436
1969
"I want you to be married. I want
you to be happy."
- That
is
my mother speaking. She
speaks in a "logical," slightly singsong
voice, as if imitating Dr. van
Gee!.
He,
being Dutch (I think) , speaks in a
very logical singsong voice, as
if
always
speaking to children.
Confused, I nod at my mother. I
agree.
She
is
telling me what to do with my
life. I feel the contraction of her muscles
seeking to expel me from her, forever.
She wants to squeeze my head down out
of her body - she wants me to leave
her, to be born, to walk out of the
hospital lounge, to wrap my arms and
legs around a man, a stranger. I begin
to cry. Oh, she
is
hateful, she wants me
dead! The secret of mothers and daugh–
ters: that daughters should be "mar–
ried," that they should be "happy." Just
what does that mean?
"Why are you crying?" she says,
alarmed.
She is embarrassed. What if one of
the other patients sees us? (They are
all spying on us. They know.) What
if
one of the nurses hurries over and seizes
me, claims that I am
just
as crazy as
my mother... ? My mother wants it
all
for herself. She wants to be sick,
herself, but she won't let me be sick. She
wants me to walk out
of
here. A woman
in a blue dress, her feet in ugly support
shoes, she is safe in her fifteen-year
sickness and she
is
too selfish to share
it with anyone
else.
JOYCE CAROL OATES
