Rick comes over and puts his hand on my shoulder, and this time I don’t push him away. A desperate voice comes out of me, one I don’t recognize, as I plead for her to tell me everything.
After she does, I try to lie down, but I can’t relax.
Sunday, 3 a.m.
Thair’s mother went to the doctor shortly before her yearly checkup with abdominal pain and to check a strange protrusion that was visible from the outside of her stomach. The doctor did a biopsy and he confirmed his worst suspicion: she had cancer again. This time it was ovarian cancer, one of the most aggressive, and she was already at stage four. There was really no hope, just a death sentence—only months to live. She could do chemotherapy, but it would just prolong the inevitable, and Phaedra did not want to inconvenience her daughter anymore since the result would be the same. She wanted to live her life to the fullest for as long as she could, and she did not want anyone except for her sister to know.
Phaedra asked Lena if she could come and stay with her in the middle of June, almost as if she had predicted the date of her own demise. Thea Lena wanted to come right away, but Phaedra, as always, had made up her mind about everything. She would be busy getting paperwork in order—a will, bills, and bank accounts—and she did not want or need any company, but she believed that by June, once her affairs were in order, she could use the help, and by then, she could spend quality time with her sister. Thea Lena had asked repeatedly about Thair, begged her sister to tell her only child, but Phaedra could not be persuaded; she was a stubborn Greek to the core. No. This was Thair’s time now. She had been planning this trip for a year, and Phaedra would not tell her daughter because she was certain Thair would not go if she knew. After the pain she had caused Thair, she told her sister, she wanted Thair to travel and enjoy her time in Greece worry-free because Thair deserved it. Phaedra was always protecting Thair, a martyr until the end. So Thea Lena took a leave of absence from the orchestra and arrived just after Thair had left for Greece. For the first two weeks, Phaedra was doing so well, but then her health declined rapidly.
Thea Lena told Thair that during those initial weeks they had spent wonderful days together, cooking with vegetables from Phaedra’s garden, watching old Elvis movies, sitting by the swimming pool, Phaedra in the shade wearing a big hat with her feet up and laughing. God, what Thair would do to hear her mother laugh again. Thair was livid that she was left out of this dying plan, but Thea Lena told her that Phaedra was unyielding. She did not want her sickness to disrupt her daughter’s plans. Thair was pissed! Disrupt plans? What a ridiculous notion! There was no place on earth where Thair would rather have been than with her mother. She had the right, damn it, to be with her mama and see her through this! Not to come back from a holiday and see a lifeless corpse in the bed! It was so god damn fucking unfair!
For three days, I have been sitting vigil by mama’s bedside whispering to her. Singing to her, telling her stories, reading to her—and nothing. I tell her all about Gabriel. All about Kamena Vourla. All about Meteora. The breathtaking monasteries in the sky. About Metsovo. But she remains so still that I repeatedly lift the covers to see if she is still breathing. My heart stops as I do this, and when I see the small heave of her chest, I lay the blanket down gently and continue with my stories. I even read her the stories I have written. I start at the very beginning, Yiayia’s story, her story, my story. But I do not read her Sunday’s entry. Or the one about the day she met Jessica.
I look for reactions from her when I take away Dita’s virginity with words, or when I create Phaedra as a desperate air-conditioning-loving immigrant, but nothing. Not even a quiver of an eyelid. No response, just a ghostly figure, in the bed, lying there. I have selfishly asked Mary to back off of the high dosages of Demerol because of my desire to see her one more time—for her to see me, to know that I have come back to be with her. I just fear that my instruction to take away some of the morphine-type painkiller will cause her to wake with agonizing pain. But even with lower dosages of medication, she does not wake.
Gabriel calls several times a day, every day, and though his voice eases me, I have a hard time talking. Sometimes we stay on the line quietly and he patiently hears me cry; sometimes he describes the places we visited, the food we shared. Mostly, I cut the conversations short because I don’t want to lose a moment with my mother.
On the fourth night of my return, when I can no longer find words or songs, Thea Lena takes over and forces me to get some rest. I retreat to my old bedroom, my cotton candy hell. I fall heavily on top of my bed, too exhausted, too sad, too depleted to put on pajamas or take a shower. From a turbulent sleep, I hear Thea Lena screaming: “Thair, ella! Ella! Come quickly!”
My heart is racing, what is happening? No, God, please, please don’t let it be what I am thinking. Please, God …
My God, is this it? Is this how a precious life is taken from us? As my feet move faster than my mind, I stumble into a piece of furniture and knock over a small plant, but don’t look back. I reach the bedroom. Thea Lena is hunched over my mama, holding her hand; despite Mama’s pallid countenance, they both seem to be smiling. My mama is slightly propped up on the bed, several pillows behind her gaunt frame, her eyes halfway open. Her lips are light purple, and it looks like she wants to talk.
I sit cautiously on the bed for fear of crushing her, take my fingers and delicately move them across her forehead, “Mama, I’m here.” I place my cheek next to hers and hold onto that moment forever. I’m fighting back the tears as I kiss her gently.
Her lips tremble, but there is no sound.
“Mama, you don’t need to talk. I am here.” My voice cracks, but I continue, “I love you, Mama.” I see her lips begin to move again as they struggle to form words, each attempt heart-wrenching. “Mama, please, relax. You don’t have to talk.”
Her body shakes a bit, her eyes protrude; she clearly wants to get these words out, but the pain that she is experiencing is written all over her glass face; the energy needed to use trite language is excruciating for her and for me. My throat fills with tears, but I refuse to show weakness, not here, not now; I need to be strong for her.
“Ag-ape mou—” she pushes the words out, “I—am so—rry. Please for—give meeee.” Then she gasps, “Be ha—ppy with Je—Je—ssi—ca. I know you—lo—love herrrr. Be ha—ppy. Sa—ga—po,” with that her chest heaves one more time, and she flattens into the pillows more than is humanly possible. But she looks peaceful, her mouth no longer quivering.
Her eyes are still slightly open when she looks at me. What do I say? Despite what I told her before I left, my mother must have believed that Jessica and I broke up because of her. To explain it now, here, that I do not love Jessica anymore, but that I am in love with a man I just met seems ridiculous—even unimportant. So instead, I take my mother’s hand, and say, “Thank you, Mama. I love you. Please just try to relax.”
“Thai—r?” she has more to say.
“Yes, Mama?”
“Did you fe—ed my Puss—a—ki?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. My resilient mother. The great escape artist. On her death bed and she brings up her cat.
“Yes, Mama,” I say as drops of water fall on her blanket, “Yes, I fed the cat.”
“G—ood. I am go—ing to clo—se my eye—s now, o—kay?”
“Okay, Mama, sleep with—the—angels.” I gulp and finish, hoping she can still hear me, “Mama, I love you so much.”
But she doesn’t say anything.
She never says anything again.
Encinitas, Rancho Fierno, Nowhere, Everywhere
Early November, 2005
There were days when Thair was quiet. Other days when she was loud. Some days, she cried. Other days, she just stared at a wall. Some days, she yelled; others, she wailed. Some days, she stayed in. Other days, she went out. But she was always alone. Nothing seemed right in the universe anymore. How was one supposed to live in this world when the one who brought you here was gone?
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Her father was great. He came to San Diego and stayed with her for a few weeks. He helped her go through all her mother’s belongings; helped her choose what to save, throw away, or donate. Sometimes he rented a movie and watched it with her or took her out to dinner. He was at her side the entire time. Even her stepmother came for a week and was a gentle figure, taking her shopping and buying Thair fabulous shoes, thinking it would brighten her day. It didn’t.
Nothing was good anymore. Nothing—well, almost nothing. Except the phone calls.
“Hola, Thair.”
“Hi, Gabriel.”
“Cómo está mi Thair?”
“I’m okay.”
“How was today?”
“It was okay.”
“Did you have to do anything hard?”
That hard “h”—such an endearing sound—made her think about the first time they talked outside of that café while she was having lunch.
“Thair? Are you there?”
“Oh, yeah, my dad and I went through loads of paperwork. Again. I hate it.”
“Ayyy, Thair. I am sorry I cannot be there to help you. Did you decide what to do with … your mama’s house?”
“No, it’s just so hard to sell it. It’s funny, I spent my youth hating Rancho Fierno, and now I just can’t seem to leave the place. I spend more nights there than I do at my own home.”
“Thair, it makes me sad to think of you all alone. You know that—”
“So tell me. How was your day?” she interrupted.
He would then tell her all about his day at school; he detailed each of his co-workers and they had become characters in her mind. Vanessa, the principal’s assistant was dating Jorge, the thin guy who worked in Human Resources; one of the board members ran away to Costa Rica with another board member’s wife; the Ambassador of the US had been on campus that day, so there was full security. Then he would tell her stories about his family: how one of his sisters was now engaged; how the one who was living in the US had moved back to Peru; how his mother had undergone hernia surgery, but was doing well; how his father had won a major golf match and was still glowing days later. For more than an hour, every single day, they talked. The calls made through phone cards were often scratchy and it was hard to hear, so they had found this new thing called Skype—free calls through the computer—and it was working out well. With a mini webcam installed, she could see his handsome face and warm eyes. They talked so often and so long that, at times, he seemed so close she could touch him.
But even with Gabriel’s phone calls, weekends were awful. Weekdays were easier. She taught her classes, prepared for the next day’s lesson, watched some TV and, generally, escaped quite well. Sometimes though, when brushing her teeth or after she turned off the light, she felt a cold, hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach. She felt so alone. In the beginning, she thought she would be able to feel her mother’s presence, but she felt nothing. Never. None of that bullshit people said: “I can feel my loved one here with me.” It was simply dust to dust.
Thair had an urn of her mother’s ashes sitting on top of her wine bar that the damn cat almost knocked over. Thair freaked out and nearly killed the little shit. It was an ugly cat, brown spots and skittish, but it was the only thing that was her mother’s that was still alive. All the plants she had taken from Phaedra’s house had died. Even a large cactus she brought home with her had withered, turned sickly yellow, and toppled over. An Asian student had once told her that the health of a cactus was reflective of the health of a home. Great, she thought, and she put on gloves, wrapped the dead thing in a big, black garbage bag and stuffed it down the chute.
Phaedra’s wish was that Thair spread her ashes over the island of Imbros one day (she knew this was her mother’s conniving way of getting her to go back to Greece), but Thair had no travel plans, so they would sit in the urn between the Pinot Noir and Cabernet until further notice. She would pass the urn every day and talk to it, as if somewhere (in heaven?) her mother’s bell rang, “Call for Phaedra! Your daughter is speaking to your ashes.” But the ashes never responded. There was no cosmic force that moved them a bit, no sudden wind that opened the lid and let a few ashes fly, nothing to let Thair know that Phaedra’s spirit was, in fact, somewhere in this universe.
“Thair, I know you don’t want to talk about this … but your Thanksgiving break is coming soon. Do you think you want to visit me?”
“Oh, Gabriel.”
“Thair, what you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I do want to see you. Really, so very much. But I just can’t imagine a vacation right now. It just doesn’t seem right.”
“Thair, it is not a vacation. It’s for you to get away and meet family … uh, my family.”
She couldn’t help but feel lighter when he said these highly romantic things, but just like in Metsovo, sometimes it was too much—it just did not seem realistic. Go to Peru? See Gabriel? Then what?
Encinitas
Mid December, 2005
On Friday night I come home and put on my pajamas, make my tea, and wait for Gabriel to call. But he doesn’t. I watch show after show. I don’t even know what I am watching. I look up at the urn several times and want to cry, but crying would mean feeling, and today I am just numb. And it has little to do with Gabriel not calling. For the last few weeks, I have been in a ditch. It’s dark and deep and wet. There’s a ladder to crawl out, but I ignore it.
This month the pain is different. It has set in. She’s not coming back. I go about my life but am not a very happy person and simply no fun to be around, oh, and I could give a shit. Rick and Frank separated after almost fifteen years together, so much for soul mates. It’s all bullshit. Rick comes over and we mope around a bit, but then he leaves. I don’t like his company, and he doesn’t like mine. We are both so negative and, together, insufferable. Gabriel still calls, but I am curt and careless, yes, no, yes, no, no, no; compassionate sentences are hard to form. The last thing I can think about is going to Peru to visit, so his frustration seeps through the computer line. I’ve turned off the webcam, so I only hear his voice now, can’t bear to look at him. After these frigid conversations, I don’t hear from him for a while; I assume he’s pouting because he’s not used to this Thair. When he does call again, after a few days, he tells me that he has been spending time with his family or going out with his friends. Sometimes he calls slightly inebriated and tells me he is still waiting for me, but adds, he will not wait forever. I don’t say anything. I don’t feel anything. When he says these things, I think: I don’t like being with me, so why would he?
Thanksgiving has come and gone. In two weeks, it will be Christmas. My first Christmas without my mother. She was only fifty-nine. My God. I just don’t understand why? Why, God, why?
It’s Sunday. I’m still in the same pajamas from Friday night. I haven’t taken a shower, and I am turned off by my own stench. I haven’t eaten anything but cereal for the last two days, and there are dirty bowls scattered around the house. The TV is on loud. I think I hear another sound, but it doesn’t register. Is the doorbell ringing?
Riiiing. Riiiing.
I tell myself to get up. I need to move, but I can’t. Who could it be? As the ringing continues, I go to the bathroom and put on my robe.
Riiiing. Riiiing. It hasn’t stopped. Now there is a heavy pounding on the door.
I stand on the other side and look through the peephole. What the hell is he doing here?
He stands there with a Trader Joe’s bag and some flowers. I glance at the mirror, see that I look like a wreck, but don’t care. I open the door.
He puts down the groceries, hands me the flowers, and gives me a long hug. I relax, and tears fall from my eyes.
“Thair, dear Thair, I am so sorry. We just heard.”
“Hi, Ravi, thanks, come in.”
I see him look around at my place and his nose lifts.
“Thair, how are you?”
I let out a feigned laugh, “Not grea
t. This has been the toughest month.”
“My mother ran into a woman who knows … I mean … who knew your mom. Anyway, she told my mom that … Phaedra … passed away.”
Passed away! Damn euphemisms. I want to scream: she didn’t pass anywhere! She fucking died! But instead I say: “That’s okay. Thanks for coming now.”
“Gosh, Thair, we were both so shocked. We both really cared for your mom. If I knew, I would have come earlier.” He looks around again, “Have you had any help?”
“Nope, not lately anyway.”
“What about … that woman?”
He sounds like my mother. That woman. “You mean, Jessica? Well, she came to see me, but if you’re asking if we are still together, no, we separated a while ago.” It is just too easy to get pissed these days, so I try to change my tone. “Everybody’s been really great. From the colleges, the students, other teachers. Friends have been really supportive, but you know what, Ravi?” Here I go again, but I can’t stop myself.
“What?”
“Sympathy is short lived.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, everyone feels bad for you when your mother dies, when your child gets some rare disease, or your husband is killed in some horrible war. Yeah, everyone feels bad initially; there are gifts and cards and warm meals and groceries,” I say this while looking at the bag. “But then life takes over. People have their own problems, other obligations, and they forget all about you. But for those who are suffering, they don’t forget. They live with their pain every god damn day.” I let out a wicked laugh. “They say ‘time heals all.’ I am still waiting for time to heal my empty heart. It’s been almost six months and you know what?”
“What?” he asks again hesitantly.
“Whoever created that dumbass quote lied. Time heals shit. It just makes you remember more, miss more, hate fucking life because your loved one is no longer in it.”
There’s a part of me that again feels guilty for my negative attitude. This nice guy comes over to share his condolences, and instead I rip into him with verbal diarrhea, using expletives like salt and pepper. And to think I disliked it when people had trash mouths, but today my anger is at the surface; pain makes people think they are entitled to be a bitch or an asshole. Right now, I feel like a lot of both.
The Greek Persuasion Page 32
