Letting Go

by Pamela Morsi

  “That is like completely fried,” Kayla said.

  “Is there medication for something like that?” Gwen asked nastily.

  “Maybe I should ask,” Amber said. “Doctor? Is there a pill that will make my mother finally get it?”

  “No such luck I’m sure,” Kayla said.

  “And for certain,” Amber said. “Wilma’s stepkids aren’t going to look at that house as an ordinary penny to be turned over to bring luck to somebody else.”

  “It’s too bad,” Kayla said.

  “No, wait,” Gwen said. “I think this could be good. I think it could be really good.”

  Amber was incredulous. “Ah…right,” she said, facetiously.

  “No, I’m not kidding,” Gwen went on. “This is what you need to get on with your life. You are so ready to get away from those women. I’ve been thinking about getting my own place. You know I’m sick to death of living with my loser family. I’m ready to get out, but I need a roommate to be able to afford it. And you need to get out and now this is a perfect opportunity…it’s perfect.”

  Amber was immediately interested.

  “Do you think we could afford an apartment together?” she asked.

  “Of course we could,” Gwen assured her. “I can almost afford one on my own. With your money too, we could practically live large.”

  Amber laughed. “I doubt that.”

  “Well,” Gwen conceded. “We, for sure, could get us some kind of place. Between the two of us, we make more than Kayla, and she manages.”

  Amber nodded. “But we’d need a bigger place than hers.”

  “Yeah, well the two-bedroom apartments aren’t that much more expensive.”

  “There’s a two-bedroom for rent in my complex,” Kayla told them excitedly. “It would be so cool if we all lived there near each other.”

  “My God, that would be even better,” Gwen said. “We wouldn’t have to take the bus, we could just come downtown with Kayla.”

  “I wouldn’t even charge you for the gas,” their friend assured them.

  “What would it take for us to get into the place?” Gwen asked her.

  Kayla was uncertain. “First and last month’s rent, I guess, and probably a cleaning deposit.”

  “Damn, that’s a wad of money,” Gwen said and then glanced at Amber. “Do you have anything saved?”

  “No, we’ve needed every dime I make just to get by,” she answered.

  “Well, I know a guy who might let me have it,” Gwen said. “It’s worth a try anyway. When can we look at the apartment? Can we go over there after work?”

  “Sure,” Kayla said.

  Amber shook her head. “I’m going to be on the floor till eight.”

  “I might go look at it without you,” Gwen said. “If I can get the money and the place looks good, why don’t I go ahead and put down some cash on it.”

  Amber was startled. She felt like she was being rushed.

  “I don’t know, don’t we need some time to think about it,” she said. “We’ll have to work out arrangements.”

  “What kind of arrangements?”

  “For the kids,” Amber said. “Who’s going to take care of our kids?”

  Gwen frowned at her. “The same people who are looking after them now,” she said.

  “But that means getting them up and dressed and to your mother’s on the west side and wherever Ellen and Wilma are going to live.”

  “Amber, the kids aren’t living with us.”

  “What?”

  “We can’t have the kids living with us,” she repeated. “What would be the use of that? We’d be trapped in a couple of little rooms baby-sitting night and day. I’m moving out to get on with my life not to stop it in its tracks.”

  “I can’t just leave Jet behind,” Amber said.

  “You’re not leaving her behind,” Gwen said. “She’ll be with your mother. It’s what’s best for her. It’s what’s best for you. Don’t let some guilt trip about motherhood cheat you out of your chance at having a life.”

  7

  Ellen startled awake. She’d dreamed of Paul again. She’d dreamed of him sorting the laundry. It all seemed so ordinary, so unremarkable. He’d been talking to her, but she couldn’t recall what he was saying. But she’d seen him, clearly, perfectly. She’d seen him as he’d been years ago, young, strong, healthy. She’d seen him separating the whites from the colors, turning his socks right side out. It was just Paul being Paul.

  Except, of course, he was only a memory. Electrical impulses randomly flashing in her cerebral cortex. Through the dim gray light of early morning, she peered up at the urn that she’d left sitting on the chest of drawers like some decorator art piece. He wasn’t Paul anymore.

  Momentarily she closed her eyes and wished she was reduced to ashes in an urn. That finality, that peace, seemed infinitely preferable over the current state of her life.

  With a deliberateness that was self-willed, Ellen tossed back the covers and rolled out of bed. She wasn’t dead and she no longer even had the luxury to pretend to be.

  She glanced at the clock at her bedside. 5:17 a.m. Not exactly wake up time, but she no longer wanted to sleep. She made her way to the toilet. At this hour of the morning at least there would be privacy. Four females sharing one bathroom didn’t exactly promote family harmony.

  “I know, I know,” she whined a prayerful disclaimer toward heaven. “I should be glad we’re not using a port-a-potty in the park.”

  She was glad. But not that much. The natural optimism, the exuberance for life, that had always been such a part of her personality now failed her. These days, she was faking it. She still talked as if the world was a fine and happy place. She still acted as if she believed that a benevolent God was in complete control. But there was a hollowness inside her that ached endlessly. That loss was more devastating than the house in Elm Creek or the business in the Bank One Tower. It was like Paul’s death. Only it happened over and over again, day after day, an endless funeral of the soul.

  Ellen brushed her teeth and washed her face. She stared at herself in the mirror. Looking…looking for evidence of change. She did look older. The years of splitting herself between being a full-time nurse and running a full-time business had taken their toll. She felt as if she’d struggled through a thousand years, but her eyes showed only the faintest trace of fortyish lines. Somehow it would seem more justified if her struggles and sorrows were immediately evident—if she could truly wear her grief like widow’s weeds.

  But people didn’t do that anymore. In the new millennium red silk was proper graveside attire and friends sent sympathy cards with sentiment verging upon Get Over It. Just pick yourself up, dust yourself off, ad infinitum. Recovering from personal tragedy should be brief and out of public view—like taking the twelve steps at the Betty Ford Clinic.

  Ellen was doing her best, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  It was Sunday, so she tiptoed into Amber and Jet’s room and woke the child without her bothering her mother. It was nice, just the two of them, having breakfast, getting dressed in their best clothes, heading out to church.

  She dropped Jet at her Sunday School class and went to her own Bible study group. They would reunite for the worship service in the sanctuary, eighth pew near the right side aisle.

  Third Baptist was far from the largest in the city, but it was certainly big enough. There was seating for seven hundred and fifty, and on an average Sunday there were five hundred in attendance.

  Third Baptist thought of itself as an inclusive church, a place of worship for all races and ethnic backgrounds. Its critics called it a “last chance home for Oreos and Éclairs.” The congregation was made up, in large part, by refugees from other Baptist churches where they didn’t quite fit in. There were blacks and Koreans and South American Protestants, mixes of people and marriages in every possible combination, lesbians and gays not low profile enough to go unnoticed in other congregations. And Baptist moderates, too left le
aning for more mainline churches.

  The pastor, Daniel Zambrano, a former Catholic priest, now a married minister with four children, was energetic, charismatic and ecumenical. Three-B Danny, he was irreverently nicknamed, but in the Christianity that he represented, everybody was welcome.

  Ellen had made certain of that, for Jet’s sake.

  Perhaps most people sought spiritual enlightenment for their own betterment. Ellen’s involvement with religion had been instigated mainly on behalf of someone else. When Amber was just a baby, Ellen had rationally concluded that regular church attendance should be included in the experience of the well brought up child. Her own background in that area was very sketchy. Twice a year, Christmas and Easter, Wilma had dressed her two kids in their holiday finery and trotted them off to the nearest house of worship. These biannual brushes with divine fire had been confusing and uncomfortable. Ellen didn’t know the processions, procedures or the prayers. It was all strange and foreign. Added to that was the distinctly disconcerting feeling of being conspicuous. Not just because her family were virtual strangers, but also because Wilma, dressed to the nines, flirted outrageously with the ushers and sang all the songs in a deep throaty contralto that was more suited to the dancehall than the sanctuary.

  For herself, Ellen would have allowed the earth to swallow her up before darkening the door on her own. But with the well-being of her daughter to consider, she’d gamely selected a congregation in her neighborhood and made sure that she and Paul were active participants. Over time, she’d simply been drawn in. She’d always believed in God rather tacitly, but as she became involved in the practice of worship, she’d somehow become a part of it. She couldn’t point to a day or time and say, “that was the moment I became a person of faith.” But it had happened and Ellen wasn’t sorry.

  Paul’s death had tested her faith. But she still hung on to it, whether by the strength of her conviction or simply force of habit, she couldn’t say. She didn’t know if God was leading her by the hand, but she was certain he was listening to her ceaseless complaints.

  Ellen had just taken her seat when the organist began to play a rather jazzy version of Savior Like A Shepherd Lead Us. From the near side vestibule hall came a line of children dressed in paint-splattered white overalls. They all carried buckets and brushes.

  Near the middle of the group came Jet, looking serious and determined. Her abundant black hair refusing the confinement of the painter’s cap placed on her head. When she spied Ellen, her eyes lit up, but she didn’t call out, wave, or even break ranks. A performance in front of the entire congregation was obviously a solemn undertaking.

  The kids were lined up in two rows on the long steps below the chancel. Their teacher spaced them more evenly and whispered last minute advice as the music director took his place on the stage. He was a big, smiling, middle-aged black man with a resounding voice and a foot that was unceasingly tapping.

  “We have a special treat this morning,” he announced. “We’ll open today’s service with a song from our Three-and Four-Year-Olds Chorus under the direction of Miss Shawna Bagley. This is the youngest of our Children’s Choirs and they’ve worked really hard on this. Let’s give these little ones a Third Baptist welcome.”

  The congregation applauded wholeheartedly, though the three- and four-year-olds had yet to do anything but look adorable, which came naturally, of course. They were a postcard for ethnic diversity, a few pale blondes, a couple of Asians, black children, Hispanics and several, like Jet, who defied categorization.

  Miss Bagley gave a few further instructions, quietly scolded the two boys on the end who were brandishing their paintbrushes as personal weapons. When she had their attention, she signaled the pianist.

  God paints our world with the skies of blue

  The green of earth

  Yellow sunshine too

  But God’s favorite colors are me and you

  Jet sang out strong and confident. She knew all the words as well as the movements and she effected them perfectly. Ellen felt a flush of pride. This wonderful child was as bright and endearing as her own little Amber had been.

  It was amazing to her, how much the child had come to mean to her life. Of course, Ellen knew that grandmothering was a very special and highly valued gift. But Jet had become more than just a child to love totally and unconditionally. She’d become Ellen’s avocation, her life’s new work. It was the only part of her world that seemed to have reason and purpose, and certainly was the only part of her life that she could point to with joy and pride.

  Jet had been a surprising gift. And one that Ellen never failed to thank God for. But she worried as well. And argued with Amber.

  Her daughter flatly refused to acknowledge the exceptional challenges of rearing a biracial child. But Ellen blamed a lot of that on herself.

  “Why didn’t you tell me the baby was going to be black?” she’d asked her daughter in the hospital just hours after the child was born.

  Amber shrugged.

  “I didn’t know for sure.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Exactly what you think I mean,” her daughter snapped back at her. Ellen had deliberately reined in her temper and attempted rational conversation.

  “Well, now that you know, have you tried to contact the man? Is he going to take some responsibility for the child?”

  “I can’t contact him.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause I don’t know his name, Mother,” Amber answered with a sneer. “He was just some hot-looking black guy.”

  “That’s unbelievable.”

  “I meet lots of guys,” Amber said. “I don’t remember them all.”

  “He was black, didn’t that catch your attention?”

  “Not particularly,” Amber answered. “Maybe if he’d had his name tattooed on his penis. You know all that talk about them being built bigger—it’s a myth.”

  “Amber!”

  “Oh, sorry if I offended you, Mother,” she said. “It’s just…so easy.”

  Ellen deliberately brought the discussion back to the subject at hand. “So the little girl is all ours,” she said. “We’ll have to do our best to make her comfortable in both cultures.”

  Amber rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about that, everyone in the world is going to love Jet.”

  “Jet? Is that what you’ve decided to call her?”

  “Yeah,” she answered. “That’s her name.”

  “All right, then,” Ellen said. “It’s short, sweet. It’s not a bad name. Both amber and jet are semiprecious stones. I guess that works.”

  “Maybe I didn’t name her for a piece of jewelry,” Amber said, nastily. “Maybe I named her after her dad.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t remember anything about him?”

  Amber’s snide expression was full of hostile challenge. “I know he was jet-black.”

  Ellen had been stunned by her daughter’s anger. And she’d understood, for the first time, that Amber’s pregnancy was not really an accident. It was more like a cry of rage. And most of that was leveled squarely in Ellen’s direction.

  But Ellen was not particularly pleased with Amber either. She had wanted so much more for her only daughter. And it seemed as if Amber had settled for so much less.

  The painting song ended and enthusiastic applause rang out. Miss Bagley turned and took a small bow and then directed the children safely down from the steps and into the congregation. They ran to their respective parents, eager, hopeful for that special, extraordinary praise that only a mommy or daddy was able to give.

  Jet, of course, ran to Ellen.

  “I did good,” she announced as she reached her side.

  Her grandmother agreed and gave the girl a big hug. “You were the very best,” Ellen whispered. “Everyone was good, but you were the best.”

  Jet was deservedly delighted with herself as she seated herself in the pew.

  She was well-behaved during the servi
ce, coloring the bulletin during the announcements and standing to sing during the hymns. She closed her eyes and held Ellen’s hand during the prayers. Once the sermon began, she settled up next to her grandmother and took a nap. Ellen wrapped a protective arm around that warm little body and felt God’s love with more certainty than she’d ever gotten from any bible verse or religious ritual.

  Don’t let anything bad happen to this child.

  The prayer in her heart was more threat than entreaty. God hadn’t healed Paul. He hadn’t shielded Amber. If he didn’t protect Jet…well, Ellen didn’t know what she would do, but it wouldn’t be good. She knew life held no guarantees, but she asked for them anyway.

  It was a quarter to one before they arrived home.

  Both Amber and Wilma were lounging around the living room. An old Cary Grant movie was being ignored on the television and somebody had been smoking inside the house. Ellen decided to ignore that. It was Sunday, after all, and she didn’t want a fight. But the tightening in her own neck and shoulders told her one was brewing.

  Jet went running to her mother, straightening her painter’s cap on the way.

  “I sang the painting song in big church,” the little girl announced excitedly. “And everybody clapped and I didn’t forget a thing and Gramma said I was the best one.”

  “It’s nearly a quarter to one, you just now getting here?” Wilma asked.

  Ellen didn’t bother to answer.

  “There’s a hot dog and some chips in the kitchen,” Amber told her daughter. “I knew you’d be hungry.”

  “Oh, boy!” the child said and hurried to find her lunch.

  Ellen was critical. She knew she should keep her mouth shut. But she just couldn’t seem to manage it.

  “If you knew she’d be hungry, why didn’t you fix her a decent meal instead of junk food? Do you know what they put into those hot dogs?”

  Amber’s response was equally faultfinding. “If you didn’t find it necessary to go to that holy-roller, fire-and-brimstone church, you’d have gotten home in time to fix something for her yourself.”