remember the tsunami two years ago? We were on vacation in Thailand. He was next to me, and then he was gone.”
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Schmidt said. A different old lady might have petted her arm and called her “dear,” but Mrs. Schmidt just reached for a sugar cube and dropped it shakily into her tea.
Elm didn’t know why she told Mrs. Schmidt about Ronan. There was comfort, somehow, in meeting people who didn’t know about him. Elm was allowed to explain the story to them. She was allowed to say Ronan’s name. It was a taboo word elsewhere where she had used up people’s willingness to sit still for the story. Sometimes she felt like even Colin wanted to sweep him under the rug. Though he patiently reminisced with her, she could see the slight knit in his brow that meant he was annoyed. He missed Ronan as much as she did, but it brought him no relief to say Ronan’s name. It didn’t fester inside him the way it did in Elm.
But what if she had told Mrs. Schmidt merely to shock her? Had she said it to get the woman to like her? Elm was horrified that she’d used her son in this way. His death wasn’t like the Ronald Reagan story; it was a sacred subject, and she had sullied it. She felt ashamed and put her head down, blinking back tears. What kind of mother was she? Elm knew the answer: she was the kind of mother who let her child die.
Intellectually, Elm knew that what happened wasn’t her fault, that it was an act of God, whatever that meant. The phrase suggested a divine malevolence Elm wasn’t sure she was comfortable with. She wished she remembered better her last few moments with Ronan. She was lying on the beach, half reading a magazine, half watching Colin play catch withRonan, and keepaway from Moira. Ronan still threw like a child, all jerky elbows and stiff hips. Moira ran back and forth between Colin and Ronan, screaming with frustration that the ball was above her head. Colin was laughing, but Elm could tell a tantrum was imminent.
Finally Ronan turned to her. “Mom, can you make her stop?” He knew that Elm was the disciplinarian in the family, and any grievances must be expressed to her. Elm remembered thinking that she just wanted to read the damn magazine. Couldn’t the three of them play together for fifteen minutes without her?
She shaded her eyes. Moira’s suit was riding up her bottom, while the top was completely askew. It had looked so cute on the rack, but now, with Moira wearing it, the bikini looked like an attempt to age her, even, possibly, to sexualize her. Tomorrow she would wear the one-piece.
“Moira!” she called. “Come fix your swimsuit.” Moira reluctantly trotted toward her.
“Thank God,” Ronan said. “Hey, Da!” and then Elm stopped paying attention. Why hadn’t she paused there, cementing the scene in her memory. Why hadn’t she called both her children to her? She fixed Moira’s suit and took her up the beach behind the dune to pee, the sand so blindingly white that everything was filtered, hazy. Elm recalled being surprised when the beach abruptly ended in a row of palm trees; what stretched behind was dirt, reminding her of the empty scenery of a movie studio backlot. That’s what had saved the two of them, the higher ground. Elm remembered screaming, covering her eyes as if watching a horror movie. Then, as the wall of water moved closer, she grabbed Moira.
She wasn’t sure if she had passed out or if she had blocked the memory. The next thing she could piece together was that Moira was crying, screaming, the cut on her leg angry and bleeding. The water that had carried them into the trees that lined the shore receded just as quickly. All around her people were yelling, in pain, in search of loved ones … And she registered the fact that Colin was not with her. She prayed that he had grabbed Ronan the way that she had grabbed Moira. Or, rather, she hoped he had. She forgot to think about God. The moment she most needed to believe in all her
“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Schmidt said. A different old lady might have petted her arm and called her “dear,” but Mrs. Schmidt just reached for a sugar cube and dropped it shakily into her tea.
Elm didn’t know why she told Mrs. Schmidt about Ronan. There was comfort, somehow, in meeting people who didn’t know about him. Elm was allowed to explain the story to them. She was allowed to say Ronan’s name. It was a taboo word elsewhere where she had used up people’s willingness to sit still for the story. Sometimes she felt like even Colin wanted to sweep him under the rug. Though he patiently reminisced with her, she could see the slight knit in his brow that meant he was annoyed. He missed Ronan as much as she did, but it brought him no relief to say Ronan’s name. It didn’t fester inside him the way it did in Elm.
But what if she had told Mrs. Schmidt merely to shock her? Had she said it to get the woman to like her? Elm was horrified that she’d used her son in this way. His death wasn’t like the Ronald Reagan story; it was a sacred subject, and she had sullied it. She felt ashamed and put her head down, blinking back tears. What kind of mother was she? Elm knew the answer: she was the kind of mother who let her child die.
Intellectually, Elm knew that what happened wasn’t her fault, that it was an act of God, whatever that meant. The phrase suggested a divine malevolence Elm wasn’t sure she was comfortable with. She wished she remembered better her last few moments with Ronan. She was lying on the beach, half reading a magazine, half watching Colin play catch withRonan, and keepaway from Moira. Ronan still threw like a child, all jerky elbows and stiff hips. Moira ran back and forth between Colin and Ronan, screaming with frustration that the ball was above her head. Colin was laughing, but Elm could tell a tantrum was imminent.
Finally Ronan turned to her. “Mom, can you make her stop?” He knew that Elm was the disciplinarian in the family, and any grievances must be expressed to her. Elm remembered thinking that she just wanted to read the damn magazine. Couldn’t the three of them play together for fifteen minutes without her?
She shaded her eyes. Moira’s suit was riding up her bottom, while the top was completely askew. It had looked so cute on the rack, but now, with Moira wearing it, the bikini looked like an attempt to age her, even, possibly, to sexualize her. Tomorrow she would wear the one-piece.
“Moira!” she called. “Come fix your swimsuit.” Moira reluctantly trotted toward her.
“Thank God,” Ronan said. “Hey, Da!” and then Elm stopped paying attention. Why hadn’t she paused there, cementing the scene in her memory. Why hadn’t she called both her children to her? She fixed Moira’s suit and took her up the beach behind the dune to pee, the sand so blindingly white that everything was filtered, hazy. Elm recalled being surprised when the beach abruptly ended in a row of palm trees; what stretched behind was dirt, reminding her of the empty scenery of a movie studio backlot. That’s what had saved the two of them, the higher ground. Elm remembered screaming, covering her eyes as if watching a horror movie. Then, as the wall of water moved closer, she grabbed Moira.
She wasn’t sure if she had passed out or if she had blocked the memory. The next thing she could piece together was that Moira was crying, screaming, the cut on her leg angry and bleeding. The water that had carried them into the trees that lined the shore receded just as quickly. All around her people were yelling, in pain, in search of loved ones … And she registered the fact that Colin was not with her. She prayed that he had grabbed Ronan the way that she had grabbed Moira. Or, rather, she hoped he had. She forgot to think about God. The moment she most needed to believe in all her
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