Excerpt from "Joining the Club" by Sue McGeown

Chapter 3: My Personal Nitroglycerin Stash

My mom and dad never married. He was a horrible excuse for a man who disappeared as soon as I made my presence known. I was a nasty, life-altering disaster that happened to my mother when she was nineteen on a full ride scholarship to Princeton University. It was my arrival that caused all of my mother’s hopes and dreams to be dashed to smithereens, never to be retrieved or resurrected. She went on to become a financial analyst in a small time office working for people who never appreciated her intelligence or ability. I grew up to be a disappointment of astronomical proportions because I was never contrite enough, appreciative enough, obedient enough, willing enough, quiet enough, fast enough, pretty enough …

Ah, hell. Give me a minute.

Sigh. I’m sure if you talked to my mother she would have a slightly different perspective. When I got pregnant at sixteen with what everyone assumed to be Dean’s baby (and no, of course my mother didn’t like Dean, she didn’t like anyone) it was the final straw that broke the proverbial mother’s back. She always knew I would amount to nothing and here I was, real-live proof (finally) of all she feared would come to pass. And in a way, that final straw was also the perfect opportunity to cut herself free of me forever. My mother did not attend my wedding and she never showed any interest in either Olivia or Erin (who arrived two years later when I was barely nineteen). With my marriage to Dean, my mother pretty much shut the door, locked the lock, and threw away the key. Bye-bye.

When things were at their very worst: Dean drinking, bill collectors calling, Miriam harping, and me breaking down, I called my mother. You need to know that in all those years that Dean and I were together I only called her once. Olivia was only three and Erin wasn’t even a year old and I was at an incredibly desperate point. I called my mother and asked her if the girls and I could come and stay for a bit until I got on my feet. I told her quite bluntly that I knew I had screwed up and that she was right about Dean, but that I had the babies to think about. I explained that I was taking night courses to get my teaching degree and working as a receptionist in a doctor’s office during the day. I promised her that I would have all the babysitting issues taken care of. The only thing I asked her for was a place for my babies and I to sleep. And she said no. No apology. No explanation. No alternative offer of help or support. Just no. And then hung up on me.

So I stayed where I was. Where else did I have to go? I did my best to make the most of a pretty horrendous situation. I tried to stay focused on my goal rather than get dragged down by the disaster that was my life. I stayed married to Dean almost four more years. To this day I don’t know what was harder: accomplishing what I set out to do or keeping my sanity. Maybe they were equally difficult.

At twenty-four, I got my teaching degree, got a teaching job, and filed for divorce. I qualified for rental assistance and got a small two-bedroom apartment. I fed my kids through food stamps and free school lunches and a hell of a lot of spaghetti and peanut butter.

Those years with Dean were probably the hardest I ever had to live, but I did it. Looking back I realized that I might as well grab as much positive as I could from that time: I came out of those years knowing I could do just about anything I put my mind to. I realized that the kid my mom was never impressed with, never wanted, and downright resented was strong, determined, and smart. And if my mother couldn’t see it, that was her loss. Move on, Elaine. Move on.

By the time I was twenty-six, Olivia was ten and in fourth grade, and Erin was eight and in second. I had been teaching for almost two years and had already signed a teaching contract for the next year. I got on well with my principal and colleagues and was liked by the parents and students. You could almost say I was a success, right? Life was pretty darn good. Give that girl a pat on the back for accomplishing all she did, huh? I’d managed to get a slightly larger apartment in a better part of town. The girls saw Dean less than when we lived with him but at a much higher ratio of him being sober. Despite what my mother had always thought, despite my less than stellar past, I had every reason to assume that all of my big mistakes were in my past. And then I got introduced to the newly hired school psychologist. Yeah, you guessed it: Paul Richardson. AKA Paulie.

Through all this time I carried the secret of Olivia’s conception with me like a giant container of nitroglycerin. When someone commented on her unique eye color, her adorable dimple, her glossy black hair, or her volatile personality (none of which anyone in my or Dean’s family possessed) it was almost as if my heart stopped beating and my lungs stopped functioning. I waited for someone to look me in the eye and say, “Surely you could not have conceived this child with your husband Dean.”

But no one ever did.