Short Story: The Present

Short Story: The Present

My mother died December 15th. It was a long illness with cancer and I had time to prepare. Yet, after her funeral, I sagged. For the first time in my life, I faced Christmas alone.

I stared at my birth certificate which emerged at other lonely times in my life. My birth mother’s name read – Mary Mott. She was fifteen at the age of my birth.

I was born in a Kansas City home for unwed mothers and adopted by Mom and Dad who’d given up hope of having a baby. At the time of my adoption Mom was forty two and Dad was fifty four. I was the same age now as Mom when she adopted me.

Childless, too, but by choice. Divorced, because it ended. Now, staring at Christmas without my mother then staring at the name of Mary Mott, I made the decision to find her.

Years back I’d hired a detective and knew her address, telephone number, even the license plate of her truck. Then I’d stopped. Did she wonder of me? An adopted friend said, “Anna, when the time is right to meet her, you’ll know. Don’t make it happen.”

So, I never did. And I had a frail, aging mother who worried about me and did her quivering best. She gave me every advantage, the best education, travel, expensive suits right down to my shoes. Beautiful shoes lined my closet. Some of them never even stepped in.

Mom and I never got close to the knock down, drag out, love-hate, mother and daughter. Even in sickness there was the polite layer, this measured distance. After a long day of legal work, I’d drive home to relieve the paid person and see mom’s fragile arms on her walker. I’d feel her frail back and ache for this connection, this closeness which existed in the natural way, the born way.

I couldn’t make her well, or young, or skip rope with me when I was young, although, she bought me a skip rope. She bought the prettiest kite in the shop and watched me flying it on the hill. We never ran down to the sea and jumped in laughing. We went to the sea and stayed at the Hilton. I found all sorts of shells and ran back and showed her.

Overlooking the kite hill of my childhood with my birth certificate in hand, the time had come to meet this Mary Mott and shout, “Why did you give me away?” But I knew why.

To blame her I was rich and unhappy, alone and facing Christmas? I knew that, too.Would she grab me up after forty-two years and squeeze me so hard, I’d be happy and safe, even though I was safe?

Mostly, it was because there existed in the world a mother to see at Christmas, to journey to at Christmas, and not be alone.

I called the aunt who wanted to take my mother’s place. Yes, there were some ones in my life, but not the right ones. “I’m going with friends to their cabin,” I told her. “I need to get away.”

Then I stood with my hand on the phone and stared at my birth mother’s number. I remembered in searing detail rounding the corner at the mall, meeting my ex-husband and his wife with their two year old. They were aglow, their arms bulging with presents. I gave them my brief nod, then dashed off to buy a robe for my mother, whom I hoped would live until Christmas, which she didn’t. In the end, I didn’t call this Mary Mott in Laverne, Nebraska.

What if she said – no?

* * *

It was a drive of eighteen hours. The travel guide said it was a place of four hundred people with cornfields in every direction.On the second day, I arrived at a rural mailbox. Miles from nowhere, it read Mott. A small trailer stood in a winter cornfield. Endless rows of stubble ran as far as the eye could see. An old green pickup stood in the desolate yard. Wind buffeted my car as I held onto my desperate need. This woman to give me joy, the happiness of a mother’s hug, the feathering back of a sleepy forehead, did she wait for me in a cornfield?

In the end, I drove thirty miles back to the interstate and got at room at the Canfield Inn. I sat by the phone and rehearsed what I’d say until 8 pm, then I dialled.

“Hello,” a woman answered.

“I’m calling for Mary Mott.”

“I’m Mary.”

“I’m Anna Pace. I was adopted in Kansas City forty-two years ago. My birth certificate says Mary Mott is my mother.”

There was a long pause.

“I’m calling because I wanted . . .”

“I had a baby forty-two years ago in Kansas City. I never met the parents, they didn’t allow it.”

“I’ve imagined calling you over the years.”

“I’ve wondered about you, hoping you had it good.”

“I’m staying here at the Canfield Inn. I was wondering if we could meet tomorrow?”

“That’s Christmas Eve.”

I’d forgotten the days.

“I’ll come there,” she said. “Is nine too early?”

“Room twenty-five.”

There was the swift click on the other end.

Horrible scenarios ran through my mind and I couldn’t sleep. The next morning I dressed in my brand new pants suit. It was white with silver sequins. I pulled on matching white boots, then made the coffee.

I saw her green truck pull into the parking lot. She looked up, and I waved. Her long hair was pulled back hard from her face. She hunched a bulky jacket over old jeans and headed straight for the door.

When the elevator sounded, I stood in my doorway, unable to breathe. Her eyes darted to mine. “I’m Mary Mott,” she looked quickly passed me.

“Just me,” I said. “I made some coffee,” I filled a cup for her, “or we could go out.”

“This is fine.” She sat uneasy in the little chair and took the cup. Her hands were small, square, and similar to mine. “You look well,” she said, then took a sip, too hot, too much. “A good life?” I heard the beg. “I hoped you’d get a big house, mom and dad, a lawn with big trees.”

“I got all three.” I said. “My parents weren’t able to have kids of their own, they doted on me. They were older, Dad especially. Mom just died two weeks ago.”

Our eyes connected.

“I don’t know the way,” she said. “Tomorrow’s Christmas.”

“I just came. There wasn’t a plan.”

She shook her head, “There wasn’t a plan forty-two years ago. Not knowing really. What do you want?”

“Just wanted to meet you.”

“I had to let you go to a better place and be happy there. You were happy there?”

“Yes. They took great care . . .”

“I’m glad it was good.” She set down her coffee and ran out the door.

I stood at my window and watched her cross the parking lot to her truck. She didn’t look up as she drove away. I stared after her until she blended with all the cars up and down. I turned on the television and in some horrible twist The Walton’s were decorating a tree, making each other presents. Finally, exhausted, I slept.

* * *

In the middle of the night, I woke up hungry. I was afraid to go the candy machine at the end of the hall. Star Trek was on, so, I got lost in outer space. When it got to be morning, someone knocked on my door. “Cleaning lady,” a voice said.

I opened my door to an old woman in a sagging grey uniform. White socks sunk on her bony ankles. “Need your bed made?”

“I never slept in the bed,” I said, “sort of on top.”

She gave me a toothless grin and came in jingling. She had jingle bells on her tennis shoes.

“I was just going to the restaurant to get breakfast.” I said.

“The restaurant’s closed for Christmas. You need more towels?”

I nodded and felt the pit of my stomach.

Her cleaning cart stood outside the door and she came back with towels, a paper sack, and an ancient thermos. She poured hot steaming soup in a cup and gave it to me. “See it’s red for Christmas.”

I stared at her tomato soup. “I couldn’t take your soup.” I said.

“Why not?” She proceeded to give me half her sandwich - white bread, cheese, and a slice of pickle. “Christmas dinner!” she cried as she sat on my bed. “Everybody’s left but you.”

“Well, I didn’t expect to be here either, but things didn’t go well with my situation.”

“Went back to his wife, did he?” she guffawed. “Those men are like that.”

In spite of myself, I joined her. “No, I came here to meet my mom. I was adopted at birth and traced my natural mother here, then came all this way to meet her. But she got embarrassed or had other plans.”

“She didn’t invite you to Christmas dinner with all the trimmings?”

“She ran off.”

The cleaning lady poured me more soup. “What about your adopted mother?”

“She died.”

“You can’t blame her for that.”

“I don’t blame her. I just hoped one day I’d meet my birth mom and we’d hold hands and run in the ocean with our all clothes on.”

She nearly fell off the bed. “Jump in the shower, I’ll turn it on.”

“My adopted mom would sit on the beach and watch me. She’d sit by the pool and watch me, but she wouldn’t go in.”

“Maybe she wanted to let you do it. Maybe she was afraid of the water.”

“I know, I know.”

She produced a Snickers and broke it in half.

“I feel horrible to eat your lunch, but everything’s closed. I’ve always eaten Christmas dinner with my mother or my husband, but he’s remarried.”

“Mine too.” she said.

“Do you have any children?”

“Mick’s in jail for drugs. Mary lives in a trailer in a cornfield. She makes dolls, real good ones.”

“You have a daughter named Mary?”

She emptied the rest of her soup in my cup and screwed the lid on. “Be good to your mamas, they did what they could.” And with that she jingled out the door.

I sat stunned on the bed with my hot steaming soup. The elevator opened and I woke up suddenly and ran toward it. She grinned her toothless grin, just as the door closed. I ran down the stairs and arrived in the lobby breathless.

“Can I help you?” the lady said from behind the desk

“The old woman who makes the beds, she has jingle bells on her shoes?”

She looked at me funny. “Everyone’s off for Christmas.”

I ran up the stairs. My hot soup steamed in my cup. The imprint of her skinny backside was still on the bed. I picked up my Snickers and stood by the window. I had this gift for my mother, in case she had one for me. A wallet, it wasn’t personal. Still, maybe she’d use it and see my picture inside. I’d leave it in her mailbox with a polite note, “So nice to meet you.”

* * *

As I drove the thirty miles back to her house, other houses were surrounded by cars and trucks. Children wobbled the driveways on brand new bikes. My mother’s trailer had only her truck. I sat in my car at her mailbox with my present and for a long moment thought to forget about it. But then the door of the trailer opened and a dog flew out. Of course, she saw me in the middle of nowhere sitting inside my car.

She disappeared, then reappeared with a bulky sweater on over her bathrobe. She carried a little box in one hand and hunched against the wind. I put my finger on the button and rolled down the window. “For you,” she said and she gave me the box.

“For you,” I gave her the wallet.

She wrapped herself tight in her sweater and hurried back in.

I drove on further down the road and pulled over beside the winter cornfield. Inside the box was a beautiful doll with golden hair and blue eyes. I sobbed in that baby forever.

I crashed out of my car and zigzagged down the corn rows. In my new white pants suit and high heeled boots, I thrashed as fast as I could. Then there was - in the middle of nowhere – an ocean of mud. I fell face first in it, splashed and rolled over with high heart glee.

My mamas loved me. They did!