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My cat reminds me of my mother.
No, that’s not as crazy as it sounds.
My cat doesn’t use her voice much. She stares. When she’s hungry……..she sits at her bowl…..she finds me and she ……….stares. I eventually respond. I feel the stare at the back of my neck and I clean and fill her bowl. It’s a silent exchange. But, it works for us.
My mother did the same thing.
Ma didn’t drive. Daddy was working the night shift. I had my license but didn’t find a reason to drive much. I could walk wherever I needed to go.
One night I found my mother sitting at the kitchen table. She was all dressed to go. Every hair was in place and she was wearing perfume and lipstick. She just sat at the kitchen table holding her purse and staring at the wall.
I noticed this as I filled up a glass of orange juice.
“Um, Mom? Where do you think you’re going?” I asked as I put the orange juice back into the refrigerator.
“We’re going to St.Bridget’s. They are doing the Sign of The Cross tonight and that is followed by the rosary. You have ten minutes to get yourself out of those pajamas and drive me up to the church.” my mother replied.
“Oh, Ma! I can’t! I have to write a history report tonight. I don’t have time to chauffeur you around. The paper is due tomorrow.” I whined.
I’d been jerked out of my regular routine often enough. I was starting to regret my decision of knowing how to drive a car and being licensed to do so.
“How long have you had to write this report?” my mother wanted to know.
“Um……..two weeks? But, you know. I write best under pressure. The report is in my head. I just need to type it out.” I answered.
“You will have a sore throat tomorrow morning. You won’t be going to school. You’ll have all day to write out your report. Now, get me up to that church.” my mother responded.
She got up and stood next to the kitchen door.
How can you argue with this kind of stuff?
“Why is it so important to get to church tonight?” I asked on the short ride up the hill.
“My brother is getting operated on. They’ve found a shadow on his lung. I need to get involved. The Blessed Mother needs to know how I feel about this. He’s too young for this kind of stuff. I’m not putting up with it. She needs to know how I feel.” responded my mother.
You ask a question? Be prepared for the answer.
“And, you get on your knees too. You’re still a child. The Blessed Mother listens to children’s pleas. You get specific. Don’t you dare pray “Your will be done.” I know you do that. I’ve listened to your night time prayers since you were three. I didn’t want to interfere. But, you cut that out. You get specific. You tell the Blessed Mother that you want your uncle ……whole….and healed ……and home. Do you understand?” Ma said to me in the darkness of the station wagon.
“Yes, Ma.” I replied.
My mother never asked for much. You couldn’t say no to her.
So I sat in the darkened incensed church. Incense always messes up my sinuses. I sneezed my way through the signs of the cross. My nose dripped through the recitation of the rosary. My ears tingled through my very specific prayer…….to bring my uncle home…….whole and healed.
I went to bed at midnight. My head was a block of wood. Really…….I can not handle perfume. Or scented candles. Or, incense.
I heard the phone ring and I crept down the stairs to find out who was calling in the middle of the night.
“Jesus, be praised.” my mother said into the receiver before she hung up.
Ma noticed me at the doorway of the kitchen.
“The surgeons found nothing really wrong with him. But, he died twice on the table. They brought him back. He’s awake and he’s mad as hell. He says he glimpsed heaven and was called back. He heard our voices calling him back. ” Ma said as she tried to shoo me back to bed.
“He’s alive and he’s mad as hell?” I responded at the bottom of the stairs.
“Oh, we’ll deal with that later.” my mother responded. As if, she’s had to deal with this kind of thing many times in the past.
“Christmas is coming. He loves my stuffing. He loves your Christmas cookies. He loves his family……….he’ll get over it.” she said as she pointed me up the stairs towards my bed.
My uncle got over it. He’d had a glimpse of heaven. He now knew it was real. But, it wasn’t for him yet.
Because? My mother had talked to the Blessed Virgin and had deemed it so.
My mother could be that bossy.
I awoke the next morning. The history report hadn’t been written.
I stayed home from school because I had a terrible sore throat.
For real.