In Search Of Her Own. Carole Page Gift
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believe; the terrible reality still bombards me, like barbs in the flesh, sudden, unexpected, stealing my breath, leaving me reeling.
My mother is dead
Nearly a month now since she died.
I stood in the light powdery snow for what seemed forever—yes, mud-rippled snow and frozen ground on this Resurrection Sunday; no sign of spring, no tree limbs budding with the promise of life. My feet and hands grew numb; my throat ached, raw with the cold
I realize now I should have worn the heavy nubby coat Mother gave me when I began teaching at the university—a long, tailored, practical coat, a deep teal green, a color Mother said brought out the red in my auburn hair and accented the aqua-green of my eyes. I remember she got the coat on sale at Harris’s, or was it RobinsonsMay? Mother never paid full price for anything in her life. It was a wonderful buy, she said; it would last me for years, she said.
I accepted it gratefully, profusely grateful, as I accepted all of Mother’s gifts She shouldn’t have, I told her; it was more than I deserved—I, the daughter who never measured up.
But not even Mother’s marvelous coat could have warmed me today I knew it as I approached the grave site. The coldness in my bones didn’t come from winter’s lingering chill. It was the coldness of death, like a rock in my chest, hard, frigid, unmoving. Today at her grave I noticed the earth was still scarred, not smooth and untouched like the land around it. It was the only sign, the remnant clue, that a funeral had occurred, a burial taken place
Where my mother lies, the frozen earth still speaks of the deed, bears witness to it In time it, too, will take on the bland, anonymous, impeccable look of a rich man’s lawn. I accept that fact, as I accept the fact that my mother is gone, her soul is in heaven.
But can I ever accept her going?
This morning I knelt down and placed a perfect white lily on her grave. White on white, life and death blending into a milky blur—the smooth creamy flesh of the lily against the gritty, icy blue snow. There is no marker yet. The headstone will take several weeks to make. It will match my father’s stone nearby—that proper, solemn slab of granite with his name precisely carved in large letters—James Edward Carlin, Beloved Husband And Father. Yes, that austere stone is a perfect memorial to a man as imperious in death as he was in life.
When I stood, my nylons were drenched; my knees revolted against the coldness I wanted to do something or speak or walk somewhere. I wanted to feel some satisfaction in standing there, staring down at my parents’ graves But I felt as numb as my fingers I wanted to turn and walk away or run to my car and drive somewhere where music was playing and people were singing-some lovely cathedral perhaps where spires rose heavenward and a man of God might declare triumphantly, Death, where is thy sting; grave, where is thy victory?
I wanted to be with somebody today. Not just somebody. I wanted to be with my mother. But there was no one around, except a stranger standing a short distance away by a large marble stone, his head bowed, his back to me-a tall, broad-shouldered man in a leather trench coat, a deep smoky gray color, his collar upturned against the cold. He wasn’t wearing a hat and his thick brown hair looked wet from the snow.
“I’m here with you, Mother,” I said aloud, but my voice came out too small, swallowed by the wind. I realized I, too, was being swallowed, but not by the elements—by something more immense and just as impalpable. For this time,—for however long it lasts—I am as immobilized in life as my mother is in death. Perhaps worst of all, in spite of my faith, my life no longer matters to me. I know I should release my pain to God, but how? How can I surrender to the One I’m afraid now to trust?
It was irrational, I know, but I kept talking to Mother as if she could hear me. “I’ve received so many cards and phone calls Even people I hardly know have offered their condolences,” I said, raising my voice against the whistling wind.
The stranger turned and glanced my way, as if he thought I might be addressing him. I caught a glimpse of dark mahogany eyes and chiseled, aristocratic features.
I looked down, abashed, then lifted my gaze as the stranger came my way. Our eyes met and held for a long moment as he passed by, his expression warm with sympathy and compassion. He had the most compelling eyes I had ever seen He seemed to be telling me, We are kindred spirits inhabiting the same emotional place. You’re not alone. I understand your pain.
Something leapt inside me, an instinctive response, a yearning to hold on to this moment of connection with another grieving soul. I wanted to say something, offer a smile But as quickly as our fragile alliance formed, it slipped away. The stranger walked on through the fine blanket of snow, and I felt even more alone than before.
I turned back to my mother’s grave and said, too brightly, “Like I was saying, Mother, you wouldn’t believe all the people who’ve phoned—dozens of your former students, and mine People we haven’t heard from in years, some even since Father’s death six years ago “
Six years
It’s hard to believe Mother and I have been alone, had no one but each other all that time Even our colleagues at the university have maintained a polite distance all these years, comfortably insulated in their lofty bastion of academia. Convivial intellectuals, they are, who enjoy a good time as much as anyone, I suppose, but two lone women never quite fit their scheme of things.
Or perhaps we never tried—or cared to try—to fit their scheme We kept to ourselves, pleased to dwell in peace, living quiet, orderly lives. And, of course, for me, a predictable routine was an immense relief after those earlier days, after that black hole of time seven years ago.
As my eyes returned inevitably to my father’s headstone, memories swirled around me like a dark funnel cloud drawing me into its vortex. In its violent maelstrom I could hear my father’s voice thundering, “How could you do this to us, Victoria? How could you let it happen? You’ve thrown away your future for some gypsy actor. You’ve shamed us all with his misbegotten child. Is this the kind of woman we raised you to be? Mark my words, daughter, you’ll be the death of me yet.”
I was the death of you. Father. No one said an accusing word, but everyone knew the heart attack was my fault, my doing. If only I hadn’t disappointed you; if only I hadn’t broken your heart’
But it does no good to dwell on the past. Haven’t I learned that by now? You’re gone, Father. And now Mother is gone, too. I’m alone for the first time in my life, tied to no one, no bonds by blood, by birth, by affection. My last living relative has died
No, that’s not so.
There is another—blood of my blood, bone of my bone
My child.
Somewhere in this vast world lives a little lost boy whose face I’ve never seen, whose voice I’ve never heard, except that day in the delivery room for a sliver of time before he was whisked away from me forever
Where are you now, my son? Who do you call Mother? Do you have my eyes, my nose, my hair? My penchant for privacy? My love of books? When I lost you, my arms ached for months for someone to hold I felt as if someone had plundered my heart and left me for dead.
But I denied my pain because I felt I had no right to grieve. For my parents’ sake I bore my shame in silence and denied my son’s existence.
But he lives.
He’s somewhere, someone’s child
I’ve voiced the question over and over through a thousand sleepless nights, but now that I’m truly alone the question takes on an urgency I