Ghosts

I saw her today. Maybe I had been thinking about her, but I doubt it. She was standing next to the floral department at my neighborhood grocery store and I stopped to do a double take. The wind was knocked out of me and that feeling overcame me as it used to so long ago. I must have stared - I must have. But no one noticed and the world continued moving and the other patrons skulked over their fruit purchases as I looked at my dead mother standing there. It all washed over me and it was like it was almost exactly ten years ago when I would see her. In the airport, on the street, moving through the halls of my university. And only suddenly then, when I saw her likeness, did I think, “What would she do?”

My mother’s approval is one that has been constant after her passing. A stressful starter marriage, a sudden pregnancy, a life of strange choices based on other people’s wants and needs. It’s always there in the corner of my mind, but today has been a first when I acknowledged it. What would she think of everything that has happened? We all have tendencies of feeling like a failure, but I never truly did until she died and I could no longer ask for her words of wisdom or comfort. There is no supportive banter in the background of court dates and thesis presentations. It all died with her.

Sometimes I have imagined asking her what she thinks of decisions I have made in the past two years and if she would be proud. My father will insist she is while my sisters will persuade me to remember her mantra that the most important thing is to be a mother -- a great one at that.

I used to imagine that she would appear to me in the night and say, “There, there, you did the best you could before I died,” but it never happened. I used to think that people haunted us, but I think now that it is really the words we never said at that last unknowing moment.

I regret seeing that woman today. I didn’t need the reminder of that time, almost exactly ten years ago, where I would swear that I saw her almost everywhere I looked. But never quite quick enough. Never right on the second. I wrote a story for a class during that time of finally accepting my grief about how I actually searched for her in a drunken stupor off a long plane ride where I swore I saw her meandering through the airport. My professor told me it was not my best writing, while my friend in class suggested something larger was amassing in my head.

Today though. Today was a day when I needed her. Maybe she was there. Maybe she was simply reminding me that we just do the best we can. We don’t need approval from our mothers or friends who cannot commiserate or people who ignore the past. She was there and she smiled. Whoever it was, she smiled and I could breathe.

That’s all for today. Happy Tuesday. xx

A Time I Stole Something

I didn’t do it for the wealthier people who came in, the ones who plopped down every Friday night with a gaggle of kids, where the mother would order a water, while the husband ordered tall boy after tall boy of draft beer. while the kids got their one milk and then water. I did it for the moms and dads struggling who came in for a small treat at the sports bar and restaurant I toiled at almost 50 hours a week. These were the children who would start to order water, and I would suggest a lemonade or cherry sprite. I knew the sugar wasn’t good for them but they were small treats I gave my own son at times because we were these people: the ones on budget who ate out as a special treat and not an everyday thing, parents nervous as they looked at menus.

The children would drink these special treats I never rang in after knowing the upcharge was so ridiculous, plus the owner was “supposedly” sleeping with a fellow young server. Thus, my anti-capitalist way -- or what the nuns would say was stealing -- was me slipping free sodas on their checks. It wasn’t much but I also knew how tight coins were with a young child.

I felt funky with stealing, one of the sins my mother told me was abhorrent, and we didn’t steal. But what if we were starving, I’d ask the sisters. They’d always tell me to ask and not take as that was their response, but I learned from my father to not ask for permission. Instead, he would say, just ask for forgiveness but the nuns didn’t appreciate that thinking.

Those Friday nights where I would wait on large Catholic families at the sports bar/family restaurant was an exercise in stamina. I’d keep up with my toddler early in the morning and manage him all day where we would do chores and then go on small adventures. At 4PM I would get ready for work and make my coffee for the night where I would tag my husband in once he got out of school and I’d leave for the restaurant, where I would then work until I closed down the place. The kitchen ceased operations at 11PM on the weekends but the bar stayed open until we finally kicked them out at 2:30AM, sometimes earlier, sometimes later. Then the next day I would return where I would open the bar. It makes sense now why my body rejects the abuse I have put it through even as healthily as I tried to do so. But I knew no other way than to work and be able to stay home with my son during the day.

And so my moments of rebellion were slipping free sodas or coffees or even occasionally ringing in a free dessert for a kid who made honor roll and was out celebrating.

I was not so generous with the other children who came in, even though I would try to remember they were children. It was difficult as I could see them growing up to be like their very demanding and unkind parents. talking down to us, not answering us, lying about items they claimed were wrong to get free thing off their bill and then of course, dealing with the handsy men and the wives who blamed us as servers. As if our job meant that we wanted to be flirted with by creepy men when we were just trying to do our jobs.

By the end of the Friday night, I’d be exhausted, running as fast as I could to turn the tables as quickly as possible while keeping all my checks straight plus keeping my money straight. I couldn’t usually keep up with my tips for the night so by the end of the evening it would either be a good surprise or a terrible one if someone shorted or stiffed you on the tip.

Was I making judgements about people? Certainly, and I hated that, but it was hard not to categorize the restaurant’s guests while also pursuing a strange ethnography learning about the clientele. I’d sometimes create stories about the family and what they were doing or where they were coming from as I had lost my own family a few years prior and my sudden pregnancy was possibly a means of remaking that foundation.

But I’d envy some of the guests, even the gross husbands, who sauntered in with such large families. Groups of people, sharing events and moments in time to celebrate. The last time I’d celebrated with my family was a funeral and since then everyone had fallen apart. And so, I felt the nuns would understand me giving out drinks to cheer up children when their parents could only afford water.

At the end of the shift at about 130am, I would go home, taking my crumpled dollars out of my book and counting out the cash, as I’d strip my stinky clothes off and quickly bathe. I’d use that shower’s hot water to melt the night and the shame and drama of a restaurant off of me. I’d clean up around the house, start my load of clothes that smelled like fried food, cigarettes and beer and slowly I would feel like myself again. I’d peak into my son’s room, of course, to kiss him and make sure he was okay. Sometimes he would wake up and I’d use those quiet moments at 3am to rock him back to sleep or hold him and remind him I was home and there for him. And then we would be up in four hours to do it all over again.