MY MOTHER’S EYES
By Gillian P. Herbert
It was the Sunday before Christmas, and we were all scurrying around checking everything was ready for our guests. Each year my parents invited the entire staff from the schools where they taught to come for a Christmas gathering. It was usually a joyous, maybe even raucous, gathering.
Outside, the snow was swept from the path and street lights gleamed through the falling flakes. Inside, my mother and I had been working feverishly in the kitchen all afternoon. Most often we had a difficult time working together due to my mother’s loss of hearing. By now she barely heard a word I said, so I communicated with hand gestures. It was becoming harder and harder for us to understand each other. At ten years old I wanted to please her so much, although I rarely succeeded. But we had prepared a grand traditional afternoon tea together so often that I knew what to do. Occasionally she would smile and point at a plate or a knife, but for the most part we just worked side by side in companionable silence. I could feel her approval and basked in it.
My father had spent days decorating the house with festive garlands and brightly coloured pennants he had collected in Canada. Our tree stood in the bay window with twinkling lights, glimmering icicles and decorations. A pile of presents sat underneath.
Footsteps crunched on the icy snow, as the guests carefully made their way up the steps and pathways to the house. I ran to the door. I was proud of the responsibility I felt in my job to open it, welcome my parents’ friends, take their wet clothes, and send them into the living room. Meanwhile, my mother hurried around in the kitchen putting the finishing touches to this teatime feast, as my father held court in the living room. His job was to entertain until everyone had arrived.
Then the entire gathering moved into the dining room where an elaborate afternoon tea was served. I had laid the table with a linen cloth, and put out small knives and forks along with small plates and serviettes. Then I had laid up a trolley with the teapot, cups and saucers, teaspoons and milk and sugar, just as my mother had taught me. In the kitchen we had prepared plates of tiny sandwiches filled with egg salad or ham or cream cheese and cucumber, buttered scones, mince pies, tarts and cakes.
As folk settled into armchairs my mother made the tea and wheeled the trolley into the living room. I took everyone a plate, serviette and small fork and then made my way round offering the various plates of food, while the guests sat and talked. My mother was busy pouring and passing out cups of tea, topping up the pot with hot water and refilling tea cups. I spent much time running around ensuring everybody had a full plate. Suddenly I realised all the sandwiches were gone and I turned to my mother. Would she be annoyed if I pointed this out? Diffidently, I took the empty plate to her. She whisked it away to the kitchen and returned with a back up plate from the larder. I sighed with relief as she nodded her head slightly and smiled gently.
After tea my father took the men into the living room once again. There, they settled in and partook of hard liquor and cigarettes or cigars. The women helped my mother clear the debris to the kitchen and then regrouped with one last cup of tea in the dining room. Most of them had known my mother for years and knew how to communicate with her. My part was over and I was free to go to my bedroom. With my chores successfully completed I could now work on a jigsaw and listen to the Christmas carols playing quietly on my radio. The sounds of chatter and rounds of laughter floated up from downstairs.
Later I went down to ask my mother’s help with my puzzle. I slipped through the half open door. Her high winged back chair was angled so her back was to the door. She wore a high necked, wine coloured dress she saved for holiday gatherings. I stood near her chair. She was smiling and speaking. Her guests were listening attentively. She was beautiful with warm brown eyes, jet black hair plaited and worn in a bun, high cheek bones and naturally rosy colouring. I knew she hadn’t seen me because of the angle of her chair and she hadn’t heard me because of her deafness.
I stood silently, waiting for a break in the conversation. Then she said, “I am convinced that when two academically gifted people, two intelligent people have children, one of them is gifted and the other child is not”. As she spoke, her guests shot me quick glances. I turned bright red. My older brother was a scholarship student. That only left me to be mediocre in my mother’s eyes. Quietly I turned and left the room. I knew she hadn’t even known I was there. I went back to my bedroom and closed the door firmly. I turned off my radio and put away my jigsaw puzzle. I changed into my pyjamas and crawled into bed. I lay there trembling even though I wasn’t cold. I recalled all the cold and distant glances my mother had given me. Now I knew why. I was mediocre.
Gillian P. Herbert - Born in Canada and raised in England, Gillian now lives and writes in California. When not furiously scribbling, she fuses glass platters and bowls and builds stained glass windows.
