mother’s name. It was as Dad said
demented. “I can’t remember my mother’s name,” she was saying, over
and over again.
But I remembered her name! It was Ellie, and
how I wanted to say that name—to scream it at the top of my lungs.
If I could only tell Mom who her mother was, then maybe, just
maybe, things would be okay.
Ellie became the word that moved me to
finally break the concrete in my throat. I lay there in bed those
nights chiseling away at that cement until it finally cracked. I
chiseled some more until the cries and the babbling that I had been
uttering to myself became words, as if I were an infant learning to
speak all over again, and then suddenly, with a child’s desperate
effort, I said a word: Ellie. I said it quietly, and no one heard
me—but I heard it.
That morning, I surprised Mom and Dad. I
spoke. For the first time in nine weeks, I said something. I told
Mom that I remembered her mother’s name.
Saying Ellie’s name was like offering my
mother a golden ring or a dandelion bouquet. Her eyes filled with
wonder again, and her heart seemed to sing with delight. I’m not
sure if it was because I said something, or because of the
something I said—but I didn’t care. Those emerald eyes held a
reflection of me, and Mom was smiling again—and so was I. She
hugged me. It was as if I had spoken the word that was stuck to the
tip of both our tongues, a word that meant everything to us if one
of us could only verbalize it, if we could only hear it spoken. And
now we had.
“I remember her! And I remember Ully!” I
said, startling each of them with my addendum as if I’d just
knocked a China cabinet over. These were among the first words
spoken of my recovery—and they were an outright lie.
I didn’t remember Grandma Ellie, and I’d
never met the brother she called Ully. Not at age five. But I said
otherwise, offering something of Ellie and Ully that my mother
could cling to, purging myself of some of the guilt for having done
this to her by entering that toolshed, by defying her calls to come
in, and by failing Dad’s tests. I lied. I said I knew Ellie and
Ully, and it felt good.
I painted a picture of them as vivid and as
bright and hopeful a picture as in any Oz book. The pictures I
created were illusions, like stories out of a child fantasy, and
Dad knew it, but to Mom the fantasies were as good as reality. At
least she acted as though that were true. Ully was successful,
happy, had several children, and lived up north. Ellie was safe and
sound and would be calling soon.
But how Dad laughed! How that laughing still
rings in my ears! Ully didn’t live up north—he lived south in
Indiana—and he never had kids. And oh by the way, Ellie is dying
Dad told me, but I didn’t know that—not until Dad pulled me into
the shed and swore me to secrecy.
Neither he nor I could muster the courage—or
the effort—to tell Mom that her mother was at death’s door. We
didn’t tell her because we were trying to protect her—so I was
told. It was the same reason he didn’t tell her Ellie’s name to
begin with—or her firstborn son’s name. It was for her own good,
and I had better keep it that way lest she be taken again back to
the nuthouse.
And when Ellie died a few weeks later, we
kept that news to ourselves, too—and true to form, Ully never
called.
Dad had given me no narrative to echo, no
oral history to recount, no fatherly wisdom by which I might offer
Mom some solace after Ellie died. Although I’d given my mother her
mother’s name, and that had made her happy, it wasn’t enough. It’s
never enough, Dad had said. It will never be enough, and you should
have never opened your god damned mouth!
I had nothing to say to Mom’s new pleas.
Where is Ellie? Where is my mother? All I could offer her was an
apology. I’m sorry I told you, Mom, I won’t do it again.
“Misleading people isn’t a smart thing to
do,” Dad would say. I had given Mom hope when there was no
demented. “I can’t remember my mother’s name,” she was saying, over
and over again.
But I remembered her name! It was Ellie, and
how I wanted to say that name—to scream it at the top of my lungs.
If I could only tell Mom who her mother was, then maybe, just
maybe, things would be okay.
Ellie became the word that moved me to
finally break the concrete in my throat. I lay there in bed those
nights chiseling away at that cement until it finally cracked. I
chiseled some more until the cries and the babbling that I had been
uttering to myself became words, as if I were an infant learning to
speak all over again, and then suddenly, with a child’s desperate
effort, I said a word: Ellie. I said it quietly, and no one heard
me—but I heard it.
That morning, I surprised Mom and Dad. I
spoke. For the first time in nine weeks, I said something. I told
Mom that I remembered her mother’s name.
Saying Ellie’s name was like offering my
mother a golden ring or a dandelion bouquet. Her eyes filled with
wonder again, and her heart seemed to sing with delight. I’m not
sure if it was because I said something, or because of the
something I said—but I didn’t care. Those emerald eyes held a
reflection of me, and Mom was smiling again—and so was I. She
hugged me. It was as if I had spoken the word that was stuck to the
tip of both our tongues, a word that meant everything to us if one
of us could only verbalize it, if we could only hear it spoken. And
now we had.
“I remember her! And I remember Ully!” I
said, startling each of them with my addendum as if I’d just
knocked a China cabinet over. These were among the first words
spoken of my recovery—and they were an outright lie.
I didn’t remember Grandma Ellie, and I’d
never met the brother she called Ully. Not at age five. But I said
otherwise, offering something of Ellie and Ully that my mother
could cling to, purging myself of some of the guilt for having done
this to her by entering that toolshed, by defying her calls to come
in, and by failing Dad’s tests. I lied. I said I knew Ellie and
Ully, and it felt good.
I painted a picture of them as vivid and as
bright and hopeful a picture as in any Oz book. The pictures I
created were illusions, like stories out of a child fantasy, and
Dad knew it, but to Mom the fantasies were as good as reality. At
least she acted as though that were true. Ully was successful,
happy, had several children, and lived up north. Ellie was safe and
sound and would be calling soon.
But how Dad laughed! How that laughing still
rings in my ears! Ully didn’t live up north—he lived south in
Indiana—and he never had kids. And oh by the way, Ellie is dying
Dad told me, but I didn’t know that—not until Dad pulled me into
the shed and swore me to secrecy.
Neither he nor I could muster the courage—or
the effort—to tell Mom that her mother was at death’s door. We
didn’t tell her because we were trying to protect her—so I was
told. It was the same reason he didn’t tell her Ellie’s name to
begin with—or her firstborn son’s name. It was for her own good,
and I had better keep it that way lest she be taken again back to
the nuthouse.
And when Ellie died a few weeks later, we
kept that news to ourselves, too—and true to form, Ully never
called.
Dad had given me no narrative to echo, no
oral history to recount, no fatherly wisdom by which I might offer
Mom some solace after Ellie died. Although I’d given my mother her
mother’s name, and that had made her happy, it wasn’t enough. It’s
never enough, Dad had said. It will never be enough, and you should
have never opened your god damned mouth!
I had nothing to say to Mom’s new pleas.
Where is Ellie? Where is my mother? All I could offer her was an
apology. I’m sorry I told you, Mom, I won’t do it again.
“Misleading people isn’t a smart thing to
do,” Dad would say. I had given Mom hope when there was no
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