My youngest son was shopping for a car,
his first. I thought I’d ask my mom to keep
an eye out for good deals. I said, “Say Mom,
we’re looking for a car for Blake.” She cut
me off and said that I should seek
“a two for one special” which makes no sense
and doesn’t scan. She meant that I should buy
a car for her as well, as if I have
a ton of cash. In fact, my son would have
to drive a cheaper car than he might otherwise,
since all my extra cash was tied up in
the rental house where Mom stayed, paying less
than twenty five percent of market rent.
His first week as a driver, we made plans
to pick her up so she could see him drive
and watch him play a tennis match. I knocked.
She answered, asked me to sit down. She said
I had a legal obligation as
her landlord to spend two grand, right away,
on pest control. She’d fallen for a scam.
When all was said and done, it only cost
$150. I said “let today be Blake’s day, please,”
but she refused to go and said she wouldn’t pay
us rent for six more months if we refused
to pay the scammer. I flashed back to Blake’s
age, when she wouldn’t drive me to a match
unless I cleared our yard of rocks, a job
that was impossible, especially
an hour before my match. I filled a bag
with rocks and worried that they would default
me. She came out, all cheery, said “let’s go,”
as if she’d never threatened not to let
me play. I won the match somehow but
played poorly, rattled, shaken up. So now,
I felt sixteen and fifty four at once,
and overwhelmed with that traumatic memory
as real and vivid as the present day,
I snapped, triggered, said fuck you, and left.
Blake couldn’t focus on his match. He lost.
I couldn’t focus on his match. I lost
the present in the past. I spent a half
hour texting her, explaining how I’d had
a flashback. She said, “holding on to old
wounds never leads to healing.” I said
I’d lost my temper and was sorry. She
said that I needed anger management.
I told a counselor, who asked if I
was mad when knocking on Mom’s door.
I said I wasn’t. No, in fact, I’d hoped
that she’d give Blake a happy memory.
My counselor taught me that it is called
reactive abuse when someone pushes you
to act out of character so they can then say
the problem’s your reaction, not the things
they did to you. I tried to get my mom
to see how she’d hurt Blake and me. She said
to Blake: “I’m sorry for whatever you think I did.”
I’m sorry, Mom. Not good enough. No one
protected me, but I’ll protect my kids.