My girlfriend, Dee, didn't like my Mom, said Mom was too bossy.
That's probably true.
Mom is a take charge lady. She doesn't let decisions hang in the air. She tells others what she wants, and she has a voice—kind of sandy and resonating—that cuts across everyone else's. She is decisive enough that others tend to go along with her.
Dee is one of those girls who, like Mom, knows exactly what she wants, but Dee needs to be polite. She won't come out and demand things like Mom. Dee acquiesces to other people, but she gets bitter about it later. It's annoying.
Mom is a force. She's on the tall side, about five feet eight, but she seems taller. One morning when I was fourteen, Mom told me that I had grown taller than her. I didn't believe it until that night when her boyfriend confirmed it as Mom and I stood back-to-back. Yet, even knowing I was taller, I still felt as if I was always looking up to her. I think a lot of people felt that way. The woman took command. Every one of her boyfriends over the years—all of them that lasted long enough for me to meet them—were pushovers for her.
I remember sitting in the family room with Pete—her longest lasting and current boyfriend—when I was back in high school. Mom was upstairs getting ready. Pete—he wasn't complaining—talked to me about how Mom almost always decided what to do when they went out together.
"I think she asks me so that she can have something to compare her idea with, you know?" Pete said.
"Yeah?"
He nodded. "She needs to confirm her own plans. She needs my idea to make sure hers is the better one, so she can shoot something down."
Hearing him talk about it, I realized right then that Pete was spot on. Countless occasions jumped into my head where Mom asked what I thought, considered it for a moment, and then quickly dismissed the idea. I always had the feeling she already knew what she was going to do.
She didn't plan on me, though. Mom had me when she was twenty years old. I never knew my father. Mom said, "Believe me, you'd be disappointed, honey." My guess is that I am the result of some kind of one-night stand—probably drunken—with someone, in sobriety, she dismissed as a loser.
Right out of high school, Mom told me she was a dancer. I used to ask her about it. She'd always be vague, other than to tell me that she quit dancing because of me. By the time I was fifteen, I quit asking because I thought I figured out her dancing.
She never admitted it—and I never asked—but I had a pretty good idea that she had been a stripper. I didn't have any hard evidence, just speculation. For starters, a female high-school graduate with no professional dance training probably can't get on at the Boise Ballet. Also, I had this memory from when I was six or seven years old.
Mom and I were playing hide and seek in the house. It was my turn to hide, so I ran upstairs to her bedroom. Her closet had two double sliding doors on opposite sides of the back wall. Between the doors sat Mom's dresser. I went into one of the closets, sliding the door closed behind me.
I'd looked in her closet before, but what I'd never known was the space inside spanned all the way through, between the two sets of doors. So, I crawled under the hanging clothes to hide in the middle area, on the other side of the wall opposite Mom's dresser.
At some point, Mom came in. She opened both doors, didn't see me, and left to seek me elsewhere in the house.
When she slid open the door, some light came in. A reflection caught my attention. Once Mom left and the heat was off, I reached up and touched what I'd seen. It felt like beads or crystals. I crawled to the side, slid open the door, and then went back.
There must have been fifteen hangers with really strange clothes. I pulled the most interesting one off the hook, completely forgetting about hide and seek. I laid it across Mom's bed, amazed.
I didn't really know what I was looking at, other than it was clothes—women's clothes. There were two hangers, interconnected, one hanging off the other. The top hanger was a bra, I thought. Maybe a swimsuit, my little kid's mind figured. Either way, it appeared to be made entirely of diamonds or crystals. On the lower part hung the matching bottoms. They seemed impossibly skimpy, even to my inexperienced eyes.
There were other strange outfits in there, and while I was retrieving the diamond outfit, I noticed several colorful wigs on the shelf above. It didn't matter. I was transfixed by the sparkling ensemble before me. I glided my finger across the studded jewels.
Mom walked into the room while I had the bra in my hands, rubbing it against my cheek.
She shrieked, and I jumped backward. She ran over to me, threw the outfit back into the closet, and rolled the closet door shut. I started crying, and whatever anger she'd had all dissolved away.
By the time I'd gotten the courage to go back and see those things—maybe a few months later—they were all gone.
When I was fifteen, something triggered that memory. I can't remember what it was. Doesn't matter. I knew enough to know those clothes weren't sexy outfits a woman wore for her lover in the privacy of the bedroom. They were something else, something to be worn at an event, and I thought I knew what kind.
I blocked it from my mind and never asked.
The disconcerting belief that Mom had been a stripper was also buttressed by the fact that my friends all fucked with me about her body and her looks throughout middle and high school. I couldn't really separate myself from the fact that she was my Mom, so I never saw it the way they did.
From my perspective, she just took care of herself. Her white-blonde hair was thick and rich. She almost always braided it into a bun or a long pony-tail. Her skin tanned well. She worked out. Her sleek legs had feminine lines of muscle that rippled when she walked. Her chest wasn't crazy, but big—she embarrassed the hell out of me when she wore anything with a low neckline.
She was a beautiful woman. I could see how people would think that. Her smile made me want to keep her happy and laughing. Her eyes, dark brown like coffee, expressed warmth and affection. She had a wonderfully long neck that made her seem alert and eager. Her posture was always very proper, almost regal.
That was another thing Dee sometimes complained about—how proper my Mom was. She never swore. She never left the house without being made up and dressed perfectly for whatever the occasion. Dinner at home was rarely informal and almost always in the dining room. I remember eating at a friend's house and being shocked to see the television on. Mom would never allow such a thing.
Manners were another big thing for Mom. We had lessons all the time when I was a kid. When I complained, Mom always said, "You will not find a lot of boys with good manners in prison. Does that tell you anything, honey?"
I always wondered what my Mom must have been like in those times before I was born. How could this formal, perfectly-mannered lady ever have been a stripper?
I hadn't a clue.
All I understood was my Mom knew what she wanted, she didn't hesitate to tell people what it was, and she was forceful and beautiful enough to almost always get it.
It didn't surprise me, then, when after working as an administrative assistant for an attorney, she decided to do night school to get her degree. Then she finished law school. Then, she worked for a judge. Then, she became an arbitrator—which is basically a judge, but for mediations instead of criminal or civil trials.
So, Mom ruled. Literally.
And her profession was proper, like her.
She didn't smoke or get drunk all the time. She didn't really have any vices but one: Fridays.
Mom loved Fridays. The minute she could set her own schedule, she quit working Fridays. As the years passed, Fridays became a kind of ritual for her. When she woke, she drank coffee and read the news. Then, she would go to the gym and work out for hours—and I do mean hours: three, minimum. When she got home, she showered until all the hot water was gone, and then she curled up in bed with HGTV on. She'd watch her favorite shows, read a book, or nap until the evening.
But, there was one strange aspect to her Friday ritual: she didn't eat all day.
It's true. She fasted on Fridays. She'd drink her coffee and water, of course, but she wouldn't eat, not until dinner. And, oh shit, what a dinner she would have.
Friday night was often date night for her, but on those rare occasions when it wasn't, I got to see how she ate.
Fuck.
We're talking porterhouse steaks with loaded baked potatoes. We're talking clam chowder, lobster, and cheesecake for dessert. We're talking a full rack of barbecue ribs with coleslaw and sweet potato fries topped off with pecan pie. She cut loose.
Saturday would arrive, and she slept in. Things returned to normal.
I knew not to screw up Mom's Fridays.
***
During my sophomore year in college, I spent a Friday with her.
It wasn't planned. I didn't really even realize it until it worked out the way it did.
I was commuting at Boise State, living at home with Mom. I had classes on Friday, but when final exams came around, my last one turned out to be on a Thursday.
So, it was mid-December, and I was home with nothing to do on a Friday.
I planned to just chill, but Mom was energized.
"Come to the gym with me," she said, half suggesting, half demanding. She took a sip of coffee, hanging on to the morning paper with her other hand and waiting for me to agree to her plan.
"You want me to?"
"It'll be fun."
"Okay."
Shortly before 9:00am, we left together in her black Four-Runner. I forgot my cell phone.
I was out of my routine. During the school year, I always grabbed the phone from my nightstand on my way downstairs. I'd grab a pop and a granola bar, then head to school.
That morning was different; I took my phone and went downstairs, but I wasn't dressed and ready to go. When I went back upstairs to change into workout gear, I left my phone in the kitchen. I didn't think to grab it on my way out the door.
The air was weirdly calm that morning. Outside, there wasn't even the trace of a breeze.
It was also unseasonably cold. Boise is high desert. It may be pretty far north for America, but the climate is mild. You get two bad months—mid-December to mid-February. During those months, we get this thing called "inversion" because we're in a valley. So, during inversion, you never see the sun and cold air just gets trapped by the mountains. Other than those times, it is clear, sunny, and comfortable. Summers can be downright hot—100's, no problem.
That morning, the chill in the air was deep. It was the first truly frigid day of the season. Between that and the stillness, it felt like the whole city lay frozen, waiting for something to happen.
It had been a dry fall, so there wasn't a trace of ice, and the roads were fine. The drive took us almost twenty minutes because we lived in a new development in the foothills north of town. The only notable thing on our trip was the fact that there seemed to be hardly any cars about. As we walked into the gym, I saw a snowflake on the sleeve of my coat.
Mom's workout was something else. For the first hour, she jogged around the mini-track and then swam laps. I only jogged, not having brought my swimsuit. Out the windows, we watched the snowflakes come down, and it was beautiful. Once Mom left for the pool, I found an elliptical and watched ESPN.
Mom joined me after her swim.
"Look at this snow," she remarked.
I hadn't even glanced away from the television. When I did, I slowed down.
Geez.
Visibility was about 20 yards out those windows. Fat snowflakes obscured the rest of the world.
"No wonder this place is empty," she added.
"You worried? Should we go?" I asked.
"No way. I'm not even close to being finished," she responded. "Let's go lift."
So, we lifted weights, The snow kept falling, if anything, more intensely. When it hit the ground, it wasn't immediately melting anymore; it accumulated.
After close to forty-five minutes of lifting, we drank some water, and Mom invited me to her spinning group, which started at 11:15am.
