by Bob Purssell
As the afternoon dragged on, I studied my mother’s reading chair, which also sat waiting for the only person who ever used it. As I observed that oft-used piece of furniture, I realized something was missing. Unable to remember, I knew the missing item, whatever it was, would be so obvious that I might well exclaim at my remembrance. It took a few minutes, but then it hit me. My mother always left the book she was reading on the seat of the chair. The realization caused a wave of sadness to flow over me. There wouldn’t be any more books left on the seat of the reading chair. Its duty done, its function no longer required, my mother’s reading chair was now just another piece of furniture.
* * *
On Monday there were to be two viewings: the first from three to five and the second from seven to nine. Since my father and Mrs. W had handled all of the arrangements for my mother’s funeral, there was nothing for me to do but hang around the house until it was time to leave for the funeral home. In a way, this wasn’t all bad. I needed some time by myself. My emotions were still all a jumble. Simultaneously, I was grieving for my mother, regretting that I had stayed in Boston while she was battling her cancer, and wondering how my mother’s demise would change my life. Hoping to reestablish some emotional normalcy, I welcomed the quiet time.
At noon, Mrs. W dropped off Elizabeth Sue and then departed with my father to inspect the preparations at the funeral home. As their car drove off, intent on telling her that I needed some time alone, I turned to Elizabeth Sue. Before I could say a word, her face dissolved into grief. Elizabeth Sue, who had been such a tower of strength throughout my mother’s ordeal, collapsed emotionally and started crying uncontrollably.
I had expected that I would be the one who went to pieces, but now, with Elizabeth Sue sobbing hysterically, I felt that I had to be her comforter. For me the experience was unnerving, since I didn’t enjoy being the source of someone else’s emotional sustenance. So, knowing only vaguely what to do, I guided Elizabeth Sue to the guestroom and the bed that she used when she stayed in my house. There, as she lay face down on the pillow, I sat with her and stroked her hair. On and on she went, and I worried what I would do if she did not stop. Luckily, after an hour or so of almost nonstop weeping, Elizabeth Sue began to calm herself.
With a damp facecloth, I wiped away her tears. While I did this, between crying fits, she said, “You’re so strong and I’m so weak.”
I didn’t agree with her sentiment in the slightest. If asked, I might have observed, “You’re so naturally emotive, and I feel so stifled that I can’t express my sorrow,” but I didn’t. Instead, feeling utterly empty, I played my unwanted role of comforter.
An hour and a half before we had to leave for the funeral home, to my great relief, Elizabeth Sue stopped her crying. Not wanting to be late for my mother’s wake, the both of us frantically got dressed. Somehow—why should I have expected anything different—Elizabeth Sue ended up looking perfectly stunning in her charcoal suit. To my disappointment, I looked very plain in my black pantsuit. Sensing my frustration, Elizabeth Sue intervened; she did my make-up and lent me a matching pearl necklace and earrings. Viewing the result in my mirror, I thought, you may not be gorgeous, but at least you don’t look like a total hayseed.
* * *
The wake was a new experience for me. I had never attended one before, so I rather expected a somber scene with hushed mourners and crying relatives. Fully expecting/fearing I was about to make some incredible faux pas, I drove Elizabeth Sue and myself to the funeral home. We arrived a few minutes before three, and my father escorted the both of us to my mother’s coffin. To my grateful surprise and relief, my mother’s face, which had looked so pale and worn when I last saw her in the hospital, now looked much fresher. When we were alone, Elizabeth Sue told me, “They did a good job on the make-up.”
At the early wake, the mourners were mostly older people, many of whom I had known since childhood. They knew what to expect, and I gathered, from the way they spoke, going to wakes was an integral part of their lives. There were no displays or histrionics. First viewing my mother’s body, the older mourners came over to my father and me and shook our hands or gave us a hug. Then after a brief statement of condolence and a few words of remembrance, these experienced mourners would seek out their friends and, sitting on the folding chairs provided, proceed to converse not only about my mother but about the topics of the day. The one subject they seemed to avoid talking about was death itself.
Surprisingly, I found all this quite comforting, and soon I became relaxed, adept even, at greeting the mourners. By the time the first wake was over, I had formed the following impression: for older people, death was something your friends did first and you did later.
The second viewing, the one that began at seven—because it was beginning to snow—had a third of the mourners than did the earlier viewing. A group of my former high school hockey teammates, both male and female, arrived. Their appearance took me by surprise, and I wondered what connection they had to my mother. When they expressed their condolences to me, I thought, what a nice gesture; they came to comfort me. Then the young people moved on and had an animated conversation with Elizabeth Sue. Now I understood; they were her friends now and the real purpose of their visit was to comfort her.
Toward the end of the viewing, to my great surprise, Karen of frat party fame arrived. Taking advantage of the fact there were only a few mourners, out of curiosity about why she had come, I spoke with her. Wearing a cheaply made, but tight-fitting, sweater and jeans outfit, she still had her trampy sexiness that I remembered so well from high school. Without my prompting, Karen freely told me that she had gotten pregnant in her sophomore year and dropped out of the Ivy league college she was attending. She and her infant son were now living with her parents. After confiding that life at home was very tense, she explained that she was hoping to get a scholarship and return to college in the fall. For a moment I thought of asking her why she had come, but she told me, “I have to run. I told my parents I’d be home by nine.” As we shook hands, Karen added, “Your mother was always good to me.”
As she left the funeral home, I wondered how my mother had helped Karen. Later, after the viewing was over, when I asked her about Karen, Elizabeth Sue explained that after high school they had become distant and had let their friendship lapse.
* * *
After the viewing, since it was almost ten, Mrs. W, my father, Elizabeth Sue and I ate at a diner. I mostly listened as they talked about who had or had not come to the wake. I wondered about my lack of emotional display. Why hadn’t I broken down like Elizabeth Sue? Why didn’t I feel the pain that so obviously showed on my father’s face? What was wrong with me?
That night, as I lay in my bed listening to the wind from the snowstorm, I thought about my emotions or, more correctly, my lack of emotions. I wasn’t fighting back tears; I wasn’t filled with sadness; I wasn’t feeling anything like what I thought I was supposed to feel. In fact, my matter-of-factness made me feel guilty. Why, I wondered, wasn’t I normal?
The four inches of new snow we received was not enough to prevent a determined traveler from attending my mother’s funeral. However, it did stop those that were older and not inclined to challenge snowy roadways.
At eleven in the morning, my mother’s modestly attended funeral service began in the church’s sanctuary. Mrs. W had arranged with the florist for my mother’s floral tribute. The result was a coffin surrounded by a sea of chrysanthemums and roses.
The elderly pastor, who always seemed somewhat stuffy to me, was unable to conduct my mother’s service. Ironically, he was suffering from a mild case of pneumonia. In his place, Iris Jacobson, the new assistant pastor, substituted. While I was home over Christmas, she had stopped by on three occasions, and my mother had introduced me to the youngish woman, whom I guessed was in her early thirties. Although I hadn’t asked, my mother volunteered, “I like Iris; she has a sweet disp
osition and a good head on her shoulders.”
Since my mother only gave praise to the truly deserving, I had no difficulty with Reverend Jacobson doing my mother’s service. While I found her eulogy quite fitting, I ended up feeling left out. Without going into the details, she made a point of mentioning how my mother had helped Elizabeth Sue and several other young women in the community. Was that why Karen had come to my mother’s wake?
Beginning a personal story, Iris told us, “Because she was ill, Amber O’Leary was one of the first people I visited when I began my ministry here. I will always fondly remember, in spite of her illness, how she went out of her way to welcome me, advise me and help make me feel comfortable in my new community.”
Reverend Jacobson’s thoughts about my mother helping young women pulled a realization from out of the depths of my subconscious. Why did my mother help so many young women but not her daughter? Didn’t she realize that, in my own way, I was just as messed up as an Elizabeth Sue, a Karen or any of the rest of those young women she helped so willingly? I didn’t feel anger that she had denied me her help. No, I felt a deep sadness that my—not her—actions had prevented our experiencing a deeper relationship. What, I wondered, would have happened if I had truly admitted that I was a flawed person? What if I had asked for help? Would I, instead of feeling a guilty emptiness, now feel deep emotions like Elizabeth Sue and Iris?
I thought of the last few months. I had begun to move closer to my mother. Our relationship was changing from child-parent to adult-adult. She was vulnerable; she needed my love and assistance to live. But now, just as this new experience was beginning to take shape, my mother’s demise had cut it short. The realization of what I had lost hit me, and I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. I wondered: Why can’t I be a real woman, one that cries because she feels it is okay to be an emotional female, because it is the right thing to do?
After the service, feeling totally inadequate as a person, I wanted to apologize to someone for the bareness of my emotional being. Of course, that wasn’t a possibility so I thanked Iris for her words and for helping my mother. I then thanked Mrs. W for helping with the funeral and the flowers. I told Elizabeth Sue how grateful I was that she had taken care of my mother during her illness.
As we left the church, my father, whom I was concerned about, now seemed surprisingly composed for a man who had lost his life partner. While I was saying good-bye to Elizabeth Sue, I remarked about this and she explained, “Just after Christmas, your father told me, ‘I’m grateful that God has given me this extra time with my wife.’” I wondered: Had he known all along that my mother was closer to death than I had ever imagined?
As I said good-bye to Mrs. W, she took advantage of the opportunity to say, “I’m helping Elizabeth Sue set up her own beauty business. You know, she’s very good as a stylist. My only regret is your mother won’t be around to see her succeed.”
* * *
As my plane droned on toward Boston, I thought about my mother’s death and her funeral. I had followed my mother’s wishes explicitly. Everyone I asked had told me I did the right thing by staying at MIT; that my graduating was what was keeping my mother going.
When my mother came down with pneumonia, I had raced through a blizzard and comforted my mother at the time of her death. I had always been her dutiful, if somewhat distant, daughter.
Why did I feel so guilty?
I wanted to scream, but being a responsible adult, I didn’t. So I sat, miserable, until we began our descent into Logan. Then I had an epiphany: You did what your mother asked of you; just because it was not what you wanted, doesn’t make it wrong.
That revelation set me free. I gave myself a pep talk, stop feeling sorry for yourself. That led to a comforting thought: Go all out and graduate with the best GPA you can get. That’s the graduation gift your mother would want. A smile came over my face as I realized that was exactly what she had wanted.
* * *
Editor’s Note: In a recorded conversation with James Callahan (27 June 2038), Elizabeth Sue Wingdale talked about Amber O’Leary: My first impression? The evening I met Amber, I figured, since Barbara had saved me from being raped, I had to be nice to her mother. So, when Amber told me she wanted to talk, I agreed, mostly as a courtesy. When she didn’t try to lecture me or become my best buddy, I began paying attention to the woman. We started out talking, kind of woman to woman, which was cool, since most adults were always trying to help me, whether I had asked for their assistance or not. Instead of discussing my problems, she asked me about Barbara.
Barbara O’Leary? Talk about odd girl out. The only thing teenage about Barbara was her age. But I wasn’t going to tell the girl’s mother something like that. So I told Amber that everybody thought highly of Barbara, which they did. Sort of. I mean, she was a great athlete and really smart, but socially, Barbara was slow, really slow for her age, to say the least.
Amber thanked me for the compliment, but she knew I was being nice. I know that because Amber immediately asked, “Were you the one who invited Barbara to the party?”
I’m thinking, Here it comes, but I wasn’t going to lie, so I answered, “Yes.”
When Amber said, “Thank you, I appreciate what you were trying to do for my daughter,” you could have knocked me over with a feather. I mean, how did she know? But Amber didn’t stop there. She told me, “Let me show you something,” and then left me in the kitchen. While I’m trying to figure out what’s happening, Amber returns with this picture of Barbara and me taken at a school dance.
I looked at the picture. It took me a moment, but then I remembered how I had walked across the gym floor to give Barbara a compliment because she was wearing something that wasn’t like her usual dorky stuff.
So right from the beginning, before we really knew one another, Amber and I were talking about Barbara. That was cool, because Amber trusted me, which was something none of the other adults did. She drew me in. Instinctively, I knew she wanted me to help her help Barbara.
Anyway, getting back to Barbara, Amber told me, “Barbara has problems with being a woman.”
Of course, now I’m thinking, well, you know. Amber understands where I’m going and says, “No, it’s not like that,” and then she explains, “Barbara doesn’t really understand that men and women see the world differently. To her, it’s perfectly natural that a woman would want to shoot a hockey puck or drive a race car. Sometimes, I think that Barbara believes women are men with some minor differences.”
When I asked her if she thought Barbara should see a shrink, Amber told me, “I’ve got to be careful on that one. My daughter is doing great academically, athletically. People like her. Look at you; you’ve gone out of your way to help her. I don’t want some shrink getting Barbara all upset. I know. I’ve been there, done that. Anyway, better she should keep developing on her own because she’s going to be a very successful person. Later, if she wants to make some changes, then she can do that for herself.”
Of course, after the frat party—surprise, surprise—I was a really big fan of Barbara’s. I viewed Amber’s discussing Barbara as an appeal for help, so it was very natural for me to get involved. And that led to Amber getting involved in my life. Nobody was planning any of this—well, maybe Amber was—but I think it just kind of happened on its own.
What about me? You’ve got to understand this. Because I was really wild at the time, doing a lot of heavy partying, some smoking,[29] my mother and all these other adults were always on my case, you know, telling me what I should do, how I should feel. So, Amber talking to me, not at me, was, you know, unique.
That spring, after the frat party, I was spending a lot of time at the O’Leary house. You see, Amber was the mother I had always needed. My mom is a great person in her own way. What she has done for Barbara is proof of that. But I needed a real mother, one who was there for me 100 percent of the time. And that someone was Amber O�
�Leary.
From the get-go, Amber got behind me. That very first evening, we really talked and she asked me, “Why are you giving it away?”
I’m not fooling, that was how she put it. She told me flat out, “Have some pride in yourself, girl; you’re too good to be some guy’s plaything.”
At first, I didn’t accept what she was saying. So Amber made sure I took my pill every day and she checked that I always had condoms in my purse when I went out. It was kind of funny. You know, I’d be going to get gas Saturday morning and I had to show her my condoms.
About three months after I met Amber, one night, when I was with a guy, I said no when he wanted to get laid. He got real huffy and called me a lot of names, bad names like “cunt,” “tramp” and worse. At first, I was pissed at him, but then I began to realize that’s what people thought of me. I couldn’t tell my mother—I figured she’d criticize me—so I told Amber. She didn’t say anything; she just put her arms around me. Finally, I asked, “What can I do?”
Amber told me, “If you want to change, I’ll help you all I can.”
That’s when I really began thinking about changing. With Amber’s backing me, it just seemed so possible; I could do it, if I wanted to.
The last time I got laid in high school was in the summer before my senior year. In October, I announced I was reclaiming my virginity. Nobody thought I’d keep my word, but I did. That all happened because of Amber O’Leary.
Did Barbara O’Leary love her mother? Absolutely. And she respected her. That was a problem. You see, she was always putting her mother on a pedestal, making her into something perfect. Unfortunately, that kept Barbara from getting to really understand Amber. And that was a big problem because, you know, that kept Barbara from understanding herself. Sometimes, you know, it’s good to get emotional and argue. You say things you wouldn’t normally say. And then you have to go and find out what’s really going on.
