Fades
ONCE HEAVEN IS DONE WITH GRANDMA, WE'D LIKE HER BACK, THANKS." My daughter had written that in the guest book at my mother's funeral, the kind of assumptive yet incongruent thing a teenager comes up with. But seeing my mother again, hearing her explain how this "dead" world worked, how she was called back to people by their memories of her–well, maybe Maria was onto something.
The glass storm of Miss Thelma's house had passed; I'd had to squeeze my eyes shut to make it stop. Shards of glass poked in my skin and I tried to brush them free, but even that seemed to require great effort.
I was weakening, withering. This day with my mother was losing its light.
"Am I going to die? " I asked.
"I don't know, Charley. Only God knows that. " "Is this heaven? "
"This is Pepperville Beach. Don't you remember? " "If I'm dead ... If I die ... do I get to be with you? " She grinned. "Oh, so now you want to be with me. "
Maybe that sounds cold to you. But my mother was just being my mother, a little funny, a little teasing the way she'd be had we spent this day together before she'd died.
She was also justified. So many times, I had chosen not to be with her. Too busy. Too tired. Don't feel like dealing with it. Church? No thanks. Dinner? Sorry. Come down to visit? Can't do it, maybe next week.
You count the hours you could have spent with your mother. It's a lifetime in itself.
SHE TOOK MY hand now. After Miss Thelma's, we simply walked forward and the scenery changed and we eased through a series of brief appearances in people's lives. Some I recognized as my mother's old friends. Some were men I barely knew, men who had once admired her: a butcher named Armando, a tax
attorney named Howard, a flat-nosed watch repairman named Gerhard. My mother spent only a moment with each, smiling or sitting in front of them.
" So they're thinking about you now? " I said. "Mmm, " she said, nodding.
"You go everywhere you're thought of?" "No," she said. "Not everywhere."
We appeared near a man gazing out a window. Then another man in a hospital bed.
"So many," I said.
"They were just men, Charley. Decent men. Some were widowers."
"Did you go out with them?"
“No.”
"Did they ask?" "Many times."
"Why are you seeing them now?"
"Oh, a woman's prerogative, I guess." She placed her hands together and touched her nose, hiding a small smile. "It's still nice to be thought about, you know."
I studied her face. There was no doubting her beauty, even in her late seventies, when she had taken on a more wrinkled elegance, her eyes behind glasses, her hair–once the blue-black of midnight–now the silver of a cloudy afternoon sky. These men had seen her as a woman.
But I had never seen her that way. I had never known her as Pauline, the name her parents had given her, or as Posey, the name her friends had given her; only as Mom, the name I had given her. I could only see her carrying dinner to the table with kitchen mitts, or carpooling us to the bowling alley.
"Why didn't you marry again?" I asked. "Charley." She narrowed her eyes. "Come on."
"No. I'm serious. After we grew up–weren't you lonely? "
She looked away. "Sometimes. But then you and Roberta had kids, and that gave me grandkids, and I had the ladies here and–oh, you know, Charley. The years pass. "
I watched her turn her palms up and smile. I had forgotten the small joy of listening to my mother talk about herself.
"Life goes quickly, doesn't it, Charley?"
"Yeah," I mumbled.
"It's such a shame to waste time. We always think we have so much of it."
I thought about the days I had handed over to a bottle. The nights I couldn't remember. The mornings I slept through. All that time spent running from myself.
"Do you remember–" She started laughing. "When I dressed you as a mummy for Halloween? And it rained?"
I looked down. "You ruined my life. "
Even then, I thought, blaming someone else.
"YOU SHOULD EAT some supper," she said.
And with that, we were back
ONCE HEAVEN IS DONE WITH GRANDMA, WE'D LIKE HER BACK, THANKS." My daughter had written that in the guest book at my mother's funeral, the kind of assumptive yet incongruent thing a teenager comes up with. But seeing my mother again, hearing her explain how this "dead" world worked, how she was called back to people by their memories of her–well, maybe Maria was onto something.
The glass storm of Miss Thelma's house had passed; I'd had to squeeze my eyes shut to make it stop. Shards of glass poked in my skin and I tried to brush them free, but even that seemed to require great effort.
I was weakening, withering. This day with my mother was losing its light.
"Am I going to die? " I asked.
"I don't know, Charley. Only God knows that. " "Is this heaven? "
"This is Pepperville Beach. Don't you remember? " "If I'm dead ... If I die ... do I get to be with you? " She grinned. "Oh, so now you want to be with me. "
Maybe that sounds cold to you. But my mother was just being my mother, a little funny, a little teasing the way she'd be had we spent this day together before she'd died.
She was also justified. So many times, I had chosen not to be with her. Too busy. Too tired. Don't feel like dealing with it. Church? No thanks. Dinner? Sorry. Come down to visit? Can't do it, maybe next week.
You count the hours you could have spent with your mother. It's a lifetime in itself.
SHE TOOK MY hand now. After Miss Thelma's, we simply walked forward and the scenery changed and we eased through a series of brief appearances in people's lives. Some I recognized as my mother's old friends. Some were men I barely knew, men who had once admired her: a butcher named Armando, a tax
attorney named Howard, a flat-nosed watch repairman named Gerhard. My mother spent only a moment with each, smiling or sitting in front of them.
" So they're thinking about you now? " I said. "Mmm, " she said, nodding.
"You go everywhere you're thought of?" "No," she said. "Not everywhere."
We appeared near a man gazing out a window. Then another man in a hospital bed.
"So many," I said.
"They were just men, Charley. Decent men. Some were widowers."
"Did you go out with them?"
“No.”
"Did they ask?" "Many times."
"Why are you seeing them now?"
"Oh, a woman's prerogative, I guess." She placed her hands together and touched her nose, hiding a small smile. "It's still nice to be thought about, you know."
I studied her face. There was no doubting her beauty, even in her late seventies, when she had taken on a more wrinkled elegance, her eyes behind glasses, her hair–once the blue-black of midnight–now the silver of a cloudy afternoon sky. These men had seen her as a woman.
But I had never seen her that way. I had never known her as Pauline, the name her parents had given her, or as Posey, the name her friends had given her; only as Mom, the name I had given her. I could only see her carrying dinner to the table with kitchen mitts, or carpooling us to the bowling alley.
"Why didn't you marry again?" I asked. "Charley." She narrowed her eyes. "Come on."
"No. I'm serious. After we grew up–weren't you lonely? "
She looked away. "Sometimes. But then you and Roberta had kids, and that gave me grandkids, and I had the ladies here and–oh, you know, Charley. The years pass. "
I watched her turn her palms up and smile. I had forgotten the small joy of listening to my mother talk about herself.
"Life goes quickly, doesn't it, Charley?"
"Yeah," I mumbled.
"It's such a shame to waste time. We always think we have so much of it."
I thought about the days I had handed over to a bottle. The nights I couldn't remember. The mornings I slept through. All that time spent running from myself.
"Do you remember–" She started laughing. "When I dressed you as a mummy for Halloween? And it rained?"
I looked down. "You ruined my life. "
Even then, I thought, blaming someone else.
"YOU SHOULD EAT some supper," she said.
And with that, we were back
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