Going Out

It’s the day of the Donaldson’s Christmas party, the one they have every year at their house over in Greenbriar. She has no particular desire to go out, but she’s promised Rosalee Donaldson she’ll be there. She hasn’t been out in ages and the socializing will do her good. Or so she’s been told. She’ll bring her famous ladyfingers that she makes from scratch every year, and everyone will rave about them. She has always been coy about her secret recipe for the filling. It was passed down from her grandmother and it always seemed important somehow to guard it. For family posterity. How ridiculous, she thinks now, stepping out of the shower.

What to wear. She opens the closet and waits for something to catch her eye. Something red would be appropriate. Or something sparkly. She doesn’t feel sparkly. She just feels beige. She remembers that last year she’d worn the red cashmere with sequins. There was laughing and dancing. It had even snowed that week, and the lights twinkling on the snow-covered trees and houses had made her feel positively merry on the drive over. That was the thing about Christmas. You dressed up and you felt merry. When the weather cooperated, you just couldn’t feel depressed. But this year. She hasn’t noticed the weather one way or the other. She hasn’t decorated. The boxes of Christmas ornaments felt too heavy to lift. This year, she just feels beige. She pulls out a satin blouse. It’s beige but at least it’s satin so it will appear she’s made some kind of effort to look festive. Christmasy.

She usually wears her freshwater pearl earrings with the satin blouse. Where are they, she wonders, as she fingers through her jewelry box, pushing aside the gold chains, the silver locket, the Yurman bracelet. She remembers then that Kaitlyn borrowed them, months ago, the night of the prom, to go with the silk shantung gown she’d bought at the consignment shop. She had been happy to let her daughter borrow the earrings, happy that her daughter approved of them. Not like the time she’d offered Kaitlyn the use of her Burberry raincoat to wear to school that day last March when it rained so hard their backyard turned into a raging river. Kaitlyn had just rolled her eyes. Who cares about the stupid weather anyway? An argument ensued, and for the thousandth time she wished for those teenage years to just be over with already.

The earrings are probably in Kaitlyn’s room. She thinks for a moment maybe she should just wear something else. She wonders if anyone would notice if she wore the red cashmere two years in a row. Or she could go with the diamonds. The diamond studs are nice with satin. But the decision has already been made, and she walks down the hall to look for the earrings.

She summons her courage before opening the door. Her daughter is dead six months now but opening that door still feels as unnatural as the day the sheriff rang her doorbell at ten-thirty on a warm summer night to tell her about it. Her husband was away on business. She had been enjoying a quiet evening alone, a second glass of wine and reruns of Sex and the City on TV. She remembers the feeling of indulgence. Nobody’s bugging me. Don’t have to make dinner. A little buzz on. Watching trashy humor and liking it.

After the sheriff left, she had entered her daughter’s bedroom without its owner’s permission for the first time in . . . well, in a long time. Kaitlyn had laid down the law on that point the minute she turned thirteen. Mother! How about a little privacy? were the exact words that met her when she had barged in, uninvited, other exact words, though not accurate ones. The transformation from compliant daughter to belligerent stranger seemed to have occurred overnight. One day it was excitement over new shades of make-up, the next it was three new piercings, and not on her ears. Kaitlyn wasn’t belligerent anymore, or compliant either. Just dead. The privacy edict was lifted.

So after receiving the news, she went to her daughter’s bedroom as one might be drawn to a noise, and you walk toward it to discover its source. Laid out before her were the abandoned teenage possessions. The bed, unmade yet undisturbed. Yesterday’s clothing, strewn about the floor, still smelling of Pleasures, her favorite perfume. The college brochures, littered among the clothing, enticing her into the future with images of bucolic campuses and smiling co-eds. The computer, with its unread email, her MySpace profile beckoning new friends. As if she was still alive to greet them.

The room is tidy now. Kaitlyn’s clothes still hang in the closet. The computer is turned off, the black monitor reflecting nothing more than the changing light as one day rolls into the next. On the nightstand next to the neatly made bed is a carved wooden box, a souvenir from their trip to Mexico, filled with a colorful jumble of toe rings, ear studs and beads. She picks through the pieces, many now tarnished from exposure to the air and non-use. She finds one pearl earring, then the other, and leans in toward the mirror to put them on.

The accident killed two girls. The first obituary, not her daughter’s, appeared the very next day and ran for three straight days after that, both in print and online. There were extensive quotes from the girl’s father and a cousin. She was just such a good person, the cousin remembered. She loved everybody and always had a smile on her face. Donations would be accepted for a scholarship fund. That girl’s family didn’t waste any time, and seemed well along in the grieving process just twenty-four hours after receiving the news that their daughter, who loved everyone and was always smiling, was dead. It was as if they had been prepared for this particular contingency: If our daughter dies today, this is what we’ll say and this is what we’ll do.

Of course people never told the whole truth in an obituary. You couldn’t say, “Kaitlyn, age 17, screamed at her mother on a regular basis and was known to smoke pot in her bedroom whenever her parents were out.” You had to remember the positive and forget the rest.

Kaitlyn’s obituary did not appear until a week later, when the cremation was finished and she had had enough time to plan a suitable memorial service. The delay had the effect of making it seem like her death, though it occurred simultaneously with that of the other girl, was somehow delayed, or put on hiatus, like a favorite TV show in the summer. As if there was that slight possibility that she would be back, with unseen episodes, not cancelled on account of lousy ratings. As if such a thing was possible. Her daughter would not be back. It was just that the news hadn’t caught up with reality.

She is satisfied that the pearl earrings work with the satin blouse, and leaves Kaitlyn’s room, closing the door behind her, gently, as if not to disturb a sleeping child. She returns to her closet, and opts for the black velvet skirt, which obscures the hips that have widened since menopause struck two years ago. She pushes her hair back behind her ears. The pearls droop slightly downward, and she tightens the earring back against her lobe until it pinches. If her daughter had been there, she would have asked her opinion: How do I look? She smiles into the mirror. Stylin’, Mom. Totally. Whatever Kaitlyn didn’t like about her mother, she did like those earrings.

Kaitlyn was what they call “an only child.” They could not have children of their own, so they adopted her as an infant. She became their own, and there would be no more explaining about why, after all those years of marriage, they did not have children. It wasn’t polite to ask someone why they had only one child. Even though somehow people didn’t mind asking why they didn’t have any at all, back before they’d found her and brought her home. Though she had been their “only child,” in fact she could have had siblings, for all they knew. She had lived in an orphanage so she had no parents, but wasn’t it possible that the two people who had produced her, biologically speaking, had also produced a sibling or two? And the parents, the biological ones, could even be alive someplace, after having abandoned their baby at, where? A church? The orphanage? By the side of the road? It happened in Asia, it was not even that uncommon. Maybe she had been the youngest, and that was one too many. No matter. She was dead now. Still, strange to think her daughter might have a mother on the other side of the world that didn’t know.

She sits before the mirror and begins to apply her make-up. She starts with the foundation, smoothing it evenly across her forehead and over her cheekbones. She tries to reduce the web of crow’s feet that have deepened around her eyes over the past months. She draws a fine brown line under and over each eyelid, and gently brushes black mascara against her lashes. She tries the blush powder sample she’s gotten from the cosmetics counter and decides to stick with the mauve shade she’s been using for years. She looks good for her age. People will compliment her. It will give them something to say.

That question people love to ask: Do you have children? How will she answer it today? It will be intended politely enough. You are introduced to someone new, at a party, a dinner, some other social gathering. People are just trying to break the proverbial ice, to find some common ground. She has asked others the same question on occasion, always hoping the answer would be Yes. Yes leaves the door open to all kinds of follow-up conversation: Really? Boy or girl? How old? What school? Is she driving yet?

Is she driving yet.

She’s seventeen. Of course she’s driving. Was driving. She was driving when she hit that tree and ran up the embankment and flipped the SUV over four times and the girls in the back were trapped and the girl sitting next to her was crushed. Just like she was.

That car she was driving, the SUV. They had chosen it because of its advertised safety. Good crash test rating. Scored well in rollover tests. It made her feel confident. Confirmed that she was a good mother, always looking out for her child’s safety. Now the sight of an SUV—any SUV—made her feel sick. And the color—metallic orange—it was cool, was what Kaitlyn said. Image was everything to a teenager, wasn’t it? Would things have been different with the Buick? Kaitlyn had hated her father’s car. Mortified was the word she’d used. She was mortified to be seen in it. Not cool, Mom, she’d said. And they could afford that third car, and didn’t they want to give her everything? Wasn’t that the point of the whole adoption thing? She needed a home; they needed a baby. And so it all happened. The paperwork and the interviews. The trip to Korea and the homecoming. Instantly the childless couple was transformed into a family. Financial resources trumped nature. Gave them the wherewithal to cross over into the country of parenthood, leaving behind the barren landscape of childlessness. They were in the club and availed themselves of all its privileges. The schools, the friends, the birthdays. The dance lessons, the clothes, the ipod, the prom, the car. Then this. Instead of graduation, this.

At the hospital, where they identified Kaitlyn’s body, a well-meaning nurse had asked if they had any other children, as if an affirmative answer would lessen the trauma. You’ve lost one, but what the heck, at least you have others was the implication. Too bad for the nurse, there were no others. She’d have to come up with some other way to look on the bright side. Someone at the funeral said, It must have been her time. She remembers feeling confused. Was she supposed to accept the death of her teenage daughter because it was her time? The priest said God must have needed an angel. Apparently more than she needed a daughter, she thought. People she had never seen before, or since, hugged her and asked what they could do. By the end of the day she felt like she had been through a marathon of comforting other people, saying things to make them all feel better. I’ll call you if I need anything. Kaitlyn’s in a better place now. I’m doing okay under the circumstances. Thanks for coming. Thanks for your prayers.

She imagines the party tonight with the inevitable question: Do you have children?

Yes, I have a daughter.

Lucky you! How old?

She was seventeen when she died last year.

She imagines the door to further conversation will slam shut then and there. Perhaps she can expect an awkward I’m sorry, followed by a graceful exit. Excuse me for a minute, I’d like to refill my drink/I think my wife is looking for me/Do you know where the bathroom is? Or maybe curiosity will get the best of them: What happened? How did she die? And upon hearing the explanation (she already knows she will try to make her daughter sound blameless: She was in a car accident), the other person will share a story they’ve heard about a different accident, a different fatality, a different girl. A different way of finding common ground. But the truth is this: if you haven’t lost your child, sir, we have no common ground. Go refill your drink. Your wife was looking for you. The bathroom is upstairs, on the left.

Her husband is calling her. Are you ready to go yet? She says she’s coming. She finds her black suede pumps in the back of the closet and dusts them off. She slides the Yurman bracelet over her wrist and heads downstairs, her fingers brushing lightly against the closed bedroom door as she passes by. You look nice, her husband says as she appears in the kitchen.

On the drive over to Greenbriar, she stares at the lights dangling from people’s roofs, the wreathes nailed upon the siding of people’s houses, the mechanical reindeer lowering their heads as if to sample some imaginary morsels left on the lawn. The air in the car feels stuffy. She puts down the window, hoping for a blast of cold air to strike her face. But December is unseasonably warm this year and the temperature outside the car is no different.

As they pull up to the curb at the Donaldson’s brick colonial, she tells her husband to wait there. She walks up the cement sidewalk to the front porch and leaves the plate of ladyfingers on the welcome mat, the recipe carefully tucked under the cookies, before returning to the car. Let’s go home, she says.

Forsythia

This piece was published in the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review on August 5, 2007.

When I was younger, say, in my teens and twenties, I could remember everything. Who starred in what movie. The name, major and hometown of the guy I met at the fraternity party the month before. My locker combination, course schedule, test dates, football team record, and up-to-the-minute status of every high school romance. I never had to write anything down to remember it. My brain was like a personal digital assistant that magically recorded all relevant information and retrieved it as needed.

How times have changed. Now I need a flow chart just to remember my kids' names. Okay, that might be an exaggeration. Although I have been known to call the dog's name when I meant to call one of the kids. The dog isn't very good at emptying the dishwasher but I give her a treat anyway just for responding. A strategy I should try with the kids.

Anecdotal evidence has convinced me that childbirth is responsible for erasing the hard drive in my head that is supposed to store all this stuff. Maybe not erased. It's more like somebody installed a Trojan horse in there that reacts when I least expect it. I first noticed my capacity for accomplishing small tasks had somewhat diminished when I was pregnant with my second child. One day at work my clothes felt unusually uncomfortable. At first I chalked that up to my expanding girth. But when I visited the ladies room I realized I had somehow managed to put my underwear on sideways. Don't ask me to explain but apparently it is possible to do this unwittingly.

I never mentioned this embarrassing incident to anyone until one day my sister recounted her own experience with misfiring neurons. She had just given birth weeks earlier to her third baby. As she and her husband and three little ones drove through the country one day, she admired a bucolic scene from the car window. "Look kids!" she exclaimed, "Look at those, um...those...." What in the heck were those big animals called anyway? The ones with the big brown eyes and the spotted coats?

"You mean, cows?" her husband helpfully provided the correct term for those exotic creatures contentedly chewing their cud out in the fields of Fayette County. "Yeah, that's it! Cows!" she said, satisfied that she had indeed seen these animals someplace, sometime, in her life, and proud that she had impressed her little ones with her extensive first-hand knowledge of mother nature’s wonders.

My other sister exhibited a similar phenomenon not long after giving birth to a beautiful daughter. As she sat on the sofa conversing with a friend, she suddenly sat up with alarm. "Where's the baby??" she asked, the panic rising in her voice. To which her friend replied, "On your lap, nursing?" It's sort of like not being able to find your glasses, when someone reminds you they're on your head. Lost glasses generally don't cause your heart to skip a beat. Lost babies, well, that's a little more serious.

I started thinking about all this as I walked my son to school one day in the Spring. I do a lot of gardening and I pride myself on my knowledge of plant names, with their Latin roots and sophisticated multi-syllabic pronunciations. So I was a little disturbed when I pointed out a vibrant flowering bush to my son and could not for the life of me remember what it was called. I knew that I knew the name. My parents used to have those bushes lining their driveway. My grandmother too. I always looked forward to their gorgeous yellow blossoms because it meant winter was finally in full retreat and the assorted perennials around the yard would be emerging from their hiding places like the Munchkins in the Wizard of Oz. Winter, like the Wicked Witch of the West, was finally dead.

"So what's it called, Mom?"

"Hang on, I'll think of it," I said, and changed the subject to what were they doing in gym that day. After I dropped him off at school and turned back toward our street, I resolved to look it up on the internet the minute I got in the house. I concentrated, knitting my brow and running through all the names of plants I could think of, knowing that none of them was right. As I approached the end of the street I looked at the bushes again, glowing in a manner Moses would surely appreciate, and suddenly the word popped into my head: Forsythia! Yes! I congratulated myself, pumping my arms in the air like some basketball star that just scored a three-pointer at the buzzer. I broke out into a big grin and proceeded to walk around the yard, saying all the names of all the plants to myself, out loud: "Myrtle! Stella d‘Oro! Sedum!" I chanted. "Hosta! Artemisia! Sweet Woodruff!"

When I picked up my son from school that day and we approached the end of the street, again I gazed at the glorious blossoms. "We should get some Forsythia," I said to him.

"So you remembered?" he replied.

"Of course," I said, "why wouldn't I?"

It's All My Fault

I wrote this piece about 2 years ago. An edited version appeared in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette on September 26, 2005.


If you ever wonder whether the world is really full of injustice, just spend a day at my house. The unfair treatment routinely meted out to my kids would shock even the most optimistic members of society. And it’s all my fault. Who knew?

“Mom, why is Josh still awake?” Phil, my 11-year old, standing in my bedroom doorway, arms crossed with indignation, was giving me the Spanish Inquisition treatment. Josh, at the age of 8, was given a 10:00 p.m. bedtime this particular night. It was now 10:30, Phil’s assigned bedtime, and Josh was still awake. Playing Gameboy. Okay, and he was in bed with his Dad and me.

We’ve been through this before. I can give no correct answer. Phil is waiting to pounce.

“He came up at ten and he’s just awake waiting for you,” I offer, knowing full well that this answer will, well, piss him off.

“Mom, it’s not fair. When I was his age you never let me stay up as late as Noah!” He refers to his brother, who is 2 ½ years older than Phil. So in Phil’s mind, if he had to go to bed before Noah, then Josh should have to go to bed before him. Never mind that Noah was never allowed to stay up until 10:30 at the age of 11.

It’s complicated. My attempts to strike a fair balance, giving the older ones a few privileges, cutting the younger ones some slack, come back to haunt me.

“Mom, how come we always have pizza on Fridays, when it’s Phil’s night to do the dishes? He hardly has to do anything!” This is Sam talking, the oldest one who, he informs me regularly, never gets to do anything, while his younger brothers get to do everything. Never mind that Sam never had a dish night at all when he was 11. I guess the fact that Sam is touring Italy as I write this doesn’t count as getting to do something.

I’ve tried to figure this out. As the oldest, Sam probably has some deep-seated unacknowledged psychological resentment at the fact that he’s had to share his parents with these, these interlopers, after having had us all to himself for the first two years of life. After all, isn’t that when a person’s psyche is most vulnerable? Or maybe he’s just mad that Phil takes so long in the shower. Either way, they both seem to think it’s all my fault.

As a middle child, Phil probably felt marginalized by the arrival of a new baby when he was just 3 ½, forcing us, his parents, to devote all our time and attention to the helpless creature, much to the detriment of the toddler who was, after all, there first. He had dibs on us. He all but said so when Josh was 2 weeks old.

“Mom, when are you taking the baby back to the hospital?” he asked, clearly annoyed that this new arrival got to spend hour after hour after hour in the baby swing while Phil was forced to endure, heaven forbid, preschool.

“Honey, the baby is your new brother. He’s going to stay here with us,” I replied, in my kindest, most nurturing voice.

This was not the correct answer.

He glared at me with alarm and distain, as if I had just told him the Power Rangers was a bad influence and would no longer be tolerated in the house.

It was around this time that Phil’s imaginary friend, Commander Keen, came to live with us. He slept in Phil’s bed and followed us on his motorcycle on the way to preschool. Phil’s teacher was kind enough to leave an empty chair for Commander Keen so he could sit next to Phil at the Halloween party.

Justice reigned in preschool.

Clearly, my decision to have a fourth child had derailed Phil from his former destiny of leading a normal unperturbed childhood. How could I have been so insensitive?

And there are other injustices in our house. I let someone sit in the front seat twice in a row. I don’t yell at Noah as much as I yell at Sam. I make Josh and Phil take swimming lessons at the same time. I don’t make Josh learn to ride a two-wheeler. I don’t let Sam get an ipod. I force all the boys to go to the pool. I let someone stay home from the pool. I don’t let anyone go to the pool. I wake them up too early. I let them sleep in too late. I get mad when someone says “crap.” I don’t get mad when someone says “friggin’.” I make meatloaf for dinner. I won’t allow any of them to play video games rated “M”. I let one play his piano for 15 minutes and make the other one play his cello for 20. I let Sam and Noah have their own rooms. I make Phil and Josh share. I force them to read.

These are serious infractions that are completely within my control to correct, yet I choose to ignore them. So maybe it really is all my fault. But that’s okay with me. Because maybe somewhere along the line they’ll learn something. Like sometimes life isn’t fair for no good reason. And it’s good to have siblings, and sharing is seldom fatal.

Oh, and Moms aren’t perfect. If my kids learn that, then maybe there is a little justice in this world after all.

Temporary Orders

A light rain was falling the day Mona failed to show up for the hearing. By the time Beth returned to her office five blocks away, her French twist looked more like a French poodle. She tossed her umbrella and briefcase onto the floor, and as they landed water sprayed across the carpet. She plopped down into her chair, not bothering to remove her trench coat. She didn't know why Mona's absence had taken her by surprise. Really, it was a classic domestic violence case: Woman enters Neighborhood Legal Services with bruises, or even a cast on an arm or leg, does everything right to get a temporary order, promises to return to make the order permanent. By the hearing date, bruises are faded, cast is gone, guy apologizes (and really it was her fault anyway since she made him so mad) and client is sure it will never happen again. Beth had witnessed the litany more times than she cared to count.

Somehow, Mona had seemed different. She was taking concrete steps toward independence, faithfully attending evening nursing classes and holding down a job at Montefiore Hospital. But Mac had been harassing her there, phoning in tirades at anyone who picked up. Her supervisor had warned her. And she was pregnant. Mac's threat to her job, her health, her baby had steeled Mona's determination. Or so Beth thought.

Nathaniel poked his head into Beth's office. He was another veteran of Neighborhood Legal Services, senior to Beth. He wore his thinning hair in a ponytail and was partial to jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt on days like this when he had no court appearances.

"Any luck?" he asked.

"Depends on what you mean by ‘luck'."

Nathaniel raised his eyebrows, wordlessly posing the question again.

"The boyfriend got lucky. Mona was a no-show."

"Quelle surprise," he said, deadpan. "Did she call at least?"

"No. But I'm sure he apologized and everything's just hunky-dory now," she said, putting her notes in her hiatus file, the one she used for cases that seemed likely to go away but for which she was not ready to commit to permanent storage.

"'Hunky-dory'? How optimistic. Just remember, it takes two to tango," he said with a glibness Beth had come to appreciate. His attitude helped him cope with the inevitable disappointments from clients who ignored good advice and ended up evicted, deeper in debt, abandoned by what he liked to call "the system."

"A drink later?" he asked. Nathaniel's partner was on a sales trip, what Nathaniel liked to call a junket, in Vegas for the week. Beth knew he disliked being alone, and she knew he knew she wanted to vent about yet another client's stupidity. The drink would suit them both.

"Sure," she said, "I'll stop by later."

Beth tried to put Mona out of her mind and plodded through the stack of files teetering on her credenza. A few more protection from abuse cases. Two custody cases. Three immigration hearings. A series of eviction notices. Beth delegated some cases to junior staff members, some for pro bono referral to one of the law firms that offered the assistance of its associates. She returned phone calls, revised pleadings and answered her email, which seemed to multiply itself exponentially every time she left the office.

By the time Beth looked at her watch it was going on seven already. She packed up her briefcase and looked at the phone. A call to Mona and she could be done with it.
After the second ring, a woman's voice answered.

"Hello Mona? It's Beth Oliver, from Neighborhood Legal Services? Did you forget about the hearing today?" Mona said no, she hadn't forgotten. She didn't need the order anymore. Mac hadn't been around and she wasn't afraid and thanks for all your help.

Okay, job done, Beth thought. I hope she knows what she's doing. At least it’s one less case to deal with. She pulled on her trench coat and grabbed her things. She knocked on Nathaniel's door and found him holding the phone between his left ear and his shoulder, talking into the receiver, "Uh huh, uh huh..." while he banged away at the keyboard. He looked at Beth and held up one finger, mouthing the words "hold on." She waited a minute in the lobby until he joined her.

"Freaking city," he said as he pushed open the glass doors. "They use eminent domain like some kind of giant hammer to get what they want. Pushing people out of their homes. Why does the city think this is OK? Can you tell me?"

"Money? Power? Greed? Give me a sec, it's gotta be one of those."

They headed outside and down the block toward the corner, as Nathaniel recounted his client's side of story. The street was lively with a twenty-something crowd turned out for the blues festival happening in various nightclubs in that part of town. By the time they reached the bar, he was cracking jokes comparing the Mayor to Mao.

After they had settled into a booth at Blue Lou's and ordered two Coronas, Beth sighed. "Doesn't it ever get to you, Nathaniel?"

"You'll have to be more specific, honey. The lousy music? They call this ‘blues?'"

"You know what I mean, you idiot. Clients. Freaking clients! I mean, clearly they know on some level they need help or they wouldn't be in our office. You spend all this time with them, you try not to get personally involved but it's hard not to feel some kind of sympathy when you see her sitting there all beat to hell, you try to help...Hell, you know you can help..." Beth stopped talking and peeled at the label on the bottle, which she rolled into tiny aluminum balls and flicked off the table. Nathaniel took a drink from his glass and looked at the ceiling, as if the answer to this question might be printed in the bar right there above their heads.

"I like to think of myself as an ER doc," he said.

"You get queasy at the sight of blood, Nathaniel."

"Yes, but try to stay with me here. See, in the ER they understand their job isn't to fix a person's whole life. No, their job is to patch ‘em up and ship ‘em out. They address the immediate problem. The gunshot wound in the ass. The cracked skull from not wearing a helmet on the motorcycle. They get the heart pumping after defib and send them on their way."

"Right. So our clients are in defib, is that what you're saying?" Beth never liked medicine, never liked the stratification of responsibility, the piecemeal nature of the cure.

"Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying. Especially ones like our Mona. She's in defib. You put those paddles on her chest and zap! got her going again. The rest, honey, is up to her. She can go see a cardiologist. She can go on a diet, or stop smoking or whatever, and clear up those arteries. Maybe she does. Or maybe she just likes those Big Macs too much to give them up. Either way it's not our job to make her do anything."

"I'm not talking about making her do something. I'm just trying to get the logic here."

"Logic? The city wants to kick people out of their homes to make more parking spaces, polygamy is thriving in Utah, people are blowing themselves up in the Middle East, I'm in love with a salesman, and Mona thinks the temporary order is all she needs. There is no logic, Beth. People do what they do. If they ask for our help, fine. If they don't want our help, we move on to the next case."

"Nice philosophy."

"You should try it sometime."

"Let's just change the subject, okay?"

"Okay," Nathaniel said, looking around the bar. "How ‘bout them Steelers?"

Beth took a long drink from her bottle and scanned the room. "Yeah, how ‘bout ‘em?" Her eyes came to rest on a man sitting at the bar. Even seated at the bar, he appeared taller than average, with a paunch that looked out of place protruding from an otherwise lanky build. Shaggy brown hair stuck out from under the edges of his ball cap, and the shoelaces of his enormous Nike basketball shoes were untied. Like so many of the other men, and women, in the bar, he wore a Steelers jersey blazoned with the number seven, the quarterback.

"Look at that guy at the bar," Beth said. "He wishes he could be a quarterback. I wish I was Sandra Day O'Connor but you don't see me hanging out in bars wearing a black robe."

"Sandra Day O'Connor?" Nathaniel said, "I would've thought you were more the Ruth Bader Ginsberg type."

"Whatever," she said, still looking at the man at the bar. "Wait a minute, I think I know that guy!" She lowered her voice and leaned in towards the center of the table. "That's Mona's boyfriend!"

"You met the boyfriend? I thought you said he didn't show up today."

"No, he came to the first hearing for the temporary order," she whispered. "He wasn't dressed like a Steeler wannabe but I'm pretty sure that's him!"

The man at the bar was looking in Beth's direction. Her skirt had inched its way up about mid-thigh when she first sat down and this seemed to have attracted the man's attention.

"He knows you're looking at him, you realize this of course."

Beth took another drink from the bottle and tried not to meet the man's eyes. "I'm gonna say something to him."

Nathaniel grabbed her wrist. "No, you are most definitely not going to say something to him."

"Why not? I'm not on the clock. I don't even represent Mona anymore. This is purely in my capacity as a regular person, not as a lawyer." She pulled her wrist free and headed toward the man at the bar. He smiled and started to say something before Beth cut him off.

"Hey, d'ja work up a nice thirst beating up any women today?" The man looked surprised, and showed no apparent recognition.

"Excuse me?" he said. "Do I know you?"

"Never mind who I am. I'm just sick of people like you taking advantage of defenseless women, then ..."

"Beth, let's go," Nathaniel interrupted, pulling her by the arm toward the door.

"No, I wanna know how a guy like this gets his kicks from beating up his girlfriend," Beth said, her voice rising with every word. People seated nearby were starting to stare.

"Look, lady, I don't know who you are, but I never beat up any woman in my life!" He stood up, unfolding his six-foot-plus frame from the bar stool and crossed his arms across his chest.

Nathaniel leaned in close to Beth. "It's probably not even him, Beth! Let's go!" He pulled her out the door and into the rain that had resumed falling. "That wasn't pretty, Beth. What, did you want him to punch you in the face? Would that have made you feel better?"

"Maybe, if that's what it takes to land this guy in jail! Trust me, that's one hearing I'd show up for," she said, pulling her arm away from him.

"A little advice," Nathaniel said, leading her by the elbow again, this time toward the street corner. "Restrain yourself next time, or you might be the one landing in jail. Not to mention the disciplinary committee of the State Bar."

Nathaniel's comment deflated Beth's defiance. She knew he was right. "I'm going home," she said. She hailed a cab and left Nathaniel standing in the rain, his hands in his pockets, looking like a father disappointed in the antics of his wayward teenager.

When Beth got home her message light was on. "Hello, Beth? It's Mona," the voice on the machine said. "Look, I'm sorry about today. Please, call me back if you can."

Did patients usually call their ER docs at home? Beth didn't make the kind of money an ER doc made. But she did feel on call for clients like Mona. Why hadn't she just taken that job at a big corporate firm like so many of her law school classmates had? All those clichés about "making a difference," about "giving back," just sounded hollow now. All she really wanted was for the client to listen, for the client to benefit from her experience, from her goddamn dedication. And here was a client who could listen, who could benefit, but chose not too.

Beth dialed the phone. When Mona picked up, Beth surprised herself by saying "Where in the hell were you today?" When Mona didn't respond right away, Beth kept going. "Jesus, Mona, I'm doing this for you. What was all that talk about your job? How you were tired of being afraid? What about the baby?"

"The baby's going to be all right," Mona said. "Mac's not coming back."

"He's not coming back? He's not coming back?" Beth said in disbelief. "What makes you think he's not coming back? Of course he's coming back. They always come back, Mona."

After a few moments of silence from the other end of the phone, Beth spoke in a calmer tone of voice. "I'm sorry, Mona, I shouldn't have said that." More silence followed. "What was it you called me about?"

"I called to thank you for helping me. With the temporary order."

"You're welcome. I was just doing my job."

"It was more than that. I just wanted to tell you that if you don't hear from me it's because I've moved back to Toronto. So I can be near the rest of my family. I didn't want you to worry, or think anything bad happened."

Toronto? You're running away? What about your job? What about standing up to that bully? Beth wanted to ask. Instead she said, "Does Mac know?" She didn't mention the encounter in the bar.

"I told you, Mac's not coming back." Mona's answer had a finality to it that told Beth to drop it.

"Well, okay then. Good luck to you, Mona. With the baby and everything." Beth hung up the phone and looked out the window. The streetlights bounced off the pavement, shiny and black from the rain, and empty but for cars parked up and down both sides. A few windows in the apartments across the street were lit up, and here and there the light was an eerie blue where televisions had been left on. A siren wailed in the distance, someplace downtown across the bridge, and Beth thought someone, someplace is in trouble. Whoever it was, she hoped a good ER doc was on call to help.

The Ides of March: In Memory of Betty Clair

The following piece was written by my Grandmother, Elizabeth Clair. Everyone called her "Betty." She always wanted to be a published writer. If she was alive today, I am sure she would be a blogger, for she loved to give her opinions to anyone who wanted to listen, and to some who didn't. Today, by the way, is the 20th anniversary of her death. She wrote this about her own parents and, to my knowledge, it has not been published previously, except in copies distributed to her four children and twenty-four grandchildren. I am fortunate to count myself among the twenty-four. So here's to you Gramma. We miss you.

IN MEMORIAM by Elizabeth Clair

It was five days before Decoration Day, and time to get the hoe, rake and trowel, and give the resting place of my Mother and Father its, shall we say, Spring Cleaning. Wonderful, these Americans; they have a day for everything, and if it's a Designated Day for something, that makes it important.

While getting the car out, and because I'm always wondering about something, I idly wondered what percentage of people were doing their "spring cleaning" at the cemetery because there would be Company on Decoration Day, and they didn't want to be talked about (the same as a woman will feverishly clean her house from top to bottom when she has club) and how may people did it because there was an ache in their heart, and that was one way of relieving it.

I was hoping the forget-me-nots I had planted on their graves had successfully survived the winter, and stopped on the way, to buy some flowers now in bloom. I selected the finest geraniums I could find; this was my mother's favorite flower. She always had pots of them on her kitchen window, and when she'd go to church on Sunday, she'd pinch off a few leaves, put the stems in the folds of her best hankie, and hold them in her hand like a young girl with her first corsage. She brought this custom with her from Roumania, and she observed it until she died. Even at 75, her hankie and geranium leaves in her hand, she seemed to have stars in her eyes.

While selecting other appropriate flowers, I wondered what kind of flowers my father liked. I never did know...Strange thing about men; they must keep a lot of things bottled up inside--or perhaps men didn't care for flowers. Maybe God didn't make flowers until he first created woman.

I was surprised to find myself alone in the cemetery, with only the caretakers fixing a few graves. I came to the spot which was sacred to me, and sat down on the rustic seat we have placed there, under the poplar tree which stands there like a sentinel on guard. A satisfying sense of peace permeated my whole being; I didn't feel as though they were under the sod, but rather as if they were sitting with me on the bench--I even moved over to make room--and we were all discussing which flowers to place where. I knew mother would want father to be taken care of first, and for him to have the nicest plants; that was her way, so I started there, weeding , hoeing, letting the nice moist earth run through my fingers.

It's funny the things you can think of, when you have complete solitude, with only the birds watching you, and you didn't mind them, because you felt they understood. The thoughts of my father's struggle for existence in a strange country, with eight children, were not pleasant. We settled in the city, but as there seemed to be less discrimination against foreigners in the country, we moved to the Farm. We earned our living through truck gardening, and we all worked, from the youngest to the oldest. When the corn was four feet high, you couldn't see me in the cornfield; all you saw was my hoe going on ahead, as though it was operated by remote control.

Farmers were not organized then; prices were low, taxes were high. My parents brought with them their village ideals of helping those less fortunate than themselves, and of course, were exploited. Things were tough. I remember one time Dad went in with a wagon-load of produce, the money from which was to buy shoes for the family. I remember he brought the shoes home in a Salvation Army bag, and offered them to my mother with a look of utter defeat on his face. It seems he couldn't get even a quarter a basket for the tomatoes, which the whole family had stayed up until 2:00 A.M. to wipe and place neatly into baskets, so he gave them away to people with too large families and too small incomes. Like a sprig of pine and holly tucked into a very special Christmas gift, so each basket of lovely red tomatoes had tucked in it his own special goodwill towards mankind.

My mother looked at the shoes which he said were mine, and by her face I knew they were at least two sizes too large, the heels too high and the toes too pointy for growing feet. I was eleven. She said to me "These are yours, Veta-- aren't they pretty?" I put them on, and hating them said Yes, they were pretty. I took those shoes to my heart; they were mine; they were the best my father could do, and I accepted them. I was as sensitive about them as Cyrano de Bergerac about his nose, and like him, all anyone had to do was to look at them twice, and it was a call to battle. I remember my first day with them at school . . . no one looked at them twice. Even children know not to needle anyone with an air of defiance, whose head is held so straight it almost bends backwards.

I planted a border of marigolds, - and felt a warm tear trickling down my arm. . .

My only protest against those shoes, and all they represented, was to tell my father, with all the rebellion of age 11, that he was being exploited by people he thought were friends. "Don't you see"--I stormed--"that the only time so and so comes to inquire about your welfare, is during peach canning season? You not only let them have the peaches free, but pick them and give them your own baskets!" "Yes, I know"--he said, "but you are too young to understand. I fully realize all you say; but I also realize, due to my years, the things you don't. People like that are hard-hearted and selfish, and don't know what happiness is. If I can add a little to what they think is happiness, by giving them something for nothing, why shouldn't I. I shall by happier knowing those peaches are eaten by someone, rather than rotting on the ground. A good deed is not wasted; it may take years to produce fruit, but eventually it will."

It was the craziest kind of business philosophy I ever heard of, but he observed it until he died, giving of what he had, and of himself. When he died, I noticed able-bodied men cried unashamed. Were they some recipients of our free peaches and tomatoes? I don't know. Now that I am over 40, I am wondering if perhaps his philosophy, much of which he acquired while tending his sheep in Roumania - is not the right philosophy, even here in America. My father lost his farm, but his wealth was in his friends, who still speak of him with moist eyes.

I stopped at a prosperous-looking farmhouse one cold autumn day, to purchase some tomatoes for juice. A heavy frost had been predicted on the radio, and I was suprised to see this field red with tomatoes, which would all go to waste. I helped pick them, and filled my basket to the handle. I looked that the basket Mr. Prosperous-Farmer brought to my car; it was about two-thirds full. "Why didn't you fill it?" I asked. "You have enough in yours to make them both level", he said, with a glint of steel in his eye.

I looked at the large, freshly painted buildings, the beautiful lawns, everything in order, and with a smug air of prosperity, and thought, "in the wisdom of my eleven years, this is what I wanted for my father. His wisdom was given to him by God."

I never enjoyed that tomato juice; it tasted bitter and strong. "After all" - I thought, "perhaps one shouldn't blame some people for having their parents' graves tended by caretakers."

As I lovingly ran my hand over the fresh earth for the final pat, I thought "You, of whose seed I am, also taught me, through your death, not to be afraid of death." I remembered, when I was called to his bedside, I was washing clothes. I yanked the plug out of the washer, and bluejeans and all, left immediately, praying fervently, with tears streaming down my face, that I would get there in time. I did. He died in my arms with such dignity and beauty that I lost then and there all my apprehensions about death. It was like a beautiful symphony, and my sister's loud sobbing was like a discordant note. "Strange," I thought, "Death is just as beautiful as birth" - and because I didn't know what else to do, I laid his head down gently, and washed his feet, with a prayer to our Blessed Mother that she would see he was properly taken care of.

I got over to my mother's side, and decided to make the flower pattern for her, a continuation of his - to make a harmonious whole. That's the way they were in life, and that's the way their "garden" would be.

It seemed I handled the soil on her side a little more gently; if possible, a little more reverently. That's the way she was, gentle and reverent. It came to me as a shock, about two weeks after she died, that I had never in all my life with her, heard her speak ill of anyone.

With all the worries and cares she had, things always ran smoothly at home. We always had plenty of good wholesome food, and clean clothes, properly mended. She was up at four in the morning to help with the milking, and when the boys got to the dating age, she was up until whatever time they arrived home.

Of all her children, I was the one who troubled her most, because I was always asking questions she could not answer. The education required in a simple old-country village is not such as is required in America, and I guess I made her feel inadequate.

We left her working when we went to bed, found her working when we got up. She didn't have time to love us properly - which according to present-day psychologists is probably why I have the emotional make-up I have - but in my sleep I remember her covering me gently.

I suppose it really is true that children desperately need loving... I remember once she let me sleep with her; it must have been when she needed comfort, herself, for some problem, because she held me so close it seems I could feel her heart throbbing in her stomach. Wide-eyed, I wanted to ask her if she had swallowed her heart, but was afraid if I said anything, she wouldn't hold me so tight, and I didn't want her to let me go - ever.

Who was it said "God couldn't be everywhere, so he made Mothers." Mine was one of his finest, I know.

It's strange how fast tears cool by the time they reach your fingertips...

I finished their summer garden, and felt they were pleased with it. Their contribution for it was the gentle rain that came down when I was through working; it felt like a benediction.

The chimes from the cemetery played "Nearer my God to Thee"... I knelt down, and said an "Our Father" and a "Hail Mary", and felt this was all right, even if this was a Protestant cemetary. God was above such things.

Then I picked up my tools, and left - with regret. It was so peaceful there, so quiet; just the right place to get the proper perspective on life.

Mom & Me

Mom & Me, May 1987

Reflections on Mom

I went out with some girlfriends recently, and the four of us talked about how we had spent the holidays. One of the ladies recounted a fight she had had with her mother, who berated her for having divorced an abusive husband ten years ago and marrying a loving man who makes her happy. Her mother makes her crazy, my friend said, but if she doesn’t try to take care of her, she would feel tremendous guilt when her mother dies. We all agreed it was Catholic guilt, but guilt nonetheless.

My second friend, one who has often spoken of her emotionally distant mother, a wealthy society woman who had a series of husbands and lovers, said that she cut off ties with her mother long before she died. Her mother’s lifelong rejection and self-involvement had so damaged my friend’s health, physically and emotionally, that she believed it was better to live life without her.

At this, my third friend told of her mother’s health problems that had intensified over the holidays. This mother, a woman of gifted intelligence and lifelong depression, rejected my friend’s offer to help. This was no surprise because this mother had always kept my friend, her first daughter, at arm’s length, rarely offering encouragement or praise despite her many accomplishments. Even at the age of 52, my friend struggles with yearning for her mother’s approval, receiving for her efforts a mostly cold shoulder day after day, month after month, year after year.

The ladies were quiet. I guessed it was my turn. “I’m sorry,” I said, “my mother is like gold to me.” I don’t know why I thought I needed to apologize for the gift that is my mother.

They laughed. I smiled.

“She’s kind and gentle and smart, and she’s always been there whenever I needed her.” I didn’t want to brag but that was the simple truth.

I could have gone on. I could have told them how at the age of 10, I felt lucky having braces—stuck with them for 4 years—because it meant that once a month Mom would pick me up from school in the middle of the day to take me to the orthodontist. Afterwards we’d have lunch together at Burger Chef. I don’t remember what I would order but Mom always had a cheeseburger. I thought it was funny, my mother, the best cook in the world, eating a fast food cheeseburger. It must have been an indulgence for her, a woman who cooked for 10 every night, always including dessert, at least until my oldest brother turned 18 and left for college. Then she only had to cook for nine.

I could have told them about the time my two best friends from school stopped speaking to me, inexplicably, and I was left to eat lunch alone and wander by myself on the playground at recess, suffering in silence as a result of what today they would call “girl bullying.” I don’t remember my mother’s words when I came home in tears to tell her, for I told her everything, but it wasn’t long before there was a surprise birthday party for me at my house, and all the girls from school came and we were all friends again. My mother, a woman with seven other children, made my pain disappear, just like that. She welcomed all the girls and made me the center of attention, and we all laughed when a balloon popped against my braces. We played games and all the winners received prizes. One girl didn’t win at any games, but to her delight, she found she had the winning plate, which she discovered when she turned it over and found a sticker on the bottom. Curious how that might have happened.

I could have told them how my mother drove me to the convent every week for piano lessons with Sister Stephanie, even though I had no talent for music; or how she encouraged me to be a girl scout even though that meant she had to help me earn badges and sell cookies; or how she accompanied me to swimming lessons week after week after week for I don’t know how many summers. She sat for what seemed like hours as I took each swimming test, watching me swim lap after lap. Instead of dropping me off and using that time to get something else done, she stayed and watched. Instead of hurrying home when I finished to attend to the many duties that surely awaited her, she stayed and hugged me and said she was proud. I have no idea where my brothers and sisters were during these times; I only know my mother was there with me, always. And I know that if she did these things for me, she did the same for them too.

I could have told them about visits to colleges and moving into apartments in cities far from home. She never told me which college to attend; she asked me which one I liked. She didn’t criticize the cockroach infested apartment on Beacon Hill; she helped me haul a mattress up the stairs and into the tiny bedroom, then slept on it with me while I’m sure the cockroaches peeked out from the cracks in the plaster walls.

I could have told them how I disappointed her in high school when I tried to buy beer underage, or to sneak out with a boy who was what they used to call “bad news”; how it hurt her to have to call me in the morning at my boyfriend’s apartment to tell me her mother had died; how no matter what I did she never rejected me and never in my life gave me cause to doubt her love.

I could have gone on all day about how she took care of me when I was sick, gave me advice when I was doubtful, planted a garden for me when I was pregnant.

When I went off to college I met girls who didn’t get along with their mothers. “Oh, we fight a lot,” they’d say, as if this was somehow normal. “I had myself legally emancipated when I was 17,” one told me to my great astonishment. “You fight with your mother?” I’d think. “I’ve never had a fight with my mother.” And that’s still true today, though I’ve known my mother for 45 years.

Does my mother know her legacy?

She wasn’t a scientist, or a businesswoman, or a politician, or a novelist. She didn’t win an Oscar or compete in the Olympics. She didn’t make any money devoting her life to that profession that we call “wife and mother.” Yet not only is she successful, she is extraordinarily so. After all, how many people do you know who have launched not one but eight lives on the path to happiness? Eight college graduates. Eight happy marriages that produced 28 grandchildren. All borne of one woman, one marriage of 50 years (and counting), one singular devotion to family.

Ask my father how he feels about my mother and he’s likely to reply, “It feels like I won the lottery.” Ask any of my brothers or sisters how they feel about her and you are likely to hear seven more stories about how she guided them, supported them, trusted them, loved them, just as she did all of these things for me.

Just today, a friend went on at length about the hassles of having three sick kids at home at once. She concluded with, “I don’t know how your mother did it.” Well she did do it, and so much more.

So my friends say to me, “Do you know how lucky you are?”

“Yes,” I say, “I sure do.”

Ida & Julius

In 1899, Humphrey Bogart was born and William McKinley was President; the Boer War began and the Spanish-American War ended; the world sat on the cusp of a new century, and Ida Smigelsky and Julius Cantor were embarking on a new life together. Ida is seventeen on her wedding day. Her full curly hair is pulled up into a soft mound, exposing her ears, each pierced with a single pearl earring. Her Victorian dress covers her arms and her body all the way up to her neck, ending under the soft curve of her chin. The bodice is styled in pleats and lace, modest and formal. Although the photograph is sepia, I imagine the dress a soft pink, as feminine as the young woman who wears it. She is graceful, stylish in the manner of the belle epoch. A simple floral brooch with a stone at its center and one on each of its eight petals is pinned at her throat. Over her heart she wears another ornament, shaped like a fleur-de-lis, from which a round brass watch or locket hangs. Or is it silver? If I could open it, would I see her father’s timepiece, or perhaps a photograph of her beloved Julius? Ida’s face, partly in shadow, is serene. She looks just beyond the camera. Her eyes appear brown but perhaps they are blue, like those of her great-great-grandchildren.

Julius looks as dashing as Ida looks elegant. A dark pinstriped tie is knotted around his white starched collar, and tucked into a pale silk vest. A dark wool jacket completes his formal attire. His curly black hair is parted in the center, and like Ida he looks off beyond the camera. Do they see their lives ahead of them?

Old photographs hide color, disclosing only varying shades of brown. The photo conceals the vibrancy of life. It does not reveal that in 1893, Julius left the Polish city of Grodno, at 17, to come to America. If he had stayed, would he have become a merchant in that city’s vibrant Jewish community? Might he have been among the 29,000 Jews of Grodno murdered by the Germans between 1941 and 1943? But he did not stay. In America, he joined the army to learn English, and fought in the Spanish-American War. He met a distant cousin named Ida. In 1899, the year he begins his new life with Ida, the Treaty of Paris will be signed, ending the conflict between the U.S. and Spain.

Ida’s lips are full, and her expression is one of contentment. She leans toward her young husband, and their heads touch, gently. She is seated in front of him and his shoulder falls behind hers. I think they are holding hands. If the marriage has been arranged for them, they seem to be satisfied with the idea. The marriage lasted 57 years, ending when Ida died at the age of 74. On September 24, 1968, on the day his great-grandson Jonathan turned 7, Julius died at the age of 92.

Ida & Julius