Waiting for a very specific phone call

I got in and saw the red light flashing and the words, "Message Waiting," on the Caller ID display. I checked and saw that my mother had phoned during the afternoon when I was out. "This is it," I thought, as I dialed into the voicemail for messages. I figured I was about to pick up the particular call I have been awaiting/dreading.

It wasn't THAT call. It was just my mom wanting to share cute anecdotes about my niece and nephew. Being a doting aunt, I'm always up for those. But when I called her back, the specter of THAT call hung over our conversation …

When I was in high school, back in the long ago 1970s, a 40-something relative molested me. He and I were alone together -- my parents had dropped me off over there for some reason I can no longer recall and, since I was only 15, I was unable to drive. While fondling me, he pointed out that we weren't blood relatives, so if we were to have sex it would be "OK." Completely creeped out and horrified, I insisted he drive me home.

I told my mother about this at the time. Her reaction was: "Don't tell anyone." She didn't ask if we had intercourse, if I needed to see a doctor, if he had hurt me. She just didn't want my father, nor my uncle, to know. She was afraid my father would do something out of a sense of obligation -- after all, he was my father. And my uncle had never liked this relative, so God knows what he would do. Best not to tell anyone.

End of story.

Only it's not.

My mother loves me. I know that. She doesn't understand that on that day, so many years ago, what she was telling me was that my body didn't matter, my confusion and revulsion and rage didn't matter, and that no one in the family was on my side. (After all, my dad and my uncle would have acted out of a sense of duty or to perpetuate an existing vendetta -- not because anyone had any particular affection for me.)

My mother is an ACOA (adult child of an alcoholic). Keeping up the appearance of a "normal" family is her defense mechanism, the only she was able to face the world. If the molester had been a stranger, I have no doubt my mother would have not only confronted him, she would have called the police. But it was family. Our "normal" family. Peace must be kept at all costs -- even if the expense was me.

I forgive my mother, but I can't forget. Every now and again, the way I was devalued, the way I was tossed over the wall to keep the peace, kicks back and colors something in my life today. After a lot of therapy, I am able to recognize when this is happening and try to minimize the impact.

But lately, here's the thing. My molester is almost 80 now and in bad health. He's going to die soon, because that's what happens to old men in bad health. I don't care about his fate. That's between him and God and besides I haven't spent much time with him since I moved out of my parents' home and I'm not sure I would recognize him if I passed him on the street.

Still, I dread getting that very specific call. Because I will be confronted with an unpleasant dilemma. Relatives from Michigan and Florida will undoubtedly come in for the service. I can either explain to my cousins why I'm not attending his final send off, or I can cover for him one more time. I can show up for the wake and/or funeral, listen to him be eulogized as a great guy, and make sure that, even in death, every member of our family appears "normal."

I don't know which option would be easier, or harder.