Don't Call Me Mother by Linda Joy Myers Read Free Book Online Page B

two-hour trip by car. Gram pulls her face taut with her fingers, muttering about getting older. I try to get her to hurry. When she finally takes out her lipstick, I sigh with relief. I ask her why Mommy doesn’t visit very often.
    “She’s busy.”
    “Don’t you miss her?” I wonder if Gram misses her daughter the way I miss my mother. Gram doesn’t answer. Instead she asks me what dress to wear. I choose the one with the red collar. She plops on the bed and lights another cigarette. Gold dust motes and gray smoke filter through the Venetian blinds in the morning light. “You know, I still have a mother. My mama lives in Iowa. Mothers and daughters—they don’t always get along.”
    I have forgotten that Gram has a mother, assuming she is too old to have one. I nod, hoping she’ll go on.
    “And things happen that nobody—well, almost nobody—can help. And then one thing leads to another. Hell. I don’t know. Your mama, she ought to marry again, that would make her happy.”
    I remember my father and his new wife, but I never think about my mother getting married again. Then she might forget about me entirely. Secretly, I want my mother and father to be together again and have me with them, but I can never tell anyone this. It feels like an unspoken rule not to talk about it. I can’t wait to see Mommy. Still, I worry about her visit. I suppose that she’ll fight with Gram the way they did in Wichita. I yearn for her throaty voice and her fingers on my skin. Most of all, I can’t wait to find out if she’s happy to see me, if she misses me too.
     
    The road is long and straight across the open land. Dry grasses are pressed flat by the strong winds that blow day in and day out. We drive through small towns littered with broken-down cars and dilapidated buildings. Skinny dogs wander alone with haunted eyes.
    Perry is whispery quiet, its downtown built around a square with maple trees and a gazebo. A sign announces the Cherokee Strip. Gram tells me the land was stolen from the Indians. In a land run, some settlers stole a claim early, which is why Oklahoma is called the Sooner state. At the station, people wait impatiently for the train—it’s three hours late. Gram sashays to the office to ask about the schedule. The train man’s glasses slip to the end of his nose. “Ma’am, the train will be here in thirty minutes. It was late out of Chicago and had engine trouble in Kansas City.”
    Putting on her fake English accent, Gram asks for a light. Her “English woman” routine makes me squirm. The man comes out of his booth and flicks a match against her cigarette. She leans toward him, her eyes meeting his for an electrifying moment. I don’t understand the looks on their faces, but there’s something in Gram’s I don’t see at home. Aunt Helen says Gram is eccentric. I’m not sure what this means, but it can’t be good.
    Everyone gathers on the platform. I stand at the edge of the tracks for a moment before Gram hisses me away, gazing to the silvery place at the horizon where they meet, trying to imagine what is beyond. The whole day is magic—my mommy will be here soon and all will be well. People mill around, some women wearing housedresses, their hair in rollers covered by scarves. Both of my mothers always look beautiful in their stylish dresses and great shoes. A boy kneels down by the tracks to grasp the rails and cries, “It’s coming. I can feel the vibrations!”
    A beam of light hovers far off down the track. The train seems suspended for a moment as in a mirage, not moving; then the earth begins to tremble, and the whistle splits the air. The power of the onrushing train shocks me, makes my heart pound hard. People scatter as the steel beast roars in so fast I’m sure it will never stop. When the brakes finally take hold, the train keeps going for a few moments, metal screeching on metal. I put my hands over my ears. Finally, amazingly, the huge train shudders to a stop. Regular life