Don't Call Me Mother (33 page)

The words hang in the air, destroying my fantasies of Daddy and me together, a happy future with Andrew, making up for our lost years. Kaleidoscopic memories of Daddy flash through my mind—waiting for him by the tracks, my delight as he swings me around on the platform, the scent of Old Spice, his rough beard against my face. My stomach writhes in pain as I think of our recent reconciliations: my first holiday with him—Thanksgiving at his house, fancy dinners at the Playboy club. Most of all I think of Daddy’s boundless joie de vivre.

He’s loved his status as an executive at the L & N, his social and professional clubs, his Cadillac. He retired at sixty-two to Arizona, where he enjoys golfing every day in the mild weather of Scottsdale. We visited him there last year, Daddy tanned and healthy-looking in his yellow golf shirt, his green eyes laughing as he watched Andrew toddle across the living room.

Now my mind surveys the future we might have had together: he would tell my children stories, run behind Andrew’s bicycle, play catch with him. Older and distinguished, he would attend graduations and weddings. Through watching them do ordinary things together, the little boy and the grandfather, my own childhood would be healed.

“No,” I hear myself saying to Hazel. “It can’t be. There must be something the doctors can do.”

My palms sweat and tears sting my eyes as Hazel leads me down hospital corridors smelling of plastic, antiseptic, and sickness. Into the labyrinth we go, knowing that the monster at the center is death. We find Daddy curled up like a child in his hospital bed, tubes connected to his thin arms, his mouth gaping in sleep. He looks like an old, sick man. Where’s my strong Daddy? He wakes as soon as we enter and sits up, a surge of vitality coming over him, but he’s weak and can’t cover it up. His arms shake as he lifts them to me, and I feel the bones of his ribs under my hands when I hug him. There is no scent of Old Spice, instead the bitter hospital antiseptic and urine. My voice catches in my throat, but I take a deep breath and paste on a smile. After all, it’s my job in the family to be cheerful and encouraging.

“I’ll beat this thing, you’ll see. Nothing ever got me down in my life. I’m a fighter,” Daddy says before collapsing back against the pillow. I find out later that they never told him the complete truth about his condition. I know it’s important to never lose hope, but each upbeat remark he makes me have to lie and pretend even more. The prognosis is poor, but I’m supposed to go along with Hazel and Daddy that he will get better one day.

Two days pass, and we’re alone in his room, talking about our past, and my mother and Gram. Daddy gazes at me with a look on his face I’ve always longed for—pride, affection, a sweetness I’ve never seen before. “You know, your mother was very, very beautiful. It was physical between us, I’m afraid. Married six weeks after we met. Of course, I didn’t know her very well. It wasn’t long before I found out how flirtatious and nutty she was. Always embarrassing me in front of people. I don’t want you to be like her. I want you to have a good head on your shoulders, and I know you do. Your grandmother gave you lots of practical advice, and you’ll need it.”

At least he’s not furious at Gram right now. I couldn’t bear that. I tell him my plans to teach, to make a future for myself. He knows that Dennis and I aren’t in good shape. The relationship seems to have died somewhere along the way, but we still hope to make it work. Daddy encourages me to stay married. He’s worried about me, and I love him for it.

Sitting across from him, I bask in his full attention, soaking up his stories. The clock on the wall ticks out each hour as we try to make up for all those years, each hour and week and month that we lost. Our past is a huge mess, each fight and hate letter added to the heap until a high wall came between us, making it hard for us to know each other. So we try now to get acquainted, death nipping at our heels. I hate Gram at this moment for what she did to us. He tells me how many times he wanted to see me, how he tried to get Gram to send me to Chicago, but she never would let me go with him. Our history is littered with terrible mistakes. Everything I’d hoped for is too late. Those years can’t be made up for the way I’d counted on doing for the next ten or twenty years after we made up. Inside I’m crying but outside I’m brave, chatting away.

Daddy gives me another adoring look, and says, “You’re a Myers after all.”

His putting our blood connection into words warms me, but there’s a chilly note in those last words: “after all.” What does he mean—was there ever any doubt about me being a Myers? The opportunity to ask him is lost when nurses and doctors with clipboards wander into the room. His cryptic comment will haunt me for years, until I finally find out what he must have meant.

Later in the day, Daddy regales me with stories from his early life, his childhood on the farm near Louisville. L & N freight yards bustled with activity in the small town nearby, and a love of trains grabbed him by the heart. He started working for the railroad when he was eighteen years old and ended up with an executive office in Chicago.

“You’ve got an education,” he tells me, “but I came from the school of hard knocks.” I smile at the phrase that always infuriated my grandmother. I can’t help but admire the pride he’s always had in working hard and making money, proving that he could rise up from the Kentucky farm and “be someone.”

That afternoon Daddy tries to pack in a lifetime of lessons while I perch on a chair beside his bed, aware of the minutes slipping away as the Arizona sun slants against the beige walls. He talks of his own mother and father who died before my birth, of his regrets and his dreams of the future. It’s early evening and his untouched dinner tray rests on the bed. Perhaps he was moved by reviewing his life, or maybe he sees the inevitability of his death. He begins to sob uncontrollably. “I don’t want to die, Linda Joy. I’m too young, I’m so scared.” I’ve never seen him like this before. I gather him to me, stroking his head as his tears fall. Sorrow for my own loss fills me to bursting, but I don’t want him to see me cry. I whisper words of comfort to him, my own desperate entreaties unspoken: Please don’t die, Daddy. Please don’t die.

The day after his release from the hospital, we receive a call from Aunt Helen, asking me to come home immediately because Gram is sick and staying in a convalescent home. Aunt Helen says her condition is deteriorating, though it’s not certain why.

In a surreal fog, I spend my last night with my father trying to say good-bye, trying to complete more of our unfinished lives, but he can no longer focus. He keeps repeating, “I’m going to be fine,” smacking a weak fist into his palm. I prepare for bed, knowing that these are our last hours together in this life. I go to Daddy’s room and put my arms around him, holding on, wanting to put our lives in perspective, but he can’t bear to say good-bye. He says he’s going to get better, and that’s the way it is.

Daddy comes with us to the airport, so weak he has to lie down in the back seat of the Cadillac. I gaze at him an extra minute, searing his face into my memory. He falls back exhausted against the seat. I start to walk away, but turn for one more look. His long fingers make small circles in the air as he waves.

Gram

Spring wheat sways in the biting February wind. Despite winter storms—slashing rain and sleet and snow—the wheat keeps growing. In May the fields will be golden under azure skies, though that’s hard to imagine now. I can never get enough of the wheat fields, these seas of graceful sage-green waves undulating under a pale late-winter sky. The Oklahoma landscape comforts me as I think of my father’s impending death and Gram’s hatred of him through the years. Dennis is at the wheel, driving up highway 81 to Enid so I can visit Gram at the convalescent hospital. Andrew is asleep in his car seat, his white-blond hair falling over his eyes, his baby cheeks flushed. I declare my new policy to Dennis: “If Gram says one nasty thing about Daddy, I’m going to walk out and never see her again.”

Dennis nods, aware of how their fighting has defined my life. I feel sorry for him sometimes, putting up with me and my crazy family. Despite our difficulties as a couple, we are kind to each other, hoping it will work out. I wonder if it is all my fault that we are having such trouble with our marriage. After all, look at who my models are.

At the convalescent home, a nurse wearing a pink uniform and a big smile tells me Gram’s room number is 203. Dennis wishes me luck. He’s off with Andrew to the park so I can be alone with Gram. Sweat breaks out on my brow; my shoes squeak on the polished linoleum floor. What if she attacks Daddy again? Or me for spending time with him?

In the designated room I find an unmade, empty bed, a dresser, a chair. There is no familiar thing here to tell me I’m in Gram’s room; everything seems too light and cheery. I check the room number again, then call her name. A lilting voice answers from the bathroom. “I’ll be right out!”

I stay in the doorway when she emerges, unsure of my standing. Gram’s dark eyes are like bright beads, impossible to read. The tense moment ends when she opens her arms to me, singing out “Sugar Pie!” Embracing her, I feel her delicate bones under my fingers.

Who is this jolly person inhabiting my grandmother’s body? She looks like the Gram of my childhood, but something has happened to her. Before I can ask about it, she touches my arm. “Sit down by me. I have something very important to tell you.” She pats the bed.

“You know that I was hospitalized at St. Mary’s. A priest named Michael started coming around. He saw that I was crying a lot…” She pauses, assessing my reaction. “Each day I looked forward to his visit and we began to talk—about religion, but about other things, too.” She looks like a different person. I keep staring at her—is this Gram?

She throws back her shoulders. “The most wonderful thing happened, Linda.” Her fingers grip my arm with surprising strength. “Father Michael gave me the Last Rites of the church, washing away all my sins!” Gram’s face is radiant with joy. I am shocked to hear that she was given the Last Rites, knowing that it’s performed just before death.

“I could feel all my sins being lifted from my shoulders. I feel so light now. Maybe I’ll even live a few more years!”

I’m too overwhelmed to speak. Does this mean she’s going to die?

Gram leans close to me, grabbing my arm even harder. “I need to ask you something.” She pauses, tears pooling in her eyes. “Please, please, can you forgive me for all those years I hated your father?”

My ears ring and everything is jolted out of focus. There are so many layers of that past I haven’t dared probe. How can it be cleared away by a few words? In the beats of time between my racing thoughts, I search for a place in my heart where I can stretch myself to find forgiveness. I remember the Gram who cuddled me, the one who called me Sugar Pie. She was the only real mother I had, the only person willing to take me in and raise me when my own parents wouldn’t. Despite all the pain, I remember our good times, too.

My heart pounds hard. I take her hand and look at her, barely controlling my tears. “Gram, I forgive you.” She squeezes my hand.

“Sugar Pie, I’m so sorry your father is sick. Aunt Helen told me. I hope that you can see him and bring him some comfort.” Her face is sweet, her dark eyes bright with life for the first time in years.

I feel as if I’ve been dropped into someone else’s life. This isn’t my Gram. I’m used to steeling myself against her, turning away from her cruelty. This old woman with a cheery attitude speaks to me with kindness. She seems real, but it’s so strange. Her thin body makes hardly a lump under the blankets. Tenderness washes over me. I bend down to kiss her papery skin. Surely I didn’t imagine her terrible power over me. I remind myself that however harmless she seems to me now, her awful rages and my struggles all those years really did happen. Now, suddenly, through some kind of miracle, Gram has been transformed from a monster into a sweet old lady in a convalescent home.

I perch close to her on the bed and we lace our fingers together, reminiscing about our summer travels to Iowa in the Nash Rambler, thunderstorms, the fun we had with Blanche and her brothers and sisters. Rhubarb pie. The stars at night. She laughs, her voice soft, her dark eyes dancing. Hope fills my heart—maybe she will live. For the first time in years she wants to live. Good times are still ahead: She’ll learn to like Dennis, and come to delight in Andrew’s antics. Everything will be different if she doesn’t die, I think. Then I remember the priest. The fact that he performed the last rites over her suggests he might know something I don’t.

Late in the evening, I kiss Gram good-bye, my heart aching from being stretched wider than I could have imagined. My step is light as I walk down the hall toward Andrew and Dennis. If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t have believed such a transformation was possible.