Takeoffs and Landings(43)

Lori could remember her mother going off to Washington, D.C. “She’s going to talk to the president,” she’d bragged at school, because nobody in first grade had ever heard of Congress. But Washington scared Lori. She was afraid “Joanie’s going to Washington” was just the grown-ups’ way of saying that Mom was going to die, too.

Lori stared out the window at a palm frond that still didn’t seem real. Was that really what she had feared? Why hadn’t she remembered that before?

“But, Mom, you were great,” Chuck was saying. “You were . . . awesome.”

“Oh, honey, you weren’t there. Videotape lies. I didn’t manage to say a single thing I wanted to,” Mom said, shaking her head ruefully. “And then I got so mad, because that one congressman kept trying to make it seem like a crime that I had five children. He wanted me to say that we were going to have to go on welfare and be a burden to society, and I was determined—even if I made a total fool of myself—that I wasn’t going to give him that satisfaction.”

“But then you were famous, and people all over the country wanted to hear you speak,” Lori said.

“It wasn’t like that,” Mom said. “I went home like some dog running off with his tail between his legs. I never wanted to leave Pickford County again.”

Lori was so surprised, she jerked back and almost tipped over her chair. Mom had felt like that?

“Then the Highland County Farm Bureau asked me to speak to them, and I didn’t feel like I could say no. You should have seen me working on my speech. It took me two weeks. Hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Chuck realized he had seen his mother working on her speech. He could remember her sitting at the kitchen table beside him, while he sweated over arithmetic homework. He erased holes in his work paper. Mom snapped her pencil in two.

“I stuttered giving that speech,” Mom said. “I figured the whole county felt so sorry for me, that had to be the reason the Highland Presbyterian Church Women’s Association asked me to speak at their spring luncheon.” Mom had a half smile on her face, remembering. “Afterward, they gave me an envelope with a check inside, and I thought it was charity, like they’d taken up an offering for me because we were so poor. I tried to give it back, I was so humiliated, but they kept saying, ‘That’s your stipend. Your honorarium.’ I didn’t even know what those words meant. I didn’t know people got paid for talking, unless they were preachers.”

“But you liked it,” Lori said fiercely. “You liked talking more than you liked staying home with us.”

Mom looked steadily at her.

“Oh, Lori, I hated it. I felt like such a fool. Every time I got up to speak, I felt like there was a—a brick in the pit of my stomach. And I missed you all so much, it was like being turned inside out every time I had to leave.”

“So why’d you do it?” Lori challenged.

“At first, I felt like I owed people something. Like maybe Tom had died for a reason, and the reason was that I had to warn people not to take their husbands and wives and kids for granted. I never expected to make a career of this. I just took every speech as it came. But they kept coming. And people kept handing me checks. I started doing the math. I realized I could make minimum wage flipping burgers at McDonald’s, and you all could be kids who got free lunches at school and bought all your clothes from yard sales; or I could go on the road, and you could have piano lessons and dance lessons and pay 4-H club dues and wear the same clothes as everyone else.”

Mom’s eyes begged Lori and Chuck to say, You made the right decision. We’re glad you did what you did. But Chuck was wondering, How could Mom hate something she was so good at? And if she hated it, how could she bear to keep doing it? Lori kept her lips pressed tightly together. Mom filled the silence.

“After a while, when I realized I was going to be speaking a lot, I stopped hating it so much. I got better at it. It was kind of fun, like being in a play. I knew my lines. But it was still hard, being away from you kids. Every second I was away, I worried about you—even the times when you would have been in school and I wouldn’t have seen you anyway. Then—” Mom hesitated, as if she wasn’t sure how much she should say. Lori and Chuck kept quiet, waiting. Mom went on. “One night my flight got delayed. I should have been home before supper, but it was past you kids’ bedtime before I pulled into the drive. Gram came out apologizing, right and left: ‘They were just so tired. If I’d known when you were getting home, I’d have kept them awake.’ I tiptoed into your room, Lori, hoping you were still up and we could talk, and you could tell me about which of your friends wasn’t speaking to which of your other friends. But you were already sound asleep. You looked so peaceful, with your hair spread out on your pillow, that I realized you didn’t really need me. Gram was giving you everything you needed. After that, I didn’t worry so much. It was like you had given me permission to be away.”