Silences

Silences

‘Unloved’ it is a sign taped to my daughter, Jess’ door. Her way of protesting her punishment, early bedtime at 8:00, she can’t seem to remember she has homework until I tell her it’s time to head in.
“Good night,” I bend down to kiss her.
Her lips form a pout, her hazel eyes are naturally sad; the face is meant to melt me, but my heart is granite.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I hate you,” she covers her head with her blanket and turns away.
* * *
“Think of Jessica,” my mother says over the phone, “I’m not that far away, you could come up on weekends.”
My mother and I have fought this battle for two years. She moved from Houston when my father died and feels my daughter would have a better life with her in Brenham.
“Think of a small town,” she says. “People are friendly, their lives are solid. I could give her morals.”
It is a stab that wounds, renders me defenseless.
“Jess’ father and I loved each other,” I flail back.
‘She is an expression of our love,’ Jess’ father used to say. ‘We don’t need legalities, our love and independence are all that matter. For almost a year, we lived by those clichés, but time and responsibilities replaced them with ‘I’m too young to be tied down, and ‘I haven’t had time to get my feet wet.’.
Mr. Ashford comes over every Wednesday with a movie. I provide coffee and pastries. Today, he brings a rose. I always thought romance was frivolous and silly, but I find myself unable to discard the flower. My fingers stroke each petal, absorbing the softness. I revel in the scent. It is not a greenhouse rose and is exuding a seductive fragrance.
Mr. Ashford is 73 and sends me passionate love letters.
“We are soul mates,” he once told me. “If only I had been born forty years later.”
Although morbid, we do share a connection, both discovered the murder of a friend. Mine was his college roommate. He, his lover. For me it has been 12 years. At first I could remember nothing, but now the details are vivid; even the shade of my friend's pink nail polish. Mr. Ashford is the only person I’ve ever been able to talk to about that night; the only person I feel could understand. His discovery was 27 years ago, he says the memories will never fade, that I must live with them.
“You look exceptionally sad, today,” he says as we settle on the couch and start the DVD player.
“Just guilt for punishing, Jess. She can rip my heart with one look."
“Good,” he says. “It means that you love her.”
A fit man, Mr. Ashford looks twenty years younger than his age. I have thought of introducing him to my mother, but don’t think she would appreciate him.
***
Jess wakes up harder than I do. I help her into a sitting position and lay out her clothes, a navy skirt and nautical sweater.

“These are awful,” I hear her shriek as I dress for work.
By the time I am ready for work, Jess is back under the covers stealing a few more minutes of rest; she is wearing jeans and a vest, crumpling.
“Brush your teeth,” I tell her.
“Not before breakfast,” she croaks.
“Then fix your hair.”
Jess drags herself out of bed and goes into the bathroom
“I look like a dork,” she says in front of the mirror. “Look at all these stupid pimples”
“You’re a beautiful girl,” I say as I stand behind her applying my makeup, lipstick and mascara; we are running late.
***
Jess hits the fifth grade doors as the second bell rings. I’m ten minutes late to work, my boss notices. I smile and say good morning.
* * *
When I come home, Jess is on the floor roughhousing with the dog. A beagle named Rebel. Her books are spread across the couch. An empty bag of microwave popcorn and a can of soda decorate my end table.
“Hello,” I say as I step out of my heels.
Jess looks up out of habit then quickly drops her head and nuzzles the dog, her dark curls covering her face.
“Homework done?”
Jess looks up with a grin, displaying a row of broad, white teeth. Her voice is silent.
***
“Don’t you ever clean?” My mother hesitates in the doorway.
“I just walked in,” I explain. “Please, have a seat.”
“I don’t have time,” she says. “It’s your father’s birthday.”
Since my father’s funeral, I’ve avoided the cemetery. My mother often tells me I neglect him. I want to explain that I spent time with him when he was alive, that I held his hand when he died and think of him every time I play with Jess.
“I don’t think he misses my visits now,” I respond.
***
My mother refuses to ride in my car, a ‘92 Passat wagon, I drive her Continental.
“They have radar on this highway,” my mother says.
My reputation for owning a lead foot is notorious in the family. I slow down.
***
I carry the box of new flowers and spade to my father’s grave. My mother and Jess walk hand-in-hand in front of me.
“Hey cool,” Jess says when she sees the grave. It has two dwarf cedar trees framing the headstone. A small wire fence encloses a bed of periwinkles.
“They have rules against gardens,” My mother says as she bends down and begins upsetting a piece of earth. “But they’ll have to face me if they touch this.”
I move to the foot of the grave to get a better view of the headstone. A double stone engraved with doves and flowers, it also displays my mother’s name and date of birth next to my father’s biography.

“How often do you come here?” I ask.
“Every Saturday,” my mother says.
“How long has the headstone been in place?”
“A few months after he died.”
I watch my mother, her small frame bent, carefully sifting the soil through her fingers then gently patting it until the flowers are standing on their own. I think of them, my mother and father, he teasing her, stealing a kiss, she pushing him away, her coy smile betraying her. ‘I love you,’ I want to say. ‘I miss you and care about you.’ I want to hug her, have her say she loves me.
“Do you need any help?” It is all my tongue can conjure.
* * *
My mother agrees to stay for dinner, vegetable soup and cornbread. There is no dining area in my house, and I set up a card table in the middle of the kitchen, covering it with a linen table cloth, decorating it with Ashford’s vased rose.
“What’s the common denominator for 8 and 6?” Jess begs the answer from my mother in the living room.
“I’ll sit with you, but I won’t give you the answers.” My mother admonishes.
“24.” Jess squeals.
“You know this place wouldn’t be so bad if you put some work and a little paint into it.” My mother’s eyes scan the kitchen as she sits at the table.
“Jess and I are happy,” I say.
“Yes,” she says.
***
It’s almost 10:00 when my mother leaves. I offer her my bed for the night but she declines.
“It’s been nice,” she says.
“Nice,” I repeat. “Listen,” my voice stops her. “Mr. Ashford, a friend, and I watch movies on Wednesdays. I serve coffee and something to eat. We could change it to a weekend if you’d be interested.”
“I really don’t like movies.” My mother says, “But maybe I could pick up Jessica every once in awhile, help her with her homework.”
“That would be good,” I say.
I remain in the doorway until I see her car successfully onto the road.
“Bedtime,” I turn and hug Jess.
“Gaw, Mom,” she says. “You’re so mean.”