The Bad Connection
I thought it would feel good to tell off my parents in a righteous fury, to say things that I knew would wound them like they had wounded me. It didn’t.
It all started when my parents were in town from Chicago. They flew in on a Wednesday and left on a Sunday, straddling Halloween, which that year fell on a Thursday. We made plans for all of us — my parents, me, and Charlie — to have breakfast together on Friday. My parents were adamant that it would be just me and them for the rest of the day, “without Charlie, so we can talk.” I suggested we go from breakfast in Brooklyn to an exhibit at the main branch of the New York Public Library and they agreed.
Charlie and I got to the diner first on Friday morning, a little thrown off because our usual spot, Junior’s, was hosting an event for the Mayor. This forced us to find another spot at the last minute which was a) near the downtown Brooklyn hotel where my parents were staying, and b) had corned beef hash on the menu for my mom.
I was a little bleary-eyed after having tucked into the better part of a bottle of Prosecco the night before when I realized that, no, I really wasn’t being invited to go trick-or-treating with my parents, my sister Ann, her husband Chris and their kids as I had been invited to do every year prior.
So while Charlie was at his rehab group just talking about using substances to numb feelings and fill life voids, I was at home actually doing it.
Ta-da!
We hugged, sat down. My mom asked about the scar over Charlie’s eye, a nasty injury sustained during a bender a few weeks prior. Pretty quickly we got to talking about his recovery, how hard it’s been but we feel like we’re making progress and doing the difficult work of rebuilding trust and putting away past wrongs committed by both of us.
We each talked about our own support groups, Al-Anon for me and intensive outpatient rehab for him. We talked about Charlie’s job search, then in its seventh month. My parents were supportive — after all, my mother is the adult child of alcoholics, my dad is a recovering alcoholic, and he remembers very well the pressure to find and keep a job that is fulfilling both spiritually and materially.
And then we talked about Christmas, because Charlie and I had plans to spend it with Mom and Dad in Chicago, and Mom had been scouting restaurants for a big Italian Christmas Eve feast. We talked about the impeachment inquiry, dogs, and how bad the corned beef hash was here and how much better it was at Junior’s.
Hugs all around again, and we parted. Charlie went home and I rode the subway uptown with my parents. A couple gave up seats on the train for them, which was a huge relief for me.
The library exhibit was small but fascinating. Mom couldn’t help buying a book for my niece at the gift shop, and when Dad’s blood sugar crashed, I got him a black-and-white cookie from the cafe.
We spent a good part of our lunch in silence. When we did talk, it was about my work, Charlie’s job prospects, and then it turned to how Ann was not speaking to me.
“Is it because I went back to Charlie?”
“Sweetheart, we want to stay out of it,” said my mom, “but no.”
“It would be great if she’d at least tell me why she’s angry,” I said. “I don’t know what she and Chris want me or Charlie to do.”
“I think they want an apology,” said Dad.
“For what? They’ve never told us why they’re mad. Charlie doesn’t remember most of the things he did or said while he was drinking, or in withdrawal, and when he tried to reach out to Ann to apologize for the stuff he does remember, she didn’t respond. Unless they want a meaningless, blanket apology.”
“Well,” said my mom, in a tone indicating that the topic was closed.
We said goodbye on the subway platform, me taking the B home and them taking the F train to Ann’s. After the obligatory statements of how we’re all looking forward to seeing each other again at Christmas, my dad released me from a hug as my train pulled in.
“Think of it this way,” he said. “Ann is trying to protect her family. You’re trying to protect yours.”
“I’m a danger to her family?” My dad winced and I got on the train, looking forward to a long ride home with my crossword.
I didn’t hear from them again until Sunday when I received a text from my mom: We are at LGA eating at Shake Shack. New and improved! Bathrooms galore! We want to talk with you without Charlie and I don’t know how to arrange that.
I replied, Glad you made it to the airport. You had all Friday to talk to me without Charlie. Tonight won’t work but maybe next week?
Mom: Today is obviously not good. I need to look at my own schedule when we get back.
Me: What is it you want to talk about? Also nearly every phone conversation we have is without Charlie. Is it best if we don’t come out for Christmas?
Nothing.
Six days later, I get a phone call. Peremptory talk of weather, including more snow for Chicago, then:
“Ann told us about the night you and Charlie had an argument on the train and you stayed at a stranger’s house and, honey, we just want to make sure you’re safe.”
I lost it. I flew into a rage such as I hadn’t ever before with them, about how Ann had no right to share my very personal shit with them, especially when she knew nothing about how I was currently because she wasn’t speaking with me. Also, weren’t they both supposed to be staying out of this? Also, if I say I’m safe, as I have been saying, I will take care of it, just as I did when I didn’t feel safe.
“By the way,” I said, “how dare you drop a text bomb like that on me so I have to sit around all week with the knowledge that serious talk is pending? And when you won’t tell me what it’s about, stipulating only that — again — Charlie can’t be part of the conversation?”
“Sweetheart, we are trying to stay out of this,” Mom said.
“If that’s true, you have no business talking to Ann about me at all!” Now I was seething. “I’m sure she loves that it’s my marriage under a microscope right now and not hers, especially since she got the last word with you because I’m not allowed to be in the same room with her because I’m a danger to her kids, even though they’ve been asking to see their aunt and uncle for the last half a year.”
Silence.
“By the way, no one seems too concerned with how I’m feeling at being excluded from family events. Really makes me feel like you have my best interests at heart.”
“Honey, we do.”
“I know the easiest thing for you would have been if I’d left Charlie,” I went on. “Then you could have just cut him out rather than deal with shit you’ve never dealt with about your own alcoholic parents. Or with Dad, who was pretty clearly abusing alcohol for one phase of his life. But now you have to look shit in the eye and think about forgiveness, something totally new for everyone in this family. If you want to stay in the place of being angry about stuff that happened weeks and months and years ago, fucking fine. I’ll be moving on, with my husband.”
Long pause. Then Mom:
“What do you want us to do?”
“I want you to go to Al-Anon,” I answered as calmly as possible. “I want you to consider that Ann may not be the moral authority. I want you to listen to me when I tell you I’m safe. Charlie is not drinking, and we’re doing a lot of really hard work.”
More silence. Then Mom again:
“It sounds like you’re very upset, sweetheart, and I don’t know what else I can say that isn’t going to make you more upset.”
“Fine. Then I’m going to go and attempt to have a Saturday night.”
We agreed the next day that it was too soon for all of us to spend Christmas together. Charlie and I cancelled our flights, the hotel and the dog-sitter, and prepared for a quiet, peaceful holiday by ourselves. But this was not to be.
