I didn’t know it was called “mercy.”
Growing up, my parents worked a lot. They were both educators which meant all of us spent our days in a classroom. Mom had started to move up to administration, so she not only taught during the day but at night as well. She also decided to work on her doctorate. Sure, she’d asked the family if it was ok with us but, if you know my mother, you know better than to tell her, “No.”
My mom and I didn’t coexist much and I lived in fear of her. Her silence was torture and her disappointment was a death sentence. Whenever I’d start acting up at school, all a teacher had to say was, “Am I going to need to talk to your mom?” and you’d instantly have a child who had all the etiquette, demure, and obedience of a nun. The classic game my dad, brother, and I unintentionally played at our house was “Not It” when it came to who would greet her first when she got home. I’d hear the garage door go up and hear her business heels striking the concrete, looming closer and closer to the door. When I heard that, I’d find an excuse to be in my room so I didn’t have to face what kind of day she’d had.
My mom was distant and when she wasn’t distant, she was all business. Of course, I knew she loved me but I don’t think she liked me much. I wanted to earn her approval but instead, was presented with the feeling that I’d met expectations instead of exceeding them. Whatever the reason, the distance, the business, the bad days, there was no one I feared more than my mother.
With Mom climbing the ladder and Dad having open houses or staff meetings, I was left to Barbie Flinn. She was a friend’s mom and to me, she was a paradox. My mom got up early in the morning to watch the headlines and read the paper so she would be up to speed on current events; Barbie woke up early to make everyone breakfast and braid her daughter’s hair. My mom worked in an office with deadlines and people breathing down her neck; Barbie worked bandaging scraped knees and making sure we didn’t kill each other. My mom would have book clubs and go to the theatre; Barbie would cheer her sons on at their games and make homemade snacks.
Barbie was perfect.
Usually, my dad would pick me up from Barbie’s house but every now and then, it was up to Mom. Today was one of those days. The worst kind of day.
There used to be a cereal called “Cookie Crisp.” The cereal’s mascots were: a cop, a burglar, and a sidekick burglar dog. The commercials were the burglars trying to steal the Cookie Crisp and the cop triumphing over injustice. The cop would then eat the cereal himself while the burglars mourned from their jail cells. In my house, we were not allowed to have such cereal. My parents refused to see the benefit of feeding us miniature chocolate chip cookies with milk for breakfast. They were right of course but, from my 4th-grade perspective, they couldn’t have been more wrong.
Barbie, being the saint she was, had bought her kids a box of Cookie Crisp. On the pantry shelf with the glowing light of obesity shining around it, there was the box with the cop and the burglars. It was beautiful. It was glorious. I had to have some. Just like that burglar and his dog, I swiped the box and found an empty room. Fears of being caught started flashing in my mind but there was no cop coming to get me. I broke the seal, opened the bag, and the aroma of pure sugar and premature diabetes puffed out in dream-like clouds. I looked around and still no cop. Stupid commercials. I took one out and there it was. It was true! This cereal was nothing more than miniature chocolate chip cookies, part of this balanced breakfast!
I lowered the cookie onto my tongue in slow motion and savored it. It was crunchy and delicious and tasted like all the cookies my mother had never baked. It was heavenly justice and I realized that I was not the burglar, I was the cop. I had worked so hard at being good and putting up with so much in the face of the imminent danger that came from living under the same roof as my mother that this, this chocolate chip cereal sent by God Himself, was my reward.
But I had to show some restraint. One cookie had left a small dent in the box I’d opened and someone would know upon reopening the box that something wasn’t right. I got out while I was ahead and put the Food of the Gods back on the pantry shelf. There. No harm done. That was until I heard,
“Karen? What are you doing?” It was Barbie. I froze. Speechless in front of the pantry, I realized my hand was still on the box.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Did you take some cereal?”
“…No.” Did I mention I’m a lousy liar?
Years later, I would understand that Barbie wasn’t mad that I took cereal. Hell, if I’d asked, she probably would’ve poured me a bowl. We would’ve sat at the table together like the mom and the kids in the commercial where the mom smiles, proud at the great choice of nutrients she’s given her child and the child would smile back because sugar highs don’t take long to kick in. But I’d lied to her. I’d lied to the woman who took care of me and made sure the other kids were being nice to me. The woman who led our girl scout troop and was always the first one to buy a ticket to any of our plays. I lied to the mom I’d always wanted. I was a burglar. She was the cop.
“Let me smell your breath.”
My first breathalyzer at 9-years-old. She looked into my eyes and both our faces drooped. I was sentenced to the couch for an undetermined amount of time.
As she walked away, she said,
“I wonder what your mom will say.”
She didn’t say it in a way to rub it in my face. She said it in a way like she knew my fate, like she knew what it would be like for me when I got home. She said it in a way that almost sounded like an apology.
The rest of the afternoon I sat as still as possible on the couch watching reruns of M*A*S*H next to Barbie’s 73-year-old dad who was never fully aware of anything. I despised M*A*S*H but today it didn’t matter. I didn’t deserve to watch Inspector Gadget. I was a burglar.
It got dark outside and no one had come to pick me up. The dark made it worse. My mother was going to kill me. Knowing how efficient she was, she’d have time to shove me in a sack, toss me in a river, and order a pizza before Jeopardy. All this for a lousy chocolate chip cookie. It wasn’t even that good. Adding insult to injury, the stupid Cookie Crisp commercial was playing in between Radar and Hawkeye.
I heard the gate open and close. At some point, my body had relaxed. How could I have been so careless? No matter, it tensed more and more as the sound of the dreaded business heels marched forward.
The door opened and there stood my mother, obviously exhausted and tired of being in nylons and a business suit. She put down her briefcase and asked the dreaded question, the question that would seal my fate.
“How did she do today?”
If I could’ve contracted a deadly disease to grant sympathy into my mother’s heart at that very moment, I would’ve. If I could’ve given her every promotion she was ever denied because of her gender or race, I would’ve. If I could’ve done every bit of homework so I would graduate from Harvard with honors by middle school, I would’ve.
I couldn’t look at Barbie. She didn’t deserve the torture of knowing she signed my death warrant. It wasn’t her fault that she was a cop and I was a burglar. She was a good woman and a great mom. She deserved better.
“Fine. We had a good day.” Barbie smiled.
“Good. Well, I hate to run in and run out but I’ve had a crazy day. Still so much to do.” Turning her head toward me, she prompted, “Karen, are you ready?”
I can only imagine what my face looked like at this exact moment. Barbie caught my eye and gave me a look as if to say, “Don’t give yourself away.”
“Karen?”
I broke my dumbfounded stare at Barbie and followed my mom toward the door. As she stepped out, I gazed back at Barbie. I wanted to hug her and never let her go. I wanted to cry and thank her. I wanted to tell her she was the best mom in the world. But I couldn’t. I took the doorknob and, as I continued looking back, just before the door closed, she smiled, gave me a wink, and said, “Have a good night.”
