Sunday, January 22, 2012

bitter when it's korma coated

We went out for dinner last night for Indian in a sleek, modern space in town. We'd gotten our nails done earlier in the week; I got a haircut. She dressed up, all tastefully sparkly and well-cut jacket.


Mom did really well, remembering her pain pills, inhaler, and dizzy pills. She didn't need any meds until time for us to leave, too, so it was a good night.


Or would have been if not for the fight.


There was traffic on the major highway, so we cut through town. There was construction (because it is a constant form of entertainment here), so she was jostled and... upset by the time we arrived.  We were late, there were changes in the plan. We showed up late, and she was ready, willing and eager to fight - in front of my stepmother. In the restaurant.


I apologized to my stepmom, and she smiled and waved a hand. (See? The late is well, well known.) Mom didn't hear me apologize, so she apologized on my behalf.


The set-up for the restaurant was walk-up order, pay, and then the food was brought to the table. We chatted about what we wanted, commenting on the rice and vegetables featured in graphic, modern ways on the walls. 


I had the card for the night, so I placed our orders (some spicy for me, tapioca/white girl NOT for her) Mom got things for drinks and napkins. Mary, my stepmom,  spoke softly to my mom as they wandered through the restaurant.


Mom talked the entire night, jumping as often as topics popped into her head. Sometimes the jumps made sense, sometimes they only made sense because I know she thinks. Mary did a lot of nodding and smiling. I drank a lot of water with lemon.


Our food came at a leisurely pace, spread like some great feast. The lamb fell apart in the plate, so soft and fabulous. Mine was served with tomato-y marsala, Mom's with creamy korma. Mary quietly consumed the daily special black lentils and root vegetables.


Underlying frustration and hurt flavored every word, making delicate rice taste bitter and empty. More comments were made about my horrible driving, speeding tickets. She said to Mary, "I'd rather get it out of the way now, because it's so much worse when we're back at the house later."


Like I'd hurt her. Like I'd hit her like Dad did. Like... I don't even care.


Like the only way to deal with all of this is to talk. Talk about it. Talk to others about it. Just keep talking and it'll get better.


The drive home was fine. Mom seemed in a better mood, and we could have talked in the quiet of the car. We didn't.


When we got home, I took in the food and purses; she fed the dogs. She went off to her room, I put the leftovers in the fridge. I was quiet, completely drained, said I was going to bed.


Hiding under my covers, surrounded by dark and Cookie Monster pj bottoms, she asked from the other room, "Did you put the leftovers in the fridge?" "No," I replied. "I sold them on the Black Market."


A while later, I was about to get up and apologize, when she said crisply, "There was no reason to be sarcastic." "You're right," I said. "There wasn't. I apologize."


Then I curled up tighter and slept.


Sometimes, I'm sorry to have to say, it just has to hurt for a while. Talking may help, but it doesn't fix everything.


The not-fight fight was a distraction. It didn't fix anything, and just showed how frustrating, how disheartening this whole situation is. 

This morning, my brother asked how the dinner was, and Mom said it was good. She and I are still not talking to each other. It's a civil form of warfare, a quieter cold war.



The valley is low. The hills recall white elephants. The shadows are heavy.


But sun burns fog, scars heal, and hope, soft and feathery, springs.

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