Sing (Songs of Submission #7)(16)

Or maybe that was just me.

Big girl pants.

Maria Souza-Faulkner had two settings. Park, which meant she was passive, sweet and slept seventeen hours a day, and Fourth Gear, which meant she was in full on rage with an eye to wiping the world of sin. Kevin had suggested she was bipolar. I’d laughed, not because he was so wrong, but because she’d never do something as sensible as see a doctor to figure out why she was crazy. Dad had loved her through all of it, when he was around, so obviously, there was no need to fix what was functioning just fine.

The house, a one story beige box with a two car garage and a front door set back twenty feet behind it, had fallen out of repair. Dad wouldn’t have allowed it, and spent his time in the states painting, plastering and gardening. The young citrus he’d planted had a few leaves on the twiggy branches and the front lawn looked like an infield. I didn’t know how long she’d been stuck in park, but judging from the look of the place, it had been at least through the beginning of the summer.

My mother answered the door in a long polyester thing that fell over her curves in a way that was modest, but sexual at the same time. Like me, she had a body that was hard to hide, and unlike me, she kept trying. She was a Brazilian beauty my dad had met on some unholy peacetime mission. Five eleven. Early fifties. Darker skin than I’d been given, but the same dark eyes and hair. Catholic as only a South American girl can be. And that was the rub. She believed in the infallibility of the Pope and the virginity of Mary long after anyone else with a brain had moved on.

“Hi, ma.”

She hugged me warmly, and after a second, I hugged her back, but she held on longer than I thought she would. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. We’d just forgive each other. She moved out of the way and I stepped inside.

She saw the car. My immediate reaction was to make excuses for it. It was borrowed. I was returning it. I didn’t ask for it. Then I decided to shut up. I didn’t come to fight and I didn’t come to lie.

She closed the door without saying anything.

The house was hermetically sealed against the desert heat and dust, and the artificially cooled air was stale and thin. Everything was beige. Dad had hated beige, but my mother insisted, and when she insisted, she got what she wanted.

Well, everything permanent was beige. It seemed like whatever had been moved in was a color, and a bright one. African masks and Mexican blankets. A hand-carved teak partition blocked a window draped in Ikat fabric. Stacks of travel books stood in front of the stuffed bookcases. It looked like my mother had gotten the shit stamped out of her passport.

“You came,” she said.

“Yeah.” The couch had a pillow on one end with a case that matched the bed sheet balled up at the end of it. She was sleeping on it, probably regularly.

“I don’t think we can save the house,” she said.

I had a speech prepared, so I spit it out. “I didn’t come because of the house. It’s not that I can’t move or get an apartment or whatever. I just find it hard to believe you’d let the place go. I got worried about you.”

“Oh, Monya,” she said, calling me by my grandmother’s name. “All this way for nothing.” She put her hand on the doorknob.

This was her. She’d kick me out and waste away rather than admit there was a problem. And though she seemed healthy, if older, I could tell sunshine and butterflies weren’t the order of the day.

“Come on, Mom. I’m here. Make me some tea.”

Her hand slipped from the knob. She glanced out the window as she turned, to the white Jaguar in the street, as if she didn’t trust it and didn’t like it. As she walked me to the kitchen, I saw more third world knicknakery, and clean, beige rectangles spotting the walls. It wasn’t until she indicated my seat that I realized what those rectangles represented. They were where the pictures of Dad had been.

And as she put a copper pot on the stove and got out a mug with I LOST MY HEART IN BELIZE scripted across it, it all became clear. The tchotchke. The missing pictures of Dad. The depression. The multiple mortgages.

“Still waitressing?” she asked.

“Yep. You still doing the books for the church?”

“What’s his name?” she asked, not answering my question. “You didn’t buy that car on a waitresses salary.”

“I don’t make a salary. I make tips.” I paused. What kind of answer was that? That was the answer of a woman ashamed of who she was, and I’d given that up. “His name is Jonathan. I hope we’re not going to argue about it.”

“As long as it’s not that other guy. I didn’t like him.”

“Does yours have a name?”

She didn’t answer, just dicked with some floral canisters that may or may not have been full of expired tea.

“Mom, is there anyone out here you can talk to? The priest? Someone in the choir?”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Is it the rector that dumped you?”

“For the love of all that is holy, Monya. That is—“

“A totally reasonable assumption. Except for the obvious world travel that’s happening. You’re sleeping until afternoon so I know you’re not working for him. You can’t talk to anyone, and all your friends are there.”

“I don’t want to.”

The teapot whistled.