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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v081) (the April 2010 Issue) This is also available from our printer as a a $7.47 paperback book (5.5" x 8.5") perfect-bound w/ b&w pages

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Shifting Gears

Janet Yung

    My mother left when I was twelve years old after nearly twenty years of marriage to my dad. I should have suspected something when I came home from school one afternoon in early October and she was seated at the kitchen table, her hair bleached an unnatural shade of blond while she doodled hearts in the margins of the morning paper. Grabbing a soda from the refrigerator, I glanced over her shoulder, spotting her initials entwined with two letters not belonging to my dad.
    “What’s up?” I asked nonchalantly, popping the can’s tab and swallowing a large gulp of carbonation, the way I’d seen my mother do it all my life.
    “Nothing,” she quickly scratched through the letters, a guilty expression crossing her face.
    “How are the driving lessons going?” She’d decided to learn to drive after we relocated to a section of the city not convenient to the bus line, my father responding to her complaints about the inability to get around easily, with the offer of driving lessons.
    “You don’t think I’m too old to learn?” was her coy reaction and once he assured her it was never to late to take on something new, she became an avid student. It wasn’t till after her departure, we discovered how avid.
    “Okay,” she shrugged her shoulders, a small smile on her lips, color rising in her cheeks. “Shifting gears can be something of a problem, though.” My eyes couldn’t avoid the hair and noticing my stare, she patted the puffy do. “What do you think?”
    Not wanting to disappoint her with the truth, I told her what I thought she needed to hear. “Looks good.”
    “Really?”
    I nodded vigorously, giving credence to my venial sin.
    “Well, get out of your uniform before you go outside and do you have any homework?”
    “I will and yes.” Then I was out of the room, pursuing my own interests wondering why adults did the things they did, knowing to question their decisions would only lead to the inevitable rejoinder of “someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand.”
    I’d barely worked out my Halloween plans when the note appeared on the kitchen table addressed to my dad and me, the childish script undeniably belonging to my mother. The house had an eerie feel as the back door squeaked upon my returning home that afternoon. The days were getting shorter and chillier, the house suddenly reflecting the changing atmosphere.
    “Hello,” I called, and not hearing anything, ventured down the hall, opening doors and checking closets, uncertain what I’d find. Back in the kitchen, I picked up the note, debating about the wisdom of reading something addressed to both my dad and me. It was only four o’clock, two hours till he’d return from the factory job he described as “something to keep a roof over our heads and pay the bills.” I hoped for better things myself.
    The envelope flap wasn’t sealed, suggesting it wasn’t of too intimate a nature, free for either addressee to read with or without the other being present. Opening it, I unfolded the linen colored stationary my mother had purchased over the summer to keep up on her correspondence. “Do you like this?” she’d wanted to know and being bored by the downtown expedition and, eager to be outside playing, agreed it looked good although I didn’t care much for the flower border.
    I pulled off the jacket she’d insisted I wear that morning, suddenly filled with the image of my mother at the back door, waving good-bye, as if I already knew the epistle’s contents. Hanging the jacket over the back of my chair, the note flat in front of me, my eyes took in the words, confirming my worst fears.
    That evening, my father tried to explain my mother’s departure had nothing to do with me. “She’s not leaving you, she’s leaving me,” which I assumed was another one of those things age would help me comprehend. Buried beneath my blanket on the night of the first hard frost, it was difficult to distinguish between the two, ruminating on the oft repeated joy at my unexpected arrival.
    “Your dad and I were married several years and had given up all hope of ever having children and then you were here.” I supposed the thrill had worn off.
    Twenty-five years later, I stood in the doorway of the café where we’d agreed to meet. I’d only seen her a few times since she’d left us for the driving instructor. Our few encounters after her departure had been covert with instructions, “not to tell your father,” as if I were a coconspirator in her plans to reconstruct her life.
    Each meeting, she was a little vague as to her present situation, making it impossible to decide whether or not she ever regretted her decision. I could only remember that first Christmas without her, longing for her to come through the door, laden with presents and apologies, learning to live with disappointment when my fantasy failed to materialize.
    She was seated at the counter, easily recognizable by the sharp, Roman nose I’d inherited and which she’d studied in the mirror, pondering the possibilities of “having it fixed.” Standing there now, I was struck by how often she’d uttered that phrase regarding numerous aspects of her life.
    Seeing me, she waved me over and taking a seat next to her, I noticed how spotted and veiny her hands had become. Her hair was still the same hideous blond shade, but thinner now and wearing a hat, I supposed, to conceal bits of scalp peeking through. Drinking her morning cola, a half eaten doughnut on her plate.
    “Hi, dear,” she smiled and pecked me on the cheek as though it had been only a few weeks since our last meeting rather than years.
    “Hi.” I squirmed on the stool, trying to get comfortable amid the Saturday morning crowd and noise, as many seeking refuge from the sudden downpour as something to eat.
    “How’s your father?”
    “Okay.” It was pointless to let her know his true condition.
    “Would you like something to eat?”
    I ordered a cup of tea and a bagel, a change in diet from my blue collar roots, unable to remember when I’d abandoned them, thinking she’d be impressed some things had been altered.
    Her call had surprised me in the middle of a busy week and, at first, I hadn’t recognized her voice. When she asked if we could meet, I’d agreed, but now, questioned the wisdom of doing so.
    I stirred my tea, the silence between us deafening. She cleared her throat, indicating she was on the brink of imparting some important information. “Danny died,” she announced, choking back a tear.
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” Patting her hand, I sincerely meant that. I’d long ago released any resentment of the hapless driving instructor, several years my mother’s junior, when it became apparent she had no intention of returning to her old life, and, meeting him, saw he made her happier than she’d been before.
    “I just needed to tell somebody who cared.” She stared at the crumbs on her small white plate, and I understood what he had meant to her.
    After a few moments, she added, “I wanted you to come with me, but it was impossible,” sounding more like she was thinking out loud, rather than addressing me. Stunned by this long, overdue disclosure, I was incapable of an immediate rejoinder, any residual anger fading at the sorrow in her voice.
    We chatted for a while longer and looking at the clock, she understood I had someplace else to be.
    “Don’t be a stranger,” I said outside the restaurant, buttoning up my coat against the wind and, giving me a squeeze, promised that she wouldn’t. Then, she was gone again, leaving me troubled by how fragile her retreating figure, fading into the crowd looked, uncertain as to when we’d meet again.

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