Notes from Maine - 2022/10/30

It’s amazing how easily thoughts and opinions drift. I had to look something up recently from own of my own unpublished books from years ago. The document sat open in a forgotten window until I stumbled upon it just now. I just read Andrea’s opinion of love and relationships. I think I got the point that she was trying to make, but while I was reading it, I was thinking, “Maybe she’s right. I’ve never been in that kind of relationship, but what she’s saying sounds correct.”

Andrea and her husband were both juggling many responsibilities. They had kids (two adopted sons). At that moment, the younger lived with Andrea and the older with her husband. It was just a strange circumstance they fell into where they had two houses and the kids went to different schools. Operating like two single parents, Andrea and her husband both felt unsupported and struggled without each other. As the reader, I could empathize with them, but I’ve definitely never been in a situation remotely like that so I could only guess at how they would cope with that strain and those feelings of abandonment. And that context made Andrea’s wisdom a little sad. She was instructing her son on a topic that she was currently failing at.

Wait. Wait.

I stopped reading at that point. 

I wrote all that nonsense, and there I was reading it and trying to understand her point of view. My current outlook had drifted enough that her thoughts, committed paper a while ago, no longer felt like my own. And what do I know about long term parenting partnerships or adopted sons? Nothing. The answer is nothing.

When I was about ten, on a Friday night our parents took us to McDonald’s. Back then I had a dream—when I’m grown up, I’m going to go to McDonald’s and order TWO large fries. I had big ambitions. I changed, the fries changed, and now that dream is no longer relevant. By the time you get to the end of the first sleeve, the fries will be stiff and disgusting, and a stomach ache will already be brewing. But, back then, McDonald’s was an enormous treat.

We got home and I sat on the beanbag chair. Someone said we were going to “talk.” My parents were getting divorced. The air went out of the room as shock settled into our bones. My best friend’s parents were divorced. A lot of kids had divorced parents. It didn’t seem all that bad, but it was also terrifying. The craziest part of the announcement was this—Dad would be staying with us and Mom was going away. 

Mom was going away. When would we see her? She was the constant presence. She was our parent. Dad was someone we saw on weekends sometimes. He left early and worked late. He fixed things and yelled when things got broken. In context, he was probably about as good as a dad knew how to be in the 70s. I can’t speak for my siblings, but I was always desperate for his approval and terrified that I might come to his attention for the wrong reason.

To me, it felt like he was the most frequent and welcomed guest to our little home, but it didn’t really feel like he lived there.

So when Mom left, ice settled over the place. Who knows where she went—she doesn’t have that memory anymore. Most older people I’ve known lose their memory back to front (last in, first out). What they had for breakfast is anyone’s guess but they could tell you what color shirt they wore to the first day of kindergarten. Mom has zero recollection of this time.

Back to my original point for telling this story, I have no idea what it feels like to be orphaned and adopted, but that weekend could be close. The future was uncertain and we were living with a stranger. Mom was gone. My brother was brooding somewhere (he was a teenager). My sister was making the world know that everything was miserable. She made sure that Dad felt what she felt. 

By the end of the weekend, our parents were locked in the bedroom having an intense, whispered conversation. After that, Dad was gone and Mom was back. 

Their marriage lasted roughly seventeen years. When I see a couple celebrating their fortieth anniversary (or whatever), I’m amazed that they managed to suffer through for that long. 

And still, some part of me imagined the words to put into Andrea’s mouth. Andrea is/was strong, capable, and determined, but she wanted a partner to lean on. She didn’t need anyone’s help, but she desperately wanted someone standing at her side, pulling in the same direction, and shouldering part of the load. I guess I used to feel that way too? All my characters are versions of me, of course, even when I give them traits or motivations that I struggle to imagine. 

The audacity of that frequently overwhelms me. Because of the subjects I choose, I’m often trying to picture how people would react in impossible situations. I wonder what it would be like to have a conversation with oneself from thirty years ago. I wonder if that person would be recognizable at all.