Ten-Finger Exercises

Awkward Pauses

Here's my short story for class tomorrow. Not my best. Don't know where it came from really. I guess it's from the awkward dialogues I sometimes have with my own daughter at times when I wish she'd call and then call her myself.

Awkward Pauses
Ann Wren Howard November 29, 2012

“So I brought up two loads of laundry to fold, you know, and I’d used the end of a bottle of fabric softener on one load and a new kind on the second load. It’s supposed to be lavender magnolia, or some such thing. So I’m sniffing them, you know, and sure enough, there is a difference, only I can’t tell which is which. One might smell like lavender, or who knows, but I’m thinking the other one smells a little like menthol of all things. Then I find the remains of a cough drop still wrapped up in the second batch. No wonder it smells like menthol. Don’t you think that’s funny? Maybe I should tell Downy about it and make a lot of money: a laundry softener that helps you breathe at night.

“You aren’t laughing. Have you been listening?”

“That’s why I like texting better, Mom. I don’t have to listen,“ Marcy said. She doodled in the margin of her chemistry book as she waited for an answer. That had probably been too harsh, but darn, she was busy!

There was a long, long pause. Jan didn’t know what to say. Part of her wanted to just hang up. Why bother ? She gave herself a little mental shake. That’s the kind of thing kids do when they’re mad, she thought. Hang up, or slam the door, or just walk off, or say something mean. The other person is supposed to feel bad then and apologize, but it never works out that way.

She took a deep breath and responded in a quiet voice, “Okay, Marcy, I get it that I’m bothering you by calling. What do you want me to do about it?”

This was Marcy’s time for a long pause. “I dunno,” she said finally. “Just don’t talk so much, will you? I don’t really care what your laundry smells like.”

“No, I don’t suppose you do. I just thought it was funny. It was something to say. You could do the talking yourself, you know.” Jan could feel her anger growing in response.

“I guess I would if I had something to say. Ever think of that? I don’t have anything to tell you. You want me to chat with you like you’re my best friend and tell you all about my roommate and school and if I’m dating anyone. That’s just not gonna happen, Mom.”

Jan could hear the exasperation in Marcy’s voice. She sounded near tears. The conversation felt familiar, as if they’d had other versions of this talk before when Marcy was still at home. Marcy used to complain that Jan was always hovering, that she was smothering her. Now she was a thousand miles away at college and that still wasn’t far enough, evidently. She was still acting like a defiant teenager. Wait. She still is a teenager, Jan thought.

“Well, yes, I guess I would like us to be friends. I would like to hear about your life. I guess I made a mistake thinking you’d like to hear about mine too. And I’m not trying to guilt you, I promise.” And she wasn’t.

“Yeah, right.”

“No, I’m not. Listen. I want to hear from you every week, to know you’re okay, and you can ‘Oh Mom!’ all you want but that’s a requirement. You can send me a postcard if you don’t want to talk. It’s more trouble than texting, but it works the same way. Or you could call. Or I’ll keep calling you. Take your choice.”

“I’ll think about it,” Marcy said. “Um, bye, Mom.”

“Bye, dear.”

Jan was fuming. Damn. I’d like to threaten that I’ll cut off her money, or that I’ll drive up there and make her come home. If she can’t even spend five minutes talking to me, why should I be doing so much for her?

College tuition, room and board, books and transportation—they all added up big. Sure, they’d been saving for it, both Jan and Marcy, but even Jan’s savings were a drop in the bucket. Marcy’s part probably covers makeup and lattes, Jan thought. This is what I wanted for her, though. It would hurt us both to take it away for, for what? For not wanting to talk to me on the phone? That would be crazy.

She’d given Marcy the choice. That was an adult thing to do, she reminded herself. Jan tried to quit thinking about it, but she couldn’t let go of the sadness. It wasn’t as if she needed the weekly conversations to prove to herself that Marcy loved her and was grateful for her sacrifices. Or was it?

She struggled to frame the thought. I want to make sure she’s okay. No. She’s okay as she can be at eighteen. I want to be there for her if she needs me. Which she doesn’t. But I want her to know I will be. She knows. Well, then, I just want to tell her I love her. Why? Because I need to say it, to stay connected somehow, even if that’s all, even if it has to be on her terms.

Maybe I need to work on some friendships for myself, she mused, and she reached for the phone book.

Jan waited for three days to hear what those terms were. In the mailbox, among the holiday catalogues, junk mail and bills, there was a postcard with a picture of the campus in springtime. The message read: “You can call me every other week. I’ll try to talk. Please ask Gramma for a new phone for Christmas, one that accepts text messages. I love you. Marcy.”

Jan smiled. Maybe some day they’d be friends. For now, she was still the mom, letting go a little at a time.