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Dearest Readers, tomorrow, May 9, 2021, is Mother’s Day. Like every Mother’s Day, I reflect on my mother and the estranged history we shared. I am so envious of those who had such wonderful, caring mothers. Never did I. As much as I tried to make peace, we could not. In 1978, I visited my mother, only to be shunned by her once again. She told my son I was a drunk and a whore. Such a lovely, pleasant fabrication for a grandmother to tell her grandchild. When I approached her, she screamed at me. In 1988, another attempt was made for us to make peace. Arriving at her apartment, I hoped she would hug me like I’ve seen other mothers hug their child. I opened my arms, anxious for her embrace, instead, her toxic tongue started shouting again. She was angry that we arrived in a camper, not staying with her. In all honesty, when I saw how filthy her house was, I knew we could not stay there. During the fall of 1992, I revisited her, finally tracking her down in Warm Springs, Georgia. My youngest sister, Savannah, was staying with her after becoming homeless. Savannah glared at me.

“You think you’re something, don’t you,” she shouted. “Walking in here just like you own the world. Just look at you. You bitch.” Her right hand slapped my face hard, stinging and leaving a bruise.

Mom watched. Never did she reprimand Savannah.

“I think it’s time I left,” I whispered. “I didn’t come here to be mistreated or abused.”

“Oh. That’s right, Rebecca Sue. You go ahead and run away from a fight. I reckon you do think you’re better than us. Ain’t you? Just go. I never want to see you again.” Mama turned away.

Yes. I walked away, refusing to lower my standards to Savannah or my mother. I wanted to make peace. All they wanted was a repeat of the history we shared. The fights. Verbal attacks and intolerance we shared. I chose to stay away, recognizing the reality that some families can never make peace.

Perhaps this essay will be another chapter in “CHATTAHOOCHEE CHILD.” [My latest work-in-progress]:
Mama wore her best house dresses when she was in a good mood, which wasn’t often enough. Those days, it felt as if the sunshine from the window kissed the living room with colors of the rainbow, at least for me.
Mama would smile at me and say, “Honey, can you curl my hair?”
After I shampooed her hair, I curled it with jumbo rollers. My fingers shook as I rolled her hair. If the curl was too tight, she’d get a headache. She screamed in pain while her hands slapped my face. If it was too loose, the curl would flop, and she’d remind me I had no talent to style hair or do anything right. Her actions spoke volumes about her lack of love for me.
Sometimes, she smiled into the mirror, nodding with delight when finished. During those special moments with her, I took the time to make my Mama up with makeup. Her skin was olive, as smooth as a baby’s behind—no wrinkles or age spots. When I lined her eyes with black velvet eyeliner, she could equal the beauty of Cleopatra or Elizabeth Taylor. I never understood why Mama failed to make skincare and makeup part of her daily routine.
Mama never believed in routines. She lived her life only for the moment and the next handout from someone else.
“It don’t matter to your daddy or me if I fix myself up,” she said. “He don’t care about me. Why should I?”
Never did Mama hug or kiss me with her acceptance. I dare not ask if she liked her hair or makeup. I knew better. The sting of her palm on my face told me when I was not meeting her approval. I prayed she wouldn’t notice my anxiety or my trembling hands. When I asked how she wanted her hair styled this time, she looked in the mirror, scratched her head, pulling the gray strands out.
“Stupid girl, you should know how I like my hair styled! Cover the gray roots,” she said. “Tease it high. Don’t let nobody see how gray I’m getting. I don’t care how it looks, as long as the gray roots ain’t showing.”
She refused to get her hair colored, afraid the chemicals would do something to her brain. She said, “Cancer runs in our family. We can’t take a chance to get that disease ’cause it kills. My great-grandmother had head cancer. She had such bad headaches her mind was gone. Don’t you put no chemicals in my hair. I don’t want my brain or my head fried with Cancer. You listen to me, Rebecca Sue. Don’t let nothing fry my head.”
May 2002 was the last Mother’s Day I shared with my mother. Reportedly, she suffered a fall at Savannah’s apartment in early April. Savannah shouted at her, shoving her down the stairs. She was in a hurry, and she was tired of taking care of her ‘old lady,’ so she chose to leave our mother suffering on the floor. That afternoon a home health nurse came to check on our mother, discovering her lying face down, her clothing soiled from body fluids and feces. Her face was pulled down to the left side, left lip bruised and battered. When she struggled to move, she could not. The nurse documented her condition, diagnosing a possible stroke.
The home health nurse phoned me. “I suspect your mother has suffered a stroke. She’s at E-R now.”
“I’ll make arrangements and leave later this afternoon. It will take at least eight hours before I can be there,” I said. “Where’s Savannah?”
The nurse hesitated, suggesting I should speak to the doctor on call when I arrived.
I knew something was questionable. This was not the first time my mother had injuries while under Savannah’s care.
On Mother’s Day, Mom was still in the hospital. On that morning, I arrived early, placing a pale blue gift bag on her bed. Her eyes opened. She glanced at the bag, struggling to speak.
“B-Blue skies,” she muttered. Her right arm moved to touch the bag. I reached inside the bag, removing a blue gift box. I opened the box slowly. Mom’s eyes blinked as she struggled to smile, admiring the cultured pearl earrings inside the box.
A few minutes later, I placed the pierced earrings in her ears. Mom sighed, touching the right ear with her right hand. She slurred ‘thank you’ and fell back to sleep.
I stayed with my mother all of that Mother’s Day, feeding her and making her comfortable. That Mother’s Day was the last Mother’s Day we shared.
On September 11, 2002, my mother died under ‘questionable circumstances.’ Savannah spent that night with her at the hospital. When Savannah phoned me in the late evening of September 12, she appeared intoxicated. Her last slurring words to me were, “Do you think they’ll do an autopsy?”
Two years after her death, Garrett and I drove to Columbus. We dropped by the cemetery to see my mother’s grave. The years of mental and physical abuse from my mother were buried with her. I placed a bouquet of red roses on her headstone, kissed it, and whispered, “I know we were never close, but I hope you’ve found peace now. May you rest in peace, Mom. I loved you.”
Thinking about my childhood, the physical and mental abuse, I found it strange that Savannah was repeating the vicious cycle of physical abuse. In contrast, I found peace, refusing to allow violence or abuse of any kind within my family.
On Mother’s Day, 2015, I reflect on my mother, our estranged history together, and the questionable circumstances of her death. Savannah buried her in a closed casket. Due to another bout of acute bronchial asthma, I was unable to get to the funeral. Perhaps there was a reason for an autopsy to be performed, but now, my mother rests in peace. I hope and pray she died peacefully. Mother’s Day is always a day of reflection, sadness, and curiosity, and I pray that all mothers will have a wonderful day enjoying motherhood.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!