JUST ONE DAY
by Joey Xanders
It was Thanksgiving time, 1990. I set the receiver down on the cradle and stared at my bright orange rotary-dial phone. Mom had just asked if I was coming home for the holiday. Perhaps my laser focus on this gorgeous device would make it an oracle of sorts, guiding me on what to do. My gaze shifted from the phone to the many books lining the bookshelves in my railroad apartment in New York City's East Village. Would they have an answer? It was a huge dilemma: limited resources and limited time. I earned $14K a year as an Upper East Side preschool teacher for future Harvard/Yale graduates. (I enjoyed being a voyeur into a life I would never have.) $500 for a flight from NYC to Indiana wasn’t in my budget, and I feared that I would over-extend myself and get nothing in return. I was tired of this cycle of trying and trying with my family with no success. When I was with Sparkly Mom, she was intoxicating. Witty, fun, full of life, and so beautiful. I was in love with that side of my mother. But I never knew what version of Mom I would get, and over the past six years, I had not experienced the fun side. I had a sinking feeling it would be more of the same - chaotic, unorganized, and disconnected family time.
I was ashamed to be earning so little. I had graduated from a prestigious university, and many of my fellow graduates were thriving in lucrative careers. I just didn’t believe I belonged anywhere else but as a childcare giver for the extremely wealthy. As a servant of sorts, just as I was for my family, as the eldest daughter of a family of seven. When I got my first paycheck, I called my Mom in a panic, asking how I could live on this paltry amount. She responded with a cold comment-"Welcome to the real world"-and hung up. I was shocked by her lack of support, and a week later, I received a teddy bear from her in the mail as an apology. It reminded me of a time in college when I called home to say I needed money for food. She sent me a bright yellow cotton full-length rain jacket. I loved it and had zero need for it. Nor was it functional because cotton doesn’t repel rain. I became known on campus for that bright yellow thing that became unreasonably heavy to wear in the rain. I was still hungry and poor, but very visible. In truth, I was mostly hungry for some semblance of normalcy.
Mom resented that I had the opportunity to go to a prestigious college, that I had options she never had. At my graduation, she was competitive, saying in a snarky tone, “I could have done so much with my life if I had these opportunities.” She was right. Now, it was up to me to do so much with my life, and I didn’t know how. My parents never graduated from college, and my Mom had me when she was 20 years old. Her life was glamorous, she was dazzling, Miss Indiana Nation Bank, president of the Junior League, huge parties, and paparazzi following her, her pictures plastered in the Indianapolis Star. Then, at the age of 28, she gave it all up to marry my stepfather, take art lessons, move to a small house, and go grocery shopping in cut-off jeans and bare feet. My mom was so youthful that I could never imagine her getting old. Now she was in her 40’s, dying of cancer, and I was right - she would never grow old. How much time do I have left? I had little faith that this visit would pan out, but how many more opportunities would I have?
I just had to hope against hope. I was only 28, too young to believe my dreams were unrealizable. I borrowed $500 from a friend and booked a ticket. I told her I would pay her back $100/month for five months, and she agreed. Then I went to the movies. You see, my family didn’t discuss anything. We never discussed our feelings, what happened, good things, bad things - we didn’t talk about anything. I remember driving home from Grandma’s house on Christmas Eve, and the car ride home was silent. Seven people, and no one said a word on a day culturally designed for love and happiness. I vowed I would never live this way as an adult. Instead, I went to the movies where people talked! They discussed their thoughts, what happened, and how it made them feel. I loved it. It gave me a language I didn’t have otherwise. I found an old film playing at a revival house that I had seen years before, “Only When I Laugh”, with Marsha Mason and Kristy McNichol. I was enthralled. It was the story of an alcoholic mother trying to connect with her estranged daughter. They fought, they yelled, they talked. It was my dream to have a conversation with my mother in which it was safe to be vulnerable, real.
On the plane ride to Indiana, I sat staring out the window, my nose pressed to the glass, comforted by watching the clouds dance, and another movie came to mind: Victor/Victoria starring Julie Andrews. There’s a scene in which Andrews is on the other side of the glass of sumptuous food and delicious treats gorgeously displayed. She is poor and can’t afford to eat at the restaurant, and we watch as she presses against the glass, wishing, praying for one tiny morsel to find a way to her mouth. Oh, the yearning, the desire. It was so unfair to have it close but so unattainable.
I was pressed against the glass of the Norman Rockwell version of family in America. I prayed for happy family moments, for times around the dinner table laughing and talking, sharing memories, and expressing a true fondness. I wanted connection and meaningful, deep, loving relationships. And I had no idea how to make it happen. But here I was, trying.
We gathered at the new apartment in Indianapolis: my brothers, who came, reluctantly, from around town, me from New York City, and my mother. There were boxes lining the living room and kitchen, for Mom had just moved back to Indy from Ft Wayne. By now, she was disabled by the cancer and had quit her job, which allowed her to return to our home city, where my brothers lived. This move is what inspired her to call me. We would all be in the same city for the first time in years.
When Mom was first diagnosed in 1984, her job was necessary to keep her medical insurance. Work transferred her to Ft Wayne, and she had no choice but to go, taking our 10-year-old brother with her. The other three boys were on their own. The 18-year-old went to college. The 16-year-old leased an apartment for himself and the 14-year-old. They both worked full-time and went to school. Meanwhile, each brother had a local family that “adopted” them, ensuring they weren’t totally alone. We were a family of survivors.
Once we were gathered for Thanksgiving dinner, it didn’t take long to figure out there was nothing to eat. When you live in survival mode, there’s not a lot of communication or collaboration. You know you’ll be okay whatever happens. Mom hadn’t bought or prepared any food. “I hate cooking,” she said. As with parenting, she didn’t automatically assume her role and responsibilities as the mother of five children. On some level, I admired her rebellious nature, but it did make logistics difficult. Our only option was to go to a restaurant. We didn’t have reservations. We couldn’t decide on where to go or how to get there.
My brothers were like our Dad. They were tall, handsome, outgoing, and larger than life. But our father had disappeared when I was 10, and they had almost no memory of him, which makes it crazy that they were so like him in many ways. These boys entertained me, and I enjoyed their company when we were in the groove. But they were also accustomed to living on their own terms, in their own way, and compromising or making room for others wasn’t a skill they had developed. The lack of organization made it easy to give up, and my brothers left, each going their separate ways, knowing they would fend for themselves. They had expected such and weren’t disappointed.
So, there we were on Thanksgiving Day. It was just Mom and me sitting in her living room, in a sea of boxes, hungry and deflated. I knew that I was about to jump ship on this effort to keep our relationship afloat, to resign myself to another failed attempt. I could taste the bitterness, and I was angry at my mother for her shortcomings, deeply disappointed yet again that I had not realized my family's goal. At the same time, I was terrified of losing her forever. I dug deep into my soul to find yet one more ounce of hope and brought forth a vision shaped by a lightning bolt of clarity. This is what I told her as I assumed the mantle of adult and applied structure to our visit - structure that I had learned as a pre-school teacher.
The following day was my last day in town, and this is how it was going to go. I was going to return at 10 am. We would spend the day hanging her art on the walls, unpacking boxes, and organizing her home. We would shop for food and prepare a big lunch as our meal for the day. We would not adulate my brothers, nor was she allowed to say one critical thing about me. I would leave at 7 pm and return to my Aunt and Uncle’s home, where I was staying. The following day, I was flying back to NYC. And that was how it was going down.
She screwed up her face and retorted with snarkiness, her fallback tone for charged familial interactions. “So, you’re the one setting all the rules, huh, and I have no say in this. You do what you want, well, what about me? You come and go as you please, think you rule the roost…”
She went on and on, and didn’t stop ranting as I opened the door, yelled, “See you tomorrow, Mom,” shut the door, and left. There was both relief in getting in the car and sadness. It’s over. No more tension. And yet, disappointment prevails with yet another failure– no connection. Why do we hold onto hope in the face of all the evidence that it will never materialize?
We do, because sometimes it does, and the next day a miracle happens. I arrived at 10 am. Mom was ready. We hung her art, and I told her how much I admired her eye for design. I could never do what she does in finding the perfect balance of shape and composition. As we unpacked boxes and looked through photo albums, we relived our trip to Italy and laughed about her posing as my older sister to pick up guys. She shared stories about her childhood. We organized her house. Our tones were curious, kind, and relaxed. We had our Norman Rockwell day. It was perfect, and I felt love flowing. I could not believe I had manifested my dream. Not one harsh word.
As I was leaving at my scheduled time of 7 pm, Mom said to me at the door, “Hey, Joey”.
“Yes, Mom?”
“You know that thing that you do?
“You mean talk about feelings and set boundaries?”
“Yes. It’s good. Let’s do more of it.”
I hugged her tightly. I couldn’t believe that after all these years and so much pain, she saw the value of my heart’s efforts. We both wiped away tears and laughed. I felt a deep love and connection for the first time since she was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 41 and told me that she was ready to die. She had told me she was tired and ready to go. I was only 21 and not ready to lose my mother.
It was snowing and cold. She stood by the open door and yelled after me as I walked to the car.
“Hey, Joey?”
“Yeah, Maw”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Maw.”
I took one more step in the snow.
“Hey, Joey?”
“Yeah, Maw.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Maw.”
And we repeated the cycle two more times until I got into the car, shut the door, and laughed and laughed as she went back into the house and shut her door to be alone for the evening. I was giddy with excitement about what the future held, and so grateful I had taken the risk of flying here.
And that was the last time I saw her alive.
I got one day with my Mother. One Norman Rockwell day filled with love, shared memories, real connection, and meaning. I thought it was the beginning of a lifetime of doing it right. I had no idea, as I sat in the car laughing, so happy for this day, that it would be my only one.
I can’t describe the pain of losing my mother at the age of 28 years old. I can’t describe the pain of thinking we were on the path to the relationship I had dreamed of, only to lose it 3 months later. What do you say when the worst thing in the world happens? When your mother goes into a coma at the age of 47, weeks after she determined life was worth living after all? She was too late. I was too late.
I have a choice. I can allow the pain to numb me into a living death, angry at being cheated, outraged by the injustice, and justifiably bitter at the cruelty of the loss. Or I can choose to focus on the millisecond of love that we shouted across her front yard as I stomped through the snow and mud and cold of that dark night. I can choose to focus on the joy that darted in and out like a hummingbird chasing pollen in the summer sun, the brief moment that held the small, burning ember of faith instilled by the gift of that one day. I can bask in gratitude for the miracle of getting one. This one day lives in my heart forever.
The End.