By the time my mother moved in to the apartment next door to ours in 2006, she had acquired quite a collection of movies. Her favourites were the ones she had taped from late-night television and TMC. “Matinee At the Bijou” and stuff like that, complete with serials (she loved Buster Crabbe), newsreels, cartoons, and shorts. A bunch of Three Stooges episodes and movies. Abbott and Costello. Dracula, Frankenstein, and The Wolfman… Lugosi, Karloff and Cheney. Westerns… lots of John Wayne and Randolph Scott, Roy Rogers, and The Sons of the Pioneers.

Mysteries. She loved a mystery.

I wish I had watched more mysteries with my mom.

When I miss my mom so badly that I can’t sleep, I sneak out into the living room, and through the X-Box, I get into my Netflix account. I don’t watch the latest movies or television shows. I don’t watch MY favourite old films.

I watch something that my mother loved to watch. A western or a mystery. Black and white. Sometimes, a silent movie.

I turn the lights off, make popcorn and watch old movies, one after another, while my husband and my father-in-law snore away down the hall. I kick back in my FIL’s recliner, with a blanket around me; I get as comfy as possible. I’m there for hours; I disappear into the movies.

I think of my mother’s voice… always quiet during a movie, if she talked at all. Shushing people around her, even though she’d seen the film at least one hundred times. When something funny happens in the movie, I think of her laugh, the really happy one. When something tragic happens, I can hear her sigh and say, “Yoy, eesh-tehr-num.” (It’s Hungarian. It means “God help us,” I think.) When “the bad guy” in a movie gets his comeuppance, I can hear my mother cheer.

There are a couple of films that I haven’t been able to watch since she passed away in 2008: Laura and The Lady Vanishes. They are two that she watched over and over again, near the end. Two of her favourites. Two of MY favourites. We watched them together many times.

I tried to watch The Lady Vanishes last night/this morning. It just recently became available on the Netflix instant-watch thingy. About ten minutes into it, I had to shut it off. I had started crying during the opening credits.

I ended up watching a Hammer Production, instead: Dracula A.D. 1972 (Christopher Lee and Peter Cushing). I could hear my mother giggling and saying things like, “This is so bad, it’s good!” and “What a stupid woman! Why doesn’t she just run?”

I found myself imitating her, laughing at the ridiculous fake blood and Mister Lee’s red contact lenses (My mom would have said to the screen, “Try some Visine… it gets the red out, Count.”).

The Lady Vanishes and Laura will just have to wait a little longer, I guess.

“You got kids, right?” she slurred to me.

“Nah,” I said, trying not to gag. Her breath smelled like rum and puke.

“I got three,” she said. I was relieved that we weren’t going into my childless situation.

Before I could congratulate her, she added, “Yeah. I don’t have custody, though.”

Out of nowhere, she pulled up a joint and sparked it. Holding in the smoke, she told me, “Fuckin’ ex has ‘em. Said I’m a bad mother.” She choked out her hit. “You believe that shit?”

Yes. Yes, I do.

She pushed the joint toward me. I held up my hands, kind of like I was being robbed. “No, thank you,” I said, and began to make my way toward the ladies’ room door. This is just ugly.

She sniffed, “You? Not smokin’?” She drew in another hit.

I sighed and repeated, “No, thank you.” My hand was on the door handle.

“You? But you’re like… Miss Party Girl!”

I was annoyed. “That was like, twenty years ago,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

She laughed and choked. “Well, I’m not stoppin’!”

I managed a grin. “Cool beans for you, Sally.” I left.

I went out to my car and cried.

I can’t have a baby. She can have three… and have them taken away from her… and there she is, still partying like it’s nineteen-eighty-nine.

These are the times it bothers me most, not being called to motherhood. Some people treat it like it’s nothing to have a child (or three), and it is nothing to abuse that gift. It makes me angry and jealous.

It took me a few minutes, but I stopped crying; I blew my nose and fixed my face. I’m just called to do something else, I thought. It’s okay.

I said a little prayer and started the car. On my way home, I thought, well, at least she didn’t feel sorry for me and offer advice.

Imagine?

I did not want to meet Karen. I loved Jan.

Brother #3, The Professor, had been with Jan for well over ten years when she caught him cheating on her with Karen. If he had not gotten caught, my brother would have carried on with both women, Jan unknowing, Karen uncaring.

He got busted, and Jan left him. Now, he was trying to have a “real” relationship with Karen, a married woman he had met at work.

The thing about The Professor is that… well, without going into a lot of technical terms to describe it, there is something missing in him. He does not feel it when he hurts someone else, even someone he says that he loves, someone as wonderful as Jan.

Most of my family members blamed Karen… saying things like, “She turned his head.” I thought that way in the very beginning, too, until I went to his apartment and talked to him (the day I found out what had transpired); he informed me that he had chased Karen, and it had not been the other way around. He still loved Jan; he loved Karen, too.

Selfish.

For more than a decade, Jan had been a good friend to my mother, and the only person in front of whom Tadpole, my younger brother, would behave like a gentleman. To me, she was a sweet big sister (You know how I like Grumpy Old Men? Well, the Professor prefers older women… Must run in our family or something. Jan is about twenty years older than my brother, although you could never tell that from looking at her.), always taking me shopping, to concerts, etc. Going to meet Karen felt like a betrayal…

… But The Professor’s my brother, and he seemed to be really taken with this Karen chick. After a month or so of his badgering, I agreed to go with him to watch her perform at a community opera house.

“Which opera?” I asked.

“Cosi Fan Tutte… a Mozart opera…”

“I know the one.” Duh. “What role did she get?”

“She’s in the chorus.”

“Oh.”  It was a snotty, she-didn’t-even-get-a-role kind of “oh”. Don’t be a bitch, Vaness. Just go.

I agreed to go.

He was excited and I knew why. In my family, I was the Peacemaker. If I liked her, Tadpole might like her, and then Mom would probably give her a chance. For whatever reason, that was important to him. I did not really understand why at the time, but I figured, if it was important to him, I should give her a shot, and hope that my relationship with Jan would not be completely destroyed (It wasn’t. We still talk.).

I bought a new dress and shoes for the occasion and had my hair done that afternoon; it had been a while since I went to an opera, and though it was not at The Met, it was an evening show. An evening at the opera is special no matter where it is. I wanted to look my best.

The Professor met me at our mother’s house, wearing a suit and tie. He was clean-shaven. He had not been without a full beard in several years. I commented on how similar, sans beard, he looked to our younger brother, Tadpole. My mother and I both laughed when The Professor and Tadpole at the same time, yelled, “Shut up!”

Just before we left, I turned to my mother and whispered, “Welp! I’m off to meet the bimbo, I guess.”

She gave me her “warning” face first, and then broke into a smile. “Now, you be… polite,” she said.

I gave her cheek a quick peck and said, “Polite. Got it.”

Polite meant, “Don’t be too nice; we still hate her… but don’t make a scene, and get all of the info!”

On the long drive to the opera house (it was over an hour away; I cannot remember the name of the town, but it was in southeastern Connecticut), I chain-smoked and wished I had smoked the joint that was in the zipper compartment of my evening bag before we’d set out. The Professor did nothing but talk about Karen: how beautiful she was, how smart, how classy, and how talented. I said very little, but thought a lot.

Okay, so he’s smitten. What am I supposed to do? Tell him he has to date whoever I say he should date? This is a shitty situation, but here I am. I will be polite… and I will smoke a fatty before the show…

It’s hard to be a bitch when I am stoned.

I chuckled to myself when we arrived and everyone else was wearing jeans and t-shirts. The Professor commented on it as we waited in line to enter.

“Well,” I said, “Cousin Steve always said it is better to be over-dressed than under-dressed…”

The Professor gave a little laugh and took my arm (I remember thinking, How weird! when he did that). He said, “Steve was something else, wasn’t he?”

I smiled and nodded agreement, remembering operas and other times with our favourite relative. I looked down at my pretty new dress and thought, He’d say something like, “You’re a knockout, Sweetheart!”

We were early. Once we’d found our seats, I excused myself and pretended to go to the ladies’ room. I stepped outside and walked around to the back of the building. I found a spot behind a tree and sparked up the joint. I’m going to laugh and have fun; I am going to enjoy the opera and be polite to Karen afterwards. Fuck it. It isn’t like they’re getting married or anything.

I smoked half of the joint and then had a cigarette. I used some Visine and sprayed a little perfume on my wrists before I returned.

There, sitting next to The Professor was our Auntie V!

Holy shit. I am so baked right now… oh, God, no, she’s seen me… can’t run in these heels… oh, God, I’m gonna giggle…

“Vanessa!” Auntie V said. “Fancy meeting you here!”

My mother’s sister was wearing her red suit, my favourite of all of her outfits. It is very 1940s, a classic style and fitted – my aunt has always been 36-24-36 (at age 92, those are still her measurements), and wears clothes very well.

She made the red suit herself (she is good with any kind of needle; she sews, embroiders, does needlepoint, knits and crochets). She had embroidered cherries on the black lapels. Auntie V looked great and I told her so.

She kissed my cheek; I could smell her perfume, Raffia. “You smell like cigarettes,” she said, pulling away from me with a wrinkled nose. “I thought you were quitting.”

I smiled. “Nope. Your sister didn’t raise any quitters.”

She grimaced (Auntie V doesn’t always appreciate my sense of humour), so I changed the subject. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “{The Professor} didn’t tell me you were going to be here.”

Auntie V knew Karen from one of her social clubs; she had known about Karen and The Professor’s relationship before any of us had.

“I didn’t mention that?” The Professor asked as Auntie V walked back to her seat, far away from us.

“No,” I said, “but it doesn’t really matter.”

He sniffed at my hair and whispered, “You’re stoned!”

I giggled. “Yeah. Little bit.”

“Unbelievable.” He sat back in his chair and put a hand over his eyes.

“Oh, get over it,” I whispered. “You know me. I’ll be a good girl.”

He groaned. “Yeah. I know you, all right.”

… But do I know YOU, Big Brother?

I leaned a little closer, whispered more softly. “You want me to be nice, right?”

He nodded and then chuckled. “She’s really not that bad, Vaness. You don’t need to be high to like her.”

I shook my head a little and lied. “No. You’re probably right. But… ” I shrugged and chuckled. “Too late now!”

The first act began.

At first, I thought I was not enjoying the production because it wasn’t The Metropolitan Opera House, or maybe because it was Karen.

As we walked out to the front lobby to meet Auntie V for a drink during intermission, I realised why I wasn’t enjoying Cosi Fan Tutte: it sucked. Mozart was a great composer, and the libretto wasn’t bad. In my opinion, it was a combination of inferior voices and shabby direction that made the evening drag.

After sitting through a very painful Act II, I hurried out to the front lawn for a cigarette.

When The Professor caught up with me and asked me what I thought of the production, I cackled. Vaness, you are a snob.

“I’m sorry,” I said, catching my breath, “But that was just… that was just freaking painful!”

He gave me his surprised look. “I thought you love opera!”

I laughed harder. “I do love opera… that in there?” I hooked a thumb back at the theatre. “That was not opera.”

He looked hurt. I had never seen that before; it took a moment to register.

“Oh,” I said, “I don’t mean your girlfriend. I just mean the whole production is…”

“I get it. It isn’t The Met, huh?” He lit his cigarette off of mine.

I stopped laughing. “No. It isn’t. I’m sorry. I’m a snob, I guess.”

After smoking, we went backstage and met the cast. I met Karen, and it didn’t kill me. As a matter of fact, I didn’t even hate her.

Within a few months, Karen’s divorce went through, she married my brother and became pregnant. Within a year, they had a little boy, and The Professor discovered that Karen had substantial debt. My nephew, Quenten, was less than a year old when my brother abandoned them. He was able to do that because he’s got that thing missing in him.

I never grew to love Karen, but I liked her. She was a really good mother, and she was good to my mom; she brought Quenten over to see his grandmother every Sunday, regardless of The Professor’s behaviour.

Karen died of cancer while The Professor was incarcerated the first time. The Professor gave up parental rights so that Karen’s second husband (The Professor was her third) and his wife could adopt Quenten.

I have not seen Quenten since his adoption; he lives in Washington, D.C. He is a young man now, looking forward to college this fall. Two people who have nothing missing in them love him there.