The one question I couldn’t bring myself to ask Mom was about the fight, but I knew I had no choice. I’d kept it buried deep in my memory for so long, but now that it had emerged there was no way I could stuff it back in there again. It was like the letters I’d found that had started me on this journey. I had to deal with it, and the only way to do that was to confront Mom.
I made plans to visit her on a weekend in the spring, not long after I had started seeing Irm. I arrived late Friday afternoon. We went to temple for Shabbos services, came home, watched TV, and fell asleep. On Saturday morning as Mom was getting dressed, I went into her bedroom.
“Mom, I need to talk to you,” I said. I took a deep breath. “The night before Dad disappeared, I heard you arguing. I need to know—what were you arguing about?”
She looked up from the corner of her room where she had been reaching for her shoes.
“Not now,” she said sharply. ”You know better than to upset me in the morning. I’ve got a day’s work ahead of me.”
When I brought it up at lunch she cut me off again. “Not now,” she said. “I’m trying to eat my lunch. Let’s eat in peace.”
Not wanting to ruin her dinner, I waited until bedtime. “Not now,” she said as she was putting on her nightgown. “I’m getting ready for bed. You know I can’t sleep when I’m upset.”
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