Graduation Present

Chapter 1. Reckoning

My grandmother on my mom's side, Lydia Lane, was crazy about the Beatles and anything from the 1960s. She wore tie-dyed shirts, oversized round glasses, and had long blonde hair usually adorned with beads. She was like a time traveler who refused to conform to the era where she'd landed.

She met my grandfather at a Beatles tribute band concert after high school. He was tall with long hair, earrings, a full beard, and a big smile. To hear Mom tell the story, it was love at first site.

When my mother was born, it was obvious to these two Beatles fans that she should be named "Penny Lane." It seemed like hippy-bliss, but those feelings passed as the reality of dirty diapers and 3:00 AM feedings "wasn't his scene." My grandfather departed for California, never to be seen again.

My mother was raised by her grandmother. Her mother, young, idealistic, and with a touch of wanderlust, slowly faded into the background until she declared that she, too, would be going to California to pursue whatever was left of the 1960s, Haight-Ashbury, and free love.

In that trio of mom, her mother, and her grandmother, mom was the serious one, the responsible one, and the one determined to break this cycle of abandonment. She graduated from High School as Salutatorian, pulled together enough money and scholarships for college, and left home. But the circle was not so easily broken.

Mom met a wealthy man late in her first year. He was tall, good-looking, and charming, sweeping her off her feet. They were married that fall, and I arrived soon thereafter. But domestic life wasn't for my father, and his family, against the marriage to a "poor commoner," applied so much pressure to dissolve the marriage and erase the mistake that a divorce with an enormous monetary settlement was soon arranged. When asked why she didn't push back, Mom said, "I didn't want to be married to a man that didn't love me." To scrub the abandonment from her life, she scrubbed it from her name, dropping both her married name and her father's last name. She took her mother's maiden name to become simply "Penny Lane."

My childhood was bumpy. Mom did her best, but I was a terror. I'm so ashamed of those years. Looking back, most of those problems were my fault, and I'm not even sure why I acted out as I did. We were financially secure, Mom loved me with all her heart, and I wanted for nothing. To this day, I don't understand myself.

Even with me being as I was, Mom continued to press on. She returned to college when I was ten years old. Her interest in biology, medicine, and biochemistry had only grown since she had married and dropped out. While my grades were mediocre, hers were stellar. She juggled housework, laundry, meals, coursework, labs, and me with finesse, understanding, and love. She was a marvel.

Those two things, her love and decency and my complete lack of it had to collide at some point. That moment was after midnight at the end of a week when I had been especially bratty. Shame, regret, and near despair descended as I lay in the darkness. Each memory of a selfish act or failure stabbed me in the heart. What have I done with my life? What have I done to this amazing woman who gave of herself so much to raise me? I cried that night, first for myself and then for my poor mother, who had suffered from her ungrateful child. When my tears finally dried, I sat up and pulled my knees to my chest. I can't erase my mistakes, but I can begin anew. I swore to myself I'd do better.

Saturday morning followed my night of reflection. When I arrived in the kitchen, Mom was sipping coffee at the table and scrolling through her phone, and she smiled as I entered.

"Can I make you something? I'm going to have an egg," I said.

Mom looked confused. "You want me to make you breakfast?"

This was the first time I'd ever offered to help in the kitchen, so her confusion was understandable. I knew how to cook but never offered to cook for her. It was another red mark in my ledger.

"No. I'm making breakfast for both of us," I said. "Would you like an egg or something else?"

Mom tilted her head and squinted a bit. "Toast?"

I started the eggs and loaded the toaster before grabbing plates and a glass of orange juice.

"OJ?" I asked.

Mom shook her head, clearly off-balance.

After a glance at her coffee mug, I said, "Let me top that off for you."

I refilled the mug and said, "That's it for this pot. Should I start another?"

"No, thank you," she said. "I need to go to the library."

The eggs were done, the toast popped, and I filled the plates. A quick dab of margarine and breakfast was presented.

She picked up her fork, then put it down. "Jason? What's going on?"

It was time. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and tried to relax my neck. It had been a very long, sad, terrifying, depressing, and horrible night. When I finally looked up and looked into her eyes, she tensed.

"Jason! Why are your eyes so bloodshot?"

Her hands were on the table, which made the next bit easier. I reached for her hand and held it. There was no point in being coy. I had things to tell her and didn't want to drag it out.

"Mom, I owe you an apology. The biggest apology I can make. I'm so sorry," I said.

I felt Mom's hand squeeze mine. She might have even been shaking.

"What happened? What have you done?" She asked.

Another deep breath. "I've been horrible. I don't know how it happened, but I've been angry, spiteful, and mean for no reason. I've been a brat. I've treated you horribly. And it's so unfair. We have a great life. You're an amazing mom. And I love you. I don't say that enough, but you should hear it. I love you, Mom. And I'm so very, very sorry."

She was quiet for a time. Then she squeezed my hand again.

"That doesn't explain why your eyes are red," she said.

You've got to love the focus of this woman. I put my other hand on top of our clasped hands.

"I've been thinking a lot lately, and it all came to a head last night. I'm so angry and disappointed in myself. I spent half the night crying," I said. "Please don't say anything. That was hard to admit."

I lightly rubbed her wrist, then released her hand. I sat back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. We learned in school that this was a defensive body language posture, and I thought: yup, that seems about right.

"Thank you for saying those things. I love you very much," she said. "I'm sure I could have done better—"

"No," I said. "No. You are amazing. This is on me. And because it's on me, I have the power to fix it—and I'm going to. You've done nothing wrong. You stuck by me while I was having a multiyear meltdown, and, honestly, I don't know how you put up with me."

Her eyes were locked on mine, and I continued. "I love you, Mom. Things will be different around here, better, but I will need your help with some things."

"Name it," she said.

I rolled my eyes a bit, embarrassed with this next part. "I know you've shown me the laundry stuff before, but I could use a refresher. I'll start doing my bedding, towels, jeans, shirts, and whites. I'm nervous I'd goof up your stuff, so I'm not offering yet. But, if you want to throw your towels in with mine, I can probably be trusted not to botch that too badly."

She smiled and relaxed a bit. "OK. We can start a load after breakfast." Then she looked serious again. "Are you sure there isn't something else I should know?"

It was such a relief to get this off my chest that I felt like joking again. What a wonder she is, how she can put me so at ease.

"Look," I said. "I can assure you that I'm not on drugs, haven't murdered anyone, and I'm not pregnant."

She laughed. "Well, that's good!"

"Isn't that the things parents worry about most?" I quipped.

She stood and took my empty plate to the sink.

"I admit it is a great relief to hear you're not pregnant!" She said.

"Leave those," I said. "I'm on cleanup duty from now on."

"Jason, that's not fair," she said. "You cooked, so I should clean up."

"No," I said, " you should go to the library. I got this." I reached to touch her arm. "Please."

She hugged me. She was so warm. She rested her head on my chest, and I'd never felt closer to her.

Chapter 2: A New Beginning

In the weeks before my first day of high school, I began doing everything I'd promised. Mom was always up early to get lab time in before classes and her library work, and I made her breakfast and cleaned the kitchen once I got her on her way. The role reversal of me getting her off to school was not lost on me.

I vacuumed the house, cleaned the windows, scrubbed the bathrooms, and continued doing the yard work, including mowing the grass, trimming, and cutting the hedges. Some of this was penance, but I also found that I enjoyed the fruits of my labors. The house looked great, and I enjoyed the smile on my Mom's face each night.

When school started again, it was part of my new beginning: new school, new schedule, new teachers, and many new faces. I was never one for organized sports, but I knew I needed to do something as I was more than a little soft around the middle. Mom had a family membership with the gym up the street, but I had never gone. My new routine was to get Mom out of the house in the morning, head to the gym for an hour, then return home to get ready for school.

Since I had no idea what to do at a gym, I hired a personal trainer. His name was Dave, and he had me alternating between strength training one day and endurance training the next. Much to my great surprise, I found that I enjoyed every minute. Well, not every minute. Dave pushed me pretty hard some days, and it took a while for those endorphins to get flowing, but it was all worth it. After just a couple of months, I looked better and felt better.

When the credit card bill came that first month, Mom did ask about the charges. I lifted my shirt and showed her how much weight had come off and how tight things were getting. She ran her hand over my stomach, slapped my ass, and said, "The girls are going to fall all over you."

The next summer was sedate. I had finished my first year of high school, and she had completed the first year of her master's degree program. There was a lull before her big push to finish her degree, so we spent some time traveling, sightseeing, and generally relaxing. We both knew it would be the last time for a while. We celebrated my sweet sixteen birthday at the Grand Canyon under beautiful skies and warm breezes. Her love of the outdoors was infectious, and I was especially glad I had made an effort to get into shape.

Fall's return meant a return to school for both of us, her for what she hoped would be the last year of her master's program and me as a sophomore in high school. With the house spic-and-span she began inviting her fellow students over for dinner and drinks. Mom was in her mid-thirties, on the tall side, very athletic looking, and dressed casually with her blonde hair pulled back into her trademark ponytail. Her colleagues were younger, sometimes much younger, and about half men and half women. There would usually be five or six students on a Saturday night, eating pasta, drinking wine, and talking about things over my head.

I would hang out on the couch and watch. Mom was the consummate host, moving freely between the kitchen and dining room, refilling drinks, laughing, joking, and listening. Mom was an older woman with a big fancy house, a nice car, and a teenage son in tow, brilliant and fast-tracking into the Ph.D. program. The young men were intimidated. The young women were jealous. And if Mom noticed any of that, she didn't betray even a hint.

One of my friends last summer remarked on Mom being a MILF. Even before my reconning, I was having none of it. I told him, "You think I want to hear about you wanting to fuck my mother? I don't even want you to think it!" He mumbled an apology, and we moved on. But I understood what he meant. The young men in our dining room wanted to bed my mom, or at least dare to try. The women wished they could command that kind of attention.

After a party around the Christmas holidays, while helping pick up the wine glasses, I asked Mom if she knew she was driving the men crazy. "Yes," she said matter of factly. I don't know if she hooked up with anyone (man or woman). If she did, she was very discreet. And though I should have been jealous, I hoped she found some relief, even if fleeting, with a fling now and then. She deserved some joy in her life.

The spring semester was intense for Mom as she needed to complete her lab work and her master's thesis. I saw very little of her in those months, and she apologized for leaving me alone so much. She also began delegating more responsibility to me. The dishwasher died, and I told her we needed a new one. "Pick a nice one and get somebody to install it," she said. Now I know more about dishwashers than I'd ever thought I would.

With Mom gone most evenings, I decided to do something crazy. I signed up for a martial arts class. When I discovered I enjoyed it, I didn't want to do it just once a week. So, I signed up for two more days, three in total. I would have signed up for five days a week but needed time to heal between sessions. The dojo was a one-off, not associated with karate, judo, or any other specific discipline. Instead, it was a mixed martial arts and personal defense training school. So, we learned a little about everything. Once the instructors realized I was the crazy kid who wouldn't leave, they threw, kicked, hit, and wrestled me non-stop. The more I learned, the more I loved it.

Mom finished her master's degree, I finished my second year of high school, and we could finally spend time together again. I was so proud of her. She looked terrific in her cap and gown. I may have gone overboard taking pictures (like an overly proud parent), but she indulged me at every turn. When graduation was over, we had a celebratory dinner together. She tried apologizing for abandoning me, leaving me with the house and all the chores. "I love you," I said. "We take care of each other. I'm so proud of you. And this year has given me some time to grow up. I needed that time."

Chapter 3: Junior Year

Summer arrived again, and I turned seventeen. We fell into a groove with mom entertaining fellow students and some professors and their spouses on Saturday nights. Sunday had the two of us in a movie matinée followed by a dinner at a nearby restaurant. We'd walk hand-in-hand or with my arm around her, relaxed and happy.

Fall brought us red and golden leaves and a heavy school load for the two of us. It was her first year as a Ph.D. student. It wasn't clear to me how this would be different from work in her master's program, but she seemed more focused and more on edge. I tried to keep the house clean, the refrigerator full, and all the meals prepared so she could concentrate on her studies. I also worked hard at school, bringing my grades up, and developed a passion for reading.

It was a point of pride that I was doing most of the cooking. I knew things would heat up once her classes began again. Mom didn't eat much, which is probably why she looked lithe and athletic, but she did like variety. There we differed. I could eat the same thing for days, only cooking occasionally and minimizing kitchen messes. On the other hand, she enjoyed trying new dishes, cuisines, spices, and preparation techniques. I didn't want her to take up the mantle of chief cook and bottle washer again because she was bored with my cooking. So, I collected recipes from the web and practiced, yes, practiced cooking the dishes before making them for her. Amidst this, I discovered I liked to cook (even more than I liked to eat, which was surprising).

Our previous schedules resumed with her up early, going to the library instead of the lab, reading, and searching for a dissertation topic. I returned to the gym five days a week, the dojo three, and spent seven days a week recovering from the bangs and bruising. My sensei pushed hard for me to choose a specialty and climb the belt ladder, but I was having too much fun with the fellows in this dojo.

High school homecoming and the dance came and went. Mom pushed me to find a girl and go, but I wasn't interested. "You might regret losing these chances to date and get some experience with girls," she said. "I didn't get asked out much in high school, so I was inexperienced when I met your father."

Why Mom didn't get asked out in high school is easy to understand. She was drop-dead gorgeous, if you're to believe the pictures from that era, and she likely intimidated the boys. That she doesn't recognize that fact years later is an insight into her self-image: she doesn't see herself as beautiful, only as an outsider. Even now, it's just the two of us, and everyone else is pushed to the periphery.

Her patience with my lack of dating was pushed to the breaking point once prom season arrived. She dropped gentle hints, then not-so-gentle hints about black tie events, prom pictures, dating, and girls in beautiful dresses. The easiest way to defuse the situation was to smile, kiss her on the cheek, and tell her I loved her. It left her stymied and unable to push the matter further.

Since my reckoning before high school, Mom and I had become close. It may have been simply because Mom could talk to me, and I would listen. It's funny how communication gets better when we listen. On nights I wasn't going to the dojo, I often walked to campus and met her. We'd walk along the paths in the quad, enjoy the fresh night air, and hear about each other's day. She appreciated the company, and I enjoyed time alone when we couldn't be distracted by phones, televisions, or computers.

The campus was relatively safe, but there had been scuttlebutt about random attacks on women after dark. We didn't discuss it, but I met her more often in her office to walk her to her car after those reports surfaced.

On a Thursday night after sunset, we were walking toward the parking lot when we were approached by two men in hoodies. It's a university campus, so you expect to see lots of people walking around in hoodies. I thought nothing of it until they blocked our way.

The four of us came to a stop, and one of the hooded men said, "I think you owe me fifty bucks."

The other man said, "Yeah, that's right: fifty bucks. Pay up."

Mom was frozen. The first man reached for her purse, but I stepped in to intercede.

"Fellas, just stop. We don't owe you fifty bucks. Just let us pass, please," I said.

"Hey, look," said the first man, "the little kid is really polite. Says please and everything." Then his tone changed. "Mommy here owes us a hundred bucks now. Cough it up, or somebody's going to get hurt."

I'd been getting my ass kicked in the dojo for months. I can't remember a single moment when I was angry, but I was angry now.

"Guys, back off. I mean it. Move aside. We're leaving," I said.

The first man grabbed me, and the second grabbed Mom by the arm while wrestling her for her purse. I saw her fall to the ground, and I became enraged.

I struck the man holding me in the face, kicked him, then separated myself just enough to give him a round-house kick to the head. He fell face down on the pavement.

In the meantime, Mom was screaming, and the man punched her in the face. I grabbed him, broke his hold on Mom, and threw him to the ground. He was face down in the dirt just off the walking path with his arms held behind him. He squirmed, but I wrenched his wrist threatening to break it. He bellowed but settled down.

"Mom!" I yelled. She was in shock. "Get up! Stand up! Now!" She did.

"Go to the emergency phone. It's on the pole with the blue light. Tell them we need police and emergency medical now. Go!" I said.