Carole and I converged in the Tampa airport and shared a taxi to the hotel our mother had arranged for wedding guests. Neither of us had met Arthur Wainwright or seen a photograph of him. Carole, who maintained a closer relationship with Otthilde than I did, had heard more about him, namely that he was financially successful. Mr. Wainwright was a retired pharmacist who had owned a business in a Chicago suburb. He had invested wisely in real estate and had done well in the stock market. He had one married son, who was a medical doctor, and two young grandchildren. He and our mother met through an active seniors travel club.
My father had joked that Otthilde moved to Florida seeking a wealthy old codger, and apparently his intuition was correct. Phillip Northcott had never been prosperous enough for Otthilde, and economic dissatisfaction formed the bitter root of their marital problems. Otthilde fancied herself a modern day Cinderella, a poor waif from a lower class family whose beauty would win her the hand of a prince and ascension to some fictitious throne. Before meeting Mr. Wainwright, I feared for Arthur’s misguided emotions and his bank account. My parents’ divorce had been particularly ugly, with Otthilde squeezing every penny she could out of the arrangement. I worried that Arthur Wainwright was a foolish old coot who had been mesmerized by Otthilde’s good looks and pseudo-sophisticated babble.
My fears were allayed that evening over dinner. Admittedly, I was surprised by the physical presence of Mr. Wainwright. He was tall and well built with a full head of shocking white hair. He looked like an aging Hollywood leading man. My mother did not fool around with ugly ducklings. This guy was definitely a smooth and chocolaty piece of eye candy. Based on Carole’s expression of astonishment and subsequent smirk, she found him equally handsome. Arthur and Ottie behaved like smitten teenagers, consumed by physical infatuation, as though their hormones had been awakened for the first time. The whole display made me feel uncomfortable. I definitely did not waste another moment fretting over Arthur Wainwright’s best interests. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Mr. Wainwright dropped the three of us off at the hotel, where my mother had taken the bride’s suite. She seemed eager to hear what we thought of her intended, as though she were teasing us with her prize. She had captured the perfect husband: rich, debonair and handsome; the kind of man she had preached we should attempt to find. All parents want the best possible match for their daughters; and the traits ‘wealthy and good-looking’ can top the most conscientious mother’s wish list. We both expressed our liking for Arthur, and we did genuinely like him. He seemed to be a pleasant, fun-loving gentleman; and he obviously adored Otthilde. We wished our mother years of bliss with her future husband, while she glowed with satisfaction, like a cat depositing a dead rodent on the front stoop.
Offering praise for Mr. Wainwright I assumed concluded our business, and I rose to say good night. I had tolerated enough that evening and was tired from half a day at work, traveling, and absorbing this bizarre situation. As I excused myself, my mother began to comment on her impressions of my sister and me. She started with the ritualistic “I’m so proud of both of you” and proceeded to evaluate our physical appearance. Carole earned high marks, as usual. She had gained no weight, grown no taller and wore her hair neatly coifed. Her suit would have looked prim and proper under a lab coat with a stethoscope dangling from her neck. I, on the other hand, tied my long tresses in a simple skater’s ponytail and wore a funky concoction of my own design. But my hair and clothing did not merit comment. Otthilde had a more pressing issue on her mind.
“Oh, my Goodness, Katherine! You’re so big and muscular. You must weight 160 pounds.”
Her words echoed in my mind like an annoying advertising jingle. “You’re so big. You must weigh 160 pounds…You’re so big. You must weigh 160 pounds…”
From Otthilde’s perspective, no woman’s weight should measure more than a femininely small number. No female; regardless of height, musculature, or bone structure; should ever tip the scales at more than about 125 pounds. One hundred sixty was probably the biggest, most offensive number that popped into Otthilde’s head. And, Heaven help us, her bovine daughter weighed that grotesque amount!
I had not spent a day of my life as a fat person. Nor had I obsessed about my weight or build, though my mother often reminded me of how fast and big I grew as an adolescent girl. She did so with an air of nervousness, as an obsessive coach might worry about a promising skater potentially growing too large to fit the stereotypical media mold, whether she could land the jumps or not. But my mother never gave a moment’s thought to my athletic potential. Her concerns focused around finding a suitable mate, in direct contrast to her obsession with women’s rights. Even a liberated, self-sustaining woman could not afford to grow large if she wanted to attract an appropriate husband.
Otthilde was trapped between paradigms. A modern woman had to be financially successful and still draw suitors like a helpless Victorian damsel who sipped vinegar in an effort to appear sickly and cinched her waist with a whalebone corset. The Victorian lady nibbled watercress sandwiches, and declared that she could not take another bite after consuming a tiny triangle. A proper lady was always on a diet, always watching her figure, never displaying a healthy appetite in clear view of anyone. Otthilde abided by this custom in public and pigged out on ice cream after the household had gone to sleep, leaving telltale spoon scrapings in the carton. My mother was never thin, though she was always petite. She regularly commented: “I have to lose three pounds”, never four or five, always three. As a young girl I found it odd that my mother had to lose exactly three pounds virtually all of the time. In retrospect, I assume this is probably how much her weight fluctuated due to monthly feminine biology.
A refined lady also did not workout in front of other people. My mother maintained the equally old fashioned presumption that female human beings did not perspire, at least they were not supposed to. Exercise should be done in absolute privacy behind a closed bedroom door and amounted to sets of calisthenics performed in an attractive costume. The sight of my muscles horrified Otthilde, and she interpreted them as surplus weight or body fat. At nearly thirty years old, I was still getting bigger! Worst of all, I was intentionally inflicting the excess mass upon myself. Had Otthilde seen me dripping with sweat in an ice rink, she might have had a heart attack.
“Maybe you could try aerobics or something else. Ice skating is just making you too big,” my mother suggested, trying to be helpful but insulting me at the core of my being.
Otthilde was probably confused because the skaters on television did not look big, even under a magnifying camera lens against a stark white background. None of those skaters matched my height, except the lankiest female ice dancers and maybe some of the male competitors. In fact, most were significantly shorter, and I could eat peanuts off the tops of their heads. Female skaters have small, fine skeletal structures; many look bird-like with their graceful necks, pointed facial features, and long limbs. Even if I had started skating as a child, heredity would have made me too massive for skating, regardless of how little I ate. As an adult, I was not about to give up skating because my larger frame required well-developed muscles to launch it into the air or to make it rotate.
“I’m not going to quit skating, Mom.” I said nothing more. My word was final and I would not instigate an argument with my mother. Otthilde shook her head in despair. I was still the same defiant child who would not abandon fashion design when she declared my artwork poor and uninspired. She may have been right about my artistic aptitude, but her method of communicating her advice left me wounded and determined to prove her wrong, something I could not do. With no realistic possibility of skating beyond the hobbyist level, I would not forfeit the sport for the sake of my ladylike figure. My mother no longer held me financially captive, able to cut me off if I disobeyed or withhold opportunities she viewed as economically wasteful. I loved to skate because it gave me joy and personal satisfaction. My motivation no longer centered on teenage rebellion.
So much for the potential mother-daughter bonding I had hoped to achieve with Otthilde. My mother was still obsessed with the physical, appearance rather than quality. She could see no possibilities other than those that originated within her own mind. Otthilde had never reconsidered her parenting skills or her relationship with us. Otthilde had never made a mistake or performed an action that required hindsight to correct. She had followed a flawless path. Her children had become doctors, supposedly due to her excellent upbringing. Otthilde may have contributed genetic material, but had provided no nurturing. Just because she had lassoed a handsome new husband, my mother did not magically become a more reflective, approachable human being. She had merely set an example for us that appearance does matter in affairs of the heart, which it undoubtedly may, at least initially. She had evolved no further; she had not grown wiser and more compassionate. Otthilde was the same woman I knew years ago growing up under her oppressive dominion.
Otthilde fluttered around her wedding reception like a prom queen. Dressed in an ivory floor length sheath frosted with bugle beads, my mother appeared genuinely happy. She looked good, even beautiful, for a woman her age. Arthur Wainwright wrapped an arm around her waist squeezing her playfully while my mother giggled and shooed him away like a schoolgirl playing hard-to-get. Mr. Wainwright simply ate the teasing right out of her manicured hand.
Carole and I looked at each other. We hoped she truly loved this man, though we suspected she would not have married Mr. Wainwright if he were poor or unattractive, no matter how likeable he might have been. I suppose there is nothing wrong with a woman being choosy about her partner especially since Otthilde had already been married twice and had no use for another husband to produce and support children. She needed companionship and comfort in her retirement years. Arthur Wainwright certainly seemed enchanted by our voluptuous mother. He represented a classic case of an older successful man experiencing the proverbial ‘second childhood’, although he selected a woman his own age rather than a girl who could have been his daughter. I believed Mr. Wainwright’s motives toward my mother were absolutely sincere, though I doubt he would have proposed marriage to her if she were obese and unsightly. Arthur certainly did not need a wife either.
“And these are my two lovely daughters,” Otthilde began with a flourish to a couple of her bridge club cronies. “Carole, the medical doctor and Katherine, the psychologist.”
Carole looked at me sharply as her brow furrowed.
Although I had described my field of study and employment to my mother several times before, I initially assumed Otthilde merely lacked the background to fully comprehend what I did for a living. Like Willa Blanchard, she dropped the ‘consumer’ prefix and merely referred to me as a psychologist, which was not an accurate description. I had taken courses in behavioral and developmental psychology but never seriously considered pursuing graduate education in clinical psychology. After my misadventures with Mohammad, who was studying to become a psychologist, I decided dealing with people’s problems was not my calling. Mohammad required psychiatric therapy more than psychological counseling, and he was definitely not in a position to give the latter to anyone.
I took my mother aside and politely explained to her that I was not a psychologist. I was a Consumer Scientist, Consumer Researcher, or Consumer Psychologist. Any of those titles was acceptable, but ‘psychologist’ was misleading. Otthilde nodded and apologized before flitting off among her guests.
Not fifteen minutes later did she introduce me to someone else as Dr. Kate, the psychologist.
“Actually I’m a consumer psychologist,” I corrected, throwing my mother a sidelong glance.
“Yes, yes, Katherine, a very specific type of psychologist.” With that she left me facing a group of her friends explaining my profession.
As I spoke of my career, I realized Otthilde was not simply being negligent or ignorant, she had made a conscious decision to label me as she pleased. My actual occupation was inadequate to merit bragging rights, therefore she glossed over facts to make me look more impressive to her friends. No one knew what a consumer scientist did; although all seemed interested in hearing about it, but every idiot could conjure an image of a psychologist. Like a medical doctor, a psychologist in his or her wood paneled office taking notes while a patient reclined on a coach spilling his guts evoked awe from people. Otthilde loved saying: “I have one medical doctor and one psychologist”. Many people probably did not know the difference between a psychiatrist and a psychologist and assumed I was also a medical professional, which could not have been further from the truth.
A child who had earned a doctor of philosophy degree in any subject would cause most normal parents to bloat with pride, but not Otthilde. She decided my qualifications fell short and needed exaggeration. I still did not look good next to Carole. My sister was a physician; I was just somebody who interviewed housewives about laundry detergent. Over the course of my mother’s wedding weekend, I clarified: “Actually I’m a consumer psychologist” so many times that I could have trained a parrot.
The most telling moment came shortly after my mother introduced her new husband’s son and family to Carole and me. “Arthur Junior is an MD, Ph.D.,” Otthilde beamed. Indeed the forty-year-old man worked in medical research as well as private practice. Admittedly, I was impressed by Art Junior’s accomplishments. He seemed just as nice and was every bit as handsome as his dashing father. Otthilde seemed to take almost equal pride in describing Arthur’s son’s achievements as she did in her own children’s. And why wouldn’t she? She had contributed about as much to his success as she had to ours.
Art’s wife forced a smile and stood uncomfortably nursing a glass of wine as our mother introduced her daughters. “I have one MD and one Ph.D.,” Otthilde chirped. Art’s wife set her glass down to attend to her squirrelly young children. Her thin, ballerina body twisted in her linen dress, so slim that her torso moved without disturbing the lace-frosted midriff. Our mother watched the woman, obviously admiring her anorexic figure.
As soon as Arthur Wainwright’s family and our mother dispersed, Carole pinched me through rustling taffeta. “How do you like that, Kate? You’re half a piece of crap and I’m the other half.”
Apparently Carole felt just as belittled as I did.
Had I decided to wait for her apology, I might have sooner witnessed the heat death of the Universe. However, I finally realized that my mother and I have completely different value systems. I did not formally forgive her and admonish her of all of her parenting sins, but I came to accept her as she is and to unload the painful burden of her influence on my youth. I doubt she intentionally tried to torment me, even with her unkind words that the most uninformed bystander would recognize as cruel. Otthilde had been an unhappy and dissatisfied woman; dissatisfied with herself and her marriage to my father. She lived vicariously through Carole and me, trying to fulfill her own dreams of power and glory via a generation of girls born into a world more accepting of professional women.
Sadly, my mother probably did not realize that she had been anything less than an ideal parent, though that too was painfully obvious to the least interested outsider. I cannot explain Otthilde, except that she and I are different. We have different values, expectations, personalities, and methods of expressing our ideas. We may even possess divergent moral character. I cannot say that Otthilde’s shallowness and materialism never influenced me. Throughout my life, I have noted my own less than virtuous moments when I judged people based on what they had or how they looked, rather than who they were. Unfortunately, I have also been guilty of judging and punishing myself by the same paltry standards.
While I maintain that people can change, I learned over my mother’s wedding weekend that I cannot force change. I can be receptive whenever it happens and accepting of Otthilde for who she is otherwise. Because we are (or have become) so inherently different, I could not form a meaningful relationship with my mother. This does not mean that I do not love her or realize that she did what she thought was best, based on her own frame of reference. We simply have little common ground aside from genetics. Familial ties keep me in contact with Otthilde if only for holidays and birthdays. We cannot be friends any more than I could be friends with someone whose philosophy of life alienated me. Otthilde thinks we have a terrific relationship. Maybe from her perspective we do.
Although Maxwell Svenssen was scheduled as the veterinarian on duty the Saturday of my mother’s wedding, he suggested swapping with one of his partners in order to accompany me for the blessed event. However, my hopes for a heart-to-heart talk with Otthilde caused me to decline. I preferred not to subject Max to Otthilde’s charms quite yet. Our relationship was progressing in a serious manner and I did not want Max to panic believing he had peered into my future by meeting my eccentric mother. So I packed my silly green dress in a garment bag and boarded the plane alone.
Chapter 66 posted 1/25/03
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