Pogo

     He rose and went to the sink. “No, not really.” He washed my plate and put the food away, carefully checking that the lids were on. His bony fingers danced on the tops and edges of each item. 

     “Sorry about your evening,” He put the last container in and closed the refrigerator. “Everyone missed you at dinner and the Secret Santa. Your gift’s under the tree.” 

     “I’ve had enough surprises tonight. I’ll open it in the morning.” It was probably something I’d hate. No one ever asked me what I’d like. They bought me generic items like you would for a stranger. 

     Mom peeked into the kitchen. “I’m off to bed. Before you come up, lock the doors and turn off the tree lights.” 

     “Night, Mom.” 

     Why did I come home? Why’d I leave my comfortable New York apartment and fly halfway across the country to see my father, who’d barely spoken to me as a kid except with the back of his hand, and my mother, who constantly criticized me? My brothers and sister, whose lives no longer included me. I don’t understand why they stayed. I left as fast as I could. It made me angry at them and myself. Something bubbled up inside me, an urge to spread my misery around.  

     In the kitchen doorway, I leaned against the jam like a smart-mouthed teen. “Dad, I have a question.” 

     “What is it, sweetheart?” His eyes held kindness, and I immediately regretted my tone. I always knew how to start trouble, Mom said.

     “You were so different when we were kids, hardly ever home, and when you were, you were pissed off at us all time. You beat us whenever we did anything you didn’t like. Now you’re all sweet and gentle. What happened?”

     “Funny you ask that tonight of all nights.”

     “Why, because it’s Christmas Eve?” 

     “No, because of the pogo stick.” He motioned for me to sit. “Your Mom and I married straight out of high school. We were too young, but lots of our friends were getting married, and we rode the same wave. Then the babies came.”

     “As they do.” I’d figured out long ago Mom was pregnant with me when they married.

     “You were colicky; your brother arrived before we figured you out. And then the other two. I had a lousy factory job; your Mom was home with you kids. Your Mom is smart. She’d planned to go to college, maybe be a teacher, but she couldn’t with babies to tend, and there wasn’t enough money anyway. She made sure I understood she was unhappy.”

     “She shared her unhappiness with us, too.”

     “You kids were animals – four of you so close in age. Your voices were so high- pitched. It gave me terrible headaches.”

     “We were kids, Dad.” I glared at him. “You had a permanent hangover.”

     “You’re right. I did. No excuses.”

     “Mom has always been unhappy, as far as I can tell.” I couldn’t remember her laughing. She was usually at a low simmer, tending to boil over at the slightest provocation, a broken window, a muddy footprint on the ceiling, or a failing grade on a math test.

    “She was happy the day each of you was born. She was happy on our wedding day.”

    “That’s not a lot in fifty years,” I said. 

    “No, it’s not.” He cut himself a sliver of pie and offered me some.

    “I’m okay,” I said. 

    “I began stopping at a bar on the way home. I couldn’t face the chaos, the yelling, and the noise. I needed a buffer, a transition. After a while, I stayed longer.”

    “I remember lots of dinners without you.” Unfortunately, Mom was there, cooking with great resentment. She served criticism at every meal.

    “Anyway, back to that night. It took me a few hours to get home on the pogo stick. No surprise there. Drunk as I was, I knew it was an unusual vehicle. Luckily, the town went to sleep early. If anyone saw me hopping down the center of the street like an out-of-season Easter Bunny, no one mentioned it.”

    “How old were you then?” I asked. 

    “I was thirty-four years old.” He took my uninjured hand in his. “My fingers were raw with blisters, my insteps ached, my head pounded, and I thought I’d never get here. I wanted to get home. Eventually, I did. I went around the back of the house, dropped the pogo stick on the grass, and slept on the back porch swing. Your mother woke me in the morning.”

    “What did she say?”

    “Surprisingly, nothing.”

    “That’s not like her.”

    “She let me in but kept quiet. That’s when I figured she was done with me. I took a hot shower, dressed, and walked over to the Unitarian Church, where I knew AA met, and I joined. I’ve been going every week since.”

    “What about the Fellowship?” I asked. I strongly suspected they recruited the members from AA. None seemed to hold a job but volunteered at the food pantry, cooked lunch daily for anyone hungry, and ran a used clothing collection and distribution center.

    “They’re good people,” he said, as if I’d accused them of something. “They’re my friends, too. Some used to be in AA, but many are just unemployed and a little quirky.”

    Dad found his cohort like I had in New York. I couldn’t fault him for that.

    “I’ll say good night now.” 

    “Your mother had an abortion,” he said and looked up at me, his eyes glassy.

    Mom. “When?” 

    “When your sister was five. You must’ve been twelve. I didn’t know until years later.” His voice changed, became angry, like I remembered him. “I can’t ever forgive her.”

    Mom. Amazing. I wanted to hug her. “That’s not fair. Four kids in seven years and you, drunk all the time.”

    “I was an only child. I wanted a big family.”

    “Did you discuss this with Mom? That’s not a decision you can make on your own.”

    “She knew. Your Mom’s a quitter.”

    “And you – you’re an asshole.” I’d never been so furious with anyone and at once overcome with warm feelings toward Mom. Her whole life, how she’d catered to Dad and his issues, to us kids. But she’d taken a stand. Four kids were enough. She was now my hero. 

    I left him in the kitchen and went to bed. 

***

“Merry Christmas, Lisa,” Mom said, looking down at my cast and patting the couch cushion for me to sit beside her. “How are you feeling?” 

    Unlike the rest of us, Mom was a slow gift opener, savoring the process. Everyone else was talking, tearing packages open, wandering into the kitchen for coffee and pastries, but Mom kept quiet.

    I’d brought her a watercolor I painted in the fall. It was the view from my hotel in Florence: the Duomo and the bridges spanning the Arno. She opened the gift and didn’t say anything for a long time. Her fingers gripped the frame. Finally, she smiled.

    “Maybe, come visit sometime?” I whispered.

    “You’ll have to cut your hair now,” she said, tucking a lock behind my ear.

    “Give me a trim before I leave.”

    “I’d love to.”