by Lisa Samson
Mom nods. Oh yes, open-faced and bigger than the plate!
All that melted swiss. Piles of corned beef.
Wonder if there’s food like that in heaven?
Of course there is. Jesus was Jewish when He was incarnated.
Ha, ha. It’s always scared me that food won’t be as good.
Oh, Georgia, cast those fears aside! I can’t even begin to explain what food tastes like up here. First of all, it’s not fallen food.
Fallen food?
All of creation fell, even our food. As good as you think a drippy hamburger is—
I love drippy hamburgers.
As good as you think they are, the food here is even more glorious.
Kind of like the difference between a fast-food burger and a steakburger on Texas toast with melted provolone, grilled onions, mayo, and horseradish sauce?
You’re on the right track there. Only the steakburger is the wimpy little burger-joint burger.
You know, Mom, I kind of miss food. I haven’t tasted anything in weeks. How long has it been? I’ve lost count.
Almost eight weeks.
Weren’t they going to take me off the machines by now?
Yes, but Geoffrey can’t do it yet, and Sean’s being kind to him. God’s got Geoff thinking about things.
Well, at least this is doing somebody some good.
Oh, make no mistake about that. God’s not going to waste an opportunity like this. Really, Georgia, your ultimate act of stupidity on earth, no offense, may end up doing some real good.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we could see that ahead of time?
Maybe it would be possible if people learned their lessons, learned from history, or at the very least learned to say “I’m sorry” or “I was wrong.”
Well, it never seems so clear and concise. Was all the pain worth it, Mom? I mean, you wasted away in pain. You never got the acclaim you deserved. You were married to Mr. I’m-Consumed-with-Myself. You had some tough pills to swallow. So was it worth it? Is a yes answer to that the answer we’re all searching for?
Mom laughs and laughs and laughs. Some great big cosmic chuckle echoes around me and drives away some of the pink angel hair.
Okay, Mom, good night.
I’m sorry, dear. I was just remembering a time when I thought there’d be one great big answer that would make everything better, like a nausea shot or something. Or plastic surgery. Or butter. Butter makes everything better too.
She keeps on laughing.
Let me know when you’re done with the hilarity. I’ll check on Uncle Geoffrey.
So I tune her out and realize he’s not there, but a tech is.
This one comes in during the weekdays, and I’m sure she’s wearing blue scrubs and a ponytail, but I can’t help it, I picture her in a leopard-print velour sweat suit, with curly red hair caught in a turban, cat glasses, and long earrings with glitzy, pavé diamond balls. Sort of like that Laverne character Cher used to do on Sonny & Cher reruns, but without smacking the gum, and with an extra fifty pounds and a softer voice.
This tech, she’d take me out for ice cream if I were little, and get me a Coke, too, and on the way out give me a quarter for some SweeTarts in the machine by the door. She’d hold up her hand and say, “Wait. Listen. I used to love this song,” when “Close to You” came on the jukebox.
“On the day that you were born, the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true.”
Yes, she’d sing that to me.
She’s clicking her tongue, tenderly moving my hair away from my face so she can clean it with a warm, soapy washcloth. “Poor, poor little baby. You poor baby girl.”
Her tone is soft and truly sorry. You see, Georgia, I’m just a tech passing through on my daily rounds, but I’m noticing you, I’m seeing that your life is sad and painful, and I’m recognizing the suffering, you poor baby girl. You poor baby girl.
I see you crying inside there somewhere.
I really do.
“You poor baby girl.”
Oh, God, and that was all I wanted, you see. It’s all I ever wanted after Polly Bishop left the world.
Dad only said, “You’ll get through this somehow.”
Uncle Geoffrey only said, “God will help you.”
Aunt Bette said, “You’re strong and you’ll do fine. We’re here for you.”
Grandmom made me bratwurst.
I just wanted someone to say, “You poor baby girl.”
The words wash over me, filling cracks, smoothing the dried-on sand with its cool flow. Tears inside her. Tears inside me.
Yes.
The touch ceases.
More, lady, please. Just a little more.
“She’s flatlining! Somebody come quick!”
The anemic whine of the heart monitor fills a bigger space than it deserves. She’s right! The thin, single tone underpins all else as I hear nurses running into the room, shoes squeaking on the linoleum tile.
“Georgia! Georgia!” Another voice.
Blip-blip. Blip-blip. Blip-blip.
The tech sighs with relief. “She’s back.”
“Odd.” The other nurse walks to the foot of the bed. “Very odd.”
I’m sure she’s just checking once again the state of my brain damage. So how does a person in my state respond to a shout?
I laugh here in the pink.
Mystify them, Georgia. You’ve always been good at that.
Nicely done, baby doll!
Oh, Mom.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t have given you the comfort you needed when I died.
Uncle Geoffrey tried, though, Mom. He just, well, he’s Uncle Geoffrey, you know?
A heart of gold, but sometimes he gives people too much space.
Exactly!
Sometimes he needs to turn over the tables in the temple, so to speak.
Is that what he’s learning here?
Perhaps. I can’t say what God’s trying to teach Geoff. It might be something as simple as the need for rest. He may have a big job for Geoff to do and knows he needs to gather strength. I’m sorry I laughed so hard.
That’s okay.
Let me answer your question. I don’t know if this is the answer you personally are looking for, Georgia. I think everybody has “the answer” they need from God. But I don’t think everybody has the same question.
Huh?
It’s like this: you need to know if the trials are worth the glory prepared, right? I needed to know if what I did had any great sort of meaning. Other people need to know if God is knowable. Some people’s questions include things like creation and evolution, the end times, the problem of evil coexisting with a holy God of love, or why God created the world in the first place if He knew there’d be pain. One of the biggest foul-ups, I think, is when one person expects everyone else to also have that particular all-consuming question. We all have one, make no mistake about that, but if we think we all have the same one, we’re vastly mistaken.
Okay, yeah, got it. So I’ll take my answer now, Mom.
She laughs. Yes, Georgia, it was worth it. It was worth every disappointment, every trial, every circumstance that was beyond my control. It was worth every needle, every IV, every enema, every stabbing pain, every tear shed. I’m privy to glories I couldn’t have imagined, love so filling and gorgeous you never feel sad, and even the pain that once filled my heart is now a part of something more complete and redeeming than a simple solution, a simple “Poof, it’s gone!” could ever be. It’s not so much that you forget about your past suffering, but somehow, you fulfill it, or rather, it becomes fulfilled in you. I’m doing a poor job in the explaining.
No, Mom, I doubt it can be explained to me because I’m…
Not dead yet! We both say it together.
She taps her chin. Here’s a good way to think of it. It’s like cutting through a deep, dark, sweltering jungle. You trip, you gash open your leg, scrape your palms, cut your forehead. And bug bites? You’re posi
tively covered! You haven’t slept for days, you’re thirstier than an old washrag left in the sun, and food, what’s that? And suddenly, you’re in a paradise resort. The drinks are fabulous, the water’s clear and blue and just the right temperature, and there are all sorts of interesting things to do and people to talk to. Would you sit there and do nothing but complain about the journey?
No.
Exactly.
But why does it have to be like that?
That’s Geoff’s question, not yours, Georgie.
I think I’m tired again. I died earlier, you know.
Mom scrunches her eyes into a smile and caresses me with their warmth.
UG breathes softly, holding my hand. I didn’t realize he’d come in. He doesn’t move, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. It could go one of two ways: too bad she didn’t pass away earlier so Sean doesn’t have to make such a horrible decision, or don’t go, Georgia, I’m not ready to lose you yet.
Fairly
I’ve never really thought of my scribblings as much, but Sean found my little sketchpad journal when he was vacuuming the bedrooms earlier. We’re trying to help keep the place neat while Uncle G keeps the Georgia vigil.
He came out of my bedroom and held it up. “Now I didn’t read a word! But I saw your drawings!”
“They’re just simple little sketches.”
“I know, but there’s something really nice about them. What’s up with the little dolls?”
I took the journal and flipped it open, staring at the drawing I’d sketched the night before. “I was just remembering what I used to do when I was little. Other girls played tea party. I always gave them a five-course meal.”
“Uh-huh!”
“Yeah, uh-huh. What are you getting at?” I set the book on the couch.
“Well, someone once told me the way to find out who you were made to be is to look back to what you loved to do when you were a child.”
“Oh yeah, right, Sean! I played dolls. That’s encouraging. Hey, grab that duster and swipe the blinds, would you?”
“Sure. It’s what you did with your dolls, Fair. And look at how much you enjoyed that Sunday school class.” He ran Uncle G’s obnoxious, hot-pink feather duster along a set of miniblinds on the front window.
Those kids, their round faces just ready for juice, cookies, and a story—how much cuter could they have been? “And how easy was that? Please! They were happy to be there. And who doesn’t like a good butter cookie?”
Kids naturally understand what’s important in life, don’t they?
“I’m just saying you had a real knack there and I don’t think you even realized it.”
“Who was your favorite teacher, Sean?”
He moved on to the side window. “Oh man, I haven’t thought about that in forever, but the answer would still be the same. Mr. Herring.”
“Mr. Herring? Like the fish?”
“Yep. Eleventh-grade business math. He made balancing a spreadsheet seem like child’s play! I swear I could have learned rocket science from that man. What about you?”
I root through Uncle G’s rag bin. “Mrs. Walston. Second grade. Roundish, sweet—one of those appley-shaped ladies, red headed, really darling. She always let me help get out the snacks.”
“See? You’re born to feed people. Or something to do with kids. Maybe you’re born to feed kids.”
“I could throw tea parties for all the kids I meet. That sounds practical.” I began to dust the coffee table. “I don’t know, Sean. My business supports me well. I can’t imagine going back to the days of my childhood, clipping coupons, shopping at the Box N Save.”
“I’m living testimony to having little and actually still being happy. Come on, girl. You’re a natural.”
“Well, money aside, I really love my work.”
“But how often do you get to be with kids?”
“Rarely. It does seem a shame.”
“Maybe you should start volunteering or something. To me it’s very obvious. Mrs. Walston would approve.”
“You know, I should probably look Mrs. Walston up.”
Sean tipped his head. “Be careful now. She’s probably dead too.”
And for some reason, I actually found Sean’s remark funny.
Feed people? Sean is a strange bird.
“What do you think of volcanoes, Sean?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t given them a whole lot of thought. But they sure are beautiful, don’t you think?”
“I love them.”
“Now why is that?”
Of course, I had an answer. “Because there’s so much more going on under the surface than you could ever see.”
“Kinda like an iceberg.”
I snorted. “Hardly!”
Georgia
Mom? Is that you? A shape approaches, but it doesn’t look exactly like her.
Just the gait seems right.
Hi, honey!
Oh hi, Mom! It is you.
And another materializes next to her.
Grandmom? That you too?
Hello, Georgia! Grandmom raises her hand and waves.
How come you guys are dressed in those … gowns? Is that what you’re wearing? Mom, you look like somebody from Queen Elizabeth’s time. And, Grandmom, what is that you’ve got on?
Oh my, it’s a replica of a Marie Antoinette gown.
What’s this for?
Mom looks absolutely gorgeous. She looks like a nonfreaky Elizabethan, if you know what I mean.
Thanks for the compliment. We’ve got some more This Is Your Life to show you.
Oh man.
Grandmom fans herself. Now, now. It’ll be fun. We’re going to watch a play this time.
Who are the actors?
Who were the people in the film, Georgia? Mom asks.
Good point. I guess it’s best not to try to understand this stuff right now.
Smart cookie. Grandmom.
From behind me an unseen orchestra begins a showy musical opening—flutes and violins and triangles and trombones. And the pink goes black and a spotlight punches out a crisp white spot in front of … curtains? Yes, burgundy curtains.
A woman appears, looking familiar. Not extremely so. I actually think I’m recognizing her because she was eccentric when I came in contact with her, and she’s still somewhat eccentric.
“Good evening!” She steps forward as applause erupts.
What?
Mom and Grandmom look at each other with pretty tilts of their heads and clap little classy-philanthropist-at-a-fundraising-gala handclaps. Oh, my dear, what a delightful performance lies in store for the likes of us!
Hush, Georgia!
Sorry, Grandmom.
“I’m Janet Burn, your host and narrator for tonight’s performance, This Would Have Been Your Life.”
A kettle drum starts rolling.
“Sans the Bottle.”
More applause.
Applause?
Oh, if you must know, Mom looks back, it’s just for effect. Now stop questioning all the details and pay attention. Honestly! Georgia, you’re acting like a third grader.
Whatever.
Georgia Ella! Grandmom chastises.
You know it’s totally not fair that you can hear my thoughts but I can’t hear yours.
Simultaneously they hold index fingers up to their mouths. Sh!
The narrator spread her arms wide, benevolently and with invitation. “Join me, if you will, on a journey of what might have been. Georgia Ella Bishop was born to one of the world’s jazz greats, not that the world ever knew it. Georgia was blessed with a potential so great that even I couldn’t believe it.”
How melodramatic can you get?
The circle fades to nothing, and the curtain rises.
Is that me? You chose that woman to play me? Mo-o-om!
Good night, I’ll bet she weighs twenty-five pounds more than I do.
She looks fabulous, Georgie. Just right.
Nevertheless, I
watch in fascination as she sits down at the piano at the Ten O’Clock Club. Behind her, banners hail it her high-school graduation day.
A group sits at the round tables, tea candles flickering in their red, crinkled-glass jars like votives at church. “Play us some music, Georgia!”
She smiles and waves.
Hey, this really happened. I thought—
Sh!
And the notes flow in a stream of butter and honey, and I’d forgotten my fingers flowed like that at one time.
You really were something. Now watch closely! Mom.
A woman enters the club—Janet Burn—and quietly assumes a seat near the door. I play brilliantly, I have to admit. I’m in a coma, grant me a little self-flattery.
Janet nods, writes like mad, and sits there the rest of the evening, entranced. She’s overacting a bit, really, but who am I to criticize? The stage goes dark.
I didn’t realize she was anybody important that night.
No, honey, you didn’t.
Who was she?
Just watch! Good night.
Hmm. I knew I got that phrase from somewhere.
Janet appears once again in the circle of light. “I’d never before heard playing like that in one so young! Eighteen years old and the maturity of the playing astounded me. Perhaps she would bring jazz alive again to a large audience of young people.”
Oh brother.
“I immediately called my boss at the record company. He told me he’d fly down the next morning and we could see her play that night.”
How did she know I’d be there?
“I knew she’d be there because I asked the man at the bar. I think his name was Jesse.”
If I were able to roll my eyes, I would.
The circle fades again as the music slips in, and the rising curtain reveals a new scene. It’s a setting for an awards show. A man stands at a Lucite podium.
Is that Wynton Marsalis? Dang, he looks old!
Music fades and a huge Grammy award lowers on invisible strings. Well, I guess there are strings. Of course, here in the pink they may not need strings.
Mom bats her fan at me.
Okay, okay.
“It gives me a world of pleasure to present this Lifetime Achievement Award to a woman to whom, happily, I presented her first Grammy twenty-five years ago when she was only twenty. She’s been entertaining us for well over two decades, has worked extensively in bringing music to the disadvantaged, and has broken ground in a new jazz style she dubbed Polyfunk for her mother, the late, great jazz pianist, Polly Bishop, whose priceless recordings became known to us through her daughter.”
