In the
back room of Helen Redleif’s nineteen fifties craftsman bungalow was a narrow
linen closet. Thirty-four years’ worth of neatly folded beach towels, bath
towels and wash clothes were stacked floor to ceiling, like a terry cloth
filing cabinet. On the top self,
inconspicuously buried beneath an old pink towel was a shoe box sealed tight
with aging yellow masking tape. Helen thought she had destroyed the little
orange box years ago, after all, who needs evidence like that laying around?
But nonetheless the box was there, on the self, undisturbed and forgotten.
Helen’s daughter, Heather, drove sixteen hours over two days and through a
severe thunderstorm to help her mother transition to a care facility where a
woman her age would be more comfortable with others in her age group. At least that’s how Heather explained
it. The reality was Heather saw her
mother as slight and weak. Where some
might characterize Helen as eccentric and free-spirited, Heather thought her
mother was silly, with a head full of nonsensical ideologies. Heather wished her mother was more like her,
level-headed and unwilling to take shit from the world. Her childhood was
shaped by watching her mother fail over and over. Helen amassed four failed marriages and
dozens of broken noses and black eyes before Heather was out of grade school
and still her mother kept falling for the same old paper-heart promises. She knew by the time she entered high school
her mother had a ‘type’ and she would have none of it.
Heather
loved her mother, she loved her more than anything. Heather decided early on she could not watch
her mother continue to fall in love and fail.
Her goal was to get as far away as possible. It was her only chance to save her own
sanity. Heather worked tirelessly through
high school. She didn’t make time for
silly teenage pomp and circumstance. She
was determined to break the cycle her mother started. She wanted to get into a top ranked
university and get far away from her mother’s madness,
and that is exactly what she did.
Helen
was a victim in Heathers eyes. She fell
head first into every bad situation. Her
mother’s first husband, Heather’s father or sperm donor as Heather referred to
him, was Helen’s first and truest love. However, unfortunately for Helen, she
was not his truest or only love, if he ever really loved her at all. They had met and things happened
quickly. Soon Helen found herself very pregnant
and barely out of high school. Plans
began to circulate about a wedding and a house with pretty white shutters and a
matching picket fence. Helen’s head was
so caught up in the fairytale she couldn’t believe her eyes when she walked in
on her beloved with her best friend’s legs wrapped around his head. Her world crumbled. As quickly as it started she was left alone,
penniless, and about to deliver.
For Heather, those
first few years, home was a little portion of her grandparent’s basement. Heather and Helen lived virtually out of
sight. Despite it being the late seventies, a young, unwed mother was source of
sinful shame for a hardworking, God-fearing couple of Midwesterners like Helens
parents. They were rarely seen in public with their daughter and grandchild,
except for Sunday’s. Helen was expected
to attend church services and baptize her child if she was to live in their
house. They ate together and prayed together, but seldom did they speak beyond
what was necessary. The subject of her father was never discussed under that
roof and certainly never in front of her grandfather. Heather saw the man who helped create her
once when she was twelve. By chance she
and her mother were traveling though Pittsburgh and they happened to be in the
same diner at the same time. He sat
with another woman and three young boys. He stared across the room at them. Heather remembered seeing her mother wave
slightly at the man. She turned to see whom it was her mother was waving to so
far from home. Heather remembered
locking eyes with him and knew instantly who he was. Her mother said nothing to her until they
were on the road again. Heather
watched the scenery pass out the passenger side of the old Oldsmobile station
wagon. “The man, back there,” her mother paused, “was your father.” She finished
matter-of-factly. Heather stayed staring
at the world passing by. “I figured.”
She replied and neither spoke of it again.