To see my parent would be to know they were working class. My father’s dungarees were so soiled my mother was unable to rid them of stains, no matter how hard she scrubbed. Her hands were chapped from all the soaking. I always noticed her pruny fingers because she was always fluffing her hair, which was matted from being in a hair net.
Dad was the janitor, and mom a lunch lady at James Otis Elementary School in East Boston, the same school I went to. At first they thought of working elsewhere so I wouldn’t be embarrassed, but mom told dad I wasn’t that different from the other kids. East Boston was where a lot of people who worked at Logan Airport lived, and not the pilots or managers.
“What does she have to be ashamed of?” I overheard her say. “We work hard, what we do is respectable. It’s not like the other kids’ parents are brain surgeons.”
The determination on her face when she tried removing the grease stains from dad’s pants and the constant fussing over her hair told me otherwise.
That point was driven home when I got invited to Tiffany Morgan’s birthday party.. Tiffany wore wore white leather boots when Nancy Sinatra’s song, ‘These Boots are Made For Walkin’ was popular. She had a Barbie playhouse that practically took up her entire bedroom. She lived in a colonial with lilac-colored rhododendrons and a sturdy oak tree out front. We lived a few blocks away, in a six-story apartment building with a rambling hedge and a shaky stair rail.
It was a plus that I was a success socially, got included in the pretty girl sleepovers. Mom saved up and made a special trip to Filene’s to get me a floral pajama set and matching robe.
I got all As from second grade on. In fourth grade during recess, Aaron Rossi, with his dark curly hair and broad shoulders, kept his eye on me, and when I looked in his direction he would swing his bat and hit the ball so far the other kids had to run out of the yard to retrieve it.
The downfall came when I was 14. My legs started to puff up like balloons. Mom took me to see Dr. Lawrence, who was the oldest person I knew and had a gizzard’s neck. He looked at me for two seconds and said, “You’ve got lipedema. It makes the bottom half of your body larger than the top half. There’s no cure — you’ll have it the rest of your life.”
He told me this like he was telling me I had poison ivy. I looked out the window. The rain was falling so hard the raindrops bounced.
He had me to go to the waiting room so he could talk to my mother. I heard a scream, then the sound of the chair hitting the floor, and I knew she had collapsed.
By the time I got to high school kids were calling me wobbles and hippopotamus. Tiffany pre-tended she didn’t know me, as did the rest of the sleepover girls. A few kids talked to me, Char-lie Mitchell, who had a stutter, and was always repeating things, Carole Goodman, who didn’t bathe often and wore the same brown jumper three days a week.
One of the kids who treated me decently was Oliver Wilson. He would say “Hi,” to me in home-room, and ask me stuff, like, didn’t I think Mr. Frisbee from calculus was goofy looking. I laughed, saying yes, his bow ties and cardigans made him look like someone’s uncle. Oliver was quiet and studious, didn’t have a lot of friends but never said anything cruel.
Come junior prom time, Tiffany talked about her pink one shoulder dress, how she and her mother picked it out together at a boutique on Newbury Street. The other sleepover girls said she should have had a tiara to go with it.
In the cafeteria one day, Oliver sat next to me, took a bite of his sandwich, and made a crinkly face. “Bologna again?” he said, and we both laughed. He moved a little closer to me. I thought he was going to make another joke about his lunch, then said, “I have something to ask you.” He looked down and rubbed his hands against his thighs. “Would you think about going to prom with me?” I was stunned and ecstatic, and about to say “Yes,” when he said, “Not.” A group of kids sitting nearby roared in laughter. Oliver lowered his head and stared at his lap. The other kids had put him up to it. That didn’t make it any less humiliating. I ran with my legs like tree trunks, kids laughing all the way out of school. I never went back, got a GED at night in classes with Italian immigrants.
Neither of my parents went to college. Before my visit with Dr. Lawrence, they had assumed I would be the first in the family to go, had put aside a college fund for me at the credit union. After getting my GED I told them I wasn’t applying. I expected them to argue with me, but they just looked despondent, like they were waiting for the news. I went to my room and cried.
I came home one day in a blue shirt with a ‘Walmart’ patch on it. Mom looked at me, went to the kitchen and began peeling potatoes. She cut her finger and stood there, watching blood drip onto the ash grey linoleum floor.
“Mom, do you need help?” I asked.
She stood still, watching the drops of blood, then said, “No, I’m fine.”
“I’ll get you a band-aid,” I said, heading toward the bathroom.
“I said I’m fine,” she said, gritting her teeth.
I went to my room, took off the shirt, and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
I suppose Walmart is like any workplace, with its good and bad. Marcy, who works in the elec-tronics department, is in a wheelchair. She fell when she was hiking in the White Mountains and tumbled a hundred feet. She has an expression on her face like someone’s told her someone in her family died. Every time she pushes her wheels, it’s like she becomes more bitter about life. There’s no joy, no joy at all.
I know I’m supposed to be sympathetic to disabled people, but besides being angry at life, I can tell Marcy doesn’t like me. I used to say hello to her when my shift started, but she would crin-kle her nose in a mean way. I just ignore her now.
Janie has cerebral palsy. She’s in a wheelchair, too, and works as a store greeter. Her head is tilted to the side, and I have a hard time understanding what she says. Even with her face askew, I can tell Janie’s unhappy.
The store manager is Liam. He was an Army chaplain but didn’t like constantly having to move his family. When he interviewed me I asked if I could sit while I was checking customers, as my legs hurt if I stand too long. He said, “Absolutely. I can tell you’re going to be our best cash-ier,” and gave me a soft smile. Even though he’s married, I would have moments where I imag-ined he was single, and took a liking to me. How can a girl like me not dream about a man who’s warm and kind, and makes you feel important?
My favorite person is Eloise, who works in crafts. She’s a spry thing for 75. She’d rather not be working so she can spend more time with her grandkids, but doesn’t get enough from Social Se-curity. She isn’t angry about it, smiles at all the customers. During lunch we crochet and knit, which she taught me. In her sly way she told me to buy my yarn at Knit One Purl One instead of at the store, where I get a discount. “It’s so much nicer,” she said. “Don’t tell Liam I told you that,” she whispered to me, and we both laughed.
A lot of older people who thought they’d be retired work here. Joe’s wife died of a stroke a few years ago and he said he was too lonely staying home by himself. He puts together bicycles that come in parts from China. He can put together five in a day. He gets joy from seeing kids come in and test ride the bikes around the store.
“You’re home early,” mom said one day, a crease in her forehead. “Are you ill?”
“I’m not feeling the best,” I said. “I’m just going to lie down a bit.”
After a few moments mom knocked on the door. “Can I come on?”
I didn’t want her in my room but her eyes were strained. “Sure,” I said.
“Did something happen at work today?” she asked, her eyes all puddly.
I’d heard my mother’s stories about growing up impoverished, how mistreated she was, wearing hand me down clothes and shoes, but I thought my struggle was different.
“You wouldn’t understand, mom,” I said, staring at my legs.
“I think I do,” she said. “Did someone say something cruel to you? I know people can be obtuse sometimes. They’ll just blurt out anything.”
I couldn’t listen anymore.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” I said, my voice getting louder. I inched my face closer to hers. “Oliver Wilson came into the store today. In high school he pretended to ask me to the prom and when I was about to say yes he said it was a joke. Everyone laughed. Everyone. I relived that humiliation all over today. There. Satisfied?”
“You know you’re not the only one who’s felt pain,” she said. “Once in high school someone left a note in the lost and found saying, ‘Save For Vera Watson.’ You think I wasn’t hurt by that? But I still went back, even though I wasn’t good in school. You had a future. But you were too much of a coward to go to college, even though we put aside all we could. And now you’re at Walmart where everyone is a …”
She halted.
“A loser? I said.
“That’s not what I was going to say,” mom said.
“But it’s what you were thinking,” I shot back, giving her a hard stare.
“Why can’t you at least try going to college?” she said. “Kids are different there, not cruel like they are in high school.”
“How would you know?” I said, wanting to hurt her. “I fit in at Walmart, with the disabled and the immigrants and the seniors. Face it mother, it’s where I belong.”
A few months later, mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The doctors said there was no point in chemotherapy, that she was stage four.
When dad gave me the news, I dropped to the floor and started sobbing. You’d think with all the hostility between us that I wouldn’t have been so emotional.
“We’ll take care of her together, won’t we?” dad said,. I knew he needed to lean on me. He took a leave from his job to nurse mom. I heard him sniffling in the kitchen every morning while he brewed his coffee.
Every day I expected mom to make a deathbed wish that I go back to school. Instead she asked me about the store, what Eloise was knitting, what new hires I thought would stick around.
Doris, her best friend from work, dropped by every week. One afternoon I listened outside her room. “Ted dropped a sheet pan of white cake,” Doris said. “June coughed in the spaghetti.” The mishaps seemed to cheer mom up.
It was quiet for a moment. Then Doris said,“Vera, I’ll look out for Julia for you,”
I expected mom to say something like, “No need. She’s going to spend the rest of her life sell-ing crap made in China.”
“You’re a wonderful friend to do that,” mom said. “She’s so angry at me, I almost think she willed this.”
“You can’t be serious!” Doris said. “Julia would never think that way. You should see her face when I answer the door. I can tell she’s been crying, She’s stubborn like you. Whatever you want, she rejects, and whatever she does you find fault with. It’s every mother-daughter pair. You mean more to her than you realize. A girl’s mother always means more to her than any-one.”
“You think so?” mom said. I heard hope in her voice.
“Of course,” said Doris. “Now finish your apple sauce before I leave.”
I snuck away from the door.
That day at work I told Eloise about mom and our battles. “My mother doesn’t like that I work here,” I said. “She thinks I’m too fine to be at Walmart,” I said, like it was such a ridiculous idea.
“Honey,” Eloise said without pausing, “Your mother is right. You’re young, you’ve got a lot of living ahead of you. This is no place to spend forty years of your life. I didn’t have a choice. You do.”
I couldn’t believe it. Eloise, who I thought of as my best friend, was telling me to leave. I sank in my chair.
“Eloise, I thought you of all people would understand,” I said.”I’ve been mocked and ridiculed my whole life. I feel safe here.”
Eloise leaned close to me. “Feeling safe isn’t living. Being scared, taking chances, that’s what you should be doing. ”
“Now you’re sounding like my mother,” I said, getting up and pushing my chair under the ta-ble.”
“Julia,” Eloise said taking my hand, “She knows you better than anyone. I’m telling you what I would tell my daughter.”
When I got home, mom lay quietly in her bed. Her breathing was shallow. Dad was by her side. “She’s taken a turn for the worse,” he said. He looked at me and I knew what he was asking: that I set aside my stubbornness.
“She deserves some peace,” he said.
I took a walk, thinking about mom’s conversation with Doris. Was I sabotaging my own life? I felt for the first time that I had friends who cared about me, and that there was kindness. But I was with adults now, not high school kids whose mission in life is to be cruel.
Practically all the people who worked with mom and dad at the school came to the funeral. So did a lot of my friends from Walmart. Doris gave the eulogy, talking about how mom had trained all the cafeteria ladies, smiled at all the kids when they went through the line.
After the service, dad stood tall and regal, holding his grief inside. I knew I had to stand next to him, though even at a funeral, I worried someone would look at me and think I was hideous In-stead, everyone gave me a hug and said how much they’d miss her.
When Eloise went through the line, she held my arm and said, “You and your mother can want the same thing.”
I looked to her, smiled, and knew what I had to do.
Angela Mouradian is the daughter of North Korean immigrants. Her parents left before the country was divided, her father in 1919 and her mother before the outbreak of war. Angela has degrees from UC Berkeley and the University of Michigan. She worked for The Associated Press in Detroit and Providence. Angela studied at the non-profit writing center Grub Street in Boston.
Comments