Replacement Child

by Judy L. Mandel

  Tom continued to try to talk me out of loving my sister.

  “She lies to you all the time. About money. About who she takes up with at the bar. Hell, she lied to you for me when I needed some cash.”

  He returned her trust with total betrayal. He didn’t understand that my love for my sister did not depend on her actions or choices. That nothing would change it. To me, she was still the vulnerable little girl with the scars who was looking for acceptance in any way she could get it, and I forgave her anything in its pursuit. I knew she could be taken advantage of by creeps like Tom, and I still wanted to protect her if I could.

  I listened and nodded for an hour and a half. Finally, he gave up the keys.

  chapter sixty-four

  JANUARY 25, 1952

  IN HER MIND, my mother moved a leg, an arm, but when she tried to move them, they felt as if they were cemented to the mattress. An ache began in her chest and rested heavily in her arms, radiating out to her fingertips. She could not lift her head.

  Her doctor said she was not physically injured other than the minor burns on her hands, but that her feelings were common.

  “Mothers who lose a young child often describe that kind of ache,” the doctor explained to her. “Some say it’s an ache to hold the child that has been lost.”

  I don’t want to wake up, she thought.

  But she still had one daughter that needed her. So she mustered her energy and tried on a hopeful attitude to face her little girl.

  Walking into Linda’s room, my mother took a deep breath. A scent, a foreign odor, settled in her nostrils. Antiseptic, pungent—undertones of burnt flesh.

  The smell told her more than any doctor’s words.

  Linda was awake after a night and day of lurking in and out of consciousness. She must be in considerable pain, my mother thought.

  A nurse began to change the bedding, and Linda surprised her by shouting in the Hungarian accent she had picked up from her Grandma Schlesinger:

  “I don’t vant nobody to touch me!”

  Seeing my mother, the nurse nodded and left.

  Propped up in the bed, Linda lifted herself toward my mother.

  “Mommy!”

  “I’m here, sweetheart. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I love you.”

  Looking for a spot on Linda’s body where she might make physical contact, my mother found none. Not a space to hold, to comfort her baby.

  “I’m here,” she repeated—her voice her only offering.

  She studied Linda’s body, noting the placement of each bandage, each scorched piece of skin, as Linda also searched my mother’s face for answers. What happened to me—why does it hurt so much—what will happen now?

  In one heroic lurch, Linda pulled herself up to be closer to her, and my mother gasped, automatically reached out, but held herself in check.

  Linda’s left ear had dropped away and lay like a crisp piece of bacon on her pillow.

  chapter sixty-five

  1980

  FARMLAND, CORN, AND cows surrounded the tiny airstrip lined with small planes. Steven and I lined up with the rest of the first-time jumpers on the field as the skydiving coach explained how we would be trained over the next four hours.

  I looked over at Steven and smiled. I had coerced him into this escapade. Our marriage was also hovering in the ethers, searching for some solid ground. He had returned home, and we were giving it another try. When I mentioned that I had met some skydivers recently and thought I’d like to try it, we planned to do it together as a kind of launch to our new life. The plan had ignited new excitement between us. It seemed like we were back in our element, embarking on the kind of adventure that first brought us together. I held out some hope for the day, and for us.

  Our training consisted of climbing twelve steps to the raised platform and then jumping, bending, and rolling. Jump, bend, roll; jump, bend, roll; over and over and over and over.

  “Don’t keep your knees locked; you need to stay loose, or you’ll break your legs!” my trainer yelled on my first practice jump.

  By the time we boarded the plane, I’d taken around twenty practice jumps, but I locked my knees on nineteen of them. I was nervous about jumping from three thousand feet.

  Part of our training was to pack our own parachutes, so we clamored into the packing room and took our places around a rough wooden table that extended the length of the room. One of the trainers took me aside. He had watched me take my fateful practice falls and had taken a liking to me. He didn’t want to see me break apart on impact, he said, and he handed me an extra-large chute.

  “Listen,” he whispered. “For your height and weight, you should land like a butterfly.”

  I saw Steven watching our interchange suspiciously, but I nodded him an okay.

  Then, we were taxiing down the runway in the white Cessna 182, packed in with two other new jumpers, all thinking of the moment we would reach altitude and jump. The wind was still. The proximity of danger, the possibility of death, the fear and adrenaline had its usual effect on me—an inexplicable high. And it suddenly reminded me of my parents. I hadn’t told them about my jumping from an airplane. I didn’t want them to worry or to try to talk me out of it.

  If abject fear had a face, I saw it reflected in each one of my parachute-laden companions. We had just enough time to question our sanity and say a short prayer during our ascent. Soon, two jumpers had disappeared into the blue, their shouts fading as they fell away from us. A quiet hollow between jumps. Steven looked calm just before he stepped off into the sky. I had a sinking feeling I might never see him again.

  “Judy, you’re up—stand over here in the door. One, two—GO!” Shove—Wham—out.

  A static line opened my chute automatically after three seconds—a detail that has probably saved thousands of lives for first-time jumpers. Mine for sure. I never considered pulling my chute once I was floating in the sky.

  You’re supposed to immediately look up at your parachute to be sure it has deployed properly. If it is twisted or has a hole in it, you need to quickly pull your reserve. This too, we practiced for four hours.

  I never looked up.

  The euphoria of floating in air was so complete, all I could think was How beautiful, how silent, how awesome; look at all the little houses. A frozen frame of blue and white held me between the earth and sky.

  The radio strapped to my belly startled me when it started yelping.

  “Judy, Judy, come in, Judy. Are you there, Judy? Please reply, Judy. You’re doing fine—pull your right cord a little bit. Now the left a little. You’re doing good—coming right into the target area.”

  As the ground zoomed up to meet me, I thought, Don’t lock your goddamn knees.

  I landed softly, thanks to that extra-large chute, and was endorphined out of my mind by the thrill. About thirty yards away I saw a group of people huddled around someone. I unhooked my chute and ran over to see that Steven was still on the ground. He hadn’t landed well, and his six-foot frame didn’t help. Something in my stomach lurched. If he was hurt, it was my fault, my idea to do this crazy thing. After about a minute he was able to get up with my help—to the applause of the crowd.

  It turned out that this was our last adventure together. The excitement of the jump soon wore off, and we were grounded once again. The gap between us widened, and I began to feel a disturbingly familiar emptiness.

  “LOVE DOESN’T LAST,” I remembered my mother saying one day as we drove to my guitar lesson.

  I didn’t press her for her meaning, but I had seen a new weariness in her eyes lately. The halfhearted smiles at my father’s jokes.

  She was always the one to initiate a kiss good-bye, a hug hello to him. Now I saw none of that. It was seldom—never—that I saw him reach out to her. Now, it seemed that his coolness had finally worn away the fabric of their marriage.

  Like the night when they were going out to a party. My mother had on a new green silk dress, sleeveless, with a sl
it up the right side showing off her gorgeous legs.

  “Al, how do I look?”

  “Fine.” Not looking.

  “You’re not even looking at me.”

  “Okay, I’m looking. You look fine.”

  Even in their last days together, my mother would reach up from her wheelchair to my father and demand, “Okay, I really need a hug!” He would smile and oblige, but it was never his idea. I saw her spirit wither from his neglect, though she always loved him. He was her rock of fortitude. Affable, honest, funny, and dedicated to his family. But leaning over to kiss his wife or offer an unsolicited hug was like taking a trip to the moon.

  I’d heard my father tell my mother that he didn’t compliment me because it would go to my head. Maybe it was to level the playing field with Linda. All his energy in that regard went to building up Linda’s self-esteem. I didn’t need that kind of attention.

  I now know that his detachment from me stemmed from losing Donna. He never really recovered from the loss, and somehow he couldn’t forgive me for being here when she was not.

  It’s true that we marry our mothers and fathers in some sense, and although Steven was as different from my father as hot pastrami from shepherd’s pie, his emotional distance drew me to him like a long-lost relative. And it ultimately destroyed us.

  Soon, in our marriage that lasted nearly seven years, the same boy who wouldn’t let me leave the bed in that borrowed apartment cooled toward me. I would reach for him, and he would pull away. He barely touched me even when pressed against me in our small bed. In the end, I left—determined to dodge the bullet that killed my mother’s passion.

  chapter sixty-six

  2006

  JUSTIN AND I are on our way to Paris. His eighteenth birthday seemed the perfect time to take the trip I’ve promised him for years. I made the arrangements for this trip before remembering it would be my mother’s one-year yahrzeit, and I wouldn’t be home to light her memorial candle, let it burn the full twenty-four hours, hear her name called, or say the Kaddish at Temple.

  He’s taken three years of French now, and he plans to practice the language on our trip. I’m sure he’ll run circles around me in that department. I think we are both looking forward to this trip for just the two of us. His life has gotten busy with friends, and we don’t spend the time together that we used to.

  When he was little and I was struggling to pay the rent, Friday was our special night. After work, I’d pick him up from day care and take him to a local pizza place that had games and rides for kids. It was the one treat that I could afford. It was literally the cost of a $5 small pizza and a few dollars for games. Those nights were good for both of us. I loved not going back to our tiny apartment like every other night of the week, and instead seeing my little boy laugh while we played air hockey together.

  Now, I stop dead still in the busy corridor, realizing that we’re leaving from the same Newark airport that Captain Reid tried to reach on January 22, 1952.

  “Mom, come on, we’ll miss our plane,” Justin says as he pulls on my arm.

  His low voice startles me. Until yesterday, his hair was down to his shoulders in some kind of nonconformist solidarity, but now he has a head full of brown curls that let me see his wonderful blue eyes. The haircut was a break with his younger self—one step closer to re-creating himself for his future.

  On April 5, the anniversary of my mother’s death, although I am far from home, I find a place that feels right to me to light a candle. We enter Notre Dame, and I feel a quiet awe. Whispered prayers echo in the cavernous cathedral, bouncing off the ancient pillars, swirling against the stained glass in a prayer-soup. It doesn’t matter that our religion doesn’t match. It’s the spirit here that I know my mother would understand.

  I make my way to a long table of candles. I note the suggested donation and take out some coins to put in the box. Justin is walking ahead of me, but when he sees me take a candle, he comes to stand beside me. I close my eyes, light the candle, and whisper, “I miss you, Mom.”

  LAST NIGHT, THE dream was so real that I woke empty and tired. It was my mother. There so fully I could smell her perfume: the powdery scent of lilacs. I could touch her hair: thin, fragile. I could feel her lightest kiss on my cheek.

  She was holding on. Needing to let go.

  I sensed her being pulled, nearly dragged away. She grasped at the edges of me. Through her eyes I saw a blue, swirling vortex. Sucking at her, ripping her from me, then—gone.

  chapter sixty-seven

  1953

  MY FATHER THUMBED through his wallet while he waited in the small examining room. He rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands, and he had almost finished counting the number of floor tiles when Dr. Berger appeared. Clutching a chart in his left hand, the doctor shook my father’s hand with his right. They had known each other for many years now, through the birth of two children—the death of one.

  A small, dark-haired man with a kind, round face, Dr. Berger was a family doctor that still made house calls. His black bag held both lollipops and penicillin. He would take an IOU or a chicken dinner when you couldn’t pay.

  When he had first seen Linda after the accident, he broke down and cried.

  “It’s good to see you, Al. You look well—what can I do for you?”

  “It’s not me. I’m worried to death about Florence. She doesn’t want to go out or even get dressed unless it’s to do something for Linda. Even now, after all this time. She cries all the time and sleeps whenever she can.”

  “You know, Al, women take these things differently than we do. I know you—you just keep busy working, right?” Dr. Berger slid the chart under his arm, reached into his jacket pocket for a prescription pad, and scribbled a name and number.

  “Call this doctor—Dr. Horowitz. He’s a friend, and a lantzman. Make an appointment for you and Florence to go together. He’s a psychiatrist—he may be able to help.”

  “A psychiatrist? But she’s not crazy, Doc—just not herself. You really think we need a head shrinker—and both of us?”

  “I think it may help, Al,” Dr. Berger answered.

  My father took the note and agreed to give it a try.

  “DR. BERGER SUGGESTED we go see this Dr. Horowitz,” he told my mother after dinner that night.

  “Why, who is he—what for?” She didn’t turn around from washing the dishes in the sink.

  My father was grateful she had her back to him. “I told him how you are—staying in bed, not wanting to go out, crying all the time. He’s worried about you. Dr. Horowitz is a psychiatrist. I think we should try it, Flurry.”

  My mother agreed to go and was inwardly thankful. She put up a good front for Linda, especially when she needed her, but she would collapse in private and had no energy for anything else. My mother felt that if it weren’t for Linda’s care, she would have no reason to keep living. It was taking a toll on her, and sooner or later it would affect Linda. If she wasn’t strong for her, Linda could never get through what lay ahead—of that she felt sure. My father kept the family on an even keel, but my mother felt she was the only one with the fortitude to be there for Linda when she was scared, when she was hurting, when she needed encouragement to get up and walk after surgery. That motivation gave her a reason to tend to herself and to agree to see Dr. Horowitz.

  The next week, my parents went to see Dr. Horowitz after my father got out of work. His office was a second-floor walk-up in a red brick office building on East Jersey Street. It was a cozy room with three overstuffed blue cloth chairs and a well-worn brown leather sofa. A small table held some magazines and a box of tissues. The doctor had his oak desk in the corner of the room.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” Dr. Horowitz offered, extending his hand to greet my parents. He was tall and lanky with black graying hair and a five o’clock shadow beginning to hallow his cheeks.

  “What brings you here today?”

  My father explained about the crash, losing Donna, Linda’s inju
ries.

  “We’re really here because I’m worried about Florence. But, ya know, Doc, maybe it just takes time—maybe Florence will get back to herself in a little while, if she wants to.”

  At that, my mother put her head down, clasped her hands in her lap, and let out a heavy sigh.

  “What is it, Florence?” Dr. Horowitz asked.

  “It’s just that Al expects me to get back to normal. And normal is gone. Donna is gone, Linda is so hurt—I won’t get back to myself. The person he wants me to be again is gone. There is a part of me that will never come back.”

  Anger discharged between them, quick as a shot, silent as a glance.

  Dr. Horowitz let them take a moment, then offered, “Al, I don’t think it’s a matter of wanting or not wanting. It isn’t something Florence can just decide to get over. It’s not unusual for her to feel that she’s lost a piece of herself.”

  “I was there too, ya know, Doc. Donna was my daughter, too,” my father muttered.

  “I never said I was the only one suffering through this,” my mother said. “I just think we are different people, and I am not bouncing back as quickly as Al wants me to.”

  “Everyone grieves a little differently, and it’s important to respect that,” Dr. Horowitz said.

  “I just don’t know how you can do such normal things again, jumping right back into the life you had before everything changed,” my mother said to my father.

  “What would you have me do? I can’t just sit around thinking about things and making it worse.”

  “It’s probably Al’s way of coping. His way to keep maintaining the family—to keep providing,” Dr. Horowitz interjected.

  “This is the only way I know to keep going. Otherwise I will just fold into myself—like you have decided to do!” My father’s jaw clenched firmly, and a serious scowl overtook his face.

  My mother’s eyes softened, and she reached for his hand. My father saw the path of his wife’s tears through her makeup, running down her neck, pooling in a dark stain on her white collar.