Claudine M. Jalajas; Essays

French Twist

"Guess what?" my mother said straight-faced and noticeably not looking me in the eyes. "What?" I asked. She walked back into the kitchen. It was my 7th birthday. I wondered if she had bought me something special. My father had just dropped me off. I had spent the weekend with he and Sara.

Steven, my older brother, never went to my father's house-I'm not sure why but it suited me fine. I loved having my father all to myself. Well, Sara was there but she was like the mother I actually wanted. She was pretty, wore strappy high-heeled shoes and was always willing to paint my fingernails-even my toes. She let me play with her makeup and she wore the best lipstick colors I ever saw like plum, rum raisin, or iced coffee. My mother always wore the same frosted pink color that I never really liked. It wasn't quite bubblegum, but it was close enough. Her nails were painted a similar pink but the paint was always wearing off. I know girls are supposed to think their mothers are pretty or beautiful but I never did. Her hair was always pulled back tight in a French twist. She wore silver clip on earrings but only when she was going out. Sara's ears were pierced and she wore earrings even when going to the pool. I don't think my mother found me pretty either. Whenever people commented to her, "She looks like you" she would quickly scoff, "Oh no, she looks JUST like her father."

Al sat at the dining table and looked at me while I waited for my mother's reply. Steven was sitting in the living room studying his board game Stratego. My mother returned from the kitchen with a dust cloth and started to wipe the dining table as she said, "Al and I got married over the weekend." Actually, my French mother had a hard time saying Al and instead it always came out, "Hal." I looked at her and back at Hal to see if she was joking. Al smiled at me and then Steven called out from the living room, "show her the pictures." I looked through the handful of snapshots not yet in an album. There were pictures of her and Al-she wearing a blue dress and he in his best sport coat and pants. Steven was there; in the pictures.

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Al had three daughters who I met the year before. It was a hot summer day. We walked into Al's mother's home. I never really liked going there. She wasn't much taller than I was had wild gray hair, and dark deep-set angry eyes with glasses. She spoke only in Italian, and was always yelling. Whenever she'd see me she'd grab my cheeks and pinch them so hard I could taste blood in my mouth.

My grandmother was petite, perfectly coiffed, always in a dress and high-heeled shoes. She had worn high heels her entire life and because of it her feet were perpetually in the arched position. She could not walk without them. When she saw me, her smile broadened and in her softest voice she'd say, "Collette! Vien ici mon petite chou." Come here my little cabbage. She smelled sweet from the constant pie baking and would slip me pieces of meringue candy even when my mother said I had to wait until after dinner.

Al's daughters inspected me as they sat lined on the sofa. Alexandra was the oldest at 10 years old, Rosanne was 8 and Annie, thankfully, was a whole year younger than me at 5. We looked at each other-my hair was short and blonde and I had blue eyes. I wore a pink pleated sundress that my mother made and white sandals. Their hair was long, dark and curly, and their eyes so dark you couldn't see their pupils. They wore cutoff jean shorts, t-shirts, and sneakers without socks. The oldest, Alexandra, looked at me and directed, "let's go outside."

The yard was a large rectangle surrounded by rose bushes so thick you couldn't see the passersby on the sidewalk. At the far end of the yard was a tree. A picnic table was underneath it. We walked out towards the middle of the grassy area and it wasn't long before the cart wheeling competition began.

I was new-I had to go first. I arched my back and extended my arms up high pressing them against my ears. I put my right leg in front, bent my knee slightly and pointed my toe while they watched. Thrusting my body forward reaching for the earth with my right hand I kicked my left leg high. My left hand beside my right, my right leg leaves the earth and I was vertical. Feeling the weight of my small body on my hands until my left leg comes back down to the ground, then the right foot, until my hands are pulled back into the air and I'm standing tall once again; hand, hand, foot, foot, sigh.

I turned to look at my judges and knew I had passed the test. I was accepted. We all smiled at each other and Alexandra, the oldest, announced;

"Let's take off our shoes!"

What a terrific idea. Cartwheels were always easier without shoes. The lawn was soft and spongy-like jumping on your bed. The grass was thick and cool tickling our hot sweaty feet.

Soon Annie, the youngest, stopped to admire the roses and I went to join her. She pointed out the thorns and I was careful to avoid them. I put my small hand up to touch them. It was the softest thing I had ever touched-like the skin on my grandmother's arm.

Annie smiled wide and said, "Let's put a rose in our hair to be pretty!" The day couldn't get much better. Soon, we were all prancing around the yard singing with roses in our hair. Rosanne said, "I'm putting two in my hair!" We were drawn to the roses-one was not enough. But with every cartwheel or round off the rose would fall and petals would come loose. The once perfect rose needed to be replaced. We'd swear it was the last rose but time after time we'd go back and get another. Soon the green grass was covered in red petals.

The spell was broken when the back door slammed and the Italian shrieking began. Alexandra turned to me her brown eyes wide and screamed, "RUN!" I had never run from an adult before. I'll never forget the site of a short stocky little Italian woman coming at me wielding her wooden spoon.

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Life was different once Al was married to my mother. I started to realize that my father was never coming home again. He used to come home for a while and then leave again but I was sure that one day he'd stay. Now, it was a lot like knowing Santa wasn't real but still trying to believe in him anyway.

In my short life before Al, I was born and raised a catholic. I was christened in the same gown as my grandmother, my mother and her sisters, and their children. I went to a catholic school. I had my first communion. But, the year after their marriage I was in public school. I didn't mind going to public school so much-the nuns frightened me. But our church also changed-we went to Al's evangelical church. My church had been dark, somber, and quiet, with lots of candles. Now it was bright, noisy, and you were expected to do a lot of singing and yell out when the pastor (not priest) would prompt. We rarely went to church when we were catholic but now we went Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, and every Wednesday night. The worst part was never knowing how long the service would last-catholic mass had a very clear timetable. My mother would pinch my leg if I made too much noise or couldn't hold back my giggles. They told me I wasn't saved unless I accepted Jesus as my savior. Being saved meant not going to hell. I definitely didn't want to go to hell; but what about my Dad and Sara? I was sure they weren't saved either and feared for their future. Al told me to pray for them-tell them about Jesus, convince them they needed to be saved. I did-every night.

My mother and I rarely spoke French anymore. Before their divorce my father would entertain party guests-he'd call me over and say, "Collette, go tell your mother that I would like something to drink." I would run to my mother and, in French, tell her that my father needed a drink. My father would beam with pride at his bilingual toddler. Al didn't like us speaking French-he said it was rude because he didn't understand; like whispering. Sometimes he called us Frogs and laughed. Soon, I spoke pseudo Italian; Pizza was Pie, Spaghetti had gravy (not sauce) and Manicotti and Ricotta were pronounced Man-e-got and Ree-got-a. My mother's cooking changed from mostly French cuisine with the occasional Corned Beef and Cabbage to Spaghetti, Baked Ziti, Lasagna and the Easter Pie Pizzagaina.

When I was eleven years old, my mother had two sons with Al. The girls stopped coming over after that and Steven, who was six years older than me, had joined the Army when college wasn't an option. The family I knew; mother, Steven, and me was now Al, Francine, the boys, and her daughter. I was the constant reminder to Al that my mother had once loved another man.

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I got off the school bus and walked up the driveway to our house. My mother was sitting on the chair in the living room with her legs drawn up underneath her. She had been crying. I stopped and looked at her. She had a tissue balled up in her hand and said, "Collette, your father and Sara died in a car accident."

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My mother and I have both softened with age-or maybe we're too old and too tired to fight anymore. I recently found an old box of photographs while visiting her and Al. I put the box on the dining room table anxious to look through the old treasures. While she was doing the after dinner dishes I rummaged around and found her passport to the United States. "Oh look! Here's your passport" I smiled. Opening the stiff cover I took a short pause in breathing when I notice her photo, my smile slowly falling off my face. With a bowl in one hand and drying towel in the other she leaned over my shoulder, smiled, and said, "Your father always loved my hair like that-you know, in a French twist." "Maman?" I said quietly, "I look just like you."