It was Tuesday. Six chairs and four people sat at the kitchen table. It had been a month since my return from Scotland, and the family dinners that I had missed so much when I was away had become normal once again. Now I longed for the North Sea.
Two empty place-mats decorated the table space in front of Elizabeth’s and Margaret’s empty chairs. Elizabeth was probably at the Alma College library scrawling scientific jargon in her lab notebook. Margaret..well, wherever she was, she was with Kyle. After dating for two years, Margaret and Kyle had become a sickening twosome attached at the hip, complete with gag-inspiring pet names.
Their relationship was constant dinner conversation which my father used as an outlet for his built up resentment of Kyle, resentment that my sister wouldn’t understand.
“I already have four kids, and now I’m paying for another one,” my dad rants. “I would never help myself to food at your mother’s house when I was his age. He eats everything!”
I swish some straggling peas across my plate, making circles with my spoon around pieces of cut off fat. It gives the steak flavor, according to my dad.
“I know but he’s good to Margaret,” my mom interjects, always the peacemaker at a table that has seen its fair share of battles.
A breathy “Hmmph” from my dad concludes the rant as he pulls his chair from the table and sulks back to his office, finding some sort of solace in his black leather armchair and finance shows.
Mary sneaks out after him to avoid the after-dinner clean-up.
Suzanne, I don’t have time to help I have too much homework.
Sorry that I actually go to school and have tennis.
It’s not like you’re busy.
At 15, “little Mary” has her moments of being a huge bitch, but being the youngest she knows she can get away with it.
Left alone in the kitchen, I tackle the dishes and complain about my boss as my mom handles the leftovers that will be my Dad’s lunch tomorrow.
“Joe wasn’t even in the office when I got there today. I had to wait for 30 minutes before he even showed up.”
No response.
“And then I had to call every golf league member about the price change because he forgot to include it in the bulletin.”
No response.
Sometimes my mom became so internally preoccupied that she tuned everyone and everything out. So I continued to rinse away dinner scraps, scrubbing the stubborn food chunks with a soapy sponge before placing them in the dishwasher.
“If I get sick I want you to put me in a home.”
I turn off the water and turn around to look at my mother covering the spinach casserole with pink plastic.
“What are you even talking about?”
“If I get sick I want to be put in a home. You can find a nice place and visit me. I don’t to be taken care of.”
“That’s a little dark and premature mom, don’t you think?”
She let out a breathy sigh, shrugged her shoulders, and placed the leftovers in the fridge.
My grandfather died when I was 10 after losing his humanity to Alzheimer's. Reduced to an infant, a 6’3’’ man in diapers, he could no longer walk, or speak, or remember us.
Is this what she thinks will happen to her?
My grandmother took care of him at home; my mom and her siblings alternated weekends to drive up to help, until every other weekend became every weekend. Eventually a hospice worker came to the house, but there were always family members around -- taking him to the bathroom, changing him, feeding him, talking to him.
This went on for five years. I was too young to be sad about a man I had never known when he was healthy, a man that would never know me. But not my Mom.
Yeah, she forgets where she puts her keys, but doesn’t everyone sometimes?
She always asks us to leave her reminder post-its, but she just has a lot going on.
She works too much.
Yeah, she works too much.
I stood in the kitchen, my hands wrinkled and wet from the soapy suds, and as hard as I tried not to think about it, all I could imagine was my mother, sitting in my grandfather’s chair, staring at me blankly.
Put me in a home.
At 21, the idea of my parents in a home is not something I had ever really thought about. In their early 50’s, both my parents are healthy; my dad runs 30 miles a week and my mom walks and eats right. Physically, my parents don’t seem old. But maybe it’s not just the physical that I need to worry about.
In the morning, her heels click and clack all the way down the stairs. Her Flowerbomb perfume left a trail of scent behind her, mixing with the columbian blend that hung in the air from my coffee. She rummages through her purse, pulling up zippered pockets and emptying its contents on to the table. Her eyes dart from the table to the shelf and back again. Staring at the lipstick, hand sanitizer, chapstick and a collage of receipts sprawled across the kitchen table makes me angry.
“Oh my god mom you put your keys on the counter.”
I’m harsh and instantly regret it.
But she just smiles. “Have a good day.”
Keys in hand she clicks away in her heels out the door. The garage door rumbles as it opens, and again as it shuts a few moments later.
She just has a lot going on.
She works too much.
Yeah, she works too much.
I love the little details you provide like your dad sneaking off to his office to finance shows and your mother’s perfume. You do a great job of painting some of everything to really allow your readers to develop a full image of the scene. In addition, I think it develops your characters well, giving each of them personality that readers can relate to and engage with. The dialogue is also used well. For example, I loved your dad talking about the boyfriend and his behavior. The quote from your mom about the home was used very well. I loved that you just interjected with it and didn’t work to introduce it at all. It shows how abrupt the moment was by catching the reader off guard. I’m wondering if there was anymore to the conversation with your mom. You mention alzheimer’s effect on the family in the past and how you are suspicious this is what your mother is thinking of, but did you ever ask her if that is where her thinking was? And if you didn’t, then why not? This could be an opportunity to further develop your “I” character. Great job overall!
ReplyDelete-DH
Suzanne,
ReplyDeleteI also come from a family of four girls (but I'm the youngest), and when I was 18, after an 8 yearlong struggle, my grandfather died of Alzheimer's, so I strongly identify and connect with your story. The tumultuous emotions that overlay family dynamics are clearly shown in your writing. You did a wonderful job in creating the dinner table scene; overall, you incorporated important characteristics of a well-told story such as detail, characterization, and dialogue.
As someone who has personally experienced a death in my family due to Alzheimer’s, the fear you described because your mother is somewhat forgetful particularly resonated with me. The repeated internal thought, “Yeah, she forgets where she puts her keys, but doesn’t everyone sometimes?/She always asks us to leave her reminder post-its, but she just has a lot going on./ She works too much./Yeah, she works too much.” is a crucial element in building the fear you feel, and it helps the reader to connect with you on a personal level.
At the end, I was particularly struck by your recognition of the harshness in tone you used with your mom when she couldn’t find her keys. I think you could explore that more in terms of the question, why is it so easy to get mad at the people we love the most? There were also a few spots that your tenses got a little awkward, but some quick editing should fix that easily.
Overall, I really enjoyed reading your piece and I think your voice is natural and strong.
Your use of dialogue in this is fantastic. It really brings out the character of everyone in your family. It gives a really personal view of what's going on in both your family and home life, which was fascinating to read. I don't know if I was a fan of the thoughts(?) in italics. It seemed to sort-of crunch against the frantic flow of the piece. I also agree with Daniel in that you could potentially take more time to develop your own role in this. You really only touched on it in the closing paragraphs. All-in-all, generally great detailing in the piece. It was really good to read, and I think with a little touching up, it will be fantastic.
ReplyDeleteItalics being used always make me feel wishy-washy--I don't know when to use them properly, and if I do, I always want to change them. An Old English Teacher once told me if you can't do it with just words than don't do it all. But, I feel like you were succesful in your application of the mechanic, though I was confused if it was past dialoge, inner thoughts, or current dialogue. Sharper and clearer in their application would have helped make this piece even better.
ReplyDeleteIn terms of the topic of your mother--and by extension her father-- I felt like you were cutting yourself off by them not being more than half the story. Not that the beginning was rambling. I enjoyed the mirror of how Alziehmers and other such insidious family disasters don't just "happen," and you taking the time to get there in the narrative, just that I felt like you had more to say on the matter. Your images, specifically of your mother sitting in the chair staring at you as your grandfather most oft did many times, hurt quite a bit, and I appluade you on that, but I did want more thought behind them. Overall, fantastic read, and your willingness to play with images and dialouge really made the piece.
I agree with Darrin that piece has a poetic feel to it. For me, it’s because of the way that you use form so effectively in the piece, especially with the inner dialogue that occurs in the second half of it. It helped me to internalize what you were feeling and strengthen the sense of helplessness that you were conveying in the piece. Along with that, I think that your sense of voice really is strong. The first half of the piece includes lots of really funny one-liners that seem to be really natural, like calling your sister a bitch or the fat giving the steak the flavor (I hear that from my dad every time). Having someone in my family die from complications of Alzheimer’s, I appreciated the way you really talked about your grandfather having Alzheimer’s because you did it in a way that was very frank, honest and still let your thoughts of fear come through. I love “...After losing his humanity to Alzheimer’s” because it’s spot on. For things to work on, have you talked to your siblings or father about this conversation? I think those viewpoints could be very interesting and could only help to solidify your point at the end. Great job!
ReplyDeleteThis is definitely a poetic piece, so I understand the concerns you wrote about in your process writing. Regardless, your details and character descriptions are strong. You create a funny, quirky tension in the opening kitchen scene in a way that gives us really intimate access to your family, which will be important for the rest of the piece since it’s so grounded in family relationships. At the same time, there are points where you focus so much on your family and their dialogue, their reactions, that you lose the “I” character. For example, what were you thinking during that opening kitchen scene? Did you keep quiet, and if so, why? Also, why did you put your inner dialogue in italics? That’s part of why this piece felt more story than essay (which isn’t necessarily bad--we’ll talk about this in class probably).
ReplyDeleteYou do a great job of painting your mother on the page, but like I said, I felt like this was more about her in the end than about the two of you or just you. I think you can benefit from inserting yourself more in the opening scene and weaving your thoughts with the dialogue.
I agree with Emily that this piece does have a lot of poetic language, which I think really drives the narrative forward. Your description of your grandfather "losing his humanity" was really striking, haunting. I think the self-awareness in this piece is what gives it strength, the intimacy with which you describe your family shows your love for them, but also with an honest, real tone.
ReplyDeleteI think your dialogue was also very strong, but they were so natural, they don't need the descriptive 'saids,' they're well written on their own.