Mommy came to my office to tell me. “Ilyasah, what do I do?” she asked. I was so busy with work, but at her words I stopped what I was doing, shocked at the helpless tone of her voice. Was this my mother, asking for help?
I got on the phone to officials at LaGuardia Airport, knowing Malcolm wanted to go back to Texas and be under his mother's guardianship. And sure enough, it turned out a handsome young boy was trying to buy a ticket to Texas. I called Qubilah to alert her, then got my mother in the car and drove to the airport. Once there, my mother tried to get out of the car but I told her to stay put; I would handle this. It turned out Malcolm had already left, but I was paged by Qubilah, who told me Malcolm had called her to say he was on his way home. She made it clear she could not handle him.
We alerted officials at Port Authority, and later police there called to say they had Malcolm in custody and would hold him until we arrived. Again my mother tried to come inside with me and again I told her to stay in the car. Inside I found my nephew and tried to explain what he was doing to Mommy Betty and to himself by running away. He was apologetic and ashamed and we all went home, praying a corner had been turned, that we had finally gotten through to him.
But is there a way to get through to a twelve-year-old child? Is there a way to make him truly understand why he cannot be with the most important person in his life? Maybe we could have tried harder to explain why his mother was not able to provide the attention he needed right then. Maybe we could have done a better job of making him understand that being with us was the best place for him at that time. I know we all did the best we could. I think of my elementary school teacher Mr. Schneider intoning, You will regret. And I try not to regret.
It was a very small fire at first, set in the hallway just outside of Malcolm's room. Later, devastated and full of remorse, Malcolm told me he did not intend to hurt anyone, least of all Mommy Betty. He thought she would telephone for help and the fire would be easily extinguished and everyone would see how much he needed to be back in Texas with his mom.
But my mother was self-reliant and always put everyone else's needs before her own. She always thought about her family first. I know she must have awakened, seen the smoke and fire, and believed the entire apartment was ablaze. I'm certain her first and fiercest thoughts were of Malcolm. He had run to a neighbor's and said he needed to call the fire department because his grand-mother's house was on fire, but Mommy didn't know that. She probably thought Malcolm was still in his room. And if her grandson was in that fire, she was not going to wait. She was going to get him out herself.
She must have started down the long hallway that connected the master bedroom where she slept with Malcolm's room and then the living room. But she didn't make it. Her neighbor Beth told police she heard a loud thump and found my mother lying on the floor and the apartment full of smoke. She immediately called for help. Beth said my mother had the strength to say a few words before she lost consciousness.
“My grandson,” she said. “I need some water … a doctor … my bag.”
The doctors warned me Mommy was unconscious. In fact, they said she was, essentially, gone.
“It's only a matter of time,” the doctors said. “She will not make it.”
They kept saying something about papers, something about needing to accept and to sign, but my head was swimming and their words seemed to be coming to me from high above, as though I had been plunged to the bottom of a deep, deep well. Gone? Papers? This can't be happening, not to Mommy. I kept praying, talking to God. Please, Lord. She can't be gone.
I never felt so alone in all my life. Was this how Mommy felt on that day in the Audubon?
Someone said, “We're moving your mother to the burn unit to bandage her. Have you called your family? Are they on their way? They need to hurry.” And then those words again:
“She will not make it.”
I found a telephone and started dialing. I tried to reach Percy Sutton and one of Mommy's closest friends in New York, Mary Redd. I called Terrie Williams, and then I called my friend Kathy in Connecticut and asked her to come. Then I braced myself for what I knew would be the hardest calls: the ones to my sisters.
I called Qubilah, in Texas. She burst into tears and told me to pray; she would catch the next plane out.
By then it was almost three o'clock in the morning. I tried calling Attallah in California, but she wasn't home so I left a jumbled, frightened message on her answering machine. Every time I dialed Malikah's number I'd hang up. Malikah was sensitive and vulnerable and she, too, was very close to Mommy. I didn't know how she would handle such incomprehensible news. But I had to tell her and so finally I let the phone ring.
“Malikah.” I spoke soothingly, slowly, trying to give her the news as gently as I could. “Mommy's been in a fire.”
“What?” The confusion and terror in her voice made me wince.
“It's not good,” I said.
She started to cry. I told her to find my nephew Malcolm, but she said the police had already called and told her they had him at Mount Vernon Hospital, smelling of gasoline. What this information indicated was too much for me to think about right then, so I pushed it from my mind.
“Go get him and bring him here,” I told Malikah, not realizing that Malcolm was in police custody.
I decided to wait awhile before calling Gamilah because I knew such terrible news would be too much for her to handle in the middle of the night. I didn't know how or where to reach Malaak, so I called her friend Peekoo in the city and left a message that it was urgent she contact me as soon as possible.
Mary Redd arrived at the hospital, followed shortly by Kathy, who had driven over from Westport. Malikah showed up, but without Malcolm. She had gone to the police station, found Malcolm in custody, smelled the gasoline on his clothes, and erupted with anger and with fear. “What did you do to my mother, Malcolm?” she screamed at him.
The police had taken Malcolm to Mount Vernon Hospital for an evaluation. Early Sunday morning, almost six hours after the tragedy, I left Mommy's bedside briefly to go check on my nephew. I was accompanied by Percy Sutton and Larry Dais.
We found Malcolm lying on his side on a slender white cot, accompanied by several police detectives. He had on a hospital gown and his beautiful, slender brown feet were bare; the police told us his clothes contained gasoline.
I was nearly delirious with shock and fatigue. I looked at Malcolm and thought, My poor baby. His life is over. He'll spend the rest of his life in jail, agonizing over what he did. And then, in the next moment, I looked at his bare feet and thought, I have to buy him a pair of sneakers.
He didn't want to talk and, like my sister, my fear made me furious. “You better tell me what happened, Malcolm,” I said, raising my voice. “Mommy Betty is lying in a hospital burned from head to toe!”
He was stunned. His eyes filled with tears and fear and grief, but I don't think he fully understood. Anyone who knew Mommy could never believe her predicament unless he saw her with his own eyes. Malcolm was mature for his age, insightful and logical, but at that moment he looked like the child he was. He looked like a frightened child who didn't know what he had done and didn't know what was going to happen to him. He only knew Mommy Betty wasn't there to fix whatever had gone so terribly wrong. It broke my heart.
If Mommy ever knew it was Malcolm who set the fire, she didn't hear it from me. She did learn that Malcolm was okay and I know that information set her mind at ease, thank God.
After leaving Mount Vernon Hospital, Mr. Sutton, Mr. Dais, and I went to the Yonkers apartment. By now reporters were swarming all over the place, but the police kept them back from the apartment itself. As we walked up six flights of stairs—the elevator was taped off—I saw Beth. She hugged me and told me how she had found my mother. I was grateful to her, but hearing the story was so painful I could barely stand it.
The press had also made its way to Jacobi Hospital in full force by the time we returned. We climbed from o
ur car and were immediately swarmed by cameramen and photographers and reporters pushing microphones into our faces, but I was so consumed with my mother's condition I scarcely noticed them. My friend Kathy appeared and fought the press off as if she were fighting off a pack of wild dogs. She escorted me to the hospital library, the place that would become our home away from home for the time Mommy had left upon this earth.
At this point, Malikah and I were the only daughters at the hospital. We were waiting in the library, too stunned, panicked, and heartbroken to do anything but pray. Then Ms. Deitrich, a nurse, arrived with heart-stopping news.
“Your mother is conscious,” she said. “Your mother wants to see you.”
Malikah and I immediately jumped up. Mommy was conscious! We started toward the burn unit but the nurse stopped us. “No,” she said, gently but firmly. “She wants to see you,” the nurse said, pointing to me.
The nurse told us Mommy had awakened and become fidgety and agitated, as if she were trying to speak. She could not open her eyes or her mouth, so the nurse gave her a clipboard, wrapped a pen with gauze and tape, and gently slipped it between her fingers. Slowly, painfully, Mommy managed to communicate to the nurse what she wanted.
My heart was pounding and my pulse raced. All I could think was She's alive! She's alive! I had so feared that she would never regain consciousness. The nurse handed me the precautionary sterile garb I had to wear—shoe covers, gown, cap, gloves, and mask— and I threw them on, trembling with grief and hope and joy. The doctors had told me, had insisted, that Mommy was not going to make it; they had assured me she was all but gone. And then, suddenly, there she was: alive and asking for me. I was getting the chance to see her again. To talk to her.
As I entered her room, I saw that they had now bandaged her from head to toe.
“Hi, Mommy!” I said with the excitement of a child. I knew she could hear me now and I didn't want to let her know how bad it was.
“Hi, precious! Hi, angel. Yasah's here, baby.” I fought to hold back my tears but failed. I knew Mommy could not see me, but I didn't want her to sense my pain.
She could barely move but she was trying desperately to write, to clutch that pen and move it across that pad of paper nearby. It was unbearable to watch.
“Mommy,” I said. “Oh, Mommy. You don't have to write anything to me. Whatever is in your heart is in my heart. Just relax, baby. You don't have to worry about anything. You need to conserve your energy, okay? I'll take care of you, Mommy.”
Slowly Mommy lifted her bandaged arms. As gently as possible I moved beneath the arms and received her hug, my heart strained by pain and joy. This moment above all others, this last physical contact with my mother, is etched forever in my memory and forever in my heart.
“Oh, thank you, Mommy,” I said, tears washing my face. “I love you. You've been the best mom. Now you need to conserve your energy and relax, Mommy. Okay? Yasah'll take care of you. I'm gonna do everything I know you want me to do. Just relax, honey. I love you so much, my sweetheart. I love you so much. Just relax.”
I kept talking to her, fighting to be as comforting and as strong as possible. When I looked up I saw Malikah at the door and my heart went out to her. It was painful for her to see me with Mommy, but I know she knows that Mommy loved each of her daughters in a very special and unique way. We were all her babies, her special girls. We all have invaluable memories and precious firsthand lessons learned at Mommy's side that no one can ever take away. And as daughters and sisters, we all share a special, priceless bond. We are family.
Despite the doctor's predictions, Mommy not only lived through the night, but defied modern medicine and kept living for twenty-two days. I believe she stayed alive for us, to give us time to prepare for life without her. The doctors said only a fraction of people who suffer the degree of burns Mommy suffered survive. But we knew if anyone could beat those odds, it would be our mother.
By Tuesday all of my sisters had arrived and we sat down for a heartrending family discussion. As always, Mr. Sutton was by our side. The doctors were gently advising us to disconnect Mommy's life support. I am ashamed to admit it now, but after seeing her that first day as no one else had, I was willing to do it. I couldn't bear to see her suffer that way one minute more. I wanted to let her go in peace and Mary Redd agreed with me.
But Malikah was adamantly, vehemently opposed to disconnecting the life support. She wanted to do as much as possible for as long as possible. One by one, we all came to agree with Malikah because none of us wanted to lose Mommy; the idea was almost unbearable. We decided to leave Mommy on life support and prayed for a miracle.
At first, Gamilah could not understand how I could spend so much time in that room, talking and singing to Mommy as if nothing had happened to her. To see a loved one suffer is one of the hardest things for anyone to bear. But it was especially painful for my sisters and me to see Mommy suffer in the way she did. Our mother had always taken such pride in her flawless brown skin. It was one of the things Daddy loved about her, and her pride in her color at a time when too many African Americans saw only shame in physical connection to Africa is one of the characteristics that made my mother so unique. To see that skin so ravaged and burned was devastating. The only way I could cope looking at her was to think about what Kedar had said to me many years ago: “We are simply spirits in a shell. The body is merely a covering, a casement for the soul.”
I knew that inside her casing, Mommy was still as beautiful and as strong as ever. Her soul could not be touched, and so I focused on that soul, on the mommy I knew was inside. I loved her so much. And I knew by her hug that she was not only telling me that she loved me, she was telling me to carry on.
I never got to hug her again. From then on, she would communicate with us by pulling her legs together or by slowly moving her left foot to let us know she was alert and could hear us. There were so many international and national dignitaries, so many educators, celebrities, theologians, family members, friends, strangers, so many well wishers, young and old and of every ethnic origin who came to pay their respects. The most memorable was certainly the telephone call that came from President Bill Clinton. My sisters and I were deeply moved by his expressions of concern and support. Mommy admired both Bill and Hillary Clinton; she would have been pleased to know they were thinking of her.
Former mayor Ed Koch, Mayor Rudolph Giuliani, Governor George Pataki, and many, many others also called and visited. Dr. Maya Angelou, one of Mommy's great friends, came and stayed with us. Bernice King came with her mother, Coretta, and brought God's healing balm through prayer. Restaurant owners and staff sent delicious food to sustain us through the ordeal. So many people from my past—friends, teachers, professors—extended their love and support during this time, and I am forever grateful. My sisters and I were overwhelmed with the most beautiful flowers, gifts, cards, letters, and prayers from all over the world. We all felt comforted in knowing Mommy had touched so many people by just being herself.
The hospital staff was likewise wonderful. All the nurses, doctors, aides, and orderlies embraced us like family and supported us through the entire ordeal. Even an unknown police officer reached out. One night we had a big scare. Mommy seemed to be fading and one of her doctors who lived on Long Island was paged. As he raced back to the hospital, he was pulled over for speeding by a police officer. When he explained whose doctor he was and why he was moving so fast, the police officer provided an escort all the way to the hospital. Other police officers volunteered to provide security for us.
Sitting with Mommy one day I said, “Mommy, there are people who jump up and down, and say, ‘Look at me! Look at what I've done!' But by just being yourself, you have drawn people to you. Your efforts and humane deeds are being recognized all over the world. And I'm so proud to be your daughter. You've set the best example for us.”
I know that whatever my mother did, she did from the heart. I believe that is God's most gracious blessing.
During those twenty-two days we provided a lot of quiet activity for Mommy. I updated her on the news and reported the results of the basketball finals and of Mike Tyson's latest fight. She seemed to understand and had reached out to Mike Tyson.
All of Mommy's daughters were there for her, doing what they could. Once, when things seemed to be going downhill, Malikah stayed up all night juicing garlic. I'll never forget that night. We were all so scared, my sisters and I. We didn't know what was going to happen and we didn't know if we could handle it. When Malikah finished the garlic juice, the nurses put it into Mommy's IV and, for a while, she seemed to rally. We were so full of hope. We gathered around Malikah, crying and hugging. We were like “All hail, Malikah!” God bless her because heaven knows she tried to keep her mother alive. We all tried so hard. But God had other plans.
On the day before Mommy left us, I stood by her bed. She was rapidly deteriorating and no longer conscious; my sisters and I could see her leaving before our eyes. In our grief and pain we began to feud, all the fears and wounds of childhood churned up by the emotion of the moment. I felt the grief that had built inside me since that phone call, the grief I had tried so hard to hide behind a wall of strength for Mommy's sake, come bursting through like an avalanche. I wept and cried and pleaded like a child:
“Please don't go, Mommy! Please don't go. I need you!”
It was pure selfishness, but I could not help myself. I knew she had only held on for her daughters and her grandchildren. I knew that, for the first time in her life, she would finally have peace. I knew she would be with the Creator and be with her husband again. I knew all that from the very first moment of the accident and still my heart broke to lose her. To see her go.
The following day, June 23, 1997, my mother made her transition. It was thirty-two years and four months after my father made his.
Growing Up X Page 20
