For You Mom, Finally (5 page)

At the time I could feel the deep bitterness behind her words, and I understood how much she resented the limits her parents had put upon her life. But now I see that she was not talking about herself. She was sending me a message, telling me not to make the same mistakes that she had. In an act of extraordinary generosity she was offering me another gift that she had been denied: She was giving me permission to defy her.

And although I did not know it then, I heard her loud and clear.

Mom drove her family crazy,
but she was relentlessly social and a very good friend to a surprisingly broad spectrum of people. Among her many women friends my favorite, at least when I was small, was her childhood friend Hermine.

She was everything my mother wasn’t. An immensely successful businesswoman, she lived in a fabulous apartment just off Fifth Avenue. Tall, thin and elegant, she dressed gorgeously in handmade clothes that always looked as if they were being worn for the first time. Her shoes always gleamed with polish and her stockings never ran.

As a little girl I considered her sunken living room the utmost in sophistication and I’d jump up the stairs, just for the pleasure of going back down, imagining myself sweeping into a room the way Auntie Mame did in the movies. Sometimes I even recited her line “Life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death” as I walked in.

Unlike the messy apartment in which my family lived, Hermine’s place was always serenely immaculate. Her housekeeper, Mildred, ironed the sheets, put clean towels in the bathrooms and made sure that the tables were polished to a luxurious sheen. Every time I walked through the door I inhaled deeply; I loved the way Hermine’s apartment smelled, an irresistible mixture of flowers, furniture wax, sugar and butter. I’d follow the aroma through the living room, admiring the beautiful bouquets nodding in their vases, into the old-fashioned kitchen, where Hermine could often be found baking her famous cookies. She was a legendary cook, and I was always hanging around, dropping desperate hints to be invited to stay for supper.

But as a very little girl I understood that despite all this Hermine was a person to be pitied. As the door closed behind us my mother always sighed and said, “What a waste! Poor Hermine is a spinster.” And each time Mom met an unmarried man she’d look him speculatively up and down and ask my father, “Do you think he might like Hermine?”

I was almost twelve before a man who did like Hermine came along. Mom had introduced them, and she was very proud when they got married.

Joe moved into Hermine’s apartment, and before long the lovely aroma of flowers and sugar was overwhelmed by a heavy fog of tobacco that hung in the air. Joe didn’t want his wife working outside the home, so Hermine quit her job. And one day when Mom and I stopped in we found that Mildred was gone. “Oh, darling,” said Hermine when I asked, “Joe didn’t like having a strange woman in the house. And he didn’t see any reason to pay someone to clean when I am perfectly capable of doing it myself.”

Walking home, I knew that Mom was having second thoughts about the miracle she’d wrought. “Her shoes weren’t even shined!” she cried. “In my whole life I’ve never seen Hermine looking so unkempt.” She sighed unhappily. “Do you think she would have been better off if she hadn’t gotten married?”

Mom said nothing more on the subject, at least to me. But when I found this note I realized she had written it upon returning from our final afternoon at Hermine’s. “I am so sorry I did not pursue a career. If I teach Ruthy nothing else, I must make her see this. In the end, it is meaningful work—serving people—that matters most. It is what we were made for.”

Mom made new friends, and I was especially fond of Flora. Her husband had been a manufacturer of girls’ dresses until he dropped dead at the age of thirty-two, leaving her with two small children. “She had never even been inside the factory,” my mother told me, “but at the funeral one of the men came up to ask if she planned on closing down.” Seeing how frightened he was about losing his job, Flora tried to reassure him. She told him that the factory would carry on. He asked who was going to run the business. “To her surprise,” Mom said, “Flora said that she would.”

“And then what?” I always asked. I loved this story.

“The next day she went into the factory and told the men that she would need their help, but that together they were going to keep the factory going. And it turned out that she was a wonderful manager and an even better businesswoman; today the business is four times the size it was when Lou was alive. The funny thing is that if Lou hadn’t passed away she would have been just another bored housewife.”

I remember exactly where I was when my mother said that, and I can hear her tone of voice. But what I remember most is what she didn’t say: “A bored housewife like me.”

My other favorite among Mom’s friends was also a widow. But Claudia had no children, and she had not gone to work because she needed money. She had gone to work strictly for the fun of it.

The first time Mom told the tragic story she whispered it into my ear as if it were too terrible to say out loud. Long ago Claudia had fallen in love with a wonderful man, and they had been married in a wedding at the Plaza. It had all the trimmings—an organ, an aisle, a father’s arm, clouds of white lace and a cake of many tiers. They had honeymooned in Spain.

“But Bert was a producer,” said Mom, “and one night as he was coming home from the theater a taxi veered out of control, jumped onto the sidewalk and hit him as he stood waiting for the light. He was killed instantly. Claudia thought her life was over. She was so devastated that she took to her bed and stayed there for months. It was awful. None of us knew what to do. We tried to lure her out of her apartment, but she wouldn’t budge.”

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“Not a thing,” Mom said. “One day I called and she wasn’t there. She had gone back to work. She had been an acting coach before she married, and she decided that the only way to get over her sadness was to pick up where she left off.”

And so Claudia worked with the stars. She was very busy, traveling endlessly around the world. Each time Mom returned from lunch wearing the scarf, or the pin, or the gloves that Claudia had brought back from her latest sojourn to Rome or Paris, she always seemed slightly wistful. “Claudia has a career. She does exactly what she wants and answers to no one but herself,” she told me on one of those afternoons.

That was all she said. It was enough.

As Mom grew older her despair
deepened and she became increasingly erratic. Sometimes she was so filled with manic energy that she didn’t sleep at all. Waking in the middle of the night, I’d hear her fingers tapping on the typewriter, or the vacuum cleaner sucking up dust in the dark. But other times she’d refuse to get out of bed, lying prone for weeks on end, unwilling to leave her room. Dad was puzzled, and he watched her with anxious eyes, wishing he had some way to make her happy.

I could sense his relief when she was in a good mood, and he always chose to be amused by her giddier schemes. He laughed when she painted the bathroom gold, even though every bath left us slightly gilded. He thanked her for each outrageous meal, loyally insisting that she was a wonderful cook. And when she bought a painting we could not afford, he said, as he took on extra work, that it was sure to be a good investment. But when she stayed in bed for months he gently suggested that she see a psychiatrist.

“Doctor Portnoy says ...” became a common refrain around our house, and I came to hate the sound of his name. The man seemed to have opinions on a startlingly wide range of subjects, and Mom used him to justify every action.

“Doctor Portnoy thinks this party is a very good idea,” she announced as she informed us of her plans to celebrate my brother’s engagement. Bob, who was twenty-six and working on Wall Street, was horrified to learn that Mom intended using the occasion to raise funds for her latest cause, UNICEF. She had invited two hundred paying guests to meet his new family at our shabby house in the country. “I’m going to cater the whole thing myself,” she cried enthusiastically. “That way I can raise more money for the needy children!”

“No experiments,” Bob groaned, “please!”

“Don’t worry,” Mom promised, “you’ll be able to recognize every single thing I serve.” She neglected to mention that in the interests of efficiency she was going to prepare the food ahead of time; we lacked adequate refrigeration and it was the height of summer.

The whole affair was a horrible nightmare. Bob and I spent the party running from table to table, doing our best to keep people from eating the scariest dishes. But despite our efforts the party ended with a couple of dozen people in the hospital; they were having their stomachs pumped.

“Nonsense,” said Mom when Bob called to inform her that his future in-laws were ill. “We all feel fine.” Then she locked herself in the bathroom and plunked herself into the tub. Over the sound of the running water she shouted, “Doctor Portnoy will be so pleased by all the money I’ve raised.”

I thought the episode had moved seamlessly from disaster to family legend, one of those stories repeated yearly at Thanksgiving. I did not know that Mom had ever given her party another thought. But a few days afterward she wrote this letter:

 

 

It seems to me that sometimes a psychiatrist, like another kind of doctor or a dentist, might say, “This
is going to hurt. It has to be done sometime or other,
so we might as well do it now.” I don’t know whether such a warning would break the shock, I do know that I haven’t come to since last Tuesday. The time was ripe, I agree, even overripe. But there ought to be some kind of anesthetic for times when you cut so pitilessly deep into pride, ridicule, etc. I don’t have to spell it out for you. For it wasn’t done impulsively or hostilely. It was a planned, necessary part of the treatment.

Sometimes it’s a privilege to keep silent, to be allowed to crawl into one’s shell and lick one’s wounds in private. But thank you for your effort
—
which I know it was. It was a most rewarding session.

And three
—
sometimes fifty people are better than four people and 200 people better than 50. If one is trying to raise money for a movement.

 

She signed the letter “Miriam” in a savage, slashing hand. As far as I can tell it was never mailed. Or maybe Mom typed up another copy and kept the original as a warning to herself, an attempt to prevent future episodes. The letter made me ache for her, and I reread it over and over, wondering what she meant about the considered risk. Who would ever want to be consciously ridiculous? How could that ever be worth anyone’s while? What was she talking about?

If Dr. Portnoy asked those questions, she did not note it. But he was clearly not a doctor who sat silent as his patients rattled on. In another one of her notes Mom wrote: “Psychiatrists seemed to feel anyone could be cured by psychoanalysis if one stuck with it and was cooperative. So one went year after year. One year, two, three, four, five and six. He berated, ridiculed, teased and scolded using every torturous weapon at his command. ‘Other people get well; why can’t you? Why do you have to repeat the same monotonous pattern over and over? I’m so bored with it.’ He assured you that he knew what you were going to say at each session before you said it. How tiresome you were!”

Would he have been equally condescending if Mom had been a man? And how many more years would this treatment have continued if Mom had not read an article about a new field of medicine? Psychopharmacology was still in the experimental stages, but she was intrigued by a cure that required no talking, and eagerly offered herself up to science.

“How comforting it is to hear that I am not to blame for my difficulties!” she wrote after the first visit. “Dr. Malitz believes that they are beyond my control. And he assures me that he will give me medication that will help.”

What he gave her was lithium, a drug not approved by the FDA until 1970. She also took dozens of other drugs—Elavil, Ritalin, Atavil, Thorazine, Librium, Doriden, Norpramin, Vivactil, Aventyl, Tofranil... Over the next fifteen years she visited half a dozen different doctors, each attempting to cure her with various combinations of drugs. One doctor, she wrote, was extremely kind and called her daily to check up on her progress. One reminded her of Dr. Portnoy. And another ran what she called a factory. “He has so many patients waiting for their five minutes with the doctor that the staff can’t keep our medicines straight. I am always worried that they are going to give me the wrong pills.”

None of this came as a surprise to me; my mother never minimized her mental problems. “This is no way to live,” she told me over and over as she apologized and downed her pills. “I don’t want you to think that this is normal. Remember this: Just because I am this way, it doesn’t mean that you will be.”

Mom was not the only one on pills; she was just one of the millions of drugged mid-century Americans. A fifties ad for Dexedrine pictured a sad, pretty young woman holding a dishtowel and surrounded by dirty dishes. “Why is this woman tired?” asked the copy. “Many of your patients—particularly housewives—are crushed under a load of dull, routine duties that leave them in a state of mental and emotional fatigue. For these patients, you may find Dexedrine an ideal prescription. Dexedrine will give them a feeling of energy and well-being, renewing their interest in life and living.”