“I used to catch you masturbating,” Mom says.
I’m sure my irritation is visible, but I’m semi-distracted, sifting through papers in Dad’s office. You know, what was Dad’s office, when he still had the mind to need one.
“You don’t catch someone masturbating, Mom,” I say. “It’s not a crime to experience pleasure. You watch them without permission. Which is a crime, by the way.”
“I wasn’t sure if I should stop you,” she says.
I start to get that bleeding feeling in my mind, like her world and mine are intersecting and overlapping in ways I really don’t like.
“Thank goddess you didn’t,” I say. “What a fuckin’ nightmare.”
“I was taught that it was bad, Tracy,” she says.
“Well that sucks for you,” I say. “And I’m sorry and all, but. Not my problem. Wasn’t then, and definitely isn’t now … Why can’t I ever find what I’m looking for?” I push that box aside and open another, paw through it.
“You would do it in some really weird places,” Mom says.
Part of me wants to stop and yell directly into her face to shut the hell up, say, You’re creeping me out.
But we’ve been down that road before, and it is pointless. So I try to focus harder on what I am searching for, even as I can feel my mental resources diminishing, and I am forgetting the object of my attention.
“Like one time, I saw you on the ping-pong table with your legs spread really wide in the air …”
“Why are you still talking about this?” I ask. I can hear and feel the intensity in my voice, even though I am doing my best to stay calm and in control of my emotions.
“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s just strange that someone would want to masturbate on a ping-pong table in the middle of the week.”
I take a deep breath. Then I say, “Mom. This isn’t something I want to discuss with you. Okay? Do you get that? I’ve never wanted to discuss it with you.”
“But you used to,” she says. “You would confide all sorts of things in me. Deep things. Sexual things.”
A very specific flavor of rage roils along my scalp, and I say loudly, “Mother stop! I do not want to talk about this. I didn’t then, either. You drew those things out of me cos Dad wasn’t around, and you were lonely. Which sucks. I’m not saying it doesn’t suck, and I’m not giving him a pass for that. But what you did was not okay, and this is not okay.”
Mom is quiet for a second, which I recall is often the worst part because her mind is doing its thing. I don’t know what goes on in there, and I really don’t care to. But the results are very well known and predictable. She will become defensive. If pressed, she will get accusatory. So don’t push, Tee, I think. Just leave.
Time is still, like a car accident.
Then she says, “I didn’t mean to hurt you, Tracy. That was the last thing I wanted.”
What I want is to flip the box over or maybe tear the room apart.
But instead I leave.
