Happy Mother's Day

My bank manager stands at the front door handing out carnations to all the women as they enter. I myself, get no flower, only a smile and a nodding gesture to line up with the rest of the herd. No matter when I get here the lines are always too long and the people ahead of me tend to bdally at the teller’s cage while I wait impatiently to get my business done. Mind you, I’m not one to complain.

Standing here, though, gives me time to go over the coming weekend’s activities which will center around Mother’s Day, a celebration originally created to express one’s love and appreciation for our mothers and spouses but which has become a cash cow designed to milk me out of every cent in my pockets, a holiday that guilts me into paying for flowers today that will be half the price a day later, and chocolates saturated with enough preservatives to last into the next apocalypse. Although I’m not one to complain. After I leave the bank I’ll slip next door to the drug mart – another corporate monster that forces me to walk through a labyrinth of cosmetic counters and hygiene products to pick through their selection of pricey cards and their mis-matched envelopes. Perhaps ‘bah-humbug’ is better suited to this holiday than Christmas.

Anyway, it used to be that you could stand in individual lines to get the teller you preferred. But these days the bank has corralled us all into one single queue, like cattle to the slaughter. “Of course you can wait for your favorite teller,” the bank manager says. But when you get to the front and step aside to let the person behind you go ahead, you're faced with the eyes of the rejected teller as they bore into your deep, black, soul. "What did I do wrong?" they beg. "Is it my hair, is it my clothes, is it my hygiene? Pick me, Pick Me!” their eyes plead. But all I can do is stand there with a guilty look and hope they don’t take it out on their families at home later tonight.

Today, against all odds and in spite of the bank’s best laid plans, I get my favorite teller, Dahlia. She’s my favorite, not because she’s pretty or because she has the freshest breath. It’s because her sense of humor and sunny disposition far outshines the comely poster models on the wall who smile down at me and say, ‘You could have been one of us too if you’d handled your money better.’

“Afternoon, Dahlia, here’s some more of my hard-earned cash.”

“Thanks, Mister, R. I’ve been eyeing a new dress at H and M and this will certainly help.”

“Wear it in good health.”

We chuckle until an ‘ahhh’ escapes her as she looks past me.

“Aren’t those beautiful flowers,” she comments wistfully.

I turn around to see the manager handing out roses at the door. She’s upped her game - just to taunt me I’m sure - and the Ebenezer Scrooge in me wants to scream, “Those flowers were paid for by me and everyone in this line who are being charged ever-increasing fees for ever-dwindling services.” Instead, I turn back to Dahlia and reply, “Oh, you’ll be getting your own soon, I’m sure.”

“I don’t think so,” she says as she brushes away a wisp of hair and adjusts her sunglasses. “So what are your plans this weekend?”

I run down my litany of errands for this quasi holy day – purchasing a gift for my wife, my mother, my grandmother, and even my 10 year old daughter. I confess that I gave up trying to surprise my wife after I came home one year with a silk kimono that was meant more for me than for her. Now I buy her what she wants. In any case, Dahlia’s remark has piqued my curiosity.

“But it’s Mother’s Day. Your husband has to buy you flowers. It’s the law.”

From previous conversations I know she’s a proud Guyanese woman married for over twenty years with two children. One of the things we joke about is how kids tend to live at home longer than we ever expected. I’ve even shared my nightmare with her of the not-too-distant-future when I wake up one morning to find my wife and I living in the basement while my kids have taken over the master bedroom. In truth, I don’t blame them. It’s not like when we were their age and could afford to move out with two hundred dollars in our pockets. With the cost of living these days, not mention the exorbitant fees the banks charge...anyway, where was I?

“I’m sure he’s got some plans for you.”

As Dahlia tallies the amounts in my deposit book, she twirls a strand of hair with her finger. In any other circumstances that might be interpreted as flirting. But from my misspent youth at the poker tables I recognize this as a ‘tell’ and I sense she’s wagering whether or not to reveal something weighing on her mind.

“We don’t do those kinds of things in our home,” she confesses. “My husband doesn’t like my family very much, or my friends for that matter.” She smiles down at her paperwork to avoid looking me in the eye. “I work here at the bank all week and at a medical clinic on the weekends...so there’s not a lot of spare time. When I’m off, he likes me to stay at home.”

We’ve known each other for years but this is the first time she’s divulged anything so personal and I’m not sure how to respond.

“That’s sweet,” I offer. “I guess he loves you so much that he wants you all to himself.”

There's that Mona Lisa smile of hers again and it begs me to probe a little further.

“But that’s still no reason not to celebrate Mother’s Day.”

“Oh, I am going to celebrate – at my mother’s home.”

“You mean, without him?”

She raises her finger to her lips, securing a silent promise from me to never to repeat the secret she is about to divulge. “My husband doesn’t want me visiting my mother...he thinks there might be a man waiting for me there, a lover.”

She rolls her eyes as if to say it’s the furthest thing from the truth. But it sets off little alarm bells in my head and I can feel my stomach begin to churn.

“Well, if it’s such a ridiculous accusation, why don’t you call him on it?”

“It would only lead to more arguments. Or worse.”

Any humor that was present in the conversation a moment ago has fled as quickly as a nun overhearing a joke about a priest and an altar boy. All that’s left is a creeping sense of dread.

“What do you mean, worse?”

Dahlia purses her lips and brushes her hair from her eyes. In doing so, she tips her sunglasses just enough for me to see the bruising around her left eye. Then, as quickly, she sets them back in place. It’s one thing to read about something like this in the morning paper from the comfort of your own kitchen table, snort your disgust, and turn the page to the next article. But I am not prepared to hear this from the actual victim who is standing a mere twelve inches away from me.

“Dahlia…” I stutter, “This is Canada…you don’t have to take that kind of abuse. You can report him, leave him.”

She shakes her head and explains that if she did, her husband would turn her children against her. And that, she won’t risk. My transaction is completed and other people are waiting as impatiently as I was a few moments ago, lost in my own world-crushing problems. I have no answers or solutions for her. What I want to do is walk over to the bank manager and give one of those roses to Dahlia. But what if it gets back to her husband and he believes she really does have a lover?

I look at her and wonder how she puts up with it. Then I think that maybe her decision to spend the holiday at her mother’s may be her first act of defiance and bravery.

All I can muster is, “For whatever it’s worth, Dahlia, Happy Mother’s Day.”

“Thanks,” she says with a smile as warm as the sun. “You’ve made my weekend.”

Then I add, “And if you do steal any money from my account, buy something nice for yourself.”

Several weeks later she transferred to another branch and I never heard from her again. It’s been about 15 years since then, but whenever this day comes around I pay for the ten dollar card and the over-priced flowers without a whimper. But I’m not putting out a dime for those Frankenstein chocolates.

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