1.75 days. That’s how long the temporary truce lasted. I’m not even sure you could call it that. More of an unwritten rule that if no one presses the red button all will remain sweetness and light. Minus the agonizing stomach problems. The sleeplessness. The jitters and constant dodging and hiding. Mom calls it our (my sister and me) “avoidance problem”. I have most often called it survival.

It had to be 9:00am. No one was awake or downstairs before 8:30 and it was definitely an “after breakfast” argument. Mom picked and picked and picked until somewhere around 9:00am I finally exploded. Actually, as far as explosions go it was a relatively minor one. I repeatedly told her to drop the subject and let it go. I did my best to avoid speaking words that I knew would just tear us all to bits a little more. I’m not proud to say that my good intentions and patience didn’t last very long. Hell, I don’t even thing I lasted more that 10 minutes. 20+ years of anger sits too close to the surface to remain bottled for long. If nothing else, I can honestly say “she asked for it”. She said she wanted to know. Then again, we all know that when people say they want something they often rarely want or expect the truth.

People went to their separate corners. Rooms in this case. There seems no where left to run and finally, I am so damn tired of walking on eggshells and making myself miserable trying to appease or please someone else.

We had an appointment to look at cremation grave sites for 10am. Then appointments to visit the funeral home and pick out an urn. Fake smiles were pasted on. Roseanne sat in the background; pretending to be invisible even after the cemetary manager mentioned remembering her from school. I’ve been carrying around a piece of my father – in more ways than one – most of the day today.

In the car I think I finally gained a tiny bit of power back. Perhaps that’s what I’ve been missing all this time. The realization that I wasn’t put on this earth to please my mother. That, no matter how much guilt is heaped on, I can say no, walk out the door and never return. After the loud crying jag in the house a nicely composed mum insisted that I am not responsible for anyone’s happiness but my own (my gut, finely tuned to Catholic guilt, calls bullshit). That I don’t need to do anything to meet anyone’s expectations. Sure, she doesn’t see how telling me that I’m fat, ugly, stupid, lazy, or that (for the last 12 years, more times that I can count, and in front of him) my husband will leave me one day because of all of these things – I’m a rotten wife. Funny how people can’t seem to understand that the psychological damage we do to others will tear them apart for years to come. Bruises heal. Pain fades. But children learn what they live.

Lunch was a small respite in a painfilled day. We toddled off to a restaurant to meet with Ann and Gillian. Ann’s the wife of my father’s best friend. There were chunks of my childhood – vague since I was so young – when she helped raise me. She was my kindergarden teacher and is one of the most amazing women I know. Diagnosed with cancer shortly after my father died, she’s had her spleen removed (and other parts too I think) and has the most bouyant attitude. She sees joy in days I lost to pain too long ago to count. Gillian is my mom’s best friend. She’s a lovely lady.

I would kill for a cigarette. Someone should remind me why I’m trying to quit. I’m having a hard time remembering at the moment.

No good can come from any trip where there is no peacekeeper sitting between the opposing forces. The role inherited by my husband. Passed down from my father. I can’t even begin to try and explain how desperately I miss my dad. I know I disappointed him. I know there were times I hurt him deeply. No matter how bad things got between mum and I, I always knew my dad loved me. I was never stupid or an afterthought. I was never inconvenient. And he never made me feel like garbage.

I want to come home.

I can’t.

There are still so many decisions to be made and meetings to attend. I don’t know why we bother. When asked for our opinions are dismissed. The queen is in her element. Gathering attention and playing martyr.

So I will hold on to two bright lights on this trip. This evening – at least this once in our short lives – my sister and I will go out somewhere together and talk. Perhaps we will try and reach for that bond that has never existed; the mythical one between sisters. In a few days I’ll see my childhood best friend for a few hours. Maybe I’ll learn to smile again.

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