Iris breathed in deliberately.
“OK, Mare. It’s time to tell you about Jillian.”
* * *
Born on Valentine’s Day, she was the icon for love and affection and the family’s most beautiful daughter. Named Jillian as a symbol of youth—a goddess—and Antoinette for what her mother said was their French heritage, this little Landry had a complicated birth.
Virginia was given “special” drugs to allay her 24-hour birthing pains before she delivered Jillian, which paralyzed her. Jillian did not cry at first when she was wrenched with forceps from her mother’s womb.
VF paced the “family room” for hours while he was kept in the dark about the delivery. He fervently promised he would pay more attention to this child than he did to her three siblings if God would just give him a healthy baby.
She was healthy, but her mother was left paralyzed for a month.
God bestowed other gifts on Jillian in addition to her ringlets of golden hair and her bright green eyes. A precocious toddler, she learned to read at age four. By the time she was five years old she was a seamstress, impressively dressing her dolls. She taught herself about fabrics, textures, stitches, threads, patterns, buttons, laces, and notions of all kinds.
At six, she created patterns from newspaper if she couldn’t find the right Simplicity one for a shirt, skirt, dress, or pants. Her corner of the girls’ dorm housed all of her neatly filed and categorized threads (in order of color), buttons, notions, ribbons, and most cherished fabrics in a heavy treasure chest that her VF gave her as a present on her sixth birthday.
By the time she was in Catholic elementary school Hap had taught her how to draw, design and color her fashions. She adorned her homework with sketches of different outfits for the saints, attaching a holy card showing the “before” and a fresh fashion design on the last page of her homework as “after.” She thought that would amuse the nuns, whose black and white attire earned them the moniker crows.
She was a thoughtful big sister. She taught Iris, her adoring little sister, to read at age 4 and to write cursive by age 5.
She was vivacious, fun loving, tender and kind. “You have a heart of gold,” her father told her, “just like my favorite aunt Julie.”
Once she found a feral kitten when visiting Grandpa and Grandma Krejci at the O-Bar, and, worried that it didn’t have a mother, she created a little cradle out of a shoebox and nursed it with a doll’s bottle until it grew up and ran away.
When Hap showed her a dead mockingbird one day at their home in Austin, she created a funeral Mass complete with Necco wafers. “All God’s creatures need respect,” she said to little 4-year old Iris, who dutifully dug the grave.
Hap nicknamed her Beans because she was always like a jumping bean. She had one project after another, always on the go.
She also relished embellishing reality. When she was six years old she convincingly told other children and adults that she was adopted.
“My real parents,” she said in her sweet precocious voice, hands folded, “perished in a hellish blaze of a car crash when I was an infant, and the Landrys took me in.”
How else could the only blonde, green-eyed child fit into a family where everyone else except Hap was dark eyed, dark haired?
Fate caught up with her joyful innocence.
By the time Jillian was seven, Bits had had enough of her “bratty sister,” as she referred to Jillian. Bits was nine and never got over what she felt was the loss of her daddy’s affection. Bits was supposed to be the apple of his eye. It wasn’t enough for Bits to be her mother’s favorite. She wanted favoritism from both her parents. Despite seeing and hearing the beatings Jillian endured from Virginia for her bed-wetting, Bits needed to extract her pound of flesh and show Jillian who the real boss was.
The day of the fall began with an autumn shower that let up by noon. It was a Saturday and the kids had their chores. Jillian was supposed to iron ten handkerchiefs that day and then she was going to sew a new dress for her favorite doll. She finished her chores, stacked the ironed hankies on her father’s dresser, and ran to the treble sewing machine to work on the doll’s outfit. She sang as she worked, just like Cinderella.
“What’s this?” she heard her mother scream. “Who burned this handkerchief?”
Her mother was having a tantrum. It scared her. She suffered enough from her mother’s cruelty when she wet the bed. She and Iris always had to change the sheets, both of them crying as their mother brutally forced Jillian’s head into the wet stains yelling, “puppy has to pay…puppy has to pay.”
Virginia appeared in front of her, standing rigidly with one hand on a hip and the other holding a white handkerchief with a large brown and black burn in front of Jillian’s face.
“You did this, didn’t you?”
“No, ma’am… I didn’t,” Jillian said in her small voice.
“You’ll pay, you little liar. Look at me.”
Jillian stared at her mother’s twitching eye with her large, sweet blue eyes, and shuttered.
“I can tell you’re lying.”
This was Virginia’s trademark claim to fame. She had read that you could tell if a person is being truthful by the size of their pupils. If the pupils were dilated, they were lying. So she would demand that her child stare directly at her and she would determine if the child’s pupils were enlarged, and therefore if she was a liar.
At that moment, Jillian was seized with her mother’s strong hand and whacked repeatedly across the mouth, then her back and her legs. Then she felt herself thrown down on the hard floor.
“Little brat.”
Jillian lay there, weeping. She waited for her mother to leave and then got up and grabbed her doll.
Bits walked over and shoved her. “Little brat,” she repeated, throwing a freshly ironed handkerchief at her. The same one Bits had substituted for a burned version.
Jillian ran outside, weeping harder, tears rolling down her branded cheeks. Iris watched from the large living room picture window.
A twenty-foot wall separated the Landry property from the next-door neighbor’s property. After all, they lived on Terrace Drive. It was built with large fieldstone and had a stone lip at the bottom. Jillian and Iris had skipped along that wall many times, never fearing that they might fall.
It looked as if Jillian was about to sit down on the wall but her leg buckled and in an instant she tumbled, the doll in her arms. She disappeared over the wall.
“Jillian fell,” little Iris screamed. She raced outside, and screamed louder.
VF was outside working in the back yard. He heard Iris scream. He sprinted to the front and saw Iris standing on the wall, pointing down.
Jillian was at the bottom in a pool of blood. He literally jumped off the wall and scooped her up in his arms. He tried to stop the bleeding with his handkerchief, bundled her in blankets and placed her in the back seat of the family’s Ford sedan.
“She had severe, fatal head trauma,” Dr. Hunter announced after VF had raced her to his office.
There was nothing he could do to save her.
“I’m afraid she’s with the angels now. You’ll have to take her body to the hospital for the death certificate. I’m so sorry.” Dr. Hunter had tears in his eyes. He was the family doctor. He had known her since she was born. The two men stood looking at each other forlornly.
At her funeral VF was beside himself. “I’ll always envision my lovely little girl with her dollie who fell twenty feet onto the rocks…cold fear gripping me because she whispered, ‘Daddy, I can’t see; it’s getting dark.’ I remember choking back tears and saying, ‘Darling, it will be all right.’ And then holding her in my arms in the doctor’s office praying she would live.”
The next year the family moved.
* * *
It was November 9, 2006. It would have been VF’s 90th
birthday. Mary was waiting outside the Texas Legislature where she was to report on impending legislation affecting Texas Parks and Wildlife when she got the call.
“Ms. Landry?” this is Ethel, your mother’s aide. Mary did not go by her married name. “We’ve called the ambulance.”
“Ethel? What’s going on?”
“She fell, Ms. Landry. She’s very weak. They’ll take her to Hillcountry Hospital.”
“I’ll be there within an hour.”
Mary left her junior attorney in charge and raced to the hospital in her new Lexus hybrid, accompanied by NPR news that Nancy Pelosi was meeting with President Bush and was probably going to become Speaker of the House. You go, girl. Such news kept her hopes up for the Democratic party. After all, she was considering running for judge in Travis County.
By the time she arrived at the hospital, Virginia had already been through radiology.
“Your mother has a broken hip,” the orthopedist told Mary, very matter-of-fact. They were both standing in the hallway of the ICU. Mary looked down at his Tony Lama ostrich boots. “We can go in and repair the fracture with a pin. Should take about an hour—hour and a half tops.”
“Will she be able to walk again?”
“Rehab should take a few weeks, but she should be on her feet almost immediately, and working towards rehab.”
Mary agreed to the surgery and then called all of the siblings to let them know of Virginia’s fall, her treatment and the prognosis. “I spoke with Mom before her surgery and she said I shouldn’t be writing her obituary anytime soon,” Mary told everyone. “She’s going to live to be 100.”
Vicki was not amused. “Not if I can help it,” she said. “Mary, do you realize that this would have been Dad’s 90th birthday?”
“Of course I did.”
“Don’t you think Mom is just stealing the spotlight?”
“I don’t know. Mom loves attention, I have to hand it to her,” Mary said.
After the surgery, things took a turn. Virginia screeched in pain when the nurses tried to get her on her feet, so she stayed in the hospital bed day after day.
Two weeks before Christmas, she acquired a urinary track infection. Then sepsis set in.
“Sepsis is an overall infection and it can be deadly in a hospital environment,” the nurses explained to Mary. Virginia had fever, kidney dysfunction, increased heart rate, and confusion.
Mary called Iris, alarmed. “You should come back home for a while.”
“What’s ‘a while’?” Iris asked.
“I don’t know. The doctors say she may last several weeks, or a few days. I don’t know. She talks. Still wants her root beer.
“Bits arrives and sits by her side staring—so dramatic. Joe was here last night praying with her,” Mary said
“What a zoo. And Vicki?”
“Vicki has had it with Mom. I don’t think she wants to go near her, except maybe to shut off her oxygen.”
“I’ll be there day after tomorrow.”
Yet again, Iris was on a JetBlue flight from JFK to Austin-Bergstrom. This time, though, she made it a one-way ticket to keep the timeline open. She booked a suite at the downtown Hyatt for a week.
When Iris arrived at the hospital the early evening of December 18, she was met by the social worker, Barbara, who handed her a booklet entitled Gone From My Sight. She looked at the subtitle, “The Dying Experience.”
Iris was alarmed. “Is my mother dying?” she asked Barbara.
Barbara’s voice was kind and deliberate. “I’ve been with more than a hundred patients in various end-of-life stages, and I’ve watched your mother over the past couple of days. She is not eating. She is sleeping most of the time. She is disoriented. You’ll be able to see for yourself. I think this book might help.”
The warning on Virginia Landry’s hospital door advised everyone to suit up for a serious infection for their own protection. Booties were available as well as hospital gowns. Iris ignored the warnings since Virginia no longer had an infection, and stood beside her sleeping mother, holding one of her terribly bruised hands and reading Gone From My Sight. It read:
One to Two Weeks Prior to Death
Disorientation—A person can’t seem to keep their eyes open…[they] often become confused, talking about places and events unknown to others. They may see and converse with loved ones who have died before them…
Physical Changes—lower blood pressure, fluctuation in body temperature, increased perspiration…
Breathing Changes—puffing, blowing of the lips, coughing, and congestion. One minute, any or all of these may be present, the next minute; breathing may clear and be even.
Surge of Energy—One to Two Days prior to death—a person might sit up, talk clearly and alertly when before there had been disorientation. A favorite meal may be requested.
Congestion—may be very loud
Virginia awoke and smiled sadly at Iris.
“Mom,” Iris said softly, “it’s your daughter Iris.”
“Oh, Iris. Where’ve you been?”
“Well, I just came back from New York.”
“Nuuuuuuuewwww York?,” Virginia said, drawing out the first syllable as if the host of a late night show. The question was familiar. Although Iris had lived in New York for more than twelve years, Virginia always acted as if this was news.
“My parents met in Nuuuuuuewww York.”
Iris pulled up a chair, sat, felt Virginia’s forehead, and held her hand, asking if she would like a glass of water.
“Did you know your grandmother was a Jew?”
Iris was surprised, but intrigued.
“I didn’t,” she answered.
Virginia’s eyes twinkled with the glee of someone who has kept a lifetime secret, and turned her head to squarely meet Iris’ eyes. “Yes. Finkbeinner was their name. My mother’s side. They were from Baden Baden. Moved to New York. Maybe that’s why you married a Jew. It’s in your blood.” Virginia smiled mischievously.
Iris contemplated whether that information was fact or fiction. Her mother was very weak. She spoke purposefully.
“I remember when I met your father. I was just fourteen. I didn’t like him much. I thought my sister Dorothy should date him. Then my daddy moved me to Ohio with Ada, his new wife. The high school there was terrible. No orchestra, no journalism. Not like Austin’s high schools.”
Iris stood and cradled her mother’s back to sit her up enough for a drink of water. Virginia sipped the water and fell asleep. Iris lowered the bed to a comfortable position and sat beside her for a few hours, listening to her difficult breathing, marveling at the revelations that her mother actually played in the orchestra and was interested in journalism. She re-read the dying pamphlet, trying to prepare herself for whatever was coming next.
Early the next morning, Iris took a run around Austin’s Town Lake, re-named Lady Bird Lake, a reservoir of the Colorado River. Generations past, it was the dividing line between north and south Austin, between white collar and blue collar. She marveled at the beautifully constructed running trail and the Bridge Walk with its copper song belts—western belt sculptures engraved with words from songs by famous Austin musicians, which stretched along the two-mile course of the bridge. It was a mild 60° with a gentle breeze. She hoped each day of her stay would be this beautiful.
She thought about the times after her first horrifying marriage, when she and Miles, newly married, would come to the Congress Avenue bridge and watch the bats fly. They’d talk about the people, him commenting on crowd behavior, her talking about who was wearing or not wearing what or whose hair was green and whose was cherry pink.
She giggled when she remembered the boat tour they went on soon after VF’s funeral. They wanted to do something touristy in her native city so they signed up for the bat boat tour. The tour guide was genuine Tex
an. Nearly a dozen tri-Delt sorority sisters were on the boat, cradling their drinks from the bat guana. “Hey, gals, hold on to yer drinks,” he said as the boat came to a slow crawl under the bridge. “These bats don’t have bathrooms.”
The bat guana dropped loudly into the ladies’ drinks and onto their cute outfits as they screamed for him to drive the boat faster. “Awwww….gals, doan cha know…it’s good luck to get a dousin.’” Iris loved that Miles handed the guide a $20 at the end of the ride and said, “keep it weird, dude.”
Then they wandered over to Sixth Street and listened and danced to music long into the night. Miles loved the music. Iris loved watching him enjoy himself. He was not only an insightful sociologist; he was a musician who played keyboard in a pick up band. He loved to dance. She was not a fan of country western music, but if Miles wanted to dance, she was game. The two-step was a blast. They would help close down the place, dancing the night away. She never worried about drunk driving, either. He didn’t drink. He said he was allergic to alcohol.
Thinking back before their marriage, it was probably his being a musician that attracted her to him.
The attraction began soon after her divorce. One Saturday night friends convinced her to come listen to a new jazz band on the drag, close to UT. She hired a babysitter for her boys and took them up on their offer.
Miles Cohen was there, playing keyboard. One of her friends knew him and introduced them.
Thus began the longest romance in the Landry family. As Iris explained to Vicki, “the first night we made love, we didn’t just make love. We devoured each other. We couldn’t stop making love. He was such a great lover—so sweet and caring, and so knowledgeable! I never knew sex could be so much fun!”
They were married within two years, and along with Iris’ two sons from her first marriage, grew their family to three beautiful boys.
On the run, thoughts turned to the present situation and the hatred of her mother’s behavior. Childhood flashbacks entered her mind—especially the day Virginia tore through Hap’s bedroom and demolished every one of his perfectly crafted model planes, cars and ships, leaving Hap sobbing in a corner with his arms folded around his jean-clad skinny legs. I remember the loops were cut off those jeans. She could see every detail of her mother’s tantrum. The cold, white walls of the room. The strings dangling from the ceiling where the magnificent model planes had flown. The plastic shards of the models in clumps on the floor. One decal stood out: the Flying Tigers P-40. His favorite plane.
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