"Searching for a little bit of God's mercy, I found living proof." -- Bruce Springsteen
Steel Cages
On the day after Julia’s divorce, which happened to coincide with her twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, she teeters on a chair pulling framed photos and souvenirs off the living room shelves, and tossing them into a cardboard box. A blaring car alarm grabs her attention, and through the front window she spies her mother, as she fumbles with her key fob. Julia checks her look in the mirror, and pulls her hair out of its hasty pony-tail before hurrying to the door. She is just in time to notice Sally’s final tug on something in the trunk, which comes loose like a fishing line just yanked from the weeds. It takes Julia a moment to register that Sally holds a stack of steel tomato cages over her head, the tendrils of dead tomato plants hanging off of them.
Sally huffs as she climbs the stairs and Julia holds the door open wide.
“Can you use these?” Sally asks, on her way through the door. “I have so many, and my garden shrinks ever year. You planted tomatoes this year?”
“Hi Mom.” Julia’s mom is not much for hello’s or goodbye’s. “I didn’t manage to plant much this year, but I did do some tomatoes.” Julia grabs the tomato cages and wrestles with them as the ends knock the magazines off the entrance table and then snag on her sweater. She finally wins and balances them in a heap.
When she turns back, she catches Sally rifling through the box in the living room. “Are you giving away this vase?” Sally holds up a gift from her Costa Rica trip.
Julia clears her throat, temporarily transported back to high school when her mom found a mickey of vodka in her gym bag. “I’m just purging a few things. Not sure how that fell in the box.”
Sally surveys the living room. “It does feel better in here. What’s different?”
“Well, Ian took the chairs, the coffee table and half the books. So I guess you could say I’ve drastically decluttered.”
“Good for you. I should do the same.” For a moment Julia wonders if Sally is speaking about her living room or her own marriage. Sally leans over the box again when Julia interrupts.
“Hey Mom, do you want some lunch? I can heat up some soup I made last night.”
Sally heads toward the kitchen. As Julia tries to shield the saucepan she has pulled from the fridge with her body, the lid pops off, hits the ground and spins like top. Once it stops, Sally picks the lid up and rinses it off. “You know if you need storage containers, I have plenty…”
“No, that’s fine. I just… stayed up late last night and I fell asleep… so I set the pot straight in the fridge. I don’t normally.”
Sally grabs spoons from the drawer, inspects them for cleanliness and sets the table. As she does, she updates Julia on significant goings on in her world. “The Walters’ silver maple split right out of the blue. On a beautiful sunny day, hardly any wind, and the tree just split and half of it fell on our property. The other half stayed standing.”
“Did it hit anything?” Julia asks.
“That is the amazing thing, it fell right between all the buildings, didn’t harm a thing. The arborist said it rotted internally, and no one noticed the failings on the outside.”
As Julia serves the soup, she wonders if her mom intends to wax metaphorically at this moment. “Mom are you alluding to my divorce? We signed the papers yesterday.”
Sally squirms a little. “Oh. Your anniversary came up in my computer’s calendar yesterday. I didn’t know what to do with it.”
“I’ll show you how to delete it, next time I’m at your place. If you like.”
“Okay.” Sally pauses. “I’m sorry about the divorce.”
“Thank you,” Julia starts. She inhales, about to continue.
Sally moves on, “This soup tastes really good. Will you give me the recipe? My historical book group would love it. We do lunch now.”
Julia realizes this constitutes the complete discussion of the divorce. Julia’s friend Kat once told her about an American psychologist who separated infant monkeys from their mothers. Surrogate mothers made of steel wire or of wood covered with foam and cloth, replaced them. Even when the wire mother provided food, the infant monkey preferred the softer surrogate, leading researchers to conclude the need for closeness goes deeper than a need for physical nourishment. As a child, Sally felt unavailable to Julia, always busy with her career, the other kids, household duties, socializing. But dinner was on the table, every night.
They sit in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Julia’s best friend, Charlotte, calls her mom every day. What they possibly have to talk about day after day, mystifies her. Julia didn’t tell her mom that Pinot Noir put her to bed last night, or more accurately, to couch, and she feels thick and a little impatient today.
“I’ll e-mail you the recipe. It’s from Chatelaine,” Julia musters.
“The Simpsons’ grand-daughter made it into law school. On her second try.” Julia can’t tell if this is critical or congratulatory, but she doesn’t clarify. She has never met the grand-daughter and she is tired of talking about people she does not know, things that do not mean much. If she had learned to have a healthy discussion about feelings, things might have turned out differently with Ian. Before she realizes it, she’s taking a dive into the deep end.
“Mom, did you like being a mother?” Julia blurts out.
Sally startles, and answers “Of course I did.” She pauses for a moment. “You guys just all came sooner than I expected.”
“You know you had control over that, right?”
“Well, your father didn’t like to use condoms…” Sally trails off.
“So?”
“That is how it was then. Times were different. We didn’t have the pill.”
“And did you feel trapped?” Julia pushes on.
“Well, while pregnant with you, your father worked double shifts. He didn’t have much energy for kids afterwards. I managed.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“I didn’t think about it. I didn’t have a choice.”
Julia bites her tongue. Her mother convinces herself she never has a choice, about anything, ever. Once a carpenter, demolishing a house on the land chosen for their retirement home, decided to take the old house’s fireplace mantel as payment. It upset Sally enough to mention it a few times. Julia told her to call him up and demand it back, but Sally resigned herself to it. Julia struggles to understand how someone takes your fireplace mantel without your permission.
Sally rises to clear the dishes. After she places them on the counter she heads out the back door. Julia barely hears Sally say “I want a glimpse at your garden.”
Julia trails after Sally and registers the sorry state her backyard is in now that someone else also views it. Julia admits, “I didn’t have much luck with my basil this year.” The dried stalks tell a story of neglect, not bad luck.
“There’s always next year,” Sally offers. “ The tomatoes have gone wild. The cages will fix that.”
Sally turns away from Julia, deliberately avoiding eye contact. Julia clocks this. “Mom, are you okay?”
Sally shakes her head. “I’m just tired. I have to buy some groceries on the way home. Your father expects dinner.” She heads back inside.
At the front door, Sally pulls a small gift-wrapped box out of her purse. “It’s Madison’s birthday present. Don’t think I’ll see her before her birthday. She’s so busy.”
Julia sighs, “Thanks, Mom.” Her mother is a good grandmother.
Julia watches her mom go and has that sinking feeling she often has after they spend time together. They talked but did not really connect. She turns and spots the stacked tomato cages, and decides she might as well put them to use.
There are two choices when you feel invisible and want attention to know that you matter. You can rebel, or you can try to be perfect. Julia aimed for perfect; the good girl who did what was expected. And any good daughter should have a solid adult relationship with her mother.
As she fixes the tomatoes inside the cage, it occurs to Julia that if Sally’s wire cage persona kept others at a distance, it also had her trapped inside it. The lack of emotional availability makes sense, when you are lost, or hiding inside yourself. Or caged. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t, speak up for herself. Not challenging what happened to her, not forcing choice when it was not offered. The original good girl. The tomato does not fall far from its … cage.
This thought gives Julia some peace. Whenever she has tried to have a vulnerable conversation with Sally they end up bobbing back to the surface. When they don’t see each other for a while, Julia vows to try harder next time. She sees now that it is too unfamiliar for Sally to go there and what’s more, she does not need to. It is time for Julia to let it go.
Julia, hears the phone and goes back in the house. It’s her mom.
“Julia, I really am so proud of you. You did what was right for you. You have not settled. I think that you are very courageous. More courageous than I ever was.”
In Julia’s moment of surrender to what is, Julia’s mother sees her. This is the connection Julia has craved for years. Gratefulness washes over her, she relaxes her face, her shoulders, her heart.
“And don’t forget to send me that recipe.” With that Sally hangs up without saying goodbye. Julia holds the phone for a moment, then places it back down. Two steps up, one step back.
But in that granting of permission and that giving of praise, Julia realizes this is what she has sought for most of her adult life. Looking for it from her husband, from bosses, and blaming them when they didn’t provide it.
Permission and praise. It is time she stopped waiting for her mother to give it to her, and for searching for surrogate mothers. She has a choice. She has a choice. She has a choice. She chooses to give permission and praise to herself. And right now, she is giving herself permission to have a nap. A good long one.
The Cost of Admission
“Tickets!” bellowed the carnival operator standing at the mouth of the cave waving a fist full of papers. There was no one in line and Judith seized the opportunity, “Is this ride more exciting than the carousel? I picked one of the stationary horses by mistake. BORING!”
Raising her eyebrows, the operator replied “I have never heard anyone call The Awakening boring.“ Judith handed over her ticket and the operator shoved one of the papers at Judith, “You have to fill out this questionnaire before you go in.” Judith thought this odd, but as a woman exited the cave, the operator stamped a ticket and handed it to her. “You can do any ride again with this stamp.” The woman hurried away, snorting, “I’m never coming back here again!” Judith opened her mouth as if to call out to the woman but she was already too far away, then turned her attention back to the form. It read:
- Do you feel stuck?
- Have you had an unfulfilled dream for as long as you could remember?
- Has everyone around you fallen asleep?
- Do you want help fulfilling that dream?
- Would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?
Judith looked up at the operator, “Isn’t this last one a Meatloaf lyric?” The woman snatched her form and opened the gate. “Proceed!”
The floor slanted her towards a brightly lit inner chamber and Judith felt a gravitational force pulling her forward. Interesting, she thought, I wonder where they get a magnet big enough to pull a person forward like this. When she entered the chamber, the door closed behind her, and a large dog circled her several times as a welcome. He brought her brushes, canvases, and the most evocative paint colours she had ever seen. His voice seemed to come from inside her brain. “Take your time,” he panted, “This is your sanctuary. I will give you everything you need.” Seemingly unable to stop herself, she picked up a brush and began to paint. She painted without stopping, transfixed as she added stroke after stroke, and completely lost herself to it.
The adoring dog praised her work and promised her he would get her paintings in the Louvre. “The world needs your work. I need your work.” “The Louvre? Really?” Judith puzzled at this notion, could this really be happening? The fulfillment of her life-long dream? A beautiful ‘awakening’, and she wondered why the woman exiting the cave looked so relieved to be off the ride.
Day after day, as the dog’s panting marked time like a second hand on a grandfather clock, Judith lived her dream. Every painting, a masterpiece! claimed the canine, and as they disappeared from the chamber. He promised they were on their way to Paris. In not sharing them with those she loved though, Judith felt an ache twitching inside. Cut off from her outside life, she missed her family, her friends, ‘for god’s sake’ she thought ‘I almost miss the freaking carousel’. Headaches plagued her from the lack of sunlight and fresh air and she finally asked the dog how long this experience lasted. He stopped panting briefly to reply, “Oh, this is for life.” For the first time, Judith saw his upper lip quivering as he talked, revealing sharp thorn-like incisors. Her hand lifted to her throat as she remembered the final question of the survey.
At this moment her eyes readjusted to the light. How had she never noticed the dog’s eyes were amber, the colour of wolf eyes. And this sanctuary, that had kept all obligations at bay, suddenly felt like it had trapped her, instead of freed her. She backed up slowly trying not to alert the wolf to her change of heart, but when she reached the door, she could not open it. There was no handle.
Sliding along the wall, she felt a dampness around the edges of a slim passage. While the wolf gulped down some dinner, she slipped into the passage. The darkness nearly suffocated her, protruding stalactites sliced her forehead, and dolomite daggers tore at her clothes as she fled the angry tirade from the wolf. “You will never make it without my help! I gave everything to you. You owe me!” She finally emerged from the opening into a chamber with bars from floor to ceiling. A prison cell. Exhausted, she didn’t even test the bars, or call for help, or dispute the name-calling from the darkness.
Her compass spun in the dark, dank chamber. The wolf now sang her praises in the distance begging her to come back to her destiny. Judith longed to be back at the easel in the bright chamber, lost in a painting, but she could not go back. She cringed now at his claims of paintings in the Louvre; how could she have been so naive. Was he passing off the paintings as his own? She couldn’t be sure.
He handed her everything that she yearned for, but she now saw it as manipulation. She had become a prisoner to her own dreams by attaching them to him, realizing them through him. All the risk, the work, the price, all hers to pay. The cost of admission for stepping into her own yearning.
Plagued with fatigue, Judith noticed something dancing on her closed eyelid. A crack of light. And in the corner where a slice of the light struck, a dandelion blooming. Here in the dark, with barely any soil, it thrived against all odds. Like the sun itself, it melted her inward gazing blinders and reminded her of a world outside the bars that waited for her.
When she peered up from the dandelion, the bars of the cell vanished. Using the rock walls, she pulled herself to standing, convinced her stiff bones to move and hurried to the cave entrance, emerging into the bright sunlight, dandelion in hand. The operator handed Judith a stamped ticket and squinted at her “You aren’t supposed to pick the flowers.”
A unsuspecting woman reviewing the questionnaire studied Judith. “Is it worth it?”.
Judith lifted the dandelion to heart height and teared up. “I wish I had just picked this from my front lawn,” she replied. “But I didn’t know I could. At least that much I have learned.”
Judith retraced her steps to the carousel and used her stamped ticket to get on board. The wind in her face felt like freedom. And the dandelion in her hand, a beacon of the sun and a reminder that we have the power to heal ourselves in our darkest moments, even if it starts with the tiniest crack of light.
Laura these are two really well written stories. I loved your clever turn of phrase here: “The tomato does not fall far from its … cage.”
I enjoyed both of these. Although, to me ‘Cost of Admission’ was more personal. I’ve been in that same mindset many times before. Where those questions apply to my life, either directly or indirectly. They are both examples of ‘From the Heart’ writing that for my money is the best type of the Craft! Thank you for sharing these with the rest of us Mortals!