A different sort of love story.

My Mama: Manda’s Story

My mama. She sits on her bed with her legs crossed, hugging herself hard, rocking back and forth, never stopping, never hardly talking. Sometimes she slows her rocking and glances at Dad’s face when he talks. I don’t know if that’s really listening or not. I think she doesn’t know how to listen much. Sometimes she looks at our mouths moving and then she moves her mouth. But there’s still quiet. I hate her quiet. I hate her. I hate everybody who has a real mom.

She didn’t even flinch when I yelled those words in her ear. Her eyes just glazed over and she looked like an ancient blind woman, but she’s only 43. She’s not an old woman at all.

Dad’s gonna get her a rocking chair. He’s gonna put it in their bedroom where she can look out the window and where she can rock herself and not look so crazy. I feel bad thinking my mama’s crazy, but what am I s’posed to think. I can’t even let anyone into the house for fear someone will see Mama. Maybe start to wondering how our Mama takes care of Jeff and me.

But no one need wonder or worry ’cause we’re not little kids anymore. I’m 10 and Jeff, why he’s almost 15. And anyway, our Dad takes care of us when he’s home. And Martha who’s Mama’s day worker, she watches us a little. And you might be surprised at this, but when we’re doing something wrong, why Mama will start rocking her body so hard, I’m afraid she’s gonna fall over. I think that’s her way of telling us she knows we’re being naughty.

So don’t worry none about us. We’re used to Mama’s rocking. We don’t hardly notice it. Most of the time, I’m sorry to say, we don’t hardly notice her. What we do notice, though, is when Mama stops rocking. Then there’s trouble. One day I was sitting next to Mama on her bed, and I started rocking. I didn’t even know I was rocking, but Mama went ballistic. Fire in her eyes and she turned red all over her flesh and she couldn’t breathe. She stopped rocking. “Stop,” she said to me in a raw, edgy-sharp voice I never, ever want to hear again.

When I told Martha, she yelled at me. “You rock like that, they’ll think you’re going on like her. They’ll come take both of you away, and I won’t be doing nothing to stop it. You want that?”

“No, m’am,” I whispered, and went and sat on the stoop ’til Jeff came home from baseball practice. Jeff’s about the only person in the whole world who understands what goes on in our house.
But there is one more thing I want to tell you about Mama. Kind of a normal thing. Pa put a swing in the back yard. It’s all fenced in, so no one can see in. He walks Mama outside and sits her in the swing. He pushes her, back and forth, and sometimes she laughs in a funny sort of way.

See. She’s just our Mama with a sickness in her brain. A mess of garbage in her brain that causes me to get a sickness in my heart. I just don’t know what to do to make her get better. Jeff says there isn’t a thing we can do, but I don’t believe him.

My Ma: by Jeffrey A. Bachmann

Manda’s right about one thing. None of us get exactly what’s the reason Ma’s so sick. But there sure is something sick about her, even if I don’t know the name of what she’s got. Dad talks about chemicals in Ma’s brain. How she doesn’t have enough chemicals in her brain.

Maybe that’s why she rocks so much. So she can spread the chemicals all around in her brain. Nah. I know that’s not the way it is, but I sure wish something would work on those chemicals. She even gets extra in those little pills her doctor gives her. Personally, I can’t tell the difference, whether she takes those pills or whether she doesn’t. Maybe I could give her some of my chemicals in a transplant, or whatever.

Dad drives Ma to the clinic every month. We all went in to meet Ma’s doctor once. Her doc seems okay. She’s pretty old, but I know for sure she was one foxy lady when she was younger. Doctor B. has a picture of herself on her desk –one of her doing some mighty fine dancing in a mighty fine dress. Her hair’s flaming red and piled on top of her head. Her eyes were so green they made me feel all funny inside. Now that’s how a mother ought to look.

Ma never misses her appointment with Doctor B. I think she likes her. We all drop her off at the clinic and then we hurry and go grocery shopping or buy other stuff like baseball shoes for me. That seems like the only time we act like we’re a family.

Ma’s been going to see Doctor B. for nearly 10 years. Dad says Ma’s a lot better than she used to be, but I can’t figure that out. She must have been mostly dead to be worse than she is now.

In fact, she acts pretty dead right now. Well, not always. There is a time when Ma seems to listen. That’s when Manda starts talking weather talk. I probably haven’t told you all, but Manda’s an honest to goodness weather girl. She loves all the weathermen on TV, but she especially likes this guy called Kevin. Manda’s always going on, “Kevin this” or “Kevin that.”

Dad called the weather station once, right before Christmas, to see if they had any promo stuff on this guy. He was gonna give it to Manda, but they laughed at Dad. See. Just shows you how crazy normal people can be.

Anyway, Ma listens to Manda speak her weather words. She looks spellbound when Manda throws her weather words around — cold fronts, dew points, record rain falls. Manda’s always telling Ma what city had the highest temperature or the lowest temperature. All those words most people don’t care about, but Manda goes on and on. I know Ma listens some, because once in a while she’ll answer. Ma likes those high and low temperatures something fierce.

Amanda says “Now I’m in Billington, Montana where the lowest temperature is -14 degrees.” And sometimes Ma repeats her. “Low,” she says. I don’t know why she says that. She barely talks when Dad or I am there. We have to stand at the doorway to hear her talk. Personally, I think it wastes the words Ma can say. I want Ma to save some of her words for me. I’ve got important conversations to talk to her about. But no, Manda uses them all on the weather.

Listen to this, if you don’t think Ma’s got stuff working in her brain. On Easter Day, Ma sat by the window, and stared at the sky something fierce. She looked and looked and she said “snow” clear as clear can be. Everyone heard her say it, so I’m not making this up. Now the sky was a blue blue color and white clouds floated right along. But Ma watched out that window all day long. Wouldn’t even have dinner with us and Dad cooked ham and sweet potatoes and chocolate cake for desert. She just rocked and waited.

Then evening came and the sky turned thick with gray clouds. The wind picked up and it started snowing. And how did Ma know about that snow. Why, a couple weeks ago Manda was reading the Farmer’s Almanac. Mind you, a couple weeks ago. And Manda told everyone, “It’s going to snow on Easter.” Now, who would believe that. Snow in the middle of March! But darned if it didn’t happen just the way Manda said.

So then Manda turned right around, right around where Ma was sitting and she said, “You’re right, Mama. I told you that, didn’t I?” And Ma looked right at Manda and she waited a bit. “Yes.” That’s what she said.

Then Ma stopped rocking and leaned forward and patted Manda on the head. Manda grabbed Ma’s hand and plopped a big kiss on the backside. Ma laughed and laughed, and Dad and Manda laughed. But not me. I felt like crying inside.

Ma looked at Manda, all satisfied like. Ma’s brain is definitely there. I’m not exactly sure where, but that’s proof Ma’s got brains working. Maybe she needs more practice at thinking and talking and paying attention. Maybe at paying more attention to me.

I try to talk to her when Manda’s not going on and on about the damn weather. She gets that blank look on her face and rocks herself. Sometimes Manda and Ma make me sick with all their talking special weather crap.

But I keep on trying. I really do. “Ma,” I say. “Listen to me. You don’t really drive me crazy. No, you don’t.” I talk louder and louder to get her to look at me and listen, but she just ignores me.

Ma always listens to Manda, but she never listens to me, and I’ve got important things to tell her. I want to tell her about my baseball team. I made Varsity and I’m only a sophomore.

“Do you hear me Ma? I made Varsity. I’ll get my baseball letter to put on my jacket. I might go to the University and play ball on scholarship. Maybe play on a Big 10 team. Ma. Ma. Listen to me!” But she won’t give me a smile. She won’t even look at me. I love my Ma and she won’t even look at me.

Finally I got an idea. “Ma.” My voice felt strangled, stuck right in my throat. “Ma. You want me to read to you about the weather? Here. Here’s the paper. The high temperature was 74 in Fort Myers, Florida. You hear, Ma? 74. That sure is pretty hot for it being March.”

And my Ma, well, she looked at me. Looked right at me and then she smiled. Do you hear that? She smiled at me! And so I kept on going, on and on about the weather. When I finally stopped, she stopped rocking and she leaned over and she patted my head!

I guess I’ll take those smiles and pats, no matter how I get them. I’ll wait on baseball for the time being, ’cause I’m reading the weather reports right now.

Barbara Farenbach