The first time, my mother was released from the state hospital, her eyes had that far-off look. You could tell she wasn’t ready for the outside world. She was malnourished and skinny, scary skinny. The following day, she woke abruptly bursting into my bedroom, grabbing me from my dreamy world.
“We must go now, Jenny Girl!” she cried. “Mom…stop pulling me!”
But she yanked me and held me in her scrawny arms with a fierceness that roared inside. She was running, panting down the driveway as my sister Lila was stumbling behind us screaming to put me down. Tears were streaming down my face as my mother stripped me free of my Cinderella nightgown and offered me up to the sky like some kind of sacrifice to a God that had forgotten her.
For the next few weeks, we stayed with Aunt Joanne, who was married to a man named Sal. Lila and I fell into a routine of helping them out at his Italian restaurant while our mother was in the hospital. We learned to make pizza crust, pastries, and cinnamon sticks in the midst of Mother’s chaos. We loved the wet feel of the dough in our hands as we molded, twirled, and shaped it into something that would last.
At daybreak, I started working: kneading-kneading-kneading. I worked with my hands over and over so my brain would keep moving. That magic bread kept filling my head and belly, and I couldn’t stop.
After the dinner rush, sometimes, I found myself sitting at Sal's Pizza counter across from the mirrored wall. Beneath the low light, I could see my mother’s eyes glaring back at me. I had the same shape, and color only my mother’s drooped with the weight of despair. I wanted my mother to see something, anything. I wanted her to forget, forget about my Dad who disappeared. I glared hard at my pasty self pulling at my eyes until I felt the need to shift. Round and round and round I turned on the black swivel bar stool as if the spinning might launch me up, up, and OUT.
When Mother was released from the hospital for the second time, she was forty-something, liquid paper white. Her hair was dull, a bit matted, but her eyes were clear. She was medicated and had a therapist. The new doctor had kept her inside that small thorny nest until she could fly.
For Mother’s homecoming, Sal gave her a spa day at “Queens” beauty shop. She was scrubbed, rubbed down, clipped, oiled, and came out the door quietly with a new body wave. Behind our soft gaze, and a house full of hand-picked dandelions, she sighed and ran her trembling hands over her puffy mane. And at that moment, we were all, Queens, really, my sister and I were mystified, wide-eyed, and standing tall next to a mother who finally seemed free.
“We must go now, Jenny Girl!” she cried. “Mom…stop pulling me!”
But she yanked me and held me in her scrawny arms with a fierceness that roared inside. She was running, panting down the driveway as my sister Lila was stumbling behind us screaming to put me down. Tears were streaming down my face as my mother stripped me free of my Cinderella nightgown and offered me up to the sky like some kind of sacrifice to a God that had forgotten her.
For the next few weeks, we stayed with Aunt Joanne, who was married to a man named Sal. Lila and I fell into a routine of helping them out at his Italian restaurant while our mother was in the hospital. We learned to make pizza crust, pastries, and cinnamon sticks in the midst of Mother’s chaos. We loved the wet feel of the dough in our hands as we molded, twirled, and shaped it into something that would last.
At daybreak, I started working: kneading-kneading-kneading. I worked with my hands over and over so my brain would keep moving. That magic bread kept filling my head and belly, and I couldn’t stop.
After the dinner rush, sometimes, I found myself sitting at Sal's Pizza counter across from the mirrored wall. Beneath the low light, I could see my mother’s eyes glaring back at me. I had the same shape, and color only my mother’s drooped with the weight of despair. I wanted my mother to see something, anything. I wanted her to forget, forget about my Dad who disappeared. I glared hard at my pasty self pulling at my eyes until I felt the need to shift. Round and round and round I turned on the black swivel bar stool as if the spinning might launch me up, up, and OUT.
When Mother was released from the hospital for the second time, she was forty-something, liquid paper white. Her hair was dull, a bit matted, but her eyes were clear. She was medicated and had a therapist. The new doctor had kept her inside that small thorny nest until she could fly.
For Mother’s homecoming, Sal gave her a spa day at “Queens” beauty shop. She was scrubbed, rubbed down, clipped, oiled, and came out the door quietly with a new body wave. Behind our soft gaze, and a house full of hand-picked dandelions, she sighed and ran her trembling hands over her puffy mane. And at that moment, we were all, Queens, really, my sister and I were mystified, wide-eyed, and standing tall next to a mother who finally seemed free.
