Conversations with my Mother by Stephanie Parke (books to read to get smarter .txt) 📖

Shaking my head to clear it I scowl and stick out my tongue. “She’s a pain in the ass, I ground out looking away. “She’s a stuck up old biddy.” Mom barely covers her laugh with a cough and tries not to smile.

“What did you say to her when she gave her edict," I ask quietly with irritation pinning my mother with my eyes. My mother has a hard time standing up to my grandmother especially when she “helps” us. Unfortunately since my dad has made a habit or avoiding child support this had happened a few times more than I would have liked due to my mother’s barely-above-minimum-wage job.

“I told her that if she buys for one she has to buy for you both,' she says with pride and my look turns to shock. I run my fingers over the rooster as if it is a good luck talisman and wait for the rest.
“And” I prompt leaning forward further. “And she agreed to take you next weekend to get something.” I put both hands in the air like I just scored a soccer goal and jump up to hug her. I am so proud of her that my heart feels like it’s bursting. I pull back and catch her face, and when she smiles I know that she is proud of herself too.

“You rock” I squeal hugging her again.
“ Thank you, thank you, no applause,” she says with a small bow. “I told her she had to be fair; she didn’t like it but I told her that’s how it had to be.”

“Look at you” I say with an excited laugh as I smile widely at her, “standing up for Truth Justice and the American way.”
Her eyes twinkle as she wrinkles her brow and asks, “Isn’t that superman?”

“Nope, superwoman.” I say with a snicker as I hug her again for good measure.

“Takes one to know one,” She laughed at me as she hugs me back. The wind whips against the trailer again but now the tapping seems happily congratulatory as we celebrate our victory.

While we celebrate our victory, we hear the honk of a horn in the driveway. My grandmother waits in the driveway in her Chevy van and honks again when my brother fails to appear. We look out the door and her pinched face makes it clear that she is not happy at my mother’s standing up to her. My brother jumps up and scuttles out the door, still oblivious to what is going on. My mother and I look out the front door as she ruffles his hair and smiles at him. My mother wave jauntily at her and my grandmother’s face pinches even tighter as she pulls away, making sure not to look at us again.

As the van’s exhaust fills the chilly air and disappears from sight Mom’s eyes meet mine and our faces collapse as we burst out laughing. We smile through our laughter as we look at each other and know that we are both seeing my grandmother’s pinched, disapproving face again. We gasp for breath as we close the door and collapse against it. We feel invincible for that moment and I look at her and smile. She slings her arms around my shoulders and we wipe our eyes as we move away.

“Come on Super mom, I say with a smile, let’s go make some cookies.”


The wind sings as it flies past the windows calling happily to those of us inside, bubbling over with teenage anticipation. Satin and silk rustle in the silence as I dream about the coming night. My hands run down my powder blue skirt and I finger the lace at my waist in sixteen-year-old teenage ecstasy. “Mom, this dress rocks!” I squeal as I give her a tight hug. She smiles around the pins held in her mouth and gives me a wink. I look down at the beautiful homecoming dress she made for me by hand. Its surface seems to shimmer and it almost sways on its own in the light of our kitchen. Her long brown hair, which is loose today, sweeps the floor as she finishes the hem on my dress. Her recent weight loss has caused the oversized shirts and leggings she prefers to almost hang on her. She is proud but it scares me. She takes the pins out of her mouth and sticks them into her tomato-shaped pincushion. She places it on the table covering the one-eyed, one-legged rooster on its surface. It looks at us accusingly from underneath the pincushion as she sniffs, and I can see a tear in her eyes as she looks not at the dress but at me.

“Boo she says softly in a watery voice, I can’t believe my little girl is growing up.” I roll my eyes at her and smile trying to pretend that this moment is not affecting me too. “Mom I sigh putting hands on hips “ I’ve been grown up for a long time now”; sometimes I feel like I have been an adult for years.
“But not like this” she says quietly trying for lightness as she ducks her head and puts her sewing implements away. I sit down beside her in a sigh of satin and look at her waiting. She avoids my gaze pretending to be folding a scrap of fabric. She looks up finally and runs her hand over my curly brown hair, smiling a little wistfully.
“I can’t believe this is your first homecoming dance with a date, it seems like yesterday that I was putting your hair in pigtails.”

“ But Mom” I say with a sarcastic laugh, “I am sixteen and you did give me three pigtails.” I put my hand at the back of my hair indicating the place the hated third pigtail used to sit and wiggle my fingers at her. She laughs, the sound light and bubbly. I realize that it’s been awhile since I’ve heard light and bubby from her. I try to keep a stern expression on my face remembering that pigtail but as always I give in and join in the laughter. This is how it has always been with us: mother, daughter and best friends. She sits on her butt on the cheap brown carpet guffawing with laughter. Her hands clasp her middle as she gasps for air. She smiles, and I know that she is remembering those pigtails, multicolored plastic animal clips clicking together as I raced away to play. I shudder at the memory. “Thanks for that” she mutters wiping her eyes. “ I really needed a good laugh.”

In an instant the laughter drains from her face and she is suddenly serious. I know that the moment of joy is gone for her as other thoughts cloud her mind. She tries for a smile as she looks away, but I know she is thinking about her disastrous new marriage. The year I turned fourteen my mother jumped into a marriage on the rebound with a much younger man. Her feelings still smashed from my father’s rejection, she grabbed onto the first handsome young man to come along. My stepfather, who was only eleven years older than me at the time of their marriage, was selfish, immature and completely incapable of being a stepfather to a fourteen-year-old girl and her sixteen-year-old brother. He was the self-proclaimed king of the auto parts store where he worked as a day manager; he used my mother for his personal piggybank. Many times we ran short on money because he had spent it going out drinking with friends. The fact that he did not often come home most nights until well after 2am led me to be almost 100% sure that he cheated on her. I am certain that my mom knew too but didn’t want to admit it. I teased my mother once about being a sugar mama, but quickly stopped when I saw the hurt in her eyes. I was trying to get my point across by hiding behind humor. My mother’s marriage was a trap that she didn’t see until it was too late, and now like a wounded animal she feels there is no escape.

“Mom you can leave him,” I say with uncharacteristically adult insight. I take her hand in mine and squeeze it. I look at her and realize how much she has changed in a few short years. She still shines with vibrancy but a shadow hangs over her now.

“Boo it’s not always that easy, she mutters a tad petulantly; you can’t just give up on a marriage.” “But to be honest I have been thinking about it, I just don’t want to get divorced again.” “I don ‘t want to be a failure.” She refuses to meet my eyes and I feel the waves of indecision seeping off her.

“It doesn’t have to be hard, I mutter as if I know all the secrets of the universe. “You could never be a failure Mom,” I say with a smile trying to get her to smile back. I try humor knowing this usually works. “ You raised me didn’t you; look how great I turned out.” I hear a chuckle and she finally looks at me.

“When did you gets so smart” she asks with a laugh as she takes in my stance.
“ I learned from the best” I reply cheekily as I give her a saucy wink very reminiscent of her own. For a moment I feel like the parent as I find myself trying to give her my sage advice. My head nods in teenage certainty as I cross my arms over my chest and try to look parental. “Seriously Mom,” I say my face deadpan, meaning every word of it, “he’s an ass.”

She laughs despite herself and takes a moment, considering. She is back in full parent mode now and I know she is trying to decide whether she wants to chide me for the cussing, which is a strict no-no in our house, or if she wants to agree with me. She skips the lecture and slings an arm around my shoulder hugging me hard. Her hair tickles my face and the sweet scent of Loves Baby Soft that always clings to her, fills my nose. I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her back.
“I know he is,” she whispered in a low voice as she pulls away “but unfortunately he is my problem.” She turns away as the doorbell rings and she trudges over to answer it. Her movements are a strange mixture of her normal whirlwind of motion and a sadness that even I can tell is bone deep. For the first time in years I feel as if I have no idea what she is thinking, and I hate it.