My Mother Is Dead

I found out on Monday (Memorial Day, by coincidence) that my mother is dead. She died in Henderson, Nevada on February 19, 2007. I have no idea how she died. I have never been close to my mother. My childhood memories of her are not good. She was the woman who would come to visit us at Grandma's house and would greet me, not with a 'hello' or a hug, but with the words, "There's my ugly daughter!" Then, she would demand to see my fingernails, which were always bitten down to the quick, and would scold me for biting them. She would often have a man with her (rarely the same one twice, though) whom she would introduce as "Your new daddy." (If I had a dime for every new daddy she brought around.......but, I digress.) One time, she and our newest daddy took Steven and I on a Sunday. Grandma did not want to let her take us, she preferred that we be visited at her house where she could keep an eye on things, but she had no legal right to deny our own mother a day with us. The deal was that they would take us for the day but would deliver us to the church in time for Sacrament Meeting, which was still held in the evenings in those days. We left the house that morning, dressed for church. They drove us to the boyfriend's parent's house. I have no idea where it was but it seemed like a very, VERY long drive. Once there, they put us in the backyard and gave us each a sandwich. There were no trees or grass in the backyard; just dirt. There was no shade or anyplace to sit. We just had to sit in the dirt in the sun and eat our sandwiches. There was really big dog (I believe it was a German Shepherd) out there with us who scared me. We sat out there all day while the grown-ups were all in the house doing who knows what. No one ever came to check on us or talk to us. Finally, it was time to leave. Our mother came and told us to get in the car. We sat in the back seat while she and the boyfriend sat in the front. I remember they had the radio on and one of the songs that played was the song about Billy Jo McAllister jumping off the Talahachee Bridge. (How strange is it that I remember that???) Again, the drive seemed to take forever. At some point, our mother started telling us that she was not going to take us home and that we would never see our grandma again. We were, of course, very upset by this and began crying and begging her to please take us home. She and the boyfriend laughed and laughed. I was not old enough to put together the fact that, since they were laughing, it probably wasn't true. I felt sure we were doomed to never go home again. We cried and begged and they continued taunting us. Finally, we reached the church building. Steven and I lept from the car, hardly waiting for it to come to a stop. Sacrament Meeting had already begun and Grandma, as usual, was up in the very front, playing the organ. Suddenly, into the chapel ran Steven and I, dirty and crying and calling out for our Grandma and making quite a scene. Grandma quickly grabbed us and took us outside to try to calm us down. We told her what had happened. She soothed us and calmed us down and took us back into the meeting. The story doesn't end there, however. A few months later, on a Saturday, there was a knock at our door. Bart, our mother's second husband and the father of her third child, Michael, was at the door. We'd met Bart a time or two and he'd always been kind to us, so I liked him more than the other daddy's our mother had brought around. This time, though, Bart was crying......sobbing......asking Grandma if she'd seen or heard from our mother. We had not heard a word from her since that horrible Sunday, Grandma told him. He said that she had made arrangements with him to take Michael for a day and that she'd taken him and never come back. He was desperate to try and find his son, who was only probably 3 or 4 years old. Grandma looked at us nervously. I know she was wishing that we were not there hearing this conversation. She promised Bart that, if she heard anything at all, she'd call him. After Bart left, I completely fell apart, realizing that the same thing that had happened to us on that Sunday had happened to Michael, but with one difference: she really hadn't taken him home. That could have been us! All three of us (Steven, Grandma, and me) were very scared. Grandma drilled us on what we should do if someone tried to take us away, had us recite our phone number, address, her name, and other vital information, to make sure that we knew it all. We talked about how to call the police or how to get help if someone is trying to grab you on the street. We spent the next several years of our childhood afraid that, at any moment, she might come and take us away, just as she had done with Michael. I have never forgotten how awful it was to see Bart sobbing that day.

I did see my mother again. It was when I was 20 years old. I'd been going to BYU and had tried to find out anything about her and her whereabouts. It wasn't because I cared about her or wanted to see her. It was just that I had always worried about Michael and wondered if poor Bart had ever managed to find him. Finally, on President's Day, the last holiday of the schoolyear and the last day I could possibly sleep in, my phone rang at about 7 a.m. It was my Grandma Fischer, my mother's mother. Grandma Fischer and I were certainly not at all close. I did not particularly like her at all but had always been nice to her because she was my only link to my mother and also because Grandma would never have allowed me to be rude to anybody, much less a family member. Grandma Fischer announced that she was now going to tell me where my mother was. It turned out she'd been living for years in Wesminster, California. I wrote a letter to Michael at their address. I received a letter back from my mother, all excited that I wanted to see her again. I wanted to scream, "I don't want to see you again, you idiot! I want to know what happened to Michael!" Long story short, I saw my mother and Michael three times in my adult life. The first time was at Knott's Berry Farm. We decided to have our first meeting be in a public place. I was shocked at Michael. He was fat, completely anti-social, had not been to school past about the 5th or 6th grade, and basically was just a surly guy. The second time we saw them was at their apartment. As soon as we got there, my mother offered us some pot. Steven said, "Sure!" and he and Michael went out back to smoke a joint. I stayed in the apartment and my mother showed me her photo albums. Among the photos were many of her boyfriend, Heinz. There were also many of Heinz with his wife. It was then that I realized my mother was somebody's mistress. The third time we saw her was at a Christmas Eve party. She came to pick us up to take us to this party at her house. When we got to the party, it was just a dark, smoky room, filled with older men who were all drinking. My mother introduced me to them and told me that they were all her "friends from the bar." She encouraged me to go up to each on and sit on their lap or give them a kiss. I flat-out refused to do any of that; I wanted nothing to do with these guys. When she kept pushing, I told her I wanted to go home. We got Steven, who was outside smoking pot with Michael again, and she had someone drive us home. My own mother had been trying to pimp me out! That was the last time I saw her. And now I find out that she is dead. I don't feel sad, really, I just feel weird. I keep saying it to myself, "My mother is dead......My mother is dead......" I don't want to cry or anything. I just don't know how to feel. Or, for that matter, what to do. Do I tell people, "By the way, my mother is dead" I haven't really said anything to anyone. I guess this post is, for the three people who might possibly still check on here for new posts, my way of announcing it. My mother is dead. I don't miss her. I am eternally grateful to not have been raised by her. I had nothing in common with her. But she did give me life and, because of that, I guess I do owe her my thanks. My mother is dead.