She has reverted to cooking me dinner now, no doubt the continuation of her attempts to poison me. In addition to the poison, she believes that if she continues to create fights and screaming arguments that my heart will simply give out and stop.
Tonight it was the “I can’t stand you. No, I just can’t stand you. I hate … HATE … you! I want you gone. Away! You’re evil!” mantra. She sometimes forgets that she has repeated these words so often that I can say them before she does.
But the fights aren’t getting it done either.
I have simply heard it all many time before and know what is coming before she realizes she’s going to say it. She doesn’t understand that it is precisely because of these fights that I keep going; they actually provide the exercise my heart needs to stay alive - the stimulus needed to keep pumping strong. After 40+ years of pain, hate, and abusive discontent, she still doesn’t understand that I’m much healthier and much stronger of heart than she ever could have imagined.
She now knows slow won’t do it. Time to move things along.
She stops for a moment - a puzzled look on her face - before recovering to scream that I’m mocking her…
Really, I’m not.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015:
The son asked me to accompany him and his future wife on a house hunting jaunt with a realtor. I of course said “yes”. He didn’t ask my wife - his mother - to come along. While on the trip I asked him why not. His reply didn’t surprise me … “You are objective, dad, and I value your inputs. You see things I don’t and do not let emotion color your judgement. Mom - well, she’d be critical of everything -period. She would be fussing the whole time.”
And he’s right - she would be. No one would be comfortable.
For me, the abuse began before we even got home - it came in the form of text messages…
“Are you done?”, “Why didn’t he invite me?”, “You are a lier - as is he…”, “You’re an asshole!"
The next day it continued…
“You are SHIT!!” (accompanied by two middle fingers up and a snarl). “I am always ignored and abused by you two!!!”;
“You wanted to go out to eat without me! You asshole! You lied! You knew you were going out to eat just didn’t want me to go - ABUSER!”
Today its all …
“What are you talking about? I did not do or say that! You are trying to make me the BAD person when it’s YOU!!!”
Sunday is Mother’s Day. And I’m sure she’ll want a present…or three.
Monday, May 11. Columbia Mall.
“You have beautiful eyes.”
"Mmmm…uh… thanks, I think..." I mumble, glancing at the woman sitting across from me at the table. At first I didn’t realize she was speaking to me.
“What color are they? Blue?” She asks. "They look blue. A deep blue.”
“Uh, yes m'am. Blue.” I say. "But my wife just calls them beady… you know, as in beady eyes. Untrustworthy.” I’m confused and a bit off-balanced by her question - rambling.
“They are beautiful.” She repeats. “And not beady. Mmm... are you … mixed?”
I look at the woman and do not know how to reply. She sits on a stool, regal and relaxed. African American and the color of rich milk chocolate, she is not young - although perhaps not as old as I. Beside her is a younger version of herself.
I have never had anyone ask me that before. Strangely, I believe it was an honest question - she was curious and wanted to know. I understand that as one gets older all youthful pretense drops away - leaving honesty and transparency. She looked at me, sensing my hesitation and confusion.
“I mean...” She continued in soothing tone, “Well, I thought you might have some Greek. Your olive skin is exquisite. Or, perhaps some Spanish?”
“Oh… no.” I mutter, trying to desperately recover my composure. “Not that I know of, anyway. My mother never mentioned anything about Greeks or Spaniards.” Isn’t there someone else this lady can talk to but me?
“You tan easily?” She continued. "Probably turn a rich golden during the summer?”
“I did - until one summer in Florida that sort of killed my skin. I still tan, but it takes longer and it does more damage.” I told her, still rambling. “Anyway...I’ve always been told I’m more Scott-Irish.”
“Ahh… possibly. That might explain it.” She said, turning to the girl sitting beside her. “What do you think? I’m here only because my daughter insists I come and it’s been longer than expected. He is a distraction. What do you think?”
The girl looks at me and then at the woman sitting beside her. “Eh… sure…distraction…anything’s possible.” She says and I then realize she’s not her daughter. “But his eyes are…” Her voice fading off as a male suddenly joins us at the table.
“What’s going on?” suddenly a man asks, glancing at me … then the girl.
“Just waiting on Apple.” says the woman … and all conversation stops.
Later, I try to tell my wife about the encounter - about the lady. My wife fixates on the beady eyes and blackness - defending her oft-repeated position.
“Your eyes are tiny and beady.” She whines. “And I’ve always said you act like a black n——. I’ve always thought your mother must like black men. Have you ever seen a picture of your dad…? Is he…”
July 2, Maryland.
I’m preparing to drive down to the house in Florida, where my wife has been since early June. She’s asking that I pack some of the Maryland house items and bring them down with me.
Maybe I’ll link this on Facebook, I think. Maybe there is someone out there that understands. Or not…
