Dandelion; Memoir Of A Free Spirit

by Catherine James

  There was nothing left to do but stand next to her still body. I wanted to inhale and hold on to our last moment. My little tears turned into big sobs. I became so overcome I had to turn away from her and knelt to the floor weeping, with my hands hiding my face. In the midst of my emotional cloudburst of tears I somehow floated up into another perspective. I saw the two of us from above, like looking down at a tragic Renaissance painting. Mimi laid out in white, and me to the side with my head in my hands, grief stricken. I had a clear feeling that we had experienced this before, and that this would not be the last time.

  Except for Diana, my whole family was gone. My father, grandparents, aunts, even my young cousin had departed early. I never really knew Lois, but I’d heard that she died at just fifty-nine.

  While sorting through Mimi’s belongings I discovered a chest of drawers packed tight with notebooks, loose binders, and a cachet of sealed manila envelopes. I suppose for copyright reasons, Mimi had mailed the unopened envelopes to herself. I thought I knew everything about Mimi, but discovered that her secret desire was to be a writer. The bureau contained original screenplays, short stories, and unfinished compositions, some postdated as far back as the forties. I also came across a stunning little gem addressed to my grandson. John is fourteen now, so she must have written it when he was born. After the funeral I said to John, “I have a letter to you from your great-great-grandmother. Would you like to have it?”

  John thought about it, then sweetly replied, “No, not yet, Grandmother Catherine.”

  20

  It had been almost two years since Mimi had left the earth, and at last my life seemed to be settling down. Then out of the blue I got a call from my half-brother Etienne. He called to say that our mother was in the hospital and nearing death. Wow, my mighty mother was dying! I’m not sure why, but I instinctively felt an urge to see her while I still had the opportunity.

  Nevada City is one of the more beautiful p[laces on the planet, and the place where my mother was living. It’s a beautiful old gold rush town found in 1849. It’s an hour from Lake Tahoe, and is surrounded by lakes, rivers and tall, green pines. The city’s historic architecture is still stunningly intact, and even has gaslit streets. I checked into the Victorian Holbroke hotel, the same place where Mark Twain had once lodged, and prepared to revisit my daunting past.

  Tien, as he likes to be called, still lived in the area, and met me at one of the quaint old dining halls on Main Street. He brought along a bottle of cabernet, and we chattered and laughed all through our tasty salmon pasta. I learned that my younger brother loves camping, he likes fishing and snowboards at midnight, the same things I like. He’s a hopeful romantic just like me, and I instantly adored him. Tien was the lucky one. He came at the tail and less damaging end of Diana’s reign. He also had little knowledge of our frightful relationship. I was having such a nice time with him that I’d almost forgotten why I’d come here. When Tien asked if I was ready to go visit our mother, I felt a stiff snap back to reality. Now that I was actually here, I wasn’t so sure. I felt almost dizzy with fear of the unknown. I’d just driven seven hours to get here, and now I wanted to go home. Tien reassured me that if Diana became too unpleasant, we didn’t have to stay. I gulped down my last bit of wine, and off we drove to the Maiden View Manor.

  The winding country roads were as dark as pitch, and on our way to the nursing home a heavy snow began to fall. It was just us, me and my brother, speeding through the night, a little spot on the universe with angel ice falling around us. At that moment I realized there was nothing to be afraid of. Everything was in its perfect place.

  In my mind and memory I’d been expecting an encounter with the dark queen. Instead I found a skeletal, tiny little woman with an oxygen tube strapped to her face. I barely recognized her. I’d never seen my mother without her heavy Egyptian eyeliner, and her arms and legs were reduced to paper-thin skin clinging to protruding, fragile bones. Diana was only seventy-three and now weighed less than her age. It took her a moment to realize who I was. Then she coolly looked away, saying, “Catherine, I wasn’t expecting you.” Then she proceeded to ignore my existence.

  I dismissed her snub with a smile, and cheerfully beamed, “Well here I am.”

  I wasn’t really sure why I was there. There was no lost love between us, but she was the only mother I would ever have. In a perfect world I would have been here for my mother when she was dying. I always wanted to be the devoted daughter, and now I had a captive audience.

  The ice broke when I set Jack, my playful three-pound Yorkshire terrier, loose on her hospital bed. It’s not easy being aloof with a bounding puppy attacking and licking your face. When Tien stepped out of the room for a breath of fresh air, my mother spoke, “Isn’t Tien just a wonderful boy?”

  I agreed that she was lucky to have him. Then she made a chilling statement, something that only I could comprehend. “He’s the only one the witches didn’t get to.”

  Her words practically knocked me over. Did I hear her right? I instantly envisioned a pair of charred black hags with long curved fingernails reaching out toward me. Then, in a whoosh they disappeared back into the top of my mother’s head.

  I knew precisely what she was saying, but I had to ask, “What do you mean by that?”

  She looked clear into my eyes. Her stare was so deep that I felt it in my heart. I wanted to look away, but I held her gaze.

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  In a split second my childhood played back like a video on rewind. I saw myself locked in the closet and bound to a chair in the dark. I felt her rage, what it was like hiding in bushes for safety, and being abandoned to strangers. Maybe it was the witches.

  My mother couldn’t have been more eloquent. It was a stunning admission, and maybe her way of apologizing, at the same time relinquishing all responsibility of her prior unconscionable wickedness. Of course it wasn’t her. It was the witches. In a strange way her words were comforting. She knew. I suddenly realized why I was here. I’d come to forgive her.

  With that bit of powerful wisdom stored safely in my soul, I wanted to do something nice for her.

  “Mother, would you like me to do your makeup for you?” Without hesitation she answered, “Yes.”

  She still used the cake eyeliner with a sable brush, of which she owned several. As I dug through her deep makeup case looking for the right pot of black, she snapped, “Be sure to put everything back in its right place. No, Catherine, that doesn’t belong there.”

  Diana didn’t disappoint; even on her deathbed she was still domineering, and salty as brine.

  “Yes, mother.”

  It had been a long time since I’d heard the words “Yes, mother” come from my lips. The interesting thing was that instead of being scary, now the words sounded almost comical. I carefully lined her green eyes in matte black. Not the way I would have done it, but heavier, the way she liked it. With some Joan Crawford eyebrows, and a wisp of rouge she was quite pleased with herself.

  It was after midnight, and time to be getting back to the hotel. I kissed her cheek and promised to be back soon. I was surprised when she asked, “When, when are you coming back?”

  “I’m not sure, but soon.”

  Tien and I were halfway out the door, but something was still missing. I walked back to her bed and touched her bone-thin leg. “I love you, mother.”

  But did I really love her? My words felt detached and forced. What I really meant was, I wish I could have loved you. That was the truth, but maybe this was a start.

  I would have stayed on in Nevada City a bit longer, but I was still working for John Paul DeJoria. He’d recently sold the Hilltop hideaway in Beverly Hills, and I was now managing and living on his fourteen-acre fortress in Malibu. John Paul had said to take as much time as I needed, but someone had to be there to look after the estate.

  I kept in daily contact with Tien and urged my reluctant brother Scot to go back up with me and at least pay a last visit. I
did my best to locate Elizabeth, but she could not be found. We were an estranged family of four with little in common except that we all belonged to the same unique club. In succession we’d all experienced the ominous wrath of the witches. We belonged to a mother who could not love, and tried her best to break each of us.

  I got the fateful call from Tien when it was time. My brother Scot was pretty much resolved to stay away, but then agreed to go if I drove and it didn’t cost him out of pocket.

  Tien had taken Diana out of the Maiden View home and had brought her home to die in her own Victorian bed. When we arrived our mother appeared so shocking that Scot had trouble looking. He thought she was already dead. The once beautiful Diana had degenerated so badly that she looked like a picked-over carcass. Her thighs were thinner than my wrists, but she still managed to hoist herself in and out of bed. The odd thing was that she still had a full head of natural auburn hair. I felt a fright. Was this what was going to happen to me, too? Then I remembered how pretty and peaceful Mimi had looked when she died. Hopefully I’d end up somewhere in the middle.

  My two brothers were sharing a bottle of wine in the other room, and I was alone with my mother. I sat on the edge of her bed, trying figure out what I was feeling. The answer was, not much. It was nothing like when Mimi died. I couldn’t have mustered up a tear for my mother if my life depended on it. Why was I really here again? I brought along the vanilla ice cream she’d asked for, and was hand-feeding her tiny spoonsful, when out of the blue, she said, “I’m sorry for hurting you, Catherine.” Those were the magic words, and from my eyes tears began to drop like salty rain. “Why are you crying?” she asked.

  “Because I really wanted to love you, we could have been friends.”

  For the first time in my life she softly stroked my hair like a mother would do, and it broke my unsuspecting heart. I wanted to say, “Snap out of it, wake up, please don’t die yet!” I wanted more time with her, but now it was too late.

  My mother’s soft touch confused me. Our relationship had been a fine dance between fear and self-preservation. If she had not been melting, would we have had this moment? Her touch felt like sparkling electric shocks with immaculate healing. It wasn’t me as the grown woman. In my mind’s eyes I saw the child. It was like being bathed in the sweetest water, and the warmest light. There was a divine mutual forgiveness, and the past no longer mattered.

  EPILOGUE

  Bob Dylan had been right about my mother. She did indeed end up all alone. There was no funeral or fanfare, not even a memorial. There was only a quiet cremation, and my half-brother Tien is the keeper of her ashes.

  The whole extraordinary cast responsible for my being alive has now perished. Sometimes I drive past the big house on Ozeta Terrace. It’s still rich with mysterious memories, and I think to myself, “Where is everyone? You’ve all left without me.”

  In reality, except for Mimi, I never felt a deep connection to anyone in my crazy family. I desperately wanted to feel close, but it was like watching impenetrable actors in a very strange play. In an interesting way they inadvertently gave me extraordinary gifts. My mother’s callousness gave me a deep sense of compassion and the will of an army. The lack of stability and permanence gave me freedom to do whatever I could imagine.

  When my son was born it somehow broke a volatile mold. We remain close as peas in a pod, and have great laughs remembering our never-dull past. I have remained friendly with Patrick and Joseph. Patrick has remarried, and is happily back in his homeland of England. Joseph is still married to the same girl, and interestingly enough they adopted a girl from Vista del Mar, the very same orphanage I ran away from. Denny Laine has also remarried and lives in Las Vegas. He has reconnected with Damian, and we all get along like old friends. I’m grateful to Denny, as he was the one who opened the door to remarkable places and unheralded times. He also gave me my best treasure, a son. Damian is happily married to a Buddhist beauty, and I have a teenage grandson, John, who tells me he loves me the best. I have created my own happy family, the one I always dreamed of.