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And I'll Stare by Carol Weis
My daughter was always a good student, and one who left her assignments for the last minute. It used to drive me crazy. Good grief, I thought, she's a carbon copy of me. But every so often, there was that heart opening exception, seen in this excerpt from SparkNotes, Ack!, chapter eight of the yet-to-be-published mother/daughter project we started when Maggie was fifteen, which we call, WAKE UP MAGGIE! GO AWAY MOM! A Memoir in Two Voices.
Maggie: March 4
I have this French paper due this week. I so do not want to do it. I love French, the language that is, but I just want to get out of here so badly. But wait – this time next year I’ll be in college. ACK!
Carol: Wednesday, March 6, 6:30 a.m.
I stumble out of bed following a fitful night’s sleep, to wake Maggie for school. The same thing I’ve done every morning since she was in kindergarten. Bright light tumbles from the crack beneath her door. A sure sign that she’s pulled an all nighter. Staying up to write a French paper she should have started days ago. She’s still in high school. How will she ever make it through college? I managed and suppose she will, too.
I open the door. The light blares around her room. I speak her name. A question mark punctuates it as I turn and head for the stairs. Maybe she’s in the shower. I search for her. There’s no sign of life anywhere. Did she lose it and suddenly take off? Run through the cornfield naked on this frosty morn? Thoughts like this race through my mind. This year’s been tough on her. On both of us, for that matter.
I return to her room. A blanket from a younger time in her life lies heaped across her bed. I move in close and proceed to touch it. I am stricken with fear. I can see the headlines now. "Local teenager dies from writing French paper." I’ve been a single Mom too long. Menopause doesn’t help. These are the thoughts I entertain at six in the morning. Maybe I’m the one who needs a naked run through the cornfield. The thought stirs up some glee. But I’m afraid the neighbors might shoot me. At the moment, the idea doesn’t sound so bad.
I lift the blanket and see her body is dressed in yesterday’s clothes. It’s curled like a fetus, and lies sideways on the bed. I touch her head. The headline flashes again in front of me. Standing beside my teenage daughter, I feel embarrassed by the lameness of my thoughts. And grateful that she can’t read my mind.
My eyes fix on her breathing. Her shoulder rises and falls like a wave in formation, moving toward the shore. This pastime feels familiar. Reminiscent of the hours I stood by her crib. Watching to make sure she was still alive. That longing comes back. I want to hold her hostage. Freeze-frame her and stare eternally.
I glance at the clock. It’s time to wake her up. I feel my hesitation. I know what’s coming. She’ll whine and crab, throw an adolescent tantrum, wanting to stay home. She knows my weakness. She’s my only child. And she’s going away to college next year. So, she will probably stay home from school today. Sleep late into the afternoon. And every now and then, I’ll peek into her bedroom, and I’ll stare.
Maggie: March 7
Mom is so needy. I can’t stand her hovering.
A former actor, teacher, professional cook, school librarian, sales rep, and pastry chef, Carol Weis is also a poet, essayist, and children's book writer, and has been a single mom for 15 years. Her writing has appeared online at Salon, Literary Mama, and in various local publications, and has been read as commentary on public radio. Her chapbook, DIVORCE PAPERS, was released by Bull Thistle Press in 2002, and a children's book by Simon & Schuster, WHEN THE COWS GOT LOOSE, is due out in June 2006.
Her daughter, Maggie, is a senior at the University of Massachusetts, where she majors in Sociology. Her writing has appeared in Turtle.
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