She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother (15 page)

Moozie said sternly, “Gayle, are you going to let that boy out on the streets of New York at this hour? Have you lost your mind?”

Mom replied confidently, “Mother, he is a young man. He is fifteen years old. Besides, it’s just around the corner on Seventh Avenue. He’ll be fine, won’t you, pumpkin-eater boy?”

“Mom, if I’m a young man, then don’t you think ‘pumpkin-eater boy’ can be retired? Moozie, I’ll be fine. I’ll put on a tough New York City face. See!”

I made the face that I’d been practicing in the mirror, like the glower of the
GQ
models I admired.

“Oh, tomato, that will ward off the robbers,” Moozie laughed.

Mom handed me the money from her handbag, and I was off. I crossed the street in order to catch another glimpse of the fabulous window display at Bergdorf’s. The streets were considerably quieter and less manic than during the daylight hours. As I progressed west on 57th Street to Seventh Avenue, the people on the street seemed to change a bit. This was the New York City of the late seventies, and two blocks west of Fifth Avenue was not what it is today. With each block I walked, I became more
and more apprehensive under the stares of the citizens of the night. The moody model-man glower was not really working.

At last I crossed the avenue and arrived at the Carnegie Deli, paid for the order, and started back to the Plaza, this time on the west side of Seventh. As I walked, taking big steps and increasing my pace, I noticed three tall figures coming toward me, and suddenly a great blanket of fear passed over me. I couldn’t turn and run, and there was nowhere to go but forward, but as they came toward me I realized they were women in extremely high-heeled platform shoes. As we passed, I tried like hell not to make eye contact, but somehow I was unable. A raspy voice growled, “Hey there, sweet meat, you want some sugar?”

I kept on walking.

“Hey, Mr. Red Pants, Mr. Little Red Riding Hood Pants, I’m talking to you, honey.”

With that, I stopped dead in my tracks. They had to be talking to me. No one else on Sixth Avenue had Little Red Riding Hood pants on. Trembling, I turned slowly, losing my serious model glare, and I saw three of the most stereotypical New York City hookers in classic
Sweet Charity
poses, staring me up and down. They looked as if they had just walked off the set of
Baretta
.

“Come on, baby, we won’t charge you that much.”

Now visibly shaking and almost unable to speak, I stammered, “I-I-I beg your pardon?”

“Ooooh, chile, this motherfucker got manners.”

“Ummm, I, ahhh, well, I don’t think so, thank you
anyway,” I managed to mutter as I turned to make a rapid exit.

“Maybe you don’t like dark and lovely girls, is that it, baby? You don’t want my brown sugar?”

Not wanting to offend her, and not knowing if they had weapons—not that they would need them, since I was as street-savvy as a debutante—I said quickly, “No, ma’am, that’s not it at all, actually I prefer … the uh … brown sugar, but I’ve got to bring these sandwiches to my grandmother.”

The moment I said this, I realized that I
was
Little Red Riding Hood, as did my dark and lovely ladies of the night. They screamed with laughter as I ran away as fast as I could, and in the distance I heard her holler, “That’s okay, baby, I’ll take a rain check—and welcome to New York Motherfuckin’ City, have a nice day!”

B
Y JANUARY
of my sophomore year of high school at my beloved Newman School, I had evolved into a complete preppy, wearing colorful wide-wale corduroy pants even in the languid heat and humidity of New Orleans, Lacoste shirts under my oxford button-down, monogrammed starched shirts, penny loafers, and needle-pointed belts. Nothing, especially the elements, was going to stop my fashion drive. The look was safe and accepted in the Deep South in 1979, and at that point in my life, that was all I wanted. I continued to be my mom’s secret fashion adviser, though, and with her I was anything but conservative, pushing for a high-fashion
Vogue
look in every aspect of her appearance.

My advice was paying off. For the first time in ages, her hair was capable of actual movement and, she confided in me, she felt attractive—and noticed by Dad and other men. A few months earlier, the Saks Fifth Avenue catalog arrived at home while Mom was in New York City accompanying Jay to his postgraduate year at the Lawrenceville School in
New Jersey. This arrival was second only in anticipation and importance to that of the September issue of
Vogue
. I immediately called her to describe the outfit on the cover that she just had to have: a perfect fall-toned silk foulard paisley. She did buy it, claiming Dad would kill her when he got the bills. The next day, she wore the stunning Anne Klein silk suit and Calvin Klein heels. Walking down Fifth Avenue with her, my brother was so stunned by some of the stares she received that he exclaimed, “Mom, did you see that? That man totally checked you out! No, really, top-to-bottom checked you out!”

Even better, she wore the same ensemble for her flight home. Walking with confidence, she passed right by Dad in the airport terminal. He did a double-take, saying, “Baby, is that you?”

Though she remained gracious and feminine, Mom had transformed herself inside and out. Her makeup, hair, and clothes had been updated, but so had her self-confidence. She knew it and loved it, saying to me several times, “Until you learn to love yourself, you really can’t love anyone else.” Dad’s health had also taken a turn for the better, and their relationship seemed much improved and more secure than it had been during the last few tumultuous years. Though my stomach turned a little whenever I saw their increasing displays of physical affection—the lingering kisses, pats on the tush, snuggles in front of the television set—I knew it was a good thing, especially for Mom. Finally, she was in the best of all possible places.

Then, late that fall, Mom was scheduled for a “procedure” and had to spend the night in Baptist Hospital. She primped
and packed her valise, and as I left for school, my parents told me to call the hospital at lunch or during my free period. The time came, and I called as requested, with no worries whatsoever. When I was connected to her room, Dad answered, and I noticed something strange in his voice, something I’d never heard before. He was crying. Nothing could have shaken me more.

“Daddy, what’s the matter, tell me,” I gasped.

“Your mother, she …”

“What? Tell me!” I screamed, to the surprise of everyone in the Newman library.

“It’s cancer, son. Your mom has breast cancer.” And with that he broke down, as did I. I knew virtually nothing about the disease, as it simply was not discussed back then, but I knew it had to be very, very bad if my big, strong dad was crumbling. He handed the phone to Moozie.

“Tomato, come over here,” she said. “I’m sure your mother would love to see your sweet face when she comes out of recovery. I don’t understand, she said the mammogram was benign, and now this. Oh God, why couldn’t it have been me?” she cried. “I’m old and she … oh, my baby, just come on over here.”

Panicked, I fled the library and asked my buddies David and Gordon to tell my teachers that I wouldn’t be in class that afternoon as I had to rush over to the hospital. Jumping into my silver-blue Monte Carlo, I sped through the streets of Uptown New Orleans to Baptist Hospital, trying desperately not to cry. As a diversion I turned on the radio, but the Bee-Gees’ hit “Tragedy” was playing, so I shut the radio off with such force that the tuning knob broke off in
my hand. Breathlessly, I made it to the information desk, got my mom’s room number, and took off quickly down the corridor, literally bumping into my cousin Debbie, now a nurse at the hospital, as I recklessly turned a corner.

I was on the verge of tears. “Debbie, how’s Mom? Dad and Moozie were crying on the phone. What the hell is going on?”

Debbie rolled her eyes, then hugged me, saying, “Oh, they are just overreacting, sweetie. Breast cancer is not necessarily fatal. Many people survive, and early detection is important. The doctors will know more in a few days, when the lab reports on the lymph nodes come back. Now hurry on up, they’re expecting you. Room 510, take a left out the elevator. And Bryan, keep your chin up and think positive.”

Think positive? All I could think was my mother was going to die and why couldn’t someone just tell me she was going to be okay? I entered the somber hospital suite and was greeted by Moozie, Aunt Vilma, and Mom’s dear friend always known to us as Aunt Carol. She had made a hasty retreat from a luncheon at Commander’s Palace as soon as she heard the news and informed me that Dad was in recovery with Mom. Carol, still wearing her signature oversized picture hat, had passed by Chopin’s Florist on the way and had them create an enormous arrangement of roses and stargazer lilies, Mom’s favorite, which she was placing on a table when she caught my eye. She ran to give me a kiss, but as usual her hat required expert maneuvering before contact could be made. She said softly, “Darling, you are an angel. Say a prayer for your mother. Remember, all things are possible with God.”

Then I noticed her friend Dotty Brennan making her bed, not with sterile hospital sheets, but rather with her own exquisite satin and lace-trimmed bedding. Above the bed was a big “Get Well” sign obviously purchased from the hospital gift shop, with a piece of posterboard taped underneath, saying, “We Love You Gayle!”

Aunt Carol followed my gaze and said in her Virginia accent, “I thought the room needed some fixing, something to hopefully cheer your mother up. You know, a personal touch!” Carol, like my mother, was always trying to make others happy.

Just then, Dad entered the room, his eyes glassy, and immediately walked over to me and hugged me so hard I thought I’d break. Just for a moment, I could feel him quake as if he would cry, but the moment had passed by the end of our embrace. Moozie, eager for news, couldn’t wait another moment before asking, “How is she, John? When can I see my baby girl?”

Dad took a deep breath and then another, forcing his giant hands into his khaki pants. “She’s resting fine, she’ll be up soon. The doctors had to perform a radical mastectomy.”

Both Carol and Moozie gasped as he continued. “They are hopeful that they got it all and that the reports from her lymph nodes will come back negative. Next week they want to perform a complete hysterectomy because there is a possibility that the cancer could travel there.”

Dad just hung his head, and this time I hugged him as hard as I could.

“Dammit to hell,” Moozie moaned, breaking down, “why not me? Why not me? I’m old.”

Dad called Jay on the phone and told him the news. He made plans to be back in New Orleans soon. By then, Mom’s waiting room was filled with family and friends, including Oralea, who beckoned me over to her side. I had grown taller than her years ago, as her osteoporosis had caused her to hunch over. But she reached up and hugged me, saying, “Listen, Your Majesty, I know how much you love your mama, we all do. This ain’t gonna be easy, I guarantee, but we can beat it. I’ve seen it done before. I got your favorite red beans and rice waiting for you at home, now show me a smile … I mean it, show me your smile … Good, and keep it on your face every time you go in and see your beautiful mama.”

Minutes later, Mom was brought back from recovery, still a bit groggy from the anesthesia and in shock from the unexpected news of her mastectomy. One by one, we went into the adjoining bedroom. When it was my turn, she said, “Hey, pumpkin, how’s my handsome young man?”

Seeing her hooked up to drips and drains, with barely a trace of color in her face, was too much for me. Holding her hand, I started to well up.

“Now honey,” she said, “don’t you fret, no sirree, I am going to be fine. When I was twelve years old I had a ruptured appendix, and peritonitis set in, do you know what that is?”

I shook my head.

“Well, it’s poison, and it nearly killed me, but it didn’t get me because I had to be here to have you and your brother, and I’m not leaving until I’m done with you two, and that’s not for a long time. Now pet, I need you to be strong for
your daddy. He needs you now, all right? Now give me some sugar.” With that, I kissed her forehead and left.

More visitors kept arriving—the Brennans, the Nunguessers, the Watkinses, the Weilbachers—bringing wine and finger sandwiches, turning the waiting area into a bit of a cocktail party. I asked everyone questions about Mom’s future: Dad, Debbie, Aunt Mid, and Aunt Vee. But no one had any concrete answers, or at least not the ones I wanted, and it was driving me insane. “It’s in God’s hands” and “We’ll have to wait and see” were just not cutting it. I stormed out of the now-crowded lounge, down the fluorescent-lit, highly polished linoleum-tiled corridor to the charge nurse seated behind the desk. “Excuse me, my name is Bryan Batt, I am Gayle Batt’s son, and I need to speak with her doctor as soon as possible!”

The nurse recoiled and stared at me, as if to ask,
Who do you think you are?

But before she could utter a word, I felt a gentle touch upon my shoulder, and turning around I came face to face with Dr. Sebastian, her surgeon.