I woke from the dream and lay awake until sleep came, but only a couple of hours before Bradley shook me awake at 8:00 to let me know he had started breakfast.
At Forest Brook, the lounge was busier than usual when we arrived. Two men and two women stood in a semi-circle at the far end of the room. They chatted quietly among themselves. The women’s faces were partially obstructed by the men’s figures, but something about them seemed familiar.
Bradley took my hand. “Meg,” he said quietly. “There’s Dad.”
Dad was seated in his favorite chair. He reached for his walker and hoisted himself up. “Megan. And Bradley! So good to see you. Sit down you two. Megan, I...”
His eyes, I noticed, were rimmed red. “Dad? Is something wrong?” I interrupted.
“Please, sit down.” he repeated.
We sat and I wondered what, if anything, he knew of the truth about Dahlia. “Dad,” I said quietly. “Bradley and I have something to tell you. It’s about Dahlia. We’ve discovered something about her. She…”
“Megan,” Dad said, interrupting my flow of chatter.
“But this is really important. We need to tell you this.”
“Megan, please,” Dad said.
I peered into his eyes and saw sorrow there. “Sweetheart," he said. "I know what you've come to tell me. I know about Dahlia, that she wasn't Dahlia. Her name was Mae."
My throat felt dry. "Was?" I whispered.
Dad shook his head. "Yes. The lady you knew as Dahlia is dead. Her name was Mae and she was Dahlia’s sister. Mae passed away last night, in her sleep.”
I gasped and looked from Dad to Bradley, and then to Dad again. Words finally came to me. “Her sister? Mae was Dahlia’s sister? And…and now she’s gone too?” I began to cry. Bradley hugged me closely.
“Incredible,” I heard him say.
I looked at Dad through my tears. “How long have you known?” Had everyone known but me? “I feel so foolish,” I whispered while reaching for a tissue to dab my eyes.
“No, Megan,” Dad said, “You mustn’t feel like that. I only learned about Mae earlier today. See those women over there?” He pointed toward the group at the far end of the room. “They are Mae’s nieces, Patricia and Anne, and their husbands. We spoke for a little bit before you two arrived. The couple of times I had met them, briefly, Mae was present so they couldn’t explain then. I suppose they are here to make arrangements and so on. I am so sorry, sweetheart.”
“Dad,” I said while reaching for his hand. “I’m so sorry too. You were very fond of her. I’m just having such a hard time processing this.”
“Of course. That's to be expected,” Dad said. “Look, her nieces are coming over here. I am sure they will explain everything.”
I cleared my throat and stood to meet them. Bradley stood up also but Dad remained seated. Two elegant women stood before us. In their faces, I saw Dahlia's and Mae's features, but the taller of the two bore the more striking resemblance. They were the picture, I believed, of how Dahlia would have looked had she lived to her middle age years.
“Excuse me,” the taller woman said to me. “I’m Patricia Gordon. You must be Megan.”
“Yes. I’m Megan Craig," I said. "This is my husband, Bradley."
”I’m Anne,” said the other woman, reaching her hand toward me.
We all shook hands. “I am so very sorry to hear of your aunt’s passing,” I said. “She was a lovely woman.”
“Thank you, Megan,” Anne said quietly. “And we want to thank you for your friendship with Aunt Mae. We know that you and Aunt Mae had long conversations, but we’re not sure how much you knew about her illness or what she told you about our mother. You may have guessed that she was suffering from dementia.”
I nodded. “Yes, I did. But I was astonished at her detailed memory recall. She shared so much with me, so many intricate details. The last time we met, she told me about the accident.” I glanced at Dad and Bradley who were quietly looking on.
“You must know that I knew Mae as Dahlia. I just learned recently that your mother had died in a bus accident. I must tell you, I was shocked to learn about your aunt and that your mother had died in the bus crash.”
“Yes,” Patricia said. “And we are very sorry you learned about our mother before we had a chance to meet you and explain the circumstances. You know, we are still trying to wrap our heads around this ourselves. We noticed over the past several months that Aunt Mae began to assume Mom’s identity. Mom and Aunt Mae were extremely close, maybe too close. And Aunt Mae never got over losing her sister, her best friend, so suddenly and so tragically. And to add to that, poor Aunt Mae felt responsible for Mom’s death.”
I frowned. “Responsible? Why?”
“Well, Aunt Mae told us that Mom was very reluctant to go on that last tour. She was tired of touring, she had told Aunt Mae, and felt like she was coming down with something. But Aunt Mae encouraged her to go claiming she could jeopardize her career if she missed the tour.”
“Hmm. How sad. Your poor aunt.”
Patricia nodded. “After Mom died, Aunt Mae and her husband, Uncle George, became our legal guardians. We saw our father briefly after Mom’s funeral, then lost touch with him again. Aunt Mae and Uncle George had no children of their own. I imagine Aunt Mae told you all about how Mom met Josephus and about the Half Moon Club and The Jazz Deliverers.”
“Yes, she told me those intriguing stories. Were Dahlia and Mae twins?” I asked. “They looked an awful lot alike, at least according to the picture on the album cover.”
“No they weren’t,” Patricia replied. “But Aunt Mae told us that they often got taken for twins.”
The gentlemen Patricia and Anne had been standing with came over to join us. Patricia introduced them as Lawrence, her husband, and Donovan, Anne’s husband. Patricia and Anne went on to explain the unbreakable sisterly bond their mother and aunt had shared. Even after Dahlia moved in with Josephus, and Mae got married, they remained closer than ever, sharing in one another’s lives.
“Mom and Aunt Mae,” Patricia said, “confided everything in each other. In fact, after Mom left our father, she took us directly to Aunt Mae’s and Uncle George's home. They didn’t hesitate to take us in.”
“Aunt Mae,” I said, “told me about a fight that your Mom and Josephus had. She seemed to know exactly what had happened.”
Patricia squeezed her brows into a frown. "Which one? They fought often."
"It was the fight they had the night before Dahlia left your father."
“Oh, yes, that one. Our first night with Aunt Mae and Uncle George, Mom told her what had happened between her and Josephus. They sat up late, talking. Mom repeated what was said, practically word-for-word. I remember clearly because I heard them while they sat at the kitchen table. They didn’t know that Anne and I were awake and eavesdropping on their conversation. I remember Mom started crying. Aunt Mae held her and started singing their mother’s song Walking Through. She sang it over and over, while Mom cried in her arms."
I glanced toward the men. We seemed to have lost their attention. The four of them were chatting among themselves and I’m sure I heard golf mentioned more than once.
I returned my attention to Patricia and Anne. “If you don’t mind me asking, when did you notice your aunt becoming ill?”
Anne took over from her sister. “Over the past few years and since we lost Uncle George, we noticed a gradual change in Aunt Mae, you know, memory loss and so on. She was eventually diagnosed with dementia and we came to the conclusion that she couldn’t be on her own. As we mentioned, it was only recently that she began slipping into our mother’s persona.”
“Do you suppose that had any connection to her dementia?”
“Oh, her doctor certainly thought so. She called it a type of delusional psychosis, brought on by her dementia. We had to ask the staff here, and they agreed, to call Aunt Mae ‘Dahlia’ because she became terribly upset and agitated when she was referred to as ‘Mae�
�. And with her delusion that she was Dahlia, she believed that Patricia and I were her daughters.”
“Yes, she did refer to you as her daughters,” I said. “She told me that although she sometimes missed Brooklyn, she was happy here.”
“She was,” Anne said. “But her doctor strongly suggested that we consider moving her to a facility that could better treat her. We felt so torn about that. And as sad as we are by her passing, we are also relieved that we were spared from having to make that decision.” Anne paused then to wipe her teary eyes.
Patricia placed a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder. “You know, she spoke often and very fondly of you and your father, Megan. She told us about the nice, young lady who sat and chatted with her. On her good days, she even remembered your name. And she always remembered the name she had for your father – Slim. We’re so sorry that we didn’t get a chance to meet with you and explain Aunt Mae’s illness. There was so much going on with both Anne and me that we neglected to contact you.”
I smiled at Patricia’s use of the phrase that seemed to be a common thread in the lives of so many these days: “so much going on with me.” Any sense of my having been deceived by them, or anyone, had totally dissipated.
“I feel privileged to have known your Aunt Mae and, through her, your mother,” I said. “In fact, I had been meaning to try and contact both of you also. I don't know whether my father mentioned to you that I'm a writer. And hearing Mae tell your Mom’s story prompted me to write about it. I’ve been working on your mother’s story, based on my conversations with Mae, but wanted to consult with you both about this project. Now, with this revelation, I would certainly want to include Mae’s life as well.”
Anne and Patricia exchanged glances, then returned their attention to me. Both women’s eyes lit up. “A novel about Mom’s and Aunt Mae’s life? Megan, I think that’s wonderful and I’m sure Anne agrees.” Patricia looked toward her sister.
Anne was smiling. “Of course I agree.”
“The manuscript is still a work-in-progress but now that we’ve met and if you can manage the time, I would love to discuss the novel more and perhaps using it to create a greater awareness of dementia and Alzheimer’s.”
“Here, please take this,” I said handing Patricia my card. “And please let me know once you have made funeral arrangements. Bradley and I would like to pay our respects. And if Dad is up to it, I am sure he would like to as well.”
“We’ll do that,” Patricia said as she accepted my card. “Perhaps we can meet for coffee once things settle down and we can talk more about your project.”
“Of course. Let’s keep in touch.” I glanced at the business card she handed to me. It read Patricia D. Gordon, LL.M, Family Law Specialist. I felt my lips curl into a slight smile.
We joined the men who were gathered around Dad’s chair. After we said our goodbyes to Patricia, Anne and their husbands, I said to Dad, "you were right, Patricia and Anne really are lovely ladies."
"Just like their Aunt," he replied. "And likely their mother, too."
Bradley and I stayed for lunch with Dad and visited with him after lunch until he asked to be excused.
“Still not feeling 100 percent,” he explained. “Then again, I suppose I will never be 100 percent.”
We accompanied Dad to his suite and hugged him goodbye.
“Why don’t you come visit us for a change?” Bradley said before we left.
Dad chuckled. “Gee, I don’t think my walker would take me that far.”
“Dad,” I said. “I think that’s a great idea. The change will do you good. We’ll pick you up next Friday and you can spend the weekend with us, right honey?”
“Hey, why didn’t I think of that?” Bradley joked. “We’ll see you then, William.”
In the car, I reached over to Bradley and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” I said.
“For what?” he asked.
“For everything.”
He smiled and started the engine.
***
My hand trembled as I placed the turntable needle into the record’s lead groove, just as Bradley had instructed. Using his precious McIntosh system always made me nervous and likely him as well, though he’d never said so.
It was Thursday evening. Bradley had called to let me know he would be home by 6:00.
“Why don’t we eat out tonight?” He had suggested.
“Good idea,” I agreed.
The music started with a static crackle before her voice disbursed through the den. I sank into the armchair, closed my eyes and pictured Dahlia on stage, lips to the microphone, hips swaying, velvety voice filling the Half Moon Club, The Jazz Deliverers’ melodic riffs accompanying her as she crooned the lyrics “…walking through, gonna keep on walking, walking through…” As I sat, immersed in the melody, my thoughts drifted back to Mae’s funeral. She was buried on a humid, overcast day in the plot reserved for her next to her husband’s. She may not have walked through her tragedy, but Mae walked through this life to the other, where she and Dahlia would, at last, be reunited.
Bradley’s light touch on my shoulder brought me out of my trance. Absorbed in the music, I didn’t hear the front door being opened. I stood to accept his kiss.
“Hey,” he said. “Did you get reservations at Marty’s”
“I did, for 7:00.”
“Oh good. Gives me time wash off this day and change. But first,” he paused and imitating a magician’s fanfare, pulled a white envelope from his suit jacket’s inside pocket and handed it to me. “Ta da!”
“What’s this?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Open it and see.”
Carefully, I tore open the envelope and took from it two rectangular pieces of paper. I peered at them. They were tickets to a five-day Caribbean Jazz-themed cruise. I gasped, then hugged him. “Bradley, this is so awesome! We haven’t had a vacation, just the two of us, in years.”
“That’s right. The cruise is booked for September. Just following the counselor’s advice. Remember what he’d said about getting away?”
I nodded. “I sure do - plan special getaways. But a cruise? Wow, special alright!”
“Well, we have a significant anniversary coming up, the girls will be back in school and you and I have a lot to celebrate and be thankful for.”
I reached up to kiss him again. “You’re the best”.
He smiled a boyish smile. “I know. I’m going to get ready.” He picked up his laptop briefcase and headed toward the stairs.
As Dahlia’s rich voice surrounded me, I thought of Mae. I still hear her voice at times and I think about one sister so bonded to the other, that she refused to let her go. I looked toward the phone anticipating the call I had to, I wanted to, make. The fact that Helen was my birth mother didn’t negate the love my adoptive parents and I shared. But Helen and I shared common DNA, common blood flowed through our veins. For too many years I had denied that truth by refusing her request to see me.
Slowly, I went to the phone, picked up the receiver and tapped in the number. Laura answered on the third ring with a quiet “Hello?”
I cleared my throat and took a deep breath before speaking, “It’s Megan. When can I see Helen?”
A December to Remember
By Maria Jemmott
A strong woman understands that the gifts such as logic, decisiveness, and strength are just as feminine as intuition and emotional connection.
- Nancy Rathburn
A December to Remember
Tricia Spencer collected her luggage and walked out the door of John F. Kennedy Airport into a sea of relatives and friends waiting to receive their loved ones. She scanned the happy faces while looking for her nephew, Richard, but she could see no sign of him. Where in the world could Richard be? She wondered. As she struggled with her luggage, she began to regret her choice to wear high-heeled boots.
She mopped her forehead and barely managed to tuck the tissue into the pocket of her coat when she saw a tall, well
-built, middle-aged man looking in her direction. He was smiling and waving as he held up a sign that read, “Tricia S.”
”That’s me,” she said as she walked up to him. “How did you know I’m Tricia?” His big beautiful smile and soft brown eyes warmed her heart, and it skipped a beat. She never expected such a welcome to New York.
“First let me introduce myself,” he replied, reaching out his hand. “I’m Carlos DaSilva, a friend of your relatives. Now to answer your question, your nephew, Richard, showed me an old picture of you, but you’re ten times more beautiful than your picture. I can’t believe that you can have a thirty-eight year old nephew. You don’t look a day over thirty-eight yourself.”
She held her hands to her face, thankful that her dark complexion concealed her blushing.
“You’re a real charmer. Thanks for the compliment,” she said, laughing. “I can see that I’m going to like you. Where is Richard? He was supposed to meet me."
Walking Through and Other Stories Page 16