How to Forget

by Kate Mulgrew

  I searched my mother’s face for any sign of recognition, for the merest hint of a smile, for the slightest furrowing of her brow, but there was nothing. This surprised all of us knowing, as we did, that if any voice had the power to penetrate the veil that now hung over my mother, it was Columba’s.

  Minutes passed, and then Columba straightened and said, “I have to go soon, Joan, so you need to hurry up. Don’t resist death, Joan, you have nothing to be afraid of. It’s time.”

  My mother’s breathing, visible only by the slight rising of her chest, continued unabated. Mother Columba sighed, smiled wistfully, and said, “In the end, for so many, life is stronger than death, but I thought Joan would be eager to go, after suffering for so long.”

  Another day passed, then two, until the end of another week saw a weary, despondent Effie on the phone to her family, saying she didn’t know when it would end, that it looked like Jicky might live forever. She felt herself becoming a burden, or she felt the burden of time suspended and, after another day had passed and we entered the third week of our mother’s stasis, I sat down next to my godmother and told her to go home.

  “You’ve done so much more than anyone could have asked for. You’ve been terrific, and you were an absolutely world-class friend, you know that. This was the important part, Effie. You came to say good-bye, and you’ve done that, done it beautifully. I’m so grateful to you, we all are. Go home now. It’s enough.”

  And so my godmother left, followed by my mother’s older brother Pat, a professional Catholic who had flown in from New Jersey, agitated his way into the death chamber, and slammed the door on his way out, oblivious to his sister’s condition, wanting only to have attended the funeral Mass, and shouting as my husband wrangled him into the car to drive him to the airport, “Well, good-bye, Joanie, and I hope you make it to heaven! Bye now!”

  Gone, all gone. In the absence of visitors, the house resumed its torpor. The clock over the mantel in the room where my mother lay ticked off the hours, hours stretched on the rack, and we couldn’t believe that someone without sentience, without a mind, could so forcefully assert the will to go on living.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  There was no baffling vacillation, we did not have to follow the jerky graph of our mother’s heart. We were somewhere between midnight and dawn, the silence was profound, our vigilance was coming to an end. Then why did we look so embattled, so fatigued? Because the last days had remained the last days for such a long time, during which there had been no relief. It had been torturous, the final letting-go, not only in its attenuation, but in its unrelenting sameness. The six of us were gathered in the room, her breathing had changed, it felt like minutes passed as we hung there suspended, leaning forward, ready. And then, another breath would claw its way upward, her chest lifted and dropped by an unseen hand. Incredulous, we watched.

  The silence was disturbed by one pronouncement, which came from Joe who, as usual, sat in his chair, arms braced on his thighs.

  “A watched pot never boils,” he said.

  I looked at my brother.

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “You heard me.”

  When I turned back to my mother, a blueness had appeared around her nose and the edges of her eyes. I had been warned about this by one of the death experts. Saying nothing to my siblings, I put my hand to my mother’s cheek. Cold as clay.

  Before you slip away, I thought, remember me.

  If you can, remember me.

  I will remember you.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  My mother was laid to rest in a casket that had been designed by my brother Sam and handcrafted by the Trappist monks who worked for him. At New Melleray Abbey, in a large warehouse adjacent to the monastery, monks toiled in absolute silence to perfect my brother’s vision, and as they worked they prayed, creating for my mother a mystical cradle.

  While we waited for the coffin to arrive at the house on Devon Drive, Jenny and I prepared our mother for the final indignity that would be demanded of her. A large basin was filled with warm water, into which Lucy added washcloths, lavender oil, and bars of soap. Gently, we turned our mother’s body so that we could remove her nightgown, a manipulation that required us to lift her body while, at the same time, slipping the nightgown off. As I pulled the nightgown over my mother’s torso, I gasped. Her skin was severely mottled with large bruises that spread over her back like dark contiguous shadows, settling in emaciated rib grooves, over still girlish hips, down the length of long, slender limbs. We washed her with great care and spoke very little. Jenny held our mother’s hand in her own, moving the bar of soap through her fingers again and again. When I realized that my sister was trying to remove our mother’s wedding ring, I asked her what she thought she was doing.

  “I want something to remember her by, Kate, something to cherish,” my sister pleaded.

  “Do not take that wedding ring off her finger, Jenny,” I said, staring at her.

  Something about my sister’s need to have my mother’s wedding ring and the strength of my resistance clarified the discrepancy in how we perceived our mother. I could not bear the idea of putting her into the ground without leaving intact that one immutable, unassailable symbol of a life shared. Jenny could not bear the idea of being abandoned.

  Dispatched to the country, Lucy had returned with the only articles of clothing she could find that she considered appropriate for the burial. The house was not as we had left it, she told me, and she had no choice but to open boxes at random, withdrawing the few items that appeared, if not familiar, at least satisfactory. As she handed me the pleated gray wool pants, the unfamiliar white blouse with its plastic buttons, and the shapeless gray cardigan, she looked on the verge of tears.

  Lucy had shared my morbid daydream. Deep in the ground, my mother’s body would slowly decompose, until in due time nothing would be left but a skeleton. Nothing, that is, except the shroud in which she was buried, and in my mind’s eye this should be the ensemble that had carried her through the great adventures of her adult life. The dinner parties and art exhibits, the soirees and opening nights, the illicit and the sublime, the private and the triumphant. Through all of this she had worn her uniform of black silk trousers, silver Chanel knit sweater over the cream silk blouse with its low-hanging bow, the whimsical sash of Indian cotton at her waist. It was nearly impossible to imagine the devastated silhouette, the corpse identifiable by heavy wool slacks and dull sweater buttoned over a polyester blouse, no visible sign of her dash, her femininity, her longing. She would be buried like any other mother, in conventional clothing, and for this I was sure she would never forgive me.

  My brothers carried the casket through the wide doors in the back of the house on Devon Drive, and situated it in the sunken living room, a few feet from the bed in which our mother had died. It was a simple but elegant pine casket, lined with soft white fabric. Joe and Sam and Tom lifted our mother’s body from the bed and slowly carried it to the open coffin, where they laid her down with a gentleness I had not known they possessed, but which did not surprise me. The casket was flanked by two tall candlesticks, and a kneeler was brought and placed before my mother’s body, so that each of us could say good-bye in the privacy of this foreign living room, within the confines of this strange house. At no time had we considered a funeral home; we had known from the get-go that we would wake her the Irish way, and we were pleased with this arrangement.

  Without formality but with great discretion, each of us came privately to bid our mother good-bye. I prepared meals in the kitchen, I watched, and I waited. When at last the house was still, my brothers and sisters silhouetted against the moonlight on the deck, the smoke from Jenny’s cigarette drifting into the night, Laura stretched out on the floor of the cedar deck, her arms cradling her head, Joe and Tom talking in soft murmurs, Sam lying alone on our mother’s bed, my chance presented itself. I approached the casket and knelt before my mother. From my pocket, I withdrew a slightly f
rayed photograph that had been taken on the grounds of Mohonk Mountain House in upstate New York one summer long ago when my mother and my grandfather had surprised me with a visit and we had decided to drive up to New Paltz. In it, my grandfather is leaning against the trunk of a large maple tree, and my mother and I are sitting cross-legged on the ground. The three generations are grinning, as if having just shared a corny joke.

  Because saying good-bye in a small house surrounded by siblings is fraught with suspense, I moved quickly. Leaning over my mother to kiss her cheek, I slipped the photograph into the sleeve of her cardigan and whispered, “I didn’t have time to find one of just the two of us.” Settling back on the kneeler, I gazed at my mother’s ashen face. I was not unsettled by the pale, waxen skin stretched tightly over her cheekbones or the terrible stillness of her form. It seemed to me she had been like this for a very long time, but I was suddenly overcome by a wave of helplessness and began to weep. Someone knelt by my side and placed a stiff arm around me, a long-fingered, trembling hand hesitantly cupped my shoulder. This was my elder son’s hand, Ian’s hand, and this was the first time in many years that he had been moved to comfort me. We knelt, side by side, in silence. I felt the carefulness of his arm, the curious and strangely brave quality of his sympathy, the way in which he did not dare rest the full weight of his limb across my shoulders. Habit compelled me to turn to him, but instinct directed me otherwise, and the two of us knelt there for some time in the thickness of the night, the tall candles illuminating my mother’s face, her body lying where it would now always lie, tears streaming down my cheeks, longing to rest my head against my son’s shoulder but knowing that I would not, because some blessings must not be disturbed, and side by side we thought our separate thoughts, and it was enough.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  The funeral Mass was held in the chapel at Our Lady of the Mississippi Abbey. Midmorning light illuminated the tall stained-glass windows, softening the faces of the sisters who sat on one side of the chapel, wimpled heads alternately bent over missals or lifted in song. I cannot, now, remember the details of the Mass, except that a priest unknown to me officiated and spoke about my mother as if she were familiar to him, which she was not. A few of my siblings spoke, standing at the podium, reading the words they had so meticulously composed the night before. I was struck by Jenny’s composure, her small, gallant form in the quiet of the chapel, the pride with which she held herself, the uncommon valor of her words. Sam rose, and when he turned to face us at the lectern, I saw that all of the sisters were beaming and that, caught in the glow of their affection, my brother could not help but smile. Of the grandchildren, I remember only Rory, whose sweet, grave eyes implored us to appreciate his grandmother’s eccentricities, the ones that had delighted and disarmed, the ones that had marked and shaped him long before the affliction had turned them into ghosts.

  When the Mass was over, we filed out through the side door, my brothers walking ahead, bearing the coffin on their shoulders. As we passed the fountain that had been erected twenty years earlier in memory of my sister Tess, I paused to read the inscription that circled the base and afterward I stood there for a moment, looking out over the falling hills of the Mississippi Valley. The words of Mother Columba’s eulogy looped through my mind.

  The former abbess had stepped onto the chancel, crossed herself, and moved slowly toward the lectern, where she had paused. A moment passed, and then she looked up and, gathering us in her gaze, began to speak in her gentle, powerful voice. In the quiet of the chapel, as dust motes danced in the long bars of light that shafted through the windows, Mother Columba told us that she had never known anyone like our mother. She had never known a person to match our mother’s intellectual curiosity, the abbess said, or anyone less intellectually satisfied. Joan, Columba said, had had a life of suffering, and this had mystified and perplexed our mother, to the extent that she sought answers in every aspect of her experience. Through marriage, through children, through religion, through art, through all of these practices she sought enlightenment, and yet her suffering prevailed. In the end, the nun said, Joan was defined by her suffering, although she had concealed it well.

  Then, in a matter-of-fact tone, Columba enumerated my mother’s griefs: the loss of her mother when she was three years old, the loss of a child early in her marriage, the loss of another child fourteen years later which, in Columba’s opinion, had left my mother a changed person. She no longer pursued a spiritual dimension, instead she took up painting, a passion she had left behind when she married and had children. This creative gift had provided her with the distraction she needed to continue leading a meaningful life, but very soon it became apparent that she was struggling with yet another affliction, one that would cause her more suffering than she could ever have imagined. In the years of decay that followed, Columba explained, Joan would slowly lose her mind, the right to her own thoughts, the consciousness of her own suffering. Consigned to years of wakeful oblivion, Joan met her death as someone entirely unknown to herself. And now, at last, Mother Columba said, Joan could rest.

  I recalled that the nun had stood there for a moment, her head bowed, as if in deep reflection. If it was a prayer that wanted expression, she suppressed it. Instead, she walked to the front of the altar, faced the crucifix, and crossed herself. She avoided my eyes as she stepped down from the chancel and slipped into her pew.

  “The Mass has ended,” said the strange priest who had never met my mother. “Go in peace.”

  Afterword

  I found the poem introducing Part One, “My Father,” when my brother Joe handed me a portfolio bearing the title “A Selection of the World’s Great Masterpeices.” Looking inside, I realized that my mother had removed all of the original pages containing prints by great painters and had replaced them with pages of typed poems and letters, all written by my father, all of them addressed to her.

  My father begins with an air of whimsicality, with the title

  A COLLECTION OF POEMS

  Written in the Fourth Person

  The last poem in the sequence, just before the letters begin, is telling:

  THE BOSTON SHE PARTY

  Oh, to be in Boston

  Now that Jackson’s there!

  And Sarge and Chuck and Joey Boy

  And strangers, tall and fair.

  Up to the Cape on weekends,

  Then back to the rallies again.

  But nothing can stir my cold, cold heart

  Except—all sorts of men.

  So it’s hey-diddle-dee

  And a heigh-heigh-ho

  With a kiss-kiss-kiss for all.

  I’ll snag myself a Boston man

  And marry in the fall.

  Yippee!

  Then, as the letters intensify, it is clear that my father is growing increasingly anxious, and fears that he might lose my mother. In the final letter, dated October 1, 1952, he writes:

  Are you really in love with me? I hope you are—thoroughly, finally, determinedly, convincingly, generously, tenderly, fiercely, blindly, wantonly in love with me. Because that’s how I’m in love with you—and, if it’s mutual, we’re in business. If you love me—and if you’re sure it’s you that’s doing the loving, not your advisors—let’s get the hell married.

  It was this portfolio that inspired How to Forget. From my father’s pen, and my mother’s ingenuity, evolved the story I have written.

  Acknowledgments

  In the middle of writing this book, alone in a beautiful house in Ireland, I needed readers. I found them in my friends Eithne Verling, Jonathun Arun, Tina and Des McCarthy, Trish Ford, and Irene Byrne. The Irish were surprisingly emotional, and very generous. The Americans were equally attentive and inspired confidence: thank you Vicky Jenkins, Kevin Tighe, Becky Fletcher, and Daniel Davis. My dear friend Samantha Eggar reinvigorated the writing process with her honesty and her passion.

  For the tough calls, I sought my sister Jenny Beck and my great friend Beth Danon,
both of whom provided encouragement. Beth simply told me she wanted more and Jenny, whose counsel I feared might be a double-edged sword, was instead a very objective reader, honest, smart, and considered in her criticism.

  My thanks to Anne Roiphe whose guidance was, as always, invaluable.

  I doubt the book could have been written without the fact-finding genius of my brother Joe, who responded to my many anxious texts with promptness, equanimity, and humor, and to whom I am deeply grateful.

  Special thanks to Linda Hope, who provided me with the perfect place in which to write, and whose generosity has gone a long way toward shepherding this book into the world.

  Again, I am very grateful for the guidance, expertise, and friendship of my literary agent, Christopher Schelling.

  My team at HarperCollins/William Morrow Imprint has been exceptional: thank you to Ryan Cury, Anwesha Basu, Benjamin Steinberg, Mumtaz Mustafa, Bonni Leon-Berman, Stephanie Vallejo, Susan Brown, Andrew DiCecco, and especially Nate Lanman who, it soon became evident, can do anything.

  My editor, Jen Brehl, has made this undertaking one of great discipline and great pleasure. Throughout, she has exercised a sensitivity and an acuity which, while inspiring confidence, at the same time encouraged excellence.

  Mine is the gratitude of a sophomore writer who has stumbled across a great editor, which is to say—inestimable.

  My children, Ian, Alec, and Danielle, are to be commended and thanked for their insightful, brave, and loving counsel.

  Finally, to my daily reader over nightly cocktails, to my source of constant support and unflagging devotion, my love and gratitude to Bennett Zier.