A Mother's Love by Mary Morris Read Free Book Online Page B

got in. “Sam!” I shouted. “Don’t do that!” But my voice was drowned out in the din of the casino, the whirling of wheels, the sound of chips dropping into palms. The doors closed and she was gone.
    My parents must have looked my way and seen me frantically pounding on the elevator doors. My father dashed across the casino and began banging on the buttons. He was desperate, hitting at the elevators with his fists. “Why didn’t you watch her?” my mother shouted at me. “Why did you let her go?” as if I were responsible.
    Suddenly the elevator returned. Its doors opened and there, standing alone and bewildered, was Sam, tears sliding down her cheeks. My mother grabbed her, clutching her in her arms. She reached for me as well. “I’m sorry, Ivy,” she said, “I don’t know what gets into me. I’m sorry.” My father put his arms around all of us and for amoment we were entangled in one another’s arms. Then he kissed my mother hard, letting his lips linger. “Wait up for me, all right?”
    She smiled, nodding, looking as if she were falling asleep. “I will.”
    She drove us back in silence to the trailer park. We drove down the rows of trailers, some with real yards and even trees in front, which made them look like homes. My father had bought our trailer for a thousand dollars from a former dealer who had moved to Arizona when his wife died. Many of the people who worked in Vegas and serviced the casinos lived in trailer parks on the outskirts of town, and my father had friends nearby, nice people who had kids. They liked to drop in and have a beer, though my mother did not approve of them and never offered them lemonade or “something a little stronger,” the way my father did. Our trailer had a porch with green outdoor carpeting and a barbecue. The windows on the side had green awnings to keep out the extreme heat. There were lounge chairs out front and a small yard where we could play.
    Inside the trailer was another matter. Everything had a layer of grime or was falling apart. Things needed fixing. When we lived in California, my mother seemed to take care of the house. But once we reached Vegas, it all stopped as if she had gone on strike. Whatever it was, she had no interest, as other mothers seemed to have. SometimesDottie, who lived next door, would wash our clothes for school or bring us a casserole for dinner. When Dottie came over, my mother perked up. Together they washed the dishes, straightened the house. Then they sat on the porch and smoked cigarettes and drank lemonade. My mother seemed happiest at those times, and sometimes she’d even call me to her and give me a hug for no reason at all.
    When we got home that evening, my mother paused in the kitchen to rinse out a glass so that she could pour herself a drink. The water streamed over the sinkful of dishes that were washed only when we needed them. Sometimes Sam and I would wash them, but this was just for fun. My mother sat down with her drink on the lopsided sofa in the dark and dreary living room. She fiddled with the antenna of the black and white TV, but she couldn’t get a picture, so she gave up. She tapped her fingers on the table that held the lava lamp with its blue-and-gold undulating glob that my father loved and his collection of knickknacks—miniature glass horses, cats, odd things like that. When she got up, she went into their room, which was off the kitchen. She took her drink with her and she closed the door. We didn’t dare disturb her when she did this.
    I could hear the bed creak as she lay down. The only piece of furniture in their room, other than a reading lamp (though I don’t recall ever seeinganyone read), was the bed, which seemed to consume the room. I wondered how it had gotten in there at all, and it seemed to me to pose the same problem as a boat in a bottle. My parents’ dresser had to be in the living