that second sunday in october, part 2

(This is a continuation of what was started yesterday. This entry has the bulk of the back story in it so it's a little longer than I'd like, but still a quick read comparatively :) )

I retraced my course across the open market, weaving in and out of shoppers, back towards my booth. The afternoon heat had begun to push its way into our row of kiosks, unusually hot for October--even in Southern California. As I passed in front of the kettle korn booth again, I paused. I didn't really mean to, but the scene there held some kind of power of me so as to render my feet useless. There was the new guy, holding up the front of his red polo shirt about six inches. His bare stomach exposed to a small oscillating fan he had running in the corner. I could make out the little rivulets of sweat inching down his sides and disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans. The air at that moment was so thick and sweet it felt like I could hardly gulp it down. A customer approached his booth-- a girthy woman dressed head to toe in camouflage--her wide back blocking my view.

Somehow I willed my legs to move beyond the immense gravity that pulled upon that spot. I made it the few feet back to my kiosk and situated myself once again behind the counter. The rest of that day was spent selling orthopedic inserts, and wondering why I had born to such beautiful parents who had given me a name as beautiful as Jillian Bayne...and angry that there was nothing as beautiful about me to match.

My mother is naturally, gracefully beautiful--even being as sick as she is. She has almost black hair that she keeps clipped short like Isabella Rossellini's, and an intensely pink mouth that turns up at the corners. We have the same eyes though, bright green with a ring of gold flecks around the pupil.

Mom used to be very curvaceous too. One of the only things I can remember my father saying to my mother was: "You sure know how to fill out a sweater Lila." I was probably 5 or 6 when I heard that and can still recall wondering what it meant. Maybe I was more intrigued by the way he said it. How it made my mom laugh and tousle his already messy blond hair. How he then grinned and kissed her forehead.

Mom's probably lost 30 pounds since then. Her curves are pretty much whittled down to skin and bones now, and her sweaters hang rather than fill out.

My father was killed when I was 9 years old. He hurt his back while building me a playhouse in the backyard. A princess style one with a miniature turret that I had begged for for months. The doctor prescribed muscle relaxers to ease the pain. We're still not sure if the dosage was off somehow, or if Dad just reacted badly to the medication; all we know is that he passed out riding his motorcycle in the middle of a busy intersection. He was struck by a pick up truck and killed instantly.

Mom was devastated. She never locked herself in her room or checked out of life in any way, but it was though the light in her had the plug yanked. She still smiled--especially at me--but she didn't laugh much anymore.

I remember passing by the back window for days after his death and seeing that skeleton of a playhouse in the yard, the bent wood frame of the turret having just started to take shape. And then one afternoon I came home from school and it was gone. I found out later that my uncle had come and spent the day tearing it down--hauling the lumber scraps off to the city landfill. He said my mom needed as few reminders of my father around as possible.

A month or two later, Mom came down with Rheumatic Fever--a result of untreated strep. I overheard my uncle talking on the phone: "She's not taking care of herself. Not fighting it" he was saying, "She survived this illness as a child but who knows if she'll make it again. They won't know the extent of the damage for another week." She did make it, but the mitral valve of her heart was in bad shape, leaving her weak and easily tired. The doctors recommended a valve replacement, but said she'd have to get stronger to be able to withstand the surgery. Every cold or flu that came around plagued her and she had countless bouts with pneumonia. She never did seem to get 'strong enough'.

My help was never asked for, but I took it upon myself to become her personal caretaker. By age 10, I could cook breakfast and dinner, keep the laundry and dishes washed, and even learned how to run the lawn mower. "It's too much Jillian" Mom would say, "bless your heart, but you need to have a childhood."

Despite how horrible I knew she must feel, she never complained. She was as cheerful as a woman in her situation could be. During times she felt well enough, she would take in alteration work from a seamstress friend of hers, or volunteer at the library. She never missed a night of reading to me until I was 16 years old. We covered the entire Nancy Drew series twice. I always loved her not for what she couldn't do for me, but for everything she still could.

When high school graduation came, I watched the kids I had grown up with head off to college. The ambitious one going to Berkley or UCLA, and the not so ambitious ones driving the 15 minutes to Golden West.

And I chose...I really did, too, choose to stay at home with my mom. I couldn't imagine her there all alone, trying to do the sewing and keep up with the house. She would never ask for help from anyone else either, I knew it. Only when I promised her I would take some classes by correspondence did she agree to let me stay home with her and go to work for my uncle. I've never taken any classes, but shes' never asked--so we just maintain this comfortable silence between us concerning the state of my life. Mom and I need each other, and somehow that was--and is--enough.

TO BE CONTINUED