Homing Mother
“My
mom'll be disappointed if we move back to the old neighborhood, Joe,” I said to
my husband.
I
was nine when Dad died. Mom had struggled as a single mother raising me and my four
siblings. When crime began to move in, she transitioned our family to a safer
area.
Now, I stood in
the hall of our second floor apartment less than a mile from Mom. Stretching my
back, I leaned on the railing, scanning our simple living room, kitchen and
bedroom.
“We won't have to live there long,” Joe
replied, organizing his tools as he boxed them up for transport. “My aunt said we could rent to buy. We don't even need a down payment.”
Guilt
tainted my excitement of being a first time homeowner. But I'd never seen Joe's handsome face so
full of drive. Was I choosing between my
husband and mother?
A
28-year-old widow, Mom had been left with a disabled son and mother to add to
her tragic situation. She stood poised
as a super heroine in my mind as she continued to care for my brother.
“We could just
stay here a little while longer to save up for a bigger apartment,” I suggested
to Joe.
He
waved his arm towards our living room stacked almost to the ceiling with baby
gifts from my showers. “Dawn, we need
more room. Once the baby comes, we won't
be able to walk around in here.” He
lowered his voice. “Besides, I think our
landlady wouldn't like hearing a baby crying at night.”
That
patient woman downstairs had allowed us to bring our cat when Joe and I moved
in two years before, even though she initially said “No.” She took a chance renting to a young couple
with no references. After late rent
payments, a clogged toilet, cat urine and our squeaky bed, adding a crying baby
seemed too cruel.
“How
am I going to help you with all those repairs, and take care of a newborn?”
“We'll
be okay,” Joe coaxed. “I can do the work
myself.”
“Joe,
I don’t want to bring my mother's first grandchild home to an unfinished place
to live? And she'll worry too much about
our safety.” But waddling into our
living room, I began to see the opportunity of a larger home as
providential. “I guess we don't have a
choice.”
I didn't want
Mom to think I disrespected her earlier efforts by agreeing to take the
house. However, she had taught me to put
my husband first when making a decision.
Joe
kissed me. Once more, he assured: “It
won't be for long, I promise.”
Hauling
a huge belly into my mother's home after one of my last prenatal appointments,
I told Mom about our decision. Lowering
myself into her chaise lounge chair, I elevated my swollen legs. Mom believed that anxiety wasn't good for a
pregnant woman or her baby, so yes, I played hard on her sympathies.
She
handed me a glass of lemonade and asked, “What's the address?”
That
question rocked me. The thought of her
visiting us had never crossed my mind.
She had stopped by the apartment only once, since Joe worked two jobs
and I had worked a crazy shift doing overnights. But now that I'd be leaving my job to care
for the baby, Mom would surely visit.
At
that time, I wasn't sure of the answer to her question. I knew how to get there, but hadn't written
down the exact number and street. Mom
didn't press me for more information than what I gave: “A big drug store's on
the corner.”
Two
weeks later, past my due date to have the baby, I happily scraped off old
living room wallpaper in the house we called our own. Despite my condition, I wanted to help my
over-achieving husband with home improvements.
I dabbed at perspiration under my glasses as
Joe worked on the testy front door.
Throwing his hands up he said, “I'm gonna work on the bathroom.” He shuffled upstairs
mumbling a list of tools
and materials to purchase on his next trip to the hardware store.
A
half hour later, he came back down and put his face close to mine. With a
twinkle in his eye, he whispered, “Your mom's outside walking around.”
“Yeah,
yeah, right.” I wound up to playfully
slap him.
“Dawn,
I'm serious.” Joe nodded to the
window. “She's out front looking around
right now.”
My
sudden nausea wasn't from morning sickness.
“Did you give her the address?”
The
way he said “No,” made me put down my scraper.
I couldn't believe her homing instinct in finding her very pregnant
chick.
I
hid behind the wall between the door and front window. I didn't want her to see the place until it
was perfect, at least on the inside.
Mom
smiled the whole time I watched her wondering the sidewalk in front of our
home, hesitating at each house on our block.
How did she know from the sketchy information I gave her where to find
us? We didn't even own a car parked out
front to give her a clue. How long had
she been canvassing the neighborhood? I
couldn't let her continue walking around in the heat.
I
came out of hiding like a little child and called out the front window. “Mom.”
She
beamed and came up to the screen.
“Mom,
the door worked this morning but I'm not sure if I can open it now. I'm sorry.
You might have to climb through here.”
We laughed. With Mom pushing from
the outside, and Joe pulling from inside, the door opened.
My
feeling of pride in being a first time homeowner returned when Mom took in a
deep breath and said, “The woodwork in here is beautiful. What a cozy house.” She handed me a box of donuts and a bag of
soft pretzels, our first house warming gifts, and perfect for a pregnant woman.
“Mom,
how did you know where we were?” I asked.
She
just walked past me into the kitchen, lovingly fingering the dusty wood.
Years later we
realized Mom had known the area well not only because she had lived in it for
years, but also because that pharmacy, at the corner of our block, was where
she went to get my dad's prescriptions filled when he was dying of cancer.
Knowing
Mom, she hadn't shared this information with her pregnant daughter because she
didn't want to upset me or put a damper on our impromptu celebration that
day.
When
our baby girl turned four, the sale of that sweet small row house was enough
for a down payment on our single suburban home where we had three more
children. That time, before moving, I
gave Mom the address.
