A Man Named Dave

time. She did! She most certainly did!” Mother announced with a burst of tears. “And sometimes she wouldn’t feed me … for days. Back then it wasn’t like today, when children at school have a lunch program. And if that weren’t enough, not one day, a single solitary day, passed that my mother didn’t berate me, boss me around, telling me what to do and when to do it; what friends I could and couldn’t have over for visits. My mother!” she bellowed. “My own mother! Can you imagine!”
    With my chin resting on my hand, I nodded my head. I could in fact understand. As Mother cried, she appeared lost in time, reliving her mistreatment at the hands of my grandmother. I could not help but think if what Mother said was true, she had in turn done the exact same things to me, but for far longer durations and in such obsessive, vindictive ways.
    As much as I wanted to believe Mother’s sobbing was partly show, in an odd way her confession did make perfect sense. From what I had learned, people like Mother abused their children in the same manner they were abused; thus becoming a product of their environment.
    But only a few years ago, during the summer of 1983, when I had visited Grandmother, she steadfastly maintained that she had not mistreated Mother in any way as a child. Could it be, I thought, by Grandmother’s or even society’s standard during her time, it was not abuse but no more than stern discipline?
    Unless, I wondered, Mother was devious enough to concoct a story about her childhood in order to take the blame off her, transfer it to her mother, somehow freeing Mother from any accountability?
    “You know,” I gently inserted, “I spoke to Grandma and … well, I’m not pointing fingers … but she was adamant that she never, under any circumstances, abused you.”
    “Well,” Mother coughed as she rolled her eyes, “look at the source. You know how she is. Who are you going to believe?”
    The source, I repeated to myself. Look at the source. At that moment in time I wasn’t sure who did what to whom and what for. Okay, I thought, maybe Grandmother was overbearing. When her husband passed away, leaving her to raise two children in the middle of a depression, Grandmother had to be stern. As a young woman, Mother might have craved her independence, tried to get out from under Grandmother’s ruling thumb, then somewhere down the road became addicted to booze, got married, had kids, while still carrying some resentment … that ate at the core of her soul. With my fingers rubbing my temples, I was totally confused. But, I reflected, in the final analysis did it truly matter? My only concerns were that I make every day count, while trying to be the best person I could possibly be, and to make certain that my son would never be exposed to anything but a safe and loving setting. Period.
    Imagining my son, Stephen, with his bright blond hair and giggling smile, made me want to recapture the essence of “Mommy” I had always longed for. I wanted to fall on my knees, wrap my arms around Mother’s waist, as if she still held a lifeline to my soul. And by my openly granting her amnesty, it would free me from being tied to my past and allow me to close that part of my life once and for all.
    I stopped myself before I gave in to my foolish emotions that I always seemed to wear on my sleeves. For years I had felt I was either overly proving myself or giving myself away in the vain hope that someone would like me. As if the acceptance of other people were going to make all the difference.
    Although I harbored no hate or ill feelings against Mother, breathing in the fumes from her lair, while surrounded by objects from our mutual past, made me feel nothing but pity for the person who was once my mommy.
    Abruptly I stood up. “Thank you for allowing me to visit… Mrs Pelzer.”
    Mother’s facial expression changed, as if she were deeply saddened. “Come on now,” she said, smiling, “for old times’ sake, call me … call me Mom,” she nearly pleaded.
    I meant no disrespect, but I had to give myself some shield of protection. All I could do was extend my hand repeating, “Thank you, thank you for your time.”
    “Please?” Mother begged while she took my hand, but this time with a hint of Mommy’s voice from years ago. I held my breath. I could feel the fingers from my left hand shake as I started to become light-headed. Part of me so desperately wanted to collapse in her arms, peer into her eyes, and hug her as if our lives depended