One Natalie
one f
Natalie
M y mother’s love was conditional. Her unspoken words were always with me.
If you rub my feet, I’ll love you.
If you get good grades, I’ll love you.
If you clean the house, I’ll love you.
My mother’s love didn’t last.
If you don’t rub my feet, I won’t love you.
If your grades aren’t good enough, I’ll hate you.
If you miss a speck of dirt, I’ll ignore you .
For years I believed I wasn’t smart enough, talented enough, or hard-working enough.
Maybe I reminded my mother of my birth father, her first husband, Edgar Stanton.
Courtships were almost nonexistent during World War II. Edgar was handsome, thirty-years-old, an army first lieutenant and chaplain stationed stateside. What else did my mother, Natalie, need to know? They met at a United Service Organization (USO) dance in New Jersey, married, and moved to his home state, Ohio, where I was born on March 15, 1944. Two years later, Edgar died. His record shows he “died non-battle.”
I have no memory of Ohio or my birth father. What I do remember is my mother telling me that my father died in the Battle of the Bulge during the war.
What she didn’t tell me was that Edgar was a bigamist with another wife and two children. It all came out when my mother was denied spousal benefits upon his death. I accidentally learned of his second family later in life. That’s when I learned he died of sepsis in an army hospital in Missouri, not on the battlefield.
I suppose I should mention my mother was a habitual liar.
We left Ohio and moved to Newark, New Jersey, to live with my Hungarian grandparents, who raised me until I finished kindergarten. We lived above Central Cleaners, their dry-cleaning business. My grandparents spoiled me as did the other shop owners on our street. Each day around three o’clock, we’d head for Traflets ice cream parlor for coffee ice cream, my favorite.
In the summers we rented a house in Atlantic Highlands, where my grandfather kept a Steelcraft boat. I loved our fishing trips and spending time with this generous, kindhearted man. We’d bring our catch to the dock, where he’d give it all away.
My mother had a job as a telephone operator, a respected career for women in the 1940s. Her job accounted for her absence during the day. But where was she when I cried out for her at night? My grandmother was the only one who comforted me.
War widows were in abundance in the late 1940s. Unmarried soldiers returning from the war had their pick of women, with or without children. My mother remarried when I was four years old. I wasn’t included in her courtship, engagement, or wedding. I suspect I was left at home to avoid any misunderstanding. Weren’t all brides virgins? At least my mother didn’t wear a white gown, a partial admission to her past and my existence.
For years I wondered why I continued living with my grandparents instead of moving in with my mother and her new husband, Hank Wilson. Didn’t my mother want me? Did her husband hate me so much he didn’t want me in his life? I later learned they both worked until my mother became pregnant. It was much simpler to leave me at Central Cleaners. Had I been allowed to stay with my grandparents, perhaps my life would have taken a different course. But we can’t live our lives on “what ifs.”
After kindergarten, I moved into an apartment in Paramus, New Jersey, with my mother and new father. I was legally adopted and began life as Ava Wilson. A few months later, I was given a baby brother. I resented the intrusion of a screaming infant and the attention he generated but soon learned to love little Henry. I pretended he was my baby. The love I had given to my grandparents was transferred to him. There was no point in showering it on my mother. From the day I returned, she made it clear I was an unnecessary appendage. If it wasn’t for my new father, I would have been sent back to my grandparents.
I’d hear the arguments at night after my parents thought I was asleep.
“She’s our daughter,” my father said.
“But she’s not your daughter. She’d be better off with Nagymama ,” Natalie replied, using the Hungarian word for grandmother.
“I adopted her. She is my daughter.”
“We have no room for her. We can’t afford two kids,” Natalie said.
“We won’t break up the family.”
My new father’s parents divorced when he was a teenager. He lived with the stigma of a broken home and was determined not to repeat the cycle.
Their bedroom door slammed shut. All was quiet.
Please send me back to Grandma.
The apartment was silent for the next few days. As our punishment, dinner for my father and me consisted of a box of saltines. My mother ate toast and tea.
To keep the peace, my father allowed Natalie to be herself, which in most cases meant the silent treatment. The one thing he stood firm on was keeping me in the family.
Two years later, my parents bought their little piece of the American Dream—a three-bedroom tract house in Edison, New Jersey. I was eight years old.
My father worked as a union carpenter. It was dangerous work but paid well, which made my mother happy, at least most of the time. We never knew when something would set her off and she’d stop speaking to one of us. Her silences became more frequent, sometimes lasting for days, even weeks.
“Hank, tell her to pass the butter,” Natalie would say.
I’d pass the butter.
“Henry, tell your sister to get her elbows off the table.”
My brother turned to me. I moved my elbows to save him the embarrassment of my mother’s silence.
“Henry, rub my feet.”
She’d sit in her rocker, light her first cigarette of the evening, and glare at me. I’d close the door to my bedroom, grateful for the freedom. It was only a matter of time before Henry would be the villain, and I’d be back at work.
After everyone went to bed, I crept into the living room and counted the cigarette butts in the ashtray: twenty—a full pack after dinner. None of us knew about second-hand smoke in the 1950s. Adults believed it aided digestion. Kids . . . well . . . we coughed and made the best of it, promising ourselves we’d never take up the disgusting habit.
My father treated me with kindness and love, but like my mother, his love was conditional. He only expressed it when we were alone and only on days Natalie was speaking to me. When she ignored me or pressured me to succeed, he remained silent. Dad, say something! I’d pray for him to read my mind. My prayers went unanswered.
Outwardly, we gave the impression of being a good Christian family. Most weeks we attended services at the Episcopal church in town. My mother resented the church almost as much as she resented me. As a first-generation Hungarian, she was raised Catholic, but because she was on her second marriage, they married in my father’s church. I wanted to believe in the peace the minister claimed came with accepting God and Jesus, but something was missing. Was it my mother’s resentment I felt? Was it my innate sense that I didn’t belong and was the remnant of a fraudulent marriage?
It wasn’t only in church where I lacked a sense of belonging. It was the underlying theme of my life. Looking back, I’m convinced my mother projected her personal feelings of inadequacy onto me. She trusted no one, not even herself. How could she love and trust me when she didn’t love herself?
The 1950s was a decade of prosperity and conformity. Insights into human behavior were rare. Had counseling been available, my mother would never have taken me. She would have seen it as a sign of failure. For her, outward appearances were everything. To please her, I succumbed to the pressure to perform.
I cleaned, walked the dog, got decent grades, and rubbed her feet. I’d do anything I could to serve my mother. It wasn’t until eighth grade when I made her proud.
“Guess what, Mom? I made the twirling squad!”
My mother sat watching afternoon TV. “Ava, don’t slam the door.”
“Did you hear me, Mom?”
My mother popped a piece of saltwater taffy into her mouth. She hadn’t heard a word I said.
“I made the twirling squad! I get to march in all the parades and football games.”
I had her attention. Her daughter would be in the spotlight. My mother actually smiled.
“Here’s my costume.” I held up a navy blue and white uniform and placed a tall, white, fuzzy hat on my head. I grabbed my baton and gave it a twirl.
“Be careful,” she said. “Wait till your father gets home so you can show us both—outside.”
Life improved after that. My mother’s love was still conditional, but it was there. My parents sat in the stands at our home games. They cheered and waved as I marched by. The following year I became head majorette.
By my sophomore year in high school, being head majorette wasn’t enough. My mother pressured me to improve my grades. She was determined I’d be the first in the family to go to college.
“I want to see you at Moravian College,” she said.
Moravian College, one of the oldest in the United States, promised prestige and success for me and more importantly, for my mother. She went back to work as a telephone operator and promised to save money for my education. Instead, she bought herself a green Ford Thunderbird convertible.
At the rate my mother spent money, I knew nothing would be left for my education. I took a job during study hall in the main office of the high school. The few dollars I earned wouldn’t make much difference in our finances. But between the job and my position as head majorette, I hoped to earn points for extracurricular activities.
Working in the office gave me access to my student file. During the spring semester of my sophomore year, I pulled my records, snuck the documents home, and changed my grades from Cs to Bs. I was confident better grades would help me get into Moravian and make my mother happy.
My deceit backfired. The vice-principal caught me and contacted my parents for a meeting. I was well-liked at school and had no prior discipline problems, which kept me from being expelled. Instead, I was stripped of my head majorette title and banned from school functions for a year. Classmates shunned me. I went from popular to pariah.
My shame and guilt were all-encompassing. My parents didn’t ground me. What would be the point? I had no friends left and no place to go. I sat in my room wishing my parents would slap me, scream at me, or do something to feed my remorse. Instead, the house was silent.
That night I strained to hear my parents’ voices in their bedroom.
“She’s worthless. I should have left her in Newark,” Natalie complained.
“I think she did it to please you,” Hank said.
“Please me? Are you crazy?”
“You put a lot of pressure on her. She’s just a kid,” he said.
“And that makes it okay? You’re no better than she is. What are the neighbors going to think?”
“I wouldn’t worry about the neighbors. Try worrying about your family for a change.”
I couldn’t believe my father had stood up to my mother.
Drawers slammed. Something was thrown against the wall. Glass shattered. More than anything, I wished I was the one shattered. But who would pick up the pieces of me once they hit the floor?
The ubiquitous box of saltines sat on the kitchen table the next morning. When my brother asked for cereal, my mother made no move to help him. I brought him cereal and milk. He shouldn’t have to suffer because of me.
“ Sit down .” Those were the last words my mother spoke to anyone in our family for days.
Dinner progressed from saltines to toast and tea, then eventually to home-cooked meals. Conversation directed at me was utilitarian.
“Pass the macaroni.”
“Clean your room. It’s filthy.”
After two weeks, I summoned the courage to apologize. “I’m sorry. I made a stupid mistake. I only did it to please you.”
My father’s eyes showed a hint of compassion. He opened his mouth to say something. My mother intercepted.
“Sorry? Mistake? You want forgiveness? Did I tell you to steal your file? You’re no good. You were never any good.”
Once my mother’s mouth opened, it stayed open. She barked more insults at me, none of which I heard. I took shelter in my room.
My junior year in high school was spent in exile. Everyone knew what I’d done. My friends avoided me. My parents barely spoke to me. My father may have forgiven me but couldn’t escape my mother’s wrath. With my social life in ruin, I began taking the bus into Plainfield for dances and other teen-centered events. I made new friends, ones who hadn’t heard about my disgrace or didn’t care.