When the Tennessee family had taken all they could fit in their truck, I signed the inventory sheet and hugged them each goodbye. In their own funny, homespun way, they made this day bearable. They packed up with lightening speed and I could finally see some progress.
As always I had one more job before my day could be finished, I went to visit June. Seeing her, confused and helpless, made me sad. But it also served to keep me focused on my task, to take care of Junie. Without her, I wouldn’t have a purpose in my life right now. I’d be at home pretending to write the next great American novel while I purposely distracted myself with email and Facebook accomplishing nothing. We developed a symbiotic relationship that brought us to this point.
I folded up the quilts and put the box on top of them. Hopefully I’d gather up the guts to look inside once I got to my hotel for the night.
At Hawthorne, I found June in her usual position, curled up in bed.
“June, look what I brought you,” I said holding up the hot dog quilt.
She sat up and stared at me. “You know you really don’t have to send all my things to everybody. It’s kind of silly to do it, you know.”
Now she tells me.
I’ve anguished over making sure I did what she wanted. I made her cantankerous, for her own well being, and miserable by forcing her to move where she could get daily assistance she was convinced she didn’t need. My entire day was consumed with decisions about her possessions, what should go, what should stay and how to get rid of what was left. In some small way, I thought by doing that for her, I could ease her pain. I was actually trying to create some kind of calm out of chaos for myself.
“Didn’t your mother make these quilts?” I asked.
“Every stitch.” June slowly ran her weathered and frail hands over the fabric.
“Do you want one on your bed?” I asked.
“That would be nice. I miss my mother. The white one,” she said.
I spread the prettier of the quilts over her and folded it back so only her feet were underneath it. Her body relaxed.
Who is this woman with the drooping skin and weary eyes? Who is she who finds such comfort from the thought of a mother I had never met? Who is she to me and why am I here right now with her? She’s not my mother. I had a mother with whom I had nothing in common. June did not give me her blood yet I am the one here doing my best to make sure she is comfortable and cared for. No one is waiting in the wings to give either of us a few minutes of peace from the constant struggle between the two of us.
My mother, Sallie, wasn’t mean or evil in any way. She went to church every Sunday, but was lost and depressed most of her life, getting married during World War II when my father came home on leave and having children she didn’t really want because that was expected of her. As mother and daughter we wrestled, rarely finding any common ground, similar to what June and I are experiencing at this moment in time.
Mom died in 2001, a week after her eightieth birthday. She’d been ill and in a nursing home for more than five years. I had nothing that belonged to her nor did I long for anything of hers. My siblings and I emptied out her New York City rent controlled apartment one hot summer. The situation was much like this one. Mom was still alive and living in a nursing home where she would remain for the rest of her life.
I reflected on the similarity that had suddenly come to mind. Yet in Mom’s case my sisters and brother came together, although not willingly, to pack up and dispose her possessions. Susan came equipped with rubber gloves and a mask so not to intake any of my mother’s germs while she rifled through Mom’s books and old papers. Steve brought Karen with him, the only one of us who felt he needed to drag a spouse through the perils of my mother’s life. My recollection is the two of them sat on the sofa holding hands, while the rest of us attempted to cut through the layers of New York City grime. Sallie, even on a good day, was not a good housekeeper. Martha and I always took a taxi by ourselves and it wasn’t the first time the siblings found themselves on opposite sides of the family equation, split in two.
Later in her life, my mother told me her children didn’t care about her, never realizing she’d never given them any reason to. I believe that explains the emotional detachment from my family I’ve experienced most of my life. We were all looking for love within our home but we were unwilling to give to each other. I didn’t grow up in a close or loving family. My sisters had gone off to college by the time my parents divorced. Steve, he’s a boy and he’s just Steve. I grew up in a world I created for myself, separate from my sisters and brother. The older we got the deeper the chasm became.
This time, however, I was the one left to handle the family drama on my own. Did they think blood is thicker than water? They felt obligated to do it for Mom but left June to fend for herself. Blood isn’t the only thing that defines a family or an obligation. Why am I the only one of us who knew that? Because they hadn’t heard my father’s voice over and over in their heads for the past 25 years. I was the only one there to help him die, and he and June were a package deal. My job was to help her die too, so they could be together once again.
I’m not Cinderella and June is not the wicked stepmother trying to find the right fit for the glass slipper. On his deathbed, Dad asked me to take care of her. He didn’t ask me to care for my own mother, my sisters or my brother. Or even his dog, Shana, who he adored. He didn’t ask me to take care of myself. He said Junie. I’ve never forgotten those final words. Dad never said goodbye to me, maybe this was my chance to hear it from him.
Dad found love that transcended all others with June, and she with him. His children did not sit in first place in his life, June did. I still hadn’t come to terms with that all these years later, because we didn’t have priority in Mom’s life either. A child begins searching for the ultimate confirmation of love from the moment of birth. I never had a chance of finding it and my selfish side wanted Dad’s final send off to belong to me and not anyone else.
“Where did you find my mother’s quilts?” June asked.
Afraid of the response my truthful answer might invoke, “They were in your closet here on the shelf,” I said settling for a half-truth.
June’s face softened when she held her mother’s quilt, a calm, peaceful state not seen in a very long time. She spoke occasionally of Mother and Daddy but I didn’t know much about them. On the wall in June’s guest room hung a collage of old faded photographs, one of which was her mother and father standing in front of an empty, wire, grocery store shopping cart. I found the picture odd. Taken long before the age of smart phones and instant photo opportunities, someone had an actual camera handy in a supermarket parking lot, shot the picture and had the film developed. Then the print found it’s way into an envelope with a short note to a daughter far away. Every picture sent to her over the years, was sorted and lovingly placed in a personalized photo album or in a frame to be hung on the wall. I learned of June’s special hobby preserving cherished keepsakes only today.
“I’m glad you brought them,” she said. “I’m so cold here. The quilt will keep me warm. I wonder why no one got them out of the closet for me.”
“That’s where the pink one is if you need it. I’ll tell the aide when she comes so she knows if you want it,” I said.
“You would do that for me?” June asked.
“Of course I would.” I squeezed her tiny hand.
June’s eyes twinkled while gazing at the quilts that had long been tucked away in the closet. They must have sparked some childhood memory of watching her mother sew them in a room filled with fabric, needles and thread she could no longer articulate. At this moment I wanted to feel the same kind of maternal love that June felt. I had to dig deep to find a similar kind of handmade love in my own life.
Being the youngest, I never witnessed my mother sewing or making crafts but I do have one item, and each of my siblings has a similar one. A han
dmade Christmas stocking with our name embroidered across the top. Mine is green felt cut with pinking shears, with bells hand sewn across the top just under my name. My stocking has a brown teddy bear with blue sequins for eyes and a nose; a pink felt Tinkerbelle and a charm of ballet slippers. Each holiday when I find it in the box of decorations, I tell whoever is nearby, “My Mom made this for me”. Every Christmas to this day Santa stuffs it with gifts. This is the single memory of my mother I cling to.
***
I spent three more days cleaning and sorting what was left in the apartment, signing a contract with a realtor and making arrangements to have the place painted and the carpet cleaned. I couldn’t wait to get home and get a kiss, first from Ginger and then from Richard. My eyes and throat needed a break from the constant onslaught of stale smoke. All this time the box remained in the trunk of my car, unopened. I packed as much as I could on top of it so I wouldn’t be reminded it was waiting for me to look inside.
Since the box’s discovery, when I arrived at the hotel at night, tired and sweaty, I conveniently forgot to bring the box inside. My daily visits with June left me more than afraid of the emotional turmoil I might face when I finally got up the courage to open it. I decided I wanted to be at home in my own comfortable surroundings before I took a peek at its contents.
I had one last chore to do before I could leave; send the boxes full of treasures to their intended recipients. That saddened me but I had to let go of my feelings so June could be at peace whether she was aware of it or not.
I found a paper written in June’s scratchy writing of all of her contact information, buried in the piles of papers she left on her once neat and tidy desk. Amazingly enough there was an email address for Robin. I let Robin know what was happening and asked if she could verify her brother’s addresses for me. The list looked old, Steve’s address was one he’d moved out of a few years ago. I received a curt and succinct reply from her,
“I don’t speak to my brothers and don’t know where they live.”
I thought my siblings were detached at the seams. We might not speak to each other very often but we know where each other lived and can find one another in an emergency. And we don’t hold any animosity toward each other.
I learned as I grew older that families come in all levels of closeness, companionship and love. I still long to spend Thanksgiving around a large table with parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews and friends, filling every seat. A beautifully roasted turkey, cranberry sauce, stuffing and all the fixings grace the fancy tablecloth and are waiting to be devoured. The air is filled with laughter and a love of being together. That Norman Rockwell painting will never be mine. I wonder if Robin dreams of that too or if she’s found a peace in what is not in her life either.
Off the tightly packed boxes went into the twilight zone each with a note handwritten from me inside.
I’m writing to let you know that June has moved to assisted living. She is suffering from dementia and is no longer able to care for herself. Her new address and phone are enclosed.
She’s asked me to send these items to you and hopes you will cherish them as much as she did. If you have any questions, email me at this email address.
Linda
I specifically didn’t give them my cell phone number not wanting to answer calls at all hours of the day and night. I’ve got enough of those to deal with. One of the nephews was supposedly off kilter but I didn’t know why. I was unsure about the rest considering their sister didn’t want to speak to them either. Email was far safer and much less intrusive in case one of them wanted something of June’s not found in their box.
My last stop before I drove home was the one I had done each day since I’d arrived. Visit June. I dreaded it every time and today would be no different except for the fact that tomorrow it wouldn’t be on my to do list. Every day I hoped I would find the June I used to know sitting in her chair, working a crossword puzzle, bright eyed and happy. I’m an optimist at heart and negative energy has its way of creeping into my psyche and wearing me down. I had hope for today; June would be more settled in her new home.
June lay in her usual position, curled up in bed lying on top of her mother’s quilt wearing her new shoes, even though it was 10:30 in the morning. Her eyes closed, I tried not to disturb her before I could escape out the door unnoticed.
“Linda,” June screeched. “What am I to do?”
“June, you don’t have to do anything. Just relax. I’ve taken care of everything.”
“I don’t have to worry?” she asked.
“No. Enjoy yourself,” I said.
“You would do that for me?” she whimpered.
“Of course I would,” I answered.
“Okay,” she said calmly.
I kissed her goodbye.
She wasn’t the old June but she was a calmer June that day. I could safely leave her not knowing when I would return.
“No one saves us but ourselves. We ourselves must walk the path.” - Buddha
Chapter Fifteen
As Steve and I grew into teenagers with summer jobs, busy schedules and close friends to hang out with, our summer visits to see Dad and June didn’t last for a full three weeks any longer. June still planned our excursions around the city to the Guggenheim Museum, an occasional Broadway show and to a pizza place she discovered in a magazine called Goldberg’s Pizza. Dad loved that place, probably the real reason we ate there so often. He loved to comment how he didn’t know how a Jewish man could make such good pizza.
Mom still drove us to the airport giving us instructions on how to behave as she drove. Dad picked us up and got us one of those big taxis with the fold up seats in back even though for the three of us we didn’t need all that space. Steve and I thought those big taxis were cool.
When we arrived June was in the kitchen cooking the dreaded pot roast for dinner. Each time we came to New York, we had to get used to a new apartment. The days of the large wrap around terrace with views of the Empire State Building were gone. Each place seemed smaller and more cramped, barely enough room for four people even if we only stayed for a week.
Why they moved so much, I don’t know. June was back working but Steve had started college. I wouldn’t know until later that possibly Dad’s gambling was the issue. He loved betting on the horses and he may have been losing more that he won. June went along with a smile on her face, claiming she wanted to live in a better building. I didn’t stay long enough at this point to do laundry, so if these were buildings without bugs in the basement, I couldn’t be certain.
In 1973 I went off to college at Bowling Green State University. It seemed like a good idea at the time since my parents told me I couldn’t accept an offer from Wittenberg University, a private school in Springfield, Ohio. I was told there wasn’t any money left to pay the pricey private school tuition. Susan and Steve had both gone to college there, Martha to similar sized school in Michigan. Didn’t my parents realize they had four children who needed an education? I would get one; just one that was a lot cheaper.
I made the decision to major in Fashion Merchandising. When June started working as the dress buyer at Rogers Peet along side Dad, she sometimes took me with her to visit vendors on 6th Avenue in the fashion district when I was in town. I loved looking at all the new styles with her. I commented on the dresses I liked and didn’t like and why. June wrote out her purchase orders for what she knew would sell. We didn’t agree but I learned that a smart clothing buyer didn’t make selections based on their personal taste.
I never considered myself any kind of a fashionista even back then, but I did know what I didn’t like. As the youngest child, I wore hand-me-downs. That might not be so bad except that my sisters were only 2 years apart and Mom dressed them alike. We have hundreds of photos of the two of them in the identical Christmas, Easter and back to school outfits. That meant I wore each
one twice. First Martha’s smaller size and then Susan’s larger one. It made sense to me to break out into a style all my own.
The summer between my freshman and sophomore year of college, Mom sold the house in Cleveland and moved to New York City. Her job at McKinsey and Company in Cleveland had been transferred to the Big Apple. Mom insisted she wasn’t searching for ways to get my father back; I secretly believed she was. I couldn’t come up with any other reason for moving to New York. We were Midwesterners; Mom grew up in Detroit and had settled into a nice life in Cleveland with lots of friends, active in the church, a job she loved. I stayed in the same school district from first grade until high school graduation unlike my older sisters who changed schools every time Dad took a new job. She had roots here. Why upset the balance if she wasn’t secretly searching for Dad?
I don’t have a lot of memories of my parents together before they divorced. My father worked late nights and traveled quite a bit on buying trips. As kids we only remember one vacation that the six of us went on together. We lived in Minneapolis at the time, we were all packed in the car and Dad drove us to Mt. Rushmore and the Black Hills. It’s the one event in our childhood all four of us remember, even though each recollection is different. I was only four or five so Susan would have been twelve, Martha, ten and Steve, six.
My memories of Dad and June are as a couple. Everything about Mom is her as a single person. He had found the true love of his life, moved on and was never turning back. I never sensed even an ounce of discontent between my father and his Junie. Mom hadn’t come to terms with living a single life, but she was not his college sweetheart any longer, that was clear to me.
Even though I had spent time in the city during summer vacations as a teenager visiting my father, being yanked out of my quiet suburban life was a shock to me. I felt lost and alone, without any friends or roots to ground me. I gained a built-in summer job at Rogers Peet, an old, established New England men’s clothing store originally opened in 1874, since Dad was the president of the company. Once he showed me a custom suit he had hanging in his office, tailored for Bobby Kennedy shortly before his assassination. No one was quite sure what to do with it after the tragedy. I worked in the women’s department, June was the new ladies dress buyer while the company tried to adapt to a changing marketplace.
A Bittersweet Goodnight Page 10