This story tells of my anticipating—and enduring—a parental visit; it is a conflation of several such visits in the early 1990’s.

The main narrative is related in the present tense and simple past tense; my not-so-fond reminiscences interspersed within harken back to previous visits and to childhood memories of Life with Mother; these are italicized.

I’ve somewhat arbitrarily broken this unwieldy offering into three segments, to be released in sequence over the course of several days; though they are preferably read in order, each in itself can be considered a “slice in the life of."

THIS IS THE LAST PART.



PART THREE
 
(After a disastrous visit ending with her vicious diatribe) My mother and I began speaking again two weeks later when she set out on the high road via the phone lines. Unctuously, from her stilts, she stated solicitously that she hoped I was feeling “less upset” and that I was a far finer person than was she, given that I hadn’t given my husband the boot despite his unspeakable cruelty. (Says pot to kettle.)

I found out later through my sister, who was ear-witness to the conversation, that my mother phoned my mother-in-law and gave her hell and a half. To my sister’s recollection, my mother said something along the lines of: “How dare you treat my daughter this way. ‘Getting herself pregnant,’ my twat! Like your son had nothing to do with it. Tell him he should go screw himself next time!” (My mother refrains, with difficulty, from tangling with The Beast himself; she doesn’t want to make things worse for me caged with him.)

My meandering mind is reigned in roughly as she jerks me back to the lunch table with an abrupt exclamation.

“Something smells delicious! You’ve outdone yourself. What do we have here?” She peers at the platter as I pass it.

“Swordfish brochettes. Marinated, coated with my special Cajun spice mix.”

“Fish. What a treat,” she says flatly, wincing. “Where did you get it?”

“From Stop-and-Shop, downtown.”

“Not a fish market?”

“They have their own seafood section. All the stores do these days.”

“I always go to a fish market. Then I never have to worry.”

“I’ve never had any problems.”

“When did you buy it?”

“A couple of days ago. Thursday night, I think.”

“You think it’s still fresh?” It is clear she thinks otherwise.

“Well, sure. It just finished defrosting.”

“You got it frozen!” She stiffens, as if the super-solid state of seafood matter were an alien life-form to be justifiably feared.

Doug chimes in. He is smooth; I have to give him credit. He turns to me with a mischievous smile. “Remember when we got it home you realized that you still had some left from last time? So you decided to use that instead?”

I see where he’s headed and tag along. “Oh, yes, that’s right. I used the older pack.”

My mother looks at me with narrowed eyes. “How long have you had this swordfish?”

“Oh, not too long.” Doug tosses the lure. “Just since last summer. No need to worry.” He reels her in. “It’s been in the lettuce chiller ever since.”

We burst out laughing in rare camaraderie at the sight of her, gasping at the gills.

She puffs her cheeks, which have turned red with the realization that she'd bitten the bait of our Ptomaine teaser. Turning her wall-eyed glare on my father,” she says, sharply, “Charles, did you remember your Mevacor.”

She is referring to one of his many prescription drugs. Mevacor is either for high cholesterol or blood pressure; I can never keep it straight. My father is also borderline diabetic.

Charles admits sheepishly that he has not remembered his Mevacor. She fishes furiously in her purse for a pill bottle and slams it before him. “What would you do if I didn’t carry a back-up supply of all your pills?”

He is silent. She shrills operatically over his phantom response. “And don’t tell me about controlling it with diet. You pretend to follow the doctors’ advice then go right ahead and eat all the crap you’re not supposed to, soon as you’re out of my sight. I’m sick and tired of nagging. Why do I always have to be the bad one?”

She’s on a roll (unbuttered, of course). “Every damn night I catch you with your hand in the peanut butter jar that you sneak on the sly. Peanut butter has salt and fat and sugar, as you damn well know. How many times do I have to tell you; you’re killing yourself, Charles.”

She slaps his hand away as he reaches for the box of bakery brownies she brought for the kids.

Since all food eventually breaks down to sugar, it remains a mystery to me: Whatever is the poor man supposed to eat? Still, I don’t want her to blame me for sabotaging her efforts in his behalf, so I discreetly set aside the cookies I’d baked. Though my mother isn’t much for desserts, by baking from scratch I mean to convey that their visit is special. (To Doug, my cookies serve as consolation for suffering their company.)

My father, a slow eater, is mid-meal when my mother, commanding me to “Sit!” begins to briskly clear the table. She washes the dishes under running water in record time. She grabs the roll of paper towels I’d forgotten to hide and tears off several sheets per dish, bunches them, and proceeds to polish each beyond dry.

True, paper towels are more sanitary than dishrags, but why not save effort—and trees—by leaving the dishes to dry?

I’ll tell you why. For two reasons: 1) My mother needs to actively accomplish; she can’t stand to sit passively by. 2) My rubber dish rack is to be dreaded—coated as it is with mildew. She scrubs it each visit, knowing she can’t keep me from using it in her absence.

As she and Ajax attack, she asks—as always—if we would like a dishwasher as an anniversary gift. I tell her—as always—that I have zero desire for a dishwasher, that bending down to load and unload is more of a chore than washing by hand.

“Will we be able to get The Times tomorrow?” she asks as she scrubs. Another stock question. I remind her that here in the wilds of Boston we have The Globe. She persists in her query upon each visit, as if by doing so she’ll magically raise the collective consciousness of our village convenience stores, so that they’ll see the light and offer her paper, a real newspaper, along with the local rag.

I cannot fathom why she pines for The Times; I never see her read anything other than the Arts and Leisure section. Whenever Doug, who keeps abreast of events, brings them up for discussion, she murmurs vaguely about how awful they are, these terrible things that go on in the world.

She stoically bears the dreaded news that Melrose Massachusetts remains, pun intended, behind The Times.  

“I better call Bea, ask her if she’ll pick us up a copy. There won’t be any left by the time we get home.” (Why, I always wonder, doesn’t she just ask Bea the day before and avoid a long-distance call?)

“I should phone the motel,” she says, after concluding her business with Bea. “I need to remind them that we won’t be checking in until tonight. I told them when I charged the room, but just in case.”

She dials 4-1-1 for the number when I tell her that, no, I still don’t have it memorized. After confirming that her room will be eagerly awaiting her appearance and would brook no rivals, she frowns. “I hope they don’t have a racket like the last time. Some kind of dog show, can you imagine! Yapping all night.”

How well I remember hearing about that. She always complains about our local motel-from-hell—lukewarm water, running toilet, dripping faucet, pallid coffee, rubber eggs—but they always stay there. Reminded of the Fifi Fiasco, I implore her to save her sanity—and her money—and stay here instead. We have an inflatable mattress and a sofa bed. (I’d cede my bedroom, but Doug would never go for it.)

“For God’s sake,” I say, “Why not stay with us? You always go on about how much that dive sucks!”

My mother nods in vigorous accord with my eloquent critique.