Missing the Big Picture by Donovan, Luke (great book club books txt) 📕

afraid to—so we just went along with whatever she said. She had a rule that if the washer and dryer were on, nobody could flush the toilet or use any water. If someone did flush when the washer or dryer was on, my grandparents would usually scold the person. My grandmother became very anxious if she saw anything that triggered her phobias, of which there were many; she would yell, scream, and even throw objects like pots and pans.

My mother was accustomed to my grandmother’s phobias. For example, my grandmother would only accept dollar bills that had “proper” numbers on the bottom, and my mother would spend hours going through my grandmother’s money to make sure that the numbers on the bottom didn’t upset her. Once, I received a Fisher-Price play set as a birthday gift. I was very excited about my new toy, but when my grandmother saw the words “Fisher-Price,” her phobias kicked in and she became very nervous. To appease her, my mother took away my birthday present and said I couldn’t have it again.

When I was four, we moved into our own apartment, a two-bedroom place only two blocks away from my grandparents. This was my mother’s chance at freedom, to do laundry whenever she wanted, to stop spending hours on the tasks my grandmother demanded of her, like sorting her money. I remember the day we moved out, my grandmother kept yelling at my mother.

At our new apartment, my mother and I used to play her old records, and since my mother always loved to dance to music, I would dance with her to Bob Seger. My mother never seemed comfortable around my grandmother. For the first time, I was able to see my mother having fun in her own home. My grandmother loved to dance, too. My grandfather didn’t, though, and would often ask his friends to dance with her. Those were great stories I heard as a child, how my grandfather used to pimp out my grandmother.

However, our new independence didn’t last long. My aunt and uncle moved out only a few months after my mother and I did, and my grandfather asked my mother if we could move back in because they couldn’t afford to live in the house without renting at least one room.

This time we lived on the second floor, but we still had the same rules—washes were only done at 7:40 p.m., and nobody could use the water when the washer or dryer was running. My grandfather paid my mother back by serving as my babysitter. In fact, my grandfather was the person to whom I was closest until his death. I remember every day he would play catch with me in our backyard, after which we would eat his favorite treat: hot fudge sundaes. He would always be at the bus stop after school to walk with me down the street.

I was always a quiet kid. Once, when I was eight and riding the afternoon bus home from school, the bus driver forgot to drop me off. It wasn’t until she was almost headed back to the garage that she noticed me and took me to my stop. I didn’t say anything or complain. Another time, my grandfather forgot to pick me up at the bus stop one afternoon. I didn’t get upset; I just walked home, and he later apologized.

I was a straight-A student in elementary school, but my teachers always had concerns about me. In kindergarten, my teacher called my mother to tell her that I had written that, for Christmas, I wanted a father, brother, and sister. In third grade, my teachers thought I put too much pressure on myself to achieve, and they wanted me to see the school social worker. My mother always felt attacked because she was a single parent. During a parent-teacher conference, in front of two other school officials, the social worker asked my mother, “Do you bring men home?” My mother refused to answer the question and quickly left the meeting. That was the last of my appointments with the school social worker.

In fact, between raising me and caring for my grandmother, my mother never had any romantic interactions with men. One of the earliest photographs I’ve seen of my mother is of her and her siblings, and in it my mother is holding her sister. She was, in fact, always a caretaker—including, in my ways, for my grandmother.

As Catholics, my grandparents never thought divorce was an option. Still, there were many times when my grandfather got frustrated dealing with my grandmother’s mental illness. Starting when my mother was a teenager, he would often say, “Take care of her,” and then leave for a few days. My mother was the best cook I ever knew, and she always sewed because she had to provide for her siblings. My grandmother never did any of the cooking, cleaning, etc. My mother was only two years older than my aunt, but when my aunt joined Girl Scouts, my mother went to all the mother-daughter events and filled the role of mother for every function. My uncle was the oldest and my aunt was the baby of the family, so as the middle child, my mother took on most of the household responsibilities.

In early 1992, when I was nine, my grandfather became sick with a form of lung cancer. He died six months later, drastically affecting the lives of my grandmother, my mother, and myself. My grandmother never drove, and she didn’t even know how to write a check. Now my mother had even more responsibilities in caring for my grandmother. We would always go shopping on the weekends, for hours at a time. That left little time for my mother and me to have quality time together. My mother never did anything that would upset my grandmother.

A few months after my grandfather died, despite being extraordinarily busy, my mother started dating a man she knew from her work. Anthony was thirteen years