Mirror, Mirror...

By Madeline Smith Moore

Pat Harris is a thirty-something postgraduate, unmarried woman at loggerheads with her mother, Phyllis Harris. When Lew Harris, father and husband, dies suddenly. Jealously nurtured venom harbored by both women explodes. The story shows how Pat and Phyllis learn to understand and appreciate each otherthe love was always there. Along the way, Pat gives birth to Sasha, sired by an old platonic friend, Clem. They eventually marry when the child is twelve-years-old. Annette, Phyllis' older sister living in Rhode Island, had raised Phyllis since their mother died when they were ages thirteen and nine, respectively. Annette comes to console Phyllis after Lew's death; she leaves abruptly and insulted. Bertie is a good friend of Pat's, a generation older. Other characters that become entwined in the story are Petra and Ruth, who are a lesbian couple, neighbors and friends of Pat and Sasha; Old Arthur, Bertie's seldom-seen ex-huzzband; Bertie's adult children, and Andrew, Phyllis' much-younger boyfriend.

[Author bio]Madeline Moore is a third generation Rhode Island woman, a black writer who cannot write black. Her point of view has little to do with race. Moore has a forty-year-old daughter, with a Ph.D. Her daughter gives her great pleasure and satisfaction. Madeline Moore has been amicably divorced for more than 20 years. Writing is her passion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 2, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469765495

Madeline Smith Moore

Madeline Moore is a third generation Rhode Island woman, a black writer who cannot write “black”. Her point of view has little to do with race. Moore has a forty-year-old daughter, with a Ph.D. Her daughter gives her great pleasure and satisfaction. Madeline Moore has been amicably divorced for more than 20 years. Writing is her passion.

Book preview

Ch.1.

Pat

These Wednesday visits got started on one of my guilt trips. I’m the one who mentioned that it was getting hard to catch up with you. She believed that! My mother believed that I needed to see more of her. Amazing! She took it as a compliment, thought I really wanted to see her on a regular basis, that she should pencil me in on her schedule. Which she did—every Wednesday. Every goddamned Wednesday we would meet and have dinner. Sometimes I would go to her house for dinner, which more consistently than not was tuna casserole because I’d complimented her on that when I was in the fifth grade. So here I am again.

My mother likes to show old snapshots, the older the better. She likes to show pictures of herself as a teenager or maybe a little older, when she had a wasp-waist and firm thighs. She tells me who her boyfriend was and what they did not do.

This is me at Lincoln Woods. I’m wearing a two-piece bathing suit—we didn’t have bikinis back then.

She smiles fondly; her mind is not here. I guess she’s at Lincoln Woods 40 years ago. She lingers so long there that my eyes begin to wander from the dog-eared rusty black album page to her face. I don’t want to disturb her. She’s happy there. I’m trying to understand what she sees. It is certainly more than what I see.

So, who’s this, ma?

She comes back to me petulantly. Oh, that’s Barbara Davis. You remember I told you about her. She was my best friend then. She was so cute—had a perfect figure. Maybe you can’t notice it in this picture. Wait, there’s probably another one here someplace. She wets her finger and carefully turns the page. Loose photos fall out. Abruptly my patience expires. The endless fascination I had for these photos as a little girl is no longer familiar to me. I’m bored and irritated.

That’s OK, ma, I gotta go.

She stops turning the big stiff pages and looks up at me, hurt, then huffy. Well, I guess this all seems corny to you. Nowadays with bathing suits exposing your butt and boobs hanging out. No competition, huh!

So what’s that supposed to mean; what competition?

She’s pissed again and I’m not sure why. She can’t be talking about me with the a bikini. I don’t even wear bathing suits. I wouldn’t dare. Especially around her. She puts the album back under the coffee table and looks up at me critically.

Oh, you know, she fidgets, those bathing suits back then look so square now. Anyway! So how’s the diet going? How much have you lost?

She’s more comfortable on this territory. I feel my face getting hot and the familiar lump in the throat. Oh, probably another couple pounds. I haven’t weighed since last week but my pants are getting loose. See? I feel stupid sucking in my stomach, sticking my thumb into my jeans waist, pulling out the band to display a space between the cloth and my flesh. I look at her hopefully, the lie caught just under my tongue. She raises one eyebrow and gives my stomach a long look.

Yeah, well keep up the good work.

Why can’t I just say, if this is so important, how come you get away with no waist at all?

When you get older, it’s OK. But when I was your age…. She’s reading my mind again.

Ma! I’m yelling now. I gotta go. I’ll see you soon. Bye!

I’m gone. I’m down the path. I’m into my car. The radio is giving good KJAZ. I am so angry! Why do I go there just to get my feelings hurt? My stomach is all hollow and achy. I can’t be hungry. Not with that tuna casserole still churning around. Oh, what the hell. Fix the endorphins. I’ll stop and see if I can get some Honey Hill chocolate frozen yogurt.

I didn’t even get around to asking her about Daddy. Where was he anyway? He’s got it all down. His escapes are established. Bowling, a drink with the boys. His newspaper. His TV sports. For a long time I didn’t realize that these were his escapes. Because I intruded all the time. Some of my best childhood times were spent messing with him—bothering him. If he was in his chair and I felt like it, I would bother him. He’d pretend to chase me away but he was always smiling at me when he did it.

Get out of here, Pat. Can’t you find something better to do? Go play on the freeway! He’d make ineffectual but exaggerated swoops with his arms trying to get rid of me. I thought it was so funny. But then he’d let me sit, for just a little while, and we’d have some kind of serious discussion, probably me asking for something my mother didn’t want me to have.

What does your Momma say about that?

She says no.

So why are you asking me? and we’d smile conspiratorially at each other.

Leave you father alone. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to be bothered with you. By then Momma would be standing next to his chair with her hands on her hips.

Sometimes when he wanted me to stop bothering him, we’d play my favorite game of all. He would say threateningly, You wanna see a match burn twice? which was my cue to start screaming and laughing hysterically. He’d pick up the omnipresent book of matches from the end table, light a match: this is once; blow it out and, without leaving his chair, lunge toward me with the still-hot end: this is twice. But by then I was long gone, dissolved in giggles.

Those childhood giggles can still make me smile as my car finds its way into Lucky’s Super Discount Shopping Mart’s fluorescent parking lot. If I don’t control myself, I might still giggle. It’s still funny to me. And if I walk into the store giggling, I’ll be labelled one of those people.

Lucky’s doesn’t have my Honey Hill so I go straight to the Ben and Jerry’s Super Chocolate Indulgence Obscenity—no compromise. Crush, kill, destroy. I always get in this aggressive combative mood when I’m about to violate my diet. Why bother? Tomorrow I’ll start again. I’ll eat nothing but fruit and vegetables. I’ll drink lots of water. I’ll get up early and go to the gym.

Me, my ice cream carton, and a soup spoon flop down on the couch, the TV remote sliding under my thigh. I flip channels trying to find something non-depressing, preferably sexy, not silly, something to make me happy. I’m tired of thinking about Momma and what she likes or doesn’t like. What the fuck do I care? I’m twenty-seven years old, been taking care of myself forever, whether she thinks so or not. I know what I’m doing; I know where I’m going and I approve of myself, whether she does or not.

I’ve been staring blindly at some phony, baloney sit-com shit for the longest. I flip channels some more. It’s too early to go to bed. I could be working on my paper for the conference. It’s next week. Damn! I start to get up, pretending to go to my computer. Then I remember I haven’t finished my Ben and Jerry’s—I had even stopped eating! First things first!

I always thought she wanted me to be smart. I thought, since she considered herself smart but didn’t get to do college and career, that she wanted me to do it. I thought my Ph.D. would top her list. I poke chocolate ice cream into my mouth and think about that some more. She acts jealous; she puts it down! Starts talking about common sense being better than degrees any day. Too much education is dangerous or some such. Daddy used to tell her that. Now, when she is not around, he and I have profound conversations on the phone. If she’s there, she makes him get off the phone. Says she’s expecting her sister to call long distance. Now she says things like PhD’s—a dime a dozen. Not much good with the job situation today. She knows so much—I’d like to smack her.

I gulp the last of the ice cream, get up and rinse out the carton before trashing it. I stand at the sink a long time. Yep, you’re right. I don’t feel any hard pelvic bone pressing against the sink. I feel my fat stomach. So who’s going to marry you, sweetie? Who needs a fat stomach and a butt that can’t even fit into, never mind wear, a thong bikini?

Jesus Christ, I feel like I’m going to cry. No way. I squeeze my eyes tightly so that one and only one tear squeezes out. I swallow hard, take a deep breath and reach for the brandy. I’m getting loaded tonight, folks! I raise my half full, king-sized brandy snifter and toast the liquor cabinet.

Hours later I roll over in my bed and face the maddened red eyes of my clock-radio. Two-fourteen, they gloat. Why aren’t you asleep? The anxiety lump has returned to my throat. I listen for noises. If the wind is right, the muffled but steady roar of the distant freeway is comforting. It’s not right tonight. I hear nothing. I flop my pillow over to the cool side and squish my face back down into it. I’m thinking about my father and I realize I’ve been dreaming about him; I try to recapture it. But this definitely needs a cigarette and a sip of tonic water.

Today is the day—my tenth birthday. It’s only 6 a.m. but I’m awake early because I’m excited, anticipating the day’s festivities. I can hear him getting ready for work. but I jump when he quietly pushes my door all the way open. You awake, Pat?

I sit up, suddenly wide awake. He almost never comes into my bedroom; except once when I was sick to help Momma clean me up and maybe a polite visit to see my latest acquisition or accomplishment. But it’s before day in the morning and he’s supposed to be going to work!

I finally remember to answer. Yeah, I’m awake!

He comes over to my bed and leans over, kisses me lightly on the cheek. He smells of toothpaste and coffee. Happy Birthday, Brat. See you tonight." He leaves and pulls my door half-closed behind him. I can’t stop smiling. My hand touches my cheek. He came in specially to tell me Happy Birthday. Not just pretending to sing Happy Birthday with everyone else. He made his special—just between him and me.

A distant siren pierces the quiet Oakland night. I grind out my cigarette, carefully and thoroughly. That wasn’t the dream but that was my memory. In my dream, Momma had been standing next to the bed with her arms folded. I couldn’t see her face, but it was Momma. She had on a red dress and was tapping her foot. In the dream I was watching her while Daddy kissed me. I didn’t feel the kiss; I was frightened.

I’m not sleepy so I turn on the TV and cuddle the quilt around me. Why doesn’t she like me? The old question comes back and I recite the shopping list in my head: too fat, too ugly, too flirty, selfish, unpleasant, sloppy dresser, dikey-looking, too serious, not serious enough, silly, spendthrift, weird, too sensitive. And the beat goes on.

Late night TV isn’t putting me to sleep so I gulp a few of my pill friends and head back to bed. Maybe I’ll dream something sexy for a change, I say to the malevolent radio and turn my back to it.

I remember how mad I could make her in Girl Scouts. Since I had always been a good girl in public, never made scenes, I had surprised the hell out of her when I tried out my new-found ability to make people laugh by saying smart-ass things, so softly that my mother, the coleader, didn’t hear me. Also, I had begun to experiment with double entendre and had found I could crack up my girl-friends with that, too—two new and lethal weapons against my mother. I broke up her orderly meeting. She was furious. I would do it at every meeting, every Wednesday afternoon. And on the way home she would yell at me. What’s got into you? And I would clam up tight and cry. We would go into the house like that, her yelling and me crying. And Daddy, who’d be fixing supper, trying to find out what the hell is going on? You guys fight after every Girl Scout meeting. Maybe you need to stop going.

Finally I had told her how pissed off I was that she insisted I call her Mrs. Harris like the rest of the troop. Why do I have to call you that. You’re my mother. Erica doesn’t call her mother ‘Mrs. Curtis’.

Momma told me that she didn’t want the rest of the girls to think she was playing favorites.

That’s crazy! I said and flinched; maybe I was getting carried away. They know you’re my mother. Besides you always ignore me; you never call on me for anything. I started to cry again.

So we had made a deal: I could call her Momma and I would behave.

The pills aren’t working. I get up, light another cigarette and go to the bathroom. Momma’s mother had died when she was nine-years old. Her older sister Annette had raised her—just her father, her sister and her in that big house. Stories she told about her childhood involved her getting in trouble with her sister for various infractions like stealing Annette’s chocolates or borrowing her stockings. The joke was that she would put the stockings back in the drawer without washing them, and how she poked holes in the bottoms of the chocolates to find out what the center was like. She told stories about her father going fishing, about how big storms would come up and her father would be late getting home. When she came to the West Coast, Momma appeared to have abandoned her sister, her only living relative, except for us of course. They never corresponded, except for Christmas cards.

So what’s that got to do with me? Who needs relatives anyway? I trudge back to bed and hope for the best.

The phone jolted me violently out of precious sleep and I vowed aloud to hate whomever was on the other end of the line. You up?

Now I am, is my try for civility and, in case they don’t get my message, my scratchy voice tells the story. My clock radio says 8:20. I calculate quickly and figure maybe three hours sleep and slowly realize that my mother is telling me that my father is dead. Her voice is flat. She is drama queen of the universe and her voice is even and flat. I am holding my breath and my heart is pounding in my chest. I

find my voice and yell at her.

What are you talking about?

Last night, she continues in the same dead voice, heart attack, at Kaiser Hospital.

I think about the siren I heard in the middle of