Missing Mom (25 page)

Twenty years later I would remember: how Mom had lifted me in her arms. How Mom had carried me to the car, and driven the car to the hospital. How Mom had remained calm. How she’d managed to calm me. How at the entrance to the emergency room she’d leaned on the horn, she’d shouted for help, she’d been fierce in a way I had never seen her. And how, as soon as we returned home, as soon as it was determined that I hadn’t been seriously hurt, Mom became, well—Mom again.

At the time, I hadn’t realized. Only now. Twenty years later.

As the story of how Nikki fell from her bike and how Mom took her to the hospital was told, told and retold, in the way of family anecdotes, it would develop that Nikki had been “showing off” out in the street and in the hospital while waiting for her to be “stitched up” Mom and the emergency room receptionist had discovered they’d been neighbors back on Spalding Street as girls, the receptionist had been a year ahead of Gwen in junior high, in ninth grade she’d run away to Buffalo with an older boy and eventually she’d gotten married (though not to that boy, to someone else) and had children and gotten divorced and returned to Mt. Ephraim with her children and had been working at Mt. Ephraim General for years and living a few blocks from the hospital and on, and on. As Mom recounted the utterly ordinary life of her old girlfriend Elise Czekaj, Mom’s face took on a curious childlike glow of enthusiasm; until Dad would interrupt with a wink, to say, “Well! Poor Nikki was worried her mother had forgotten her, being stitched up like a mummy while Gwen was gabbing away with an old female friend. I’d say Nikki was lucky her mother didn’t drive home without her, having totally forgotten her.”

And Mom would blush, and laugh. Shake her head in protest:
No!

Eventually, as the tale was told and retold, Nikki too would join in. At the point at which I was being “stitched up” (somehow, this expression makes people smile) I might interrupt, in the way of a sly tease, to say, “And when I came out of the emergency room, all bandaged up, there was Mom talking with this dyed-beehive-haired fat woman at the receptionist’s desk, and Mom squinted around at me like, almost, she didn’t want to be interrupted, she’d gotten so involved with ‘Elise,’ catching up on thirty years of gossip, so I said, ‘Mom? You didn’t forget me, did you?’ and Mom said, embarrassed-like, ‘Nikki,
no
. But, goodness, what have you done to your
head
?’”

This was silly. This was preposterous. But everyone would laugh. And Mom would blush, and flail her hands, and laugh in protest: “Nikki, what a thing to say! It wasn’t like that at all, and you know it.”

We knew, we must have known. I knew, and Clare knew, and Dad knew. And our Eaton relatives knew. Except we laughed. And Mom laughed. And blushed with pleasure, being teased.

If they tease me, if they laugh at me they love me. For I am only just Gwen, to be teased.

They were the happiest couple.

They were the most blessed couple.

They wanted to share their news with me: I would be the first in all the world to know.

They brought a blooming yellow rose tree—“Rose of Remembrance”—in a clay pot, in honor of my mother who’d introduced them to each other in this very house.

“Exactly twelve weeks ago, it was. ‘Mother’s Day.’”

“It was meant to be, Sonny and me. Mrs. Aiten knew. Oh, your mother, in her heart she was so
wise
.”

Sonja Szyszko and Sonny Danto. A couple!

Holding hands, their faces suffused with joy. Sonja’s face was powdery-white, Sonny’s face was oily-dark. Both were smiling so radiantly I involuntarily took a step back from the doorway.

My first impulse was to quickly shut the door. Run away and hide. Not just I wasn’t expecting visitors but I didn’t want visitors. Not just I wasn’t answering my phone but I’d unplugged it.

Nikki be gracious! You know what to do.

Instead of telling these terrible people to go away inviting them inside. Out back, on the terrace.

“Oh thank you, Nicole! Just for a few minutes! We know, you are so private here. Everyone says.”

I let this pass. Briskly I led them through the house to the sliding glass terrace door. I’d been working outside, trying to work, on my laptop. A feature for the
Beacon
on a Christian punk rock band that performed locally.

Sonja and Sonny! This was something of a shock. If I’d been shockable. Still my face must have expressed wonderment as the couple excitedly told me of their plans to be married in November. At Thanksgiving because they wished to give thanks. They would be married in the Mt. Ephraim Christian Life Fellowship Church and I was the “first in all the world” to be invited.

“Married! Oh.”

“Your mother brought us together, Nicole. We owe this to
her
.”

Sonny was setting the yellow rose tree down on the terrace, with a tender gesture. All the buds were open, well into bloom. The tree was a miniature, no taller than Sonny’s belt buckle. For a moment I could not comprehend what it meant, why these exuberant people had invaded the terrace. My heart pounded quickly.

The visit would pass in a blur. Several times I thanked Sonja and Sonny for the rose tree. Several times I congratulated them on their engagement. Sonja was displaying her ring, which glittered with a fierce proud fire like her lavishly made-up eyes. Sonny spoke of the “serendity” that my mother had brought them together as if knowing how they were meant for each other.

“…if it is a girl, we are thinking ‘Gwendolyn.’ Such a lovely name, it is not so common is it? But then, if a boy…” Sonja giggled. Her eyes widened like the eyes of one riding a roller coaster, plummeting suddenly downhill. Sonja’s awkward manner of speech made it difficult to know whether she and her beaming fiancé were already expecting a baby or hoping someday to expect a baby.

Quickly I congratulated them. I told them my mother would have been so happy for them if only she’d known.

Next door at the Pedersens’ children were squealing and shouting in the above-ground swimming pool. Through the summer I’d been relieved that my father wasn’t here to be upset about noisy neighbors.

There was that advantage, to being dead.

“…‘All you need in life for happiness is a family you love, and a garden, and maybe a cat or two,’” Sonny was saying, reverently quoting Mom, as Sonja exclaimed, “—oh but darling, Mrs. Aiten was joking, I think, ‘a cat or two,’ she said such things to tease, knowing I am not one for cats, I am
aller-gic
to them, and I do not trust them for they are sneaky animals I believe—but I did not tell Mrs. Aiten this, she would be hurt. She was so kind! She said to me, one Sunday after church, ‘You have had a hard life, Sonja, I see in your eyes, but your eyes are beautiful and you have faith, I can see the faith shining in your eyes, you know that every day is a new day, only have faith.’” Sonja’s eyes were dramatically enlarged by mascara and iridescent blue eye shadow, her mouth was lush and crimson as one of Mom’s peonies, even as she spoke in a tumult of heavily accented words I saw how adoring Sonny’s gaze was on her, how inspired Mom had been in bringing these two together, for surely that was what she’d intended. (And I’d imagined that Sonny Danto the Scourge of the Bugs had been invited to Mom’s dinner for
me
.)

In the weeks following Mom’s funeral, Sonny had left several phone messages for me. He’d asked if he could see me, if he could “drop by.” He’d offered a free bug inspection and if his services were required he’d have given me a 20 percent discount. I hadn’t gotten around to answering his calls and eventually they’d ceased.

I had to suppose that Sonny and Sonja fell in love shortly afterward.

“…your mother said, that day I came here to spray for the red ants, ‘It’s so sad to think, God has created all these creatures and some of them are ‘enemies’ of one another. And all of these are beautiful to one another as to God, you have to imagine.’ I laughed at such a thought, I mean I am not comfortable thinking such thoughts when it’s my job to rid households of bugs, but later I was thinking, your mother was right. In her special way of thinking, she was right. She took us to look at her garden, she said, ‘Suppose we were blind like these flowers? Like those seashells that are so beautiful to the human eye, but blind to one another? But we are not blind, we can see that tree, that flower. And that makes me happy for it is the secret of life.’” Sonny spoke excitedly. His hairline was receding, but his oily-dark hair lifted dramatically above his tanned dome of a forehead. Mom’s wisdom shone in his eyes even if he couldn’t express it very clearly. His fiancée was nodding vehemently, leaning forward so that the neck of her dress fell open to expose the milky white tops of breasts tightly clasped in a lacy black satin brassiere. Sonja exuded a rich perfumy air, baubles and bracelets jingled as she spoke. Earnestly she said, “Until Mrs. Aiten was my friend, I was not happy here. I was so lonely here. This place, it is a place of closed doors, to one like myself. Even at the church, I was not made to feel so wanted. And now, because of Mrs. Aiten, I am so happy. I am a new woman. But it is a heavy cloud in my heart, what was suffered by your mother. Such a good, kind woman! Such a Christian woman! And what justice can there be”—Sonja shook her head gravely, her glossy dyed-black hair shifting and shimmering in a lavish spill over her shoulders—“when it is the ‘lated’—is that how you say?—‘too late’—‘
be
lated’—justice of man and not of God. In my country you cannot trust to it, the justice, it is a cruel joke to trust, in this country too, I think, but maybe not so much for there is more hope here, there is more faith, you are a younger country here, you can forget much. Maybe I am not so clear in my speech, saying such things to you, but you know, this man, this terrible man, who did this things to Mrs. Aiten, must be punished. Oh, I will pray for this! That there will be justice.” Sonja spoke passionately, her voluptuous bosom shuddered.

“Oh. Thank you.”

I was stunned. I’d never dreamt that Sonja Szyszko could speak in such a way. I had underestimated the woman, and probably I had underestimated Sonny Danto, too.

In my smugness. My blindness. My wish to mock.

Sure, I could mock them now. Sonja’s fleshy breasts, hips, belly swathed in a crinkling kind of midnight-blue material you’d identify as a shower curtain except it had bat-wing sleeves and a V-neck opening for a head. Sonny who wore a biceps-fitting sports shirt open at the neck to show a fistful of grizzled hairs and the glint of a tiny cross on a gold chain.

Clare! You won’t believe who dropped by the house. Who’s engaged to be married in November in your favorite church.

“I—I’m very happy for you. Sonja, Sonny. Congratulations.”

I went away to bring back a wedding present for Sonja: the white ostrich feather boa I’d given Mom for Mother’s Day. It would go perfectly with her hair, her coloring, her overripe showgirl style. Sonja gave a little cry, and hugged me.

Perfumy Sonja, lavish in crinkly midnight blue, gleaming pale-pudgy feet in spike-heeled cork sandals with spangles. And those big pillowy breasts! And Sonny with his slick greasy hair smelling like motor oil. They were the real thing, I’d been a campy imitation.

I walked with the happy couple to the low-slung sexy red sports car parked so conspicuously in front of the house. Nothing like this on Deer Creek Drive. At the car Sonja hugged me again while Sonny looked on misty-eyed. “Of course I will come to your wedding. I promise.”

I waved as they drove away. Sonja trailed the fluffy feather boa out the window, in a festive gesture of farewell.

Next day I examined the Rose of Remembrance in its clay pot. I tried to see the little tree with my mother’s gardener’s eye. She would have noted it was late in the summer to be buying roses. She’d have hoped that Sonny and Sonja had bought the tree from a reputable nursery and at a discount. That her friends hadn’t paid full price for a rose tree past its bloom.

It was true, as Clare had said: people avoided us.

Not that I blamed them. I guess. Plenty of times in my life I’d avoided people I knew, friends of the family and even relatives who’d lost a “loved one.”

In our case, it had to be worse. What do you say to someone whose mother has been murdered?

(Every time there was a new development in the case, however small, local papers would erupt in front-page headlines and photos of Gwen Eaton and Ward Lynch. So often you saw these two faces linked, you’d have thought they were smiling mother and down-looking sullen skimpy-bearded son.)

Some of the people who avoided Clare and me had known our parents for years. They’d visited our house, they’d come to Mom’s funeral and even Clare’s lunch. Some were old friends and classmates of ours. Some were Eaton relatives!

Most often it happened at the mall, where it’s easy to avoid people by ducking into stores, hurrying to escalators. A few times it happened at the Mt. Ephraim Public Library where Mom had been a frequent patron. At the Bank of Niagara where we all had accounts and at Wal-Mart, Home Depot, Eckert’s, Pet World, The Whiz, ShopRite, even the Whole Earth Co-Op. Often it happened in parking lots where I’d notice a figure in the corner of my eye hesitating as if he/she had sighted me and was debating whether to acknowledge me, call out hello or discreetly turn away.

Most of the time out of pride I pretended not to notice. But sometimes I’d glance up smiling and wave energetically calling out, “Hey! Hi! I thought that was you.”

No escape from such a greeting.

Reporting to Clare
Guess who I saw at the mall today. Who tried to pretend she hadn’t seen me. Your best friend from high school Lynda Diebenbeck
…

Some of these messages were meant to annoy. I was pissed at Clare for not taking time to call me back. Nor did my sister “do” e-mail.

Actually, I preferred leaving messages. This way my bossy sister couldn’t interrupt or contradict me. Or laugh at me. If she erased my messages without listening to them I couldn’t know and be hurt.

Clare, you’d never guess who ducked behind the flour bins at the Co-Op this afternoon trying to avoid me: our dear cousin Jill. At check-out she tried to look innocent and surprised when I came up to her and said, Hi! Haven’t seen you and your family all summer…

Jill Eaton had been a favorite cousin of ours. She’d married a well-to-do local man and had frequently invited the Chisholms, and me, to their larger parties. But not recently.

Jill had always adored her Aunt Gwen. At the grave site after Mom’s funeral we’d hugged each other and wept. But how long ago that seemed, now. In Jill’s flat gaze and thin forced smile I’d seen the futility of such shared memories.

Of course, I didn’t tell Clare that Sylvie LaPorte had pretended not to see me, too. Sylvie LaPorte my wild high school girlfriend! She’d been devastated by Mom’s death, for weeks she’d left tearful phone messages for me, sent sympathy cards and miniature inspirational books with such titles as
North of Grief, South of Joy
and
Chocolate Pudding for the Soul
. And there was my ex-fiancé Lannie Bishop, I’d been thinking still had a crush on me, clumsily ducking into an elevator in a multi-level parking garage.

And other Mt. Ephraim men, both single and married, who’d have previously gone out of their way to greet me with a wetly friendly kiss and the suggestion that maybe we could meet for drinks sometime? or dinner? Unless I still had that boyfriend.

Nor would I tell Clare about the most hurtful encounter.

Seeing my niece Lilja with two other girls at the North Hills Mall, skinny-beautiful with long shining hair, tiny halter tops and low-cut jeans baring their midriffs, and waving to Lilja, who seemed not to see me, at least not until I called out her name and approached her. And seeing then the reluctance in Lilja’s face as she greeted me, endured a hug from me, mumbled replies to my cheery Aunt Nikki questions. I’d heard from Clare that Lilja was deeply mortified by the publicity surrounding my mother’s death and the upcoming trial and I’d vaguely realized that I hadn’t seen her or heard from her in some time, but until now I hadn’t understood how my niece was estranged from me, too. Clare had told her about my moving back into Mom’s house which must have shocked Lilja, for what “weird”—“freaky”—behavior this was, from the perspective of a fourteen-year-old. Not that Lilja was rude, in fact she behaved with a kind of adult graciousness though clearly the last thing she’d wanted was to be publicly accosted and made to introduce her girlfriends to me.

It was then I realized that I wasn’t Lilja’s cool/chic Aunt Nikki any longer. I’d crossed over to her parents’ generation. My dyed-purple punk hair had nearly grown out, I was dishwater blond laced with gray at the roots. I wasn’t wearing my funky thrift shop clothes. If I’d smeared lipstick on my mouth that morning, it was probably eaten off by now.

I knew to compliment Lilja on her lavishly pierced earlobes, though. And not to keep her a moment longer. “Well, Lilja! Say hello to your family for me, will you? And come over to see me, before school starts? You know where I’m living this summer, I guess.”

Backing off with her friends, Lilja flashed a smile of sheer relief. “Oh sure, Aunt Nikki! I know.”