Christine’s Mother
Posted with permission of the Author, Anne Schroeder, as published in The Best of SLO NightWriters in Tolosa Press 2009-2013.
“Christine’s mother walks her to the bus stop,” Katy remarked, twisting her toast into bite-size pieces then setting them back on the plate. “Christine’s lucky.”
Reaching to clear a handful of breakfast dishes from the table, I brushed a kiss across Katy’s forehead and cheerfully agreed. “I guess Christine’s mother loves her better.”
Katy glanced up, surprised, “No she doesn’t…” she started to protest, then grinned when she realized I was kidding her. I sent her off with a hug, cautioning her to hurry or she’d miss her early-bird bus. With a twinge of guilt, I watched my second grader, bundled in her bright-blue goose down jacket and red stocking cap, running down the long driveway in the gray, frosty morning. But she skipped ahead to catch up with a friend and I started my daily routine.
That evening while I tucked her into bed, Katy reached to twist a strand of my hair and quietly told me, “Christine’s mother took her to McDonald’s for lunch and bought her a lip gloss and came back to school just before recess ended. Can we do that tomorrow?”
I smiled and replied, “You bet…sometime. But not tomorrow. Daddy’s taking the car and we sure can’t walk that far. But sometime soon…Promise.”
As I left the room and gently closed the door, I thought, Christine is a most indulged little girl. Christine, who skated backward in her own set of rink skates, who came out with the first computer game system in the neighborhood, whose mother walked her to the bus stop, and who is leading my daughter into unrealistic expectations of life.
I decided that if Katy felt so strongly about the attention Christine was getting, I would break out of my comfortable routine and do something about it. The next morning, I dressed early and surprised her by suggesting that I walk her to the bus stop. We packed cinnamon toast and orange juice and had a picnic on a little knoll where we fed our crusts to a kitten that came by to investigate. We began a sometimes ritual of walking together and I came to know the froggy pond, the path, the friendly dog, and the children at the bus stop.
One day I met Christine’s mother. After waving our children off through the back window of the disappearing yellow bus, we walked the short distance home. Pausing at the end of my driveway, I asked her up for a cup of tea. To my surprise, she accepted and for the next two hours we shared confidences. She told me about her oldest son’s musical ability, her hopes that one of her children would become a doctor, and how hard it was to join a busy family together for a family dinner and prayer. Gradually, hesitantly, Donna told me of her leukemia and her numerous trips to the hospital for chemotherapy, her intolerance to germs, and her fears that Christine would not have the time with her that the older children had enjoyed.
After she left, I sat a long time just looking out my window. Finally, I reached for the phone and deliberately dialed the number. The voice on the other end said, “Hello…Santa Rosa Elementary. Mrs. Anderson speaking.”
“Yes, hello…This is Mrs. Schroeder. Could I leave a message for Katy in Room 5? I will be picking her up for lunch today…but I’ll have her back by the end of lunch recess.”
Seven months have passed, and Donna is still bravely battling her illness. Christine and Katy are best friends, second grade style. Every day when the sun comes up over our neighborhood, I say a prayer for the lady who helped me to see the world through new eyes. A very special lady—Christine’s mother.
Donna Braun, Christine’s mother, died three months after I wrote these words; before her death, I gave her a copy. At her request, the minister included it in her eulogy.
In the years that have passed, Donna’s daughters have grown into lovely, gracious, spirit-filled women. She would be proud of her children. And I believe she would be grateful for the aunts, stepmothers, teachers, and neighbors—the women who took the tie to help form them.
On Mother’s Day let us honor these women, birth mother or surrogate.
