A Man Named Dave

accident!” She nodded as if I should understand her coded message. All I could do was nod back. An eerie silence followed. Raising my eyebrows, I tried to get Mother to explain, but she simply grinned. Suddenly it hit me. Years ago, one summer when I was a child, during one of Mother’s rages, she had snatched a knife and threatened to kill, me. Back then I had known by her drunken condition and her flailing arms that Mother’s threat was beyond the norm. Sitting in front of Mother now, I could visualize the terror in her eyes as the knife slipped from her grasp before stabbing me. I knew somehow, even back then, Mother had never meant to kill me. I had always felt it was one of her “games” that went too far.
    Collecting myself, I leaned over in the chair. “Yes,” I exclaimed, “an accident! I knew, I always knew you didn’t mean … to kill me.” As the words sputtered from my mouth, I could visualize the figure of a small child unconscious on the spotted kitchen floor, with blood oozing from his chest, while Mother stood above him, wiping her hands as if nothing had happened. Back then I had believed the stabbing would jolt Mother out of her vindictive madness and make her see how insane she had become. My injury would transform the evil Mother into the beautiful, loving Mommy I had prayed for. Only then could “the family” somehow reunite, like a fairy-tale ending.
    Now, sitting with Mother in her dingy living room, I wondered why I was still drawn to her. Whenever I thought of Mother, I found myself constantly trying to prove that I was not the disobedient monster child that deserved to be disciplined, as Mother had drilled into my head for so many years, but that I was a human being of some self-worth. Because of my lack of self-esteem, even in foster care, I had always tried to uncover what I could do to prove myself to Mother, trying to accomplish something so phenomenal that the slate from my childhood would be wiped clean. As an adult I fully realized I was a fairly competent, independent person. I had not only gone from an almost animalistic child to a functional, married adult, an elite air crew member with the air force, but I was also the father to an incredible boy whom without a passing thought I showered with true love. I knew I had a long way to go, certainly when it came to issues of trust. The shame from my past still made me question myself. Especially in front of Mother, part of me felt that I had been the source of wrongdoing, that I was a failure. Only a wave of Mother’s magical wand of acceptance would make my self-worth flourish.
    Easing back into the chair, though, I realized I was not wrong. I had not made Mother do those things to me. I hadn’t forced, let alone provoked her to stab me. And now, after sixteen years since the accident, Mother still could not bring herself to apologize for nearly killing me then, or for any other abuse she had inflicted on me during all those years. Mother’s statement made her look as if she were the victim of the situation.
    The booze had not erased Mother’s memory – she knew exactly what she had done. She did not display any remorse, unless Mother’s bringing it up was her feeble way of seeking forgiveness. If that was the case, did Mother actually bear some form of guilt? Was her statement revealing a shred of affection? Did she care? If I could just strip through the layers of vengeance …
    With true sincerity, I gently probed, “What happened?” But before Mother could respond, I found myself spilling over with a list of questions. “Why me? I mean, what was it that I did to make you hate me?”
    “Well …” Mother cleared her throat as she raised her head. “You have to understand, ‘It’ was bad, David.” Mother’s impassive explanation hung in the air. Shaking my head, I acted as if I had not heard her. I deliberately wanted Mother to repeat herself so she knew exactly what she had just stated. With a strained exhalation, Mother restated her justification, placing a further emphasis on “It” and “David,” as if they were two separate entities. Still I was too dazed to respond. Mother’s further elaboration only confused me more. “David, ‘It’ was always trying to steal food. ‘It’ deserved to be punished. The other boys had their share of chores, too, and I would have fed ‘It’ once ‘It’ was done with the chores … but … ‘It’ was always stealing food.” Mother again gestured with a nod of her head, as if I should agree with her.