the party; that I hadn’t hoped with all my heart every day leading up to this moment. 

I listen, solidified in my spot between the sewing machine and the doorway to the kitchen. 

The door squeaks open and closes with a light click. Heels tap the polished wood floor, echoing off the high ceiling. A bag crinkles as it rests on the kitchen counter. I’m holding my breath.

I hear my mother sigh, hesitate for a breath, then pull something from the plastic sack. Only then does she notice the light in the dining room, right beside the kitchen. She moves toward it, perhaps believing someone else had left it burning. Her footfalls end on that fluffy carpet. Our eyes meet.

“Oh, sweetie! I didn’t know you were in here.” 

I had startled her. Her hand remained on the light switch she intended to flip. I’m still frozen, tracking her weary eyes when they land on the sewing machine; the cloth scraps beside it. Her shoulders slump. Realization sets in. I feel lower than the stain she could never get out of the basement carpet.

She says, “I’m so sorry. That took longer than I thought it would. Jerry…”

Jerry, of course; my sister’s ex-husband. No other words from my mother’s lips would be applicable to me. I didn’t want to hear any new developments about how Jerry had taken my infant niece and hidden her from the family, or about how much time and money it cost my parents to try and locate her with private detectives while my sister complained of unfair treatment.

I was tired of seeing the masked exhaustion on my mother’s face as she smiled and assured everyone she would take care of it. Everything would be alright. So she said, but among all the other chaos churning through my mind, I was angry on her behalf.

It wasn’t alright. I wasn’t. Standing there, dumbfounded in front of her, tears descend down my cheeks.

My mother paused her story, appearing caught off-guard by the atypical emotion. I was the together child; the one who did for myself and rarely asked for anything. But tonight, surrounded by the mixed western and oriental furnishings, the pristine floors, the empty silence of a fully furnished dream house, I could no longer channel her facade of perpetual sunshine.

She came toward me, her intent reaching for me instead of physical motion. The captain’s chair is pulled from its spot and she sits. 

“Let’s work on it right now.”

Her fingers go to work as she inspects the printed image of the final costume, fiddles in the sewing bag for the correct color of thread. 

I’m consumed by guilt that I allowed her to find me; to burden her with what’s inside me. And there I stood, watching her set a selfless example I could never hope to meet—standing aside while she fixed another problem.

But when she turned to smile at me, joy was creasing the edges of her mouth. My tears dried into those pieces of scrap as we worked together into the night, despite her mounting exhaustion. The next day, I wore my costume. It wasn’t what I had originally envisioned, but it was a precious memory I will treasure long after the materials have decomposed.

My nephew flung the toy motorcycle to the ground, the clatter and his cries drawing me back to the table. I give the waitress a remorseful smile, pick up the toy, then turn to my sister who is audibly scraping her plate.

I could fling my musings her way for once; how her opinions are hurtful and unnecessary, and how our parents are still paying for divorce number two while she hurtles into a third marriage. Instead, I channel my mother’s calming energy to be an example for the unfortunate little boy beside me.

There can be joy in the turmoil, little one.

“Why don’t we take Jeffrey to the playground?”