I'm the Sorry One Here!
Mercy Chapter 3
Isla buttoned up a few remaining tasks for the day. She made some calls about possible locations for a couple of businesses and forwarded an email to the town’s legal counsel about some liability issues with a new home daycare. With a sigh, she opened a new document, titling it “Main Street Project: Investors and Investees.” She doodled some daisies and buttercups on a memo pad and stared at the blank screen, then typed: “SBA? Present landlords? Tax dollars?”
This was all backwards. She needed business ideas to titillate investors, and she couldn’t think of a single type of business that hadn’t already failed on Main Street, more than once. Was she in the wrong line of work, or had she just taken it as far as she could? Had she started this job with a vision for the town? She tried to remember. She was pretty sure that vision had never involved cute gift shops and expensive coffee. She had wanted people to have enough to eat, a place to stay, to be able to live their lives without harassment. Just like humanity has wanted for thousands of years and failed to provide. You don’t shake off that history of failure; it crushes you instead. She imagined knocking on Bill’s door, handing in her resignation, walking down the road, and applying for a job delivering pizza, just like she’d told Dave to do. She’d make about as much difference as she made now. She’d be filling more people’s tables with food.
But she couldn’t take the pay cut. Anyway, if she couldn’t make things better, maybe she could at least prevent harm. There was the new daycare; that should do well, and the young owner was so excited to pour herself into the little lives she’d be shepherding. It wasn’t on Main Street; so what? There was someone that Isla could really make a difference for. The thought didn’t exactly pluck her out of despair, but it did give her some sense of purpose.
4:45 p.m., at last. She straightened out the papers, stray pens, and paper clips on her desk. If she took her time, she could start packing up.
4:54 p.m. She turned off her monitor, pushed in her chair, turned off the light. Closing the office door behind her, she mouthed, “Bye!” to Doreen, who was on the phone, cradling it between her chin and shoulder. Isla hitched up her backpack. Doreen smiled and waved.
5:00 p.m. by the clock in the hall. She held the door for Becky from Code Enforcement and then passed through herself. Home free.
Five minutes took her out of the “city,” such as it was. She could make it all the way home to the old farmhouse that she shared with her parents in less than eight minutes, but there was often a cop at the end of the old railroad bed she had to pass, a fact that she tried and often failed to remember. She pulled into the dooryard and sat for a moment of quiet before pulling the key from the ignition. An old camper sat by the barn; her uncle had towed it in 25 years ago when their family had lost their home and had never towed it out again. She looked at the farmhouse; no one seemed to be home, but she knew that wasn’t true, even though she couldn’t see any movement beyond the lace curtains Mum had always loved. The house would need re-painting soon; it couldn’t be put off another year. She hoped she could talk Mum out of the purple trim. She sighed and grabbed her things.
“Hey Mum,” she said as she came in through the kitchen door, which stuck a little bit as she opened it. The house hadn’t been plumb for a long time, although to the eye it was square enough; when Isla was a little girl, she used to roll marbles down the chippy old linoleum across the kitchen. It always felt good to come in that door to that homey room, with its big wooden table, books and papers shoved to one end to clear a small spot for eating, and its big cast-iron cookstove that stood amongst more modern appliances. A white enamel sink, full of dirty dishes, sat below a window whose sill was cracked and a bit grimy. It framed a view of the backyard and woods, an empty birdbath. There were always some dishes to be done and some bills on the table and some crumbs on the counter, but it was home.
“Oh, Isla,” Mum looked up as she came in, “I was just hoping you’d come soon. I couldn’t remember what you said about supper.”
“It’s just hamburgers and sweet potato fries, Mum.”
“I know, but I couldn’t remember what you said about the fries.”
“Mum! The directions are on the bag. That’s why I picked it, because it’s easy. Because I knew you’d be in a rush tonight to get to choir practice.” Isla sighed and grabbed the package from her mom’s hand.
“Oh of course, ok, ok, I can do it. I just didn’t want to get it wrong. You can bake them or fry them and . . .”
“Well, I’m here now, Mum. I can do it.”
“You just walked in the door.” Mum’s eyes framed by her large glasses avoided Isla’s, but there was just the slightest stubborn set to her jaw.
“It would be easier for me if you just let me do it.” Isla turned the stove on and impatiently pulled a cookie sheet out from the drawer beneath it. She banged around for a few more moments, ripping the bag open and dumping the frozen fries on the metal pan. Then she saw Mum’s face, ashamed and craven. Mum was afraid of her again, and it grieved Isla, knocked her out of her frustration. She had always seemed to dominate Mum entirely without trying, while aiming, in fact, to be kind. Sometimes Mum’s cowering was gasoline on the fire of her frustration, her fury at herself for not being gentle and understanding and her fury at Mum for being fragile. But this time, she had already gotten some aggression out on the fries and Mum’s obsequious, anxious face cut to her heart.
“I’m sorry, Mum. I’m really sorry.”
“I just didn’t want to get it wrong.” Tears threatened to spill down Mum’s lined pink cheeks.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry, I just didn’t want you to get upset if I did it wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Mum! I’m the sorry one here! I am sorry! You shouldn’t be sorry, I’m the one causing the problem.” And there it was again. Isla was yelling, Mum was crying. All Isla wanted was to be good to her parents and all she was was bad. Her presence seemed inevitably to torture her mother. She should just leave, go live somewhere else. But they always said no, and they must be crazy, because their faces said again and again that they wanted her there and somehow, impossibly, enjoyed her presence.
Isla was tearing up now. “I’m just sorry, Mum. I just wanted you to be on time to choir practice.” She put her arm around Mum’s sagging shoulders and kissed her cheek. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
Mum wiped her eyes on the back of her hand. “It’s ok, Isla. I understand.” Mum was sincere and good and guileless. Isla just wanted her to be happy, and she could never, ever seem to make it happen. “How was your day?”
“Ok. I went to the new restaurant in the mill. It was for work,” she hastened to add. Mum and Dad would have been at home eating something simple and thrifty. Mum would never think that Isla was living a life of flagrant luxury while her parents suffered at home; still, Isla was embarrassed by what, in contrast to their frugality, could seem like excess.
“Oh, how was it? They’ve cleaned it up nice.” Mum’s voice was still a little shaky. She was tidying the windowsill over the stove; a potted plant had spilled a bit.
“It was really nice. I had the alfredo.”
“Oh. Did they have anything but pasta?” Mum frowned, turning. She had few prejudices, but she wouldn’t pay good money for pasta when it was so cheap and easy to make at home. Isla smiled to think that the swankiest restaurant in town wouldn’t pass muster with her farm girl mother.
“Oh no, they had burgers and steaks and salads. Chicken, I think. Standard fare. It had a cool view down into the mill.”
Mum smiled and nodded knowingly. “I’ve seen that view before. You knew I used to work there?”
Isla nodded. “I did.”
“We stamped out dresses like they were giant cookies. If we ran out of the right size labels, they told us to just sew on whatever we had.”
Isla smiled at the story she’d heard many times. “They must still do that. That would be why I never grab the right size to try on.” Mum and Isla chuckled together, a little self-conscious in their effort to move away from the stress of the altercation a few moments ago.
“I remember the old ladies standing over the ironing board, hour after hour, propping themselves up on it, their arms swinging back and forth. They were so hot and tired. I didn’t think old women should have to live like that.” Mum shook her head, “They seemed old then. They were my age, probably. Maybe younger. Guess I should be glad I don’t have to live that way.”
“I’m glad you don’t have to.” Isla finally put down her heavy backpack and squeezed her mother’s shoulders again, making the same resolution she’d made a hundred times, that this would be the last time she’d ever lose her temper.