A Man Named Dave

traveling six hundred miles on a motorcycle with no protection against the wind and rain. As I rubbed the back of my neck with a face cloth, my thoughts returned to Grandmother. I could not understand why nearly everything that spewed from her mouth was filled with malice. The manner in which Grandmother spoke, the tone of her words, was nearly a carbon copy of Mother’s.
    A heartbeat later, I made the connection. “Oh, my God!”
    Outside the bathroom, I scanned Grandmother’s living room. As meticulous as it was – every item, no matter how small or how many, was placed in such a deliberate fashion – I could not find a single picture of Mother. Besides a few scattered photos of her grandchildren, there were none of Grandmother’s husband, who, I was told when I was a child, had passed away when I was a baby, or any other adult relative. I could not help but think the lack of portraits was just like Mother’s bedroom when I had visited before Father died.
    Grandmother startled me as she came through the sliding door. Her look said she did not approve of my snooping. As she sat in a chair, I could tell by her posture she was upset with me. My fingers grazed a photo of Ronald in his uniform – the same picture I had seen at Mother’s years ago. “Tell me about Mom. I mean, as a kid, when she was young. Was she ever happy?”
    Grandmother’s head shot up. She sputtered for a second before placing a hand under her chin. “Happy? Well, uhm …” Her voice cracked as she struggled to regain control. She cleared her throat. “No one was happy back then,” she said as if I should have known all along. “Things were tough all over. I remember, when I was a young girl …”
    As she went on, I patiently waited for her to finish. After her ancient clock struck twice, I broke in, “Yes, but, what about Mom? Do you realize I know absolutely nothing about my own mother?”
    “Hard to please. Never appreciative. You’d think for once she’d show an act of kindness.” Grandmother paused as she looked upward. “I told her she’d never finish nursing school,” she said in her “I told you so” attitude.
    “Never finished? But I thought that’s how she met Dad. I mean, as a nurse.”
    “Hell’s bells! She worked at the pharmacy across the street from the fire station. Always been that way, out to impress. Always showing off. Never accepted who she really was. Never sees things as they are,” Grandmother grumbled.
    I was completely surprised. It had been ingrained in my memory that “Mommy’s” lifetime dream was becoming a nurse so she could help others in need. As a child, I recalled, whenever a kid scraped their knee or bumped an elbow, Mommy, the neighborhood nurse, was always there. My mind began to reel. Is anything in my life real? Must everything be secrets within secrets? Why are there so many lies?
    Grandmother never broke her stride. “I told her – over and over and over again – she would never make it as a nurse. She never listened. Never has, never will. Never appreciated one damn thing I did for her. Even now, all she does is call me, I don’t know how many times a day, drunk as a skunk. Sometimes I just put the phone down and walk off.”
    “But why do you think?” I gently probed. “What made Mom become the way she is? Come on, Grandma, something in her past had to –”
    “Don’t you even …!” Grandmother commanded, shaking a finger at me as she leaned forward. “I never, never abused her! I might have given Roerva a good swat on the behind; she might have gone without a few meals when she didn’t appreciate it, but I never, never abused her!” Grandmother slapped the back of one hand against the palm of the other with such force that I thought her hand would break. “If you ask me, she had it too easy.
    “What you people today call abuse … times were different back then. Anyway …” She began to calm down. She repositioned herself into the rear of the chair. “I have no idea what happened back then. That’s not my affair. What happens in someone’s house stays in their house. It’s no one else’s business. I see no need to open up Pandora’s box. It can’t do anybody any good.” Grandmother regarded me as if I were supposed to obediently agree.
    All I could do was nod my head in agreement. I heard. And more important, I understood Grandmother’s message.
    After a lapse of silence, she announced to me, “I was the one who called the county’s social services before you were removed.”
    I sat dazed by the sudden change of