I'm Glad My Mom Died(9)

Mom. And I can tell immediately by her body language and facial expression—upright posture, lifted chin, gritted teeth, widened eyes—that she’s not upset, she’s not angry, she’s livid. She’s about to blow. Oh no. There’s gotta be something I can do.

“Mark,” she says, smacking her lips to really emphasize the anger. It’s now or never, time for me to jump in.

“Love you, Mommy!” I shout. I run toward her. I hug her.

I’ve got this, I can keep her calm. But before I can think of what to say next…

“Mark Eugene McCurdy,” Mom says, her voice rising.

Oh no. Once the “Eugene” comes out, we’re almost to the blowup.

“I had to stay late ’cuz I was helping a customer, I couldn’t get away,” Dad tries explaining. He sounds scared.

“Three hours late, Mark…”

I look over at Dustin and Scottie for help. They’re playing GoldenEye 007 for Nintendo 64. If there is ever a time when they’re unreachable, it’s when they’re playing GoldenEye 007 for Nintendo 64. Grandma and Grandpa are at work. I’m in this alone.

“Mommy, why don’t we watch Jay Leno? You wanna watch Jay Leno? Headlines are on tonight.”

“Quiet, Net.”

And I’m out. She has spoken. I am silenced. I thought for sure Jay would work. Granted, I’m a bigger fan of Conan, but watching Jay is a family affair in our household. (When I mentioned this in church, Sister Huffmire said Jay’s a little risqué and shouldn’t I be in bed by eleven thirty p.m. but Mom told me Sister Huffmire’s a judger so I can disregard whatever she says.)

I watch Mom closely. Her chest starts heaving. The intensity is growing. Her ears get red. She lunges at Dad. Dad takes a few steps back, causing Mom to trip onto her knees. She starts screaming, “Abuse! Abuse!” Dad grabs her by the wrists to try to calm her down. Mom spits in his face. Somebody wins the round of 007. A celebratory fist pump flies through the air.

“Deb, I’m a couple hours late, this is not a big deal!” Dad tries yelling through her screams.

“Don’t undermine me! DON’T UNDERMINE ME!” Mom frees her wrists and starts slapping him.

“Go, Mom! You’ve got this!” I cheer her on like I always do as soon as I get past the fear.

“Deb, this is unreasonable. You need help!” Dad pleads. Oh no. Doesn’t he know that phrase is a big trigger for her? Anytime he or Grandpa have been in an argument with Mom and said “you need help,” it only sets her off worse.

“I DON’T NEED HELP, YOU NEED HELP!” Mom screams. She runs into the kitchen. Dad starts taking off his shoes, thinking dumbly that maybe it’s over, maybe Mom’s mood has shifted and she’s back to normal. How can he not know? How can he never know?

One, two, three, I count out in my mind. Less than ten seconds before she comes back. Four, five, six, seven. She’s back and carrying a kitchen knife, the big one that Grandpa uses to chop her vegetables every night.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” she yells. “GET OUT!”

“Deb, please, you can’t keep doing this….”

The last time Mom forced Dad to sleep in his car was a few months back. It’s been a longer turnaround than usual—typically he’s kicked out once a week or so. And with good reason. Mom says he doesn’t help the family enough, he’s always late from work, he’s probably cheating, he’s not interested in his children, he’s an absent father, etc. The fact that he’s gotten by this long without being kicked out is a miracle. He should just be grateful.

“GET OUT, MARK!”

“Put the knife away, Deb. This is unsafe. This is a danger to your children.”

“IT IS NOT. I WOULD NEVER HURT MY BABIES. I WOULD NEVER HURT MY BABIES, AND HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF THAT!”

Tears are streaming down Mom’s cheeks. Her eyes are wide and shaky and terrifying.

“GET OUT!”

She lunges at him again. He backs up.

“Okay, okay. I’m out. I’m leaving.”

He slips his shoes back on and hurries out. Mom walks back into the kitchen and puts the knife in a drawer. She falls to her knees and starts sobbing a painful, moaning wail. I crouch down next to her and hug her. Somebody wins the next round of 007.





7.


I’VE BEEN STANDING ON THIS pile of dirt since my call time this morning at six a.m. It’s noon now and the sun is out, beating its peak heat down on me. The principal actors around me get shaded by umbrellas between takes, and they get to sit down in foldable chairs to rest their feet, and they get to sip from cold water bottles freshly plucked from a cooler filled with ice cubes. But not me. I don’t get that kind of luxury since I’m just a background actor.

Me and the other background actors stand on our piles of dirt here in the hot desert just outside of Lancaster, umbrella-less and water-bottle-less and sweating through every single one of the layers of our scratchy, must-smelling, Great Depression–era clothes. We’re wearing these clothes because we’re playing impoverished people in the Great Depression for some short film called Golden Dreams. The film shows various vignettes of the history of California and is supposedly going to play at the new Disneyland partner theme park, California Adventure. Mom giddily relayed this information to me on our four thirty a.m. drive here, but the only part that sounded exciting to me was that there’s a new Disneyland theme park in store.