Twice a week Eleanor picked up Rosa at school because athletic activities ended too late for her to take the bus. Eleanor simmered with rage while she waited in her car in front of the school, a large brick building surrounded by lawn and trees. Where was Rosa? She had said she would be ready at four-thirty, and now it was four-forty-five. It seemed Rosa did this on purpose to annoy her!!
She had rushed here from work, foregoing an invitation for drinks from Clyde, a drama instructor with whom she exchanged confidences. She had so much to do! Her tooth ached, and she needed to make an appointment with the dentist. Howard and Jesse’s shoes needed re-heeling. She should speak with their teachers because they, too, should probably switch schools.
At last Rosa appeared, arms heaped with books. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Dinner will be late, and Aaron has to teach tonight.”
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
“You’ve got to be more responsible. Now I’ll have to rush to get dinner on time.”
“Okay, okay.”
“You knew I’d be here at four-thirty. It was your responsibility to be here.”
“SHUT UP!”
“Rosa, don’t be rude.”
“I’m not being rude, Mom. Just shut up!” She screamed and burst into tears. Eleanor drove in furious tight-lipped silence. Something was terribly wrong between them. Whatever Eleanor did seemed to make things worse. Yet Rosa needed to be taught proper behavior. Often Rosa left the bathroom a mess and neglected her chores.
“I have a bone to pick with you,” Eleanor said one day, summoning Rosa into the bedroom where she lay resting after work.
“What?”
“You didn’t clean the tub last night.”
Rosa fiddled with a strand of her hair, which frizzed out in a bushy halo.
“Your hair needs brushing.”
“Mom, I just brushed it! Stop picking on me.”
“I’m not picking, Rosa. Please clean the tub and brush your hair.” Eleanor stood up, straightening her skirt which had risen above her knees.
“MOM, I BRUSHED MY HAIR!”
“Don’t shout.”
“I can’t stand it! You’re always picking on me.”
“You need to be reminded.”
“MOM, GO TO HELL!”
“Don’t talk to me like that.”
“SHUT UP AND GO TO HELL!”
It wasn’t so much the words as her mother’s tone that made Rosa’s nerves shrill out, made her scream because it was unbearable.
“I never talked to my mother the way you do.” Eleanor’s voice caught with sobs.
Aaron had entered the room. “Apologize to your mother.”
“No!” shouted Rosa, rushing out of their bedroom and into her own. She slammed the door and collapsed on her bed in tears.
Aaron flung open her door. “Apologize! You’re causing your mother a great deal of pain.”
“No!” shrieked Rosa. “What about the pain she caused me?”
“Rosa, apologize! You’ve hurt her!”
His energy planted itself in her. An invisible force ripping through her. After he left, Rosa sat there motionless. She felt monstrous, overcome with shame, furious. Didn’t her feelings count? For him, evidently only her mother’s feelings counted. Why was he treating her this way? He hadn’t been this way when she was younger. This was the handsome, energetic father she adored. The one who took joy in life. The father with comforting hard-edged boundaries. The father who took long walks with her. Who showed her how to dive through the breakers. Who sang folk songs in a loud voice, although slightly off-key, on long family drives.
Like a clear sky that concealed bolts of lightning, he was treacherous. If he had been cruel in the past, she would have built up armor to defend herself. But she was like a woman shocked by a lover’s irrational rage who decides that she herself is to blame.
His words cut into her as if she were the sole star in blackness. Far out in a velvety black universe glistened distant stars as they spun too far away for the human eye to discern—millions of light years too distant. Like knives, his words slashed at her core. She felt jangled, raw.
“He did not validate your feelings,” a psychologist would say many years later. But for a long time the psychologist’s words were only black letters dancing on the surface of her brain. It took a long time for them to penetrate to the child’s consciousness that still lay within her.
A tense hour of silence followed. She was too upset to write her history essay or do her math homework. Yet she had to get it all done. Aaron’s will filled her, giving her no peace. Finally she walked downstairs into the kitchen where Eleanor was putting potatoes on to boil. She trembled at the sound of Rosa’s footsteps.
“I’m sorry,” Rosa said, though she felt as if she had sold her soul. They gave each other a ritual hug.
A few days later Rosa asked for a lock on her door.
“It’s an old door. We can’t put a lock on it,” said Eleanor.
Rosa did not question this. Nor did she mention the lock again.