CHARMS ON A GOLDEN CHAIN

Before starting the engine to drive Becca to work, I handed her four faded, cotton-soft five dollar bills and said, "I’d planned to stash these inside the makeup box Melissa gave you for your birthday last night, but I felt too whipped to go down to the garage and hunt for my purse."

Becca looked surprised, " But you already gave me a present?" I sensed her concern that I was overextending myself financially. Nearly whispering, she said, "Thanks Mom."

Teasing her, speaking in a stern voice, I added, "Now keep your damned makeup inside that box instead of spilling it all over the carpet."

Quite unexpectedly, I glimpsed a divinely innocent expression dissolving her usual "I’m too cool to give a damn demeanor. Tears welled up in me as I said, "THAT was a really sweet look, honey."

Becca, a little embarrassed, sighed and turned the radio on."

She closed her eyes, stretched her legs out, and posted a psychic "No Trespassing" sign.

During the holiday season Becca gifted me other precious moments--each linked together like charms on a golden chain. It began with, "Mom, since this is girl’s night in, and yeah, I know I’m not supposed to eat in my room and all that—but if we’re really careful and lay some towels out, how about ordering Round Table Pizza and twisty breads and letting Melissa and me eat them in my room? She can choose one of her Disney movies and I’ll watch the whole nerdy thing with her."

I’d dreamed of Becca filling her big sister shoes. Suddenly, my dream was being full-filled. "Of course you can, Becca. It’s a very sweet idea. Melissa will be ecstatic."

"Sorry to not invite you in too, Mom. But, well, Melissa couldn’t care less what my room looks like and you….."

I interrupted, "Say no more. I get your drift."

As soon as the pizza arrived, Becca yelled, Melissa, the pizza’s here!" Running from her room through mine, careening around the corner, Melissa crashed into Becca who was standing at the doorway to her room. Becca asked, "What movie did you choose?"

Melissa replied, The Little Mermaid.

 

In a stage whisper to me, Becca joked sarcastically, "Now THAT’S a real surprise….she watches it practically every day."

Settling myself into the living room, I made a fire and played a Billy Holiday CD. Unused to reading at night while still alert, I savored my alone time. But half an hour into reading, I felt left out and a little lonely.

On the pretext of getting a sweater from my bedroom (next door to Becca’s room) I snuck a peek at my two girls—there they were, cuddling together, watching The Little Mermaid as if it was, for each of them, their very first time.

Inhaling that nectarous scene my belly filled with joy.

Aware that she was keeping Melissa up past her bedtime, Becca asked permission to let Melissa finish the movie. "Of course, I replied. "But get her into her pajamas so she’s ready to go to bed right afterwards."

The sound of Melissa running full speed back and forth between rooms told me, "Message delivered." When the movie was over, Melissa’s "perfect" day concluded with an enthused and loving goodnight hug and kiss from Becca.

Preferring to be with her friends, Becca, still very much "Becca" left our Christmas Eve celebration half an hour after it began. And to an impatient Melissa’s chagrin, she returned home later than our agreed upon time for opening presents Christmas morning.

But it was a very sweet and thoughtful Becca that momentarily left her Christmas day celebration to call me and ask, "How are you doing, Mom? Are you OK? I thought you might be having a hard time."

"You are so sweet to call," Becca." I replied. "Actually, I’m doing much better than I thought I would. Lori and her son and I are going to catch a movie in a few minutes. I was a little depressed earlier this afternoon—but I took Melissa’s new scooter out for a test run and had a blast. I am looking forward to next Christmas. We’ll all be more used to the changes in our family—the divorce won’t feel so new and raw and…."

She interrupted me, "Mom, I gotta go." I imagined her thinking, "God, Mom, I didn’t call to listen to you trip out on being divorced!"

As far back as I can remember, Becca consistently expressed unabashed annoyance at me—for simply being me. Are those days dead and buried? I’d like to think so. I look forward to one day affirming, "Yes, those days are over." But there’s still a lot of water under the bridge between Becca and me. Her six years of self-destructive crisis is like a stain that never completely disappears. Yet, with each washing, its obviousness does lighten.

During the past three months we have become increasingly relaxed and at ease with each other. Driving her home from work recently I commented, "Is it just me or do you feel like we’ve loosened up a lot lately?"

She nodded, "Yes."

Compelled by my hard to extinguish desire to be appreciated, I rattled off random samples of our new easefulness. And she, flashing a hurry-up and take my picture, plastic smile, countered, "Mom, it’s OK. I got your point the first time.

Then, pausing for a moment, she added mischievously, "Weren’t you just saying that we’ve become more relaxed, Mom?"