by Bess Kalb
So you’ll be alone in the passenger seat, staring at your phone. And your mother will call. And her voice will be quiet and light. She’ll speak to you like a child.
“Bess—Bess?”
Something will be strange.
“Grandma Bobby had a heart attack in the middle of the night and she passed away.”
“Passed away.” Not “she died.”
“She passed away.” A euphemism. The implication of a destination.
She passed away in the middle of the night.
And “Grandma Bobby” was very odd. Your mother had only ever said “Grandma.” Never once “Grandma Bobby.” So there it is: “Grandma Bobby had a heart attack in the middle of the night and she passed away.”
You’ll have two responses.
The first is a howl. It will be very low—a siren.
“Stop,” your mother will say. “You’ll make yourself sick.”
She’ll really say to stop. Stop crying. You’ll become furious immediately. You’ll say something very theatrical, using her shrink-speak against her.
“Mom, how dare you police my grief?” My granddaughter, Scarlett O’Hara.
Then you’ll cry with your mouth open into the phone, gasping and trying to breathe. Eyes bulging out like a trapped bear. If someone had looked in the window, they’d have thought your leg was caught in the door.
Your mother will say what she always says to you when she’s trying to calm you down: “You’re on speakerphone with Dad.”
“Where was Grandma?”
“She was at home.”
“She died at home?”
“She died in the hospital. She had the heart attack at home and they took her to the hospital.”
“Who took her to the hospital?”
“Grandpa and the nurse.”
“She was with some nurse?”
“And Grandpa.”
“Was Grandpa there when she died?”
“I don’t know. He was in the hospital. But she was in the ER, so—”
“She was scared.”
“She was so out of it—she’d had ministroke after ministroke and had been degrading for weeks and this was her time.”
First “passed away” and now “her time.” Don’t blame your mother. There isn’t any way to talk about death that isn’t a little bit automatic.
“Where is she now? Is Grandpa with her?”
You’ll mean the body. My body.
“Grandpa was with her all night. Your uncle said it was very sweet. He was holding her hand.”
Of course he was. Your grandfather held me with his whole body until I was cold. Your mother wouldn’t tell you for months, but he fought the doctors. He spent the entire night holding my body and shaking. The nurses had to wheel us both into a private corner of the ER. “Sir, I’m so sorry for your loss, but legally we have to move forward and we need the bed.” “Go to hell. I need the bed.”
“What time was it? What time did she die?”
“Two in the morning. Maybe three.”
“Last night? Why didn’t you tell me? I was paddleboarding all day like a fucking idiot.”
There was a long pause. “I wanted you to have a few hours.”
Then your mother started to cry. This is when you changed.
“Oh, Mom. I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. Mom. Mama, I’m so sorry. She’s your mom.”
It was your mother’s turn to gasp and sob.
Then you both cried and cried together, as your father said some more things about cognitive impairment after a stroke and the painlessness of sudden cardiac arrest.
Then Charlie got in the car with his bag from the Verizon store.
You looked at him with the phone in your lap and said, “My grandma,” and he threw himself around you like you were on fire.
ONE WEEK DEAD
It’s very odd what you’ll take from my apartment the week I die. It will be during the shiva—the second day—and you’ll be on a mission for nothing in particular. Whatever seems to call out to you. A thief on a blind scavenger hunt, tomb raiding for tchotchkes. You’ll take a paper grocery bag from under the sink and walk room to room, while your mother sits on the sofa in the living room staring at her phone.
Three white cotton handkerchiefs with a floral needlepoint embroidered in the corners.
A tiny porcelain Limoges egg with a brass hinge in the middle.
An orange-and-blue silk Pierre Cardin scarf stained with brown makeup along an edge.
A size 8 pin-striped thick cotton button-down Brooks Brothers shirt.
A retractable makeup brush inlaid with pink and orange enamel squares.
A small gold Estée Lauder makeup compact full of pressed powder and the applicator puff.
A bright coral Yves Saint Laurent lipstick.
A copy of my wedding invitation from a scrapbook.
A menu from my wedding dinner.
A copy of my first learner’s permit.
A picture of me at your age laughing on a boat next to an American flag.
A blue Bic pen from my bedside table missing the cap.
Another lipstick. Chanel. Rouge Coco.
* * *
· · ·
It’ll be difficult to imagine your mother as a particularly affectionate grandmother. She could barely hold you when you were a baby. You were always falling out of her arms, wriggling free, one leg sticking out to the ground, her hand hoisting you by the crotch. She didn’t indulge you. She waited until you were done talking and then went into another room, relieved and amused, wondering if you were falling behind in math.
Here’s what I predict:
She’ll drop everything for your child. She and your father will move to L.A. They’ll both be retired and she’s been planning it for years. She’ll rent an apartment and she’ll wait for your calls. “Mom?” She’ll take the child to school—she’ll have her own car seat for the baby that’s better than yours, and a backup just in case—driving 5 miles an hour, talking sweetly the whole way in a voice that will seem alien to you. She’ll wait patiently outside the child’s classroom, reading The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post on her iPad. She’ll learn a new smile, the smile for your baby. She’ll take the baby on long walks and talk to them right into their eyes. She’ll notice the child likes peas and your freezer will be full of peas. There will be endless shopping bags full of bibs and swaddles, plastic stroller attachments in boxes you’ll never open. You wait.
If you have a daughter, your daughter will fight with you the way you fought with your mother and the way your mother fought with me. She’ll scream bloody murder when you don’t take her side. She’ll need your approval and you’ll be impossible to please. She’ll tell you she hates you. She’ll mean it with all her heart. Her face will turn red and her mouth will go tight. She’ll storm off and slam her door and you’ll hear her cry on the other side. The whole thing. You won’t follow her; you’ll close your own door and cry. Charlie will go to you the way your father went to your mother and your grandfather went to me, and she’ll resent you for it, not him, never him, the saint, the captive. She’ll call you “Bess” once and you’ll scream, “I’m your mother!” “No, you’re not.” Yes, you are. That’s when you’ll know. Yes, you are.
She’ll prefer your mother to you by the time she’s ten. Daughters can’t wait to get away from their mothers. They can’t wait to fall into their grandmother’s arms.
Don’t say I never told you so.
ONE YEAR AND THREE MONTHS DEAD
THE GRAVE
You’ll be writing this the morning you visit my grave for the first time since I died.
It’s a good lead-up to the sight of my grave plot. Th
e book distances you from my death. It summons me right into your head. “What were her stories? What would she say?” It’s turned me into a riddle, a series of boxes to unlock, pages to riffle through in your mental filing cabinet. Bess, I’m not a riddle—I’m a corpse. In a horrifying flash you’ll wonder what I look like and you’ll banish the thought immediately, burying it until a nightmare digs it up.
You’ll get on the Cape Air flight with Charlie and fly to the Vineyard and take a taxi to the cemetery.
You’ll remember the coffin from the funeral with its Jewish star. How your grandfather kissed it after he spoke. How very sad the funeral was for an old lady’s death. Nobody could have predicted how the fact of my age became the enormity of the loss—the weight of my absence. Ninety years and three-hundred-something days. That’s a long time to be stomping around, collecting all the people who’d gathered around in black clothes to stare down at my headstone.
You’ve been easing in and out of your grief for a year, and it’s not stopping you in your tracks anymore. You don’t pause in front of the mirror and wonder if I’m looking through your eyes. You don’t let the air catch in your chest when you see an old lady about my height, a shopping bag in her hand. When you smell a lipstick or wonder if you should have brought a warm layer to the movie. You talk about me constantly to Charlie, who’s very patient and smiles. “My grandma would love this hotel.” “My grandma would hate these boots.” “My grandma would never forgive me if I stayed home.” “One foot in front of the other.”
You’ve reached for me privately when you’ve been scared. “Grandma, please make the colitis flare go away tomorrow.” “Please don’t let the plane go down.” “Please help me merge onto the freeway.” I have no control over any of that. What am I—a magical ghost? If the plane goes down, don’t blame me. The last thing I need.
The grave plot is perfect. High enough on the hill with nobody behind it, bigger than the ones around it, except for the Cohens’, which is gargantuan. You’d think they’re obese. I don’t know why they planted beach roses next to it. They’ll rot! Somebody has to water them. It’s unnecessary. What can you do?
I’m to the right and your grandfather will be to the left, which is the opposite of how we slept, so that’s unfortunate. Nobody asked. He’ll say, “I wanted them to carve my name in it, too,” and he’ll mean it in every sense. The year hasn’t done a thing for him.
You’ll see my name in the stone—BARBARA OTIS BELL. And then the inscription that reduces us to our familial roles, a woman’s chronology: BELOVED WIFE, MOTHER, GRANDMOTHER, AND GREAT-GRANDMOTHER. Beloved wife. That’s true. Beloved mother. Depends who you ask.
1926 TO 2017. They’re the mortal years. The ones from when I cried out on my mother’s dining room table to when I lurched under the defibrillator in the hospital as your grandfather barked orders against my express wishes. The years I could hold my mother and your mother and you.
You’ll look at the ground and it will become very clear that I’m not there.
What have I always told you, Bessie? What have I always said? You’re my angel. I am you. I’m the bones in your body and the blood that fills you up and the meat around your legs. I’m the softness of your cheeks and the way they freckle in the summer, and I’m the streaks of rust in your hair, and I’m the nose under your nose and the eyes that narrow with fire and roll backward in delight at all the same things. I’m your style. I’m your laugh. I’m the rage in your heart that I’m not here. You’re the body I left behind.
I made sure of that. From the moment I met you, I never stopped telling you my stories. Because nobody will write them but you.
ONE YEAR AND SIX MONTHS DEAD
GRANDDAUGHTER: I miss you.
GRANDMOTHER: I miss you, too, Bessie.
I wish I could hear you.
Listen to the voice mails.
I’d rather not.
There’s gray in your hair.
Not really.
Yes, there is. All throughout. You can’t see it in the back.
I’ll dye it.
No, you won’t.
I will if it’s that noticeable.
I went gray very young, and the key is to keep the tone light. Blend it in. Your mother kept hers dark so her roots were always showing.
Okay.
You’re not going to dye it, are you?
Probably not. Charlie doesn’t mind it.
Of course he minds it.
Oh, you can read people’s thoughts from beyond the grave?
Don’t be cute. No man wants to see his wife age.
He’s not like that.
They’re all like that.
Grandma?
Yes, dear.
How did everything change with you and my mom?
I’ve told you a thousand times.
Tell me again.
I showed up at the hospital a few hours after you were born. Your mother was asleep in the hospital bed, and your father was sitting beside her, and you were in the bassinet next to the bed. And I was very quiet because I knew she’d kick me out if I disturbed anyone. So I tiptoed over to see you. And, oh, Bess. You were the most beautiful child. They called you “the beautiful one” in the nursery—I swear on your life. Big fat cheeks and a little cupid’s-bow mouth. We squawked at each other, and I held you and we locked eyes and I called you my angel.
Then your mother woke up. And she sent your father out into the hall. I was ready for her to give me hell. She and I had a rough go of it while she was pregnant with you. As soon as I had one opinion about your nursery, I was the villain of the century. And so we’d hardly been talking, but of course I showed up that morning. I’m not a terrible mother.
And so it was just the three of us, and there I was holding you and she said, “Come over.” And so I did. And I handed you to her. And she laid you on her chest and you nuzzled right into it. And she looked at me and she had tears in her eyes and she said, “Mom?” And I said, “Robbie?” And she said, “What do I do now?” So I told her, “All you have to do is keep her alive.” And then she patted the side of her bed, and I sat down on it right next to the two of you and she rested her head on my shoulder. She had never done that before. And that was that.
ONE YEAR AND SEVEN MONTHS DEAD
THE GODSEND
It’ll take a year and two months for your grandfather to find someone else. It’ll be Miri. My friend. My good friend. Some friend. What am I supposed to do, haunt her? That’s your job.
Oh, please. I’m only joking. Calm down.
Everyone will be nervous about how to tell you. Your mother will call.
“I got us a great hotel room in Martha’s Vineyard for when we visit.”
“Why wouldn’t we stay at the house?” A pause. You’ll know why.
“Grandpa’s friend is staying there.”
“Oh? Who?” You’ll be so casual you could blow away in the wind.
“Miri Pollack.”
“Of Al and Miri?”
“Al died.”
“That’s right. She has to come that weekend?” A little attitude. Fine.
“She’s staying the summer. She’s leaving when Grandpa leaves.”
“I think that’s nice. That’s very good.”
“Yes, it’s very good.” She’ll say it through her teeth, smiling at the wall.
“It’s great. Whatever keeps him happy.”
“He seems very happy.”
“You know what—thank God.”
“Right. Thank God.”
“It’s great. It’s better than a nurse. It’s someone to take care of him.”
“So he’s not lonely.”
“It’s so important.”
“So important.”
Another pause. You’ll both lie down on your respective couches.
“Does she have her own money?” Good girl.
“I don’t know. I think she’s comfortable.”
“She’s not taking advantage of him.”
“Lawyers made sure she can’t touch his money.”
“Okay.” A pause. “Was Miri at Grandma’s funeral?”
“I can’t remember.”
And then your mother will say the line. The line I’m sick of hearing.
“It’s what Grandma would have wanted.”
You’ll let it hang in the air. And you’ll hear me right behind you. I’ll whoosh through your head in a gust of rage. You’ll save it for later. “What Grandma would have wanted.”
It’s come up a few times since I died—about the jewelry, about the grave plot, about the ice cream sodas at the funeral.
What did I always tell you? I don’t want another woman living in my house and wearing my jewelry. Your mother made sure she wouldn’t be able to get her hands on any of it. But the house—what’s he supposed to do? Put her up in a hotel?
Miriam had been in the house before. Many, many times. She and Al and your grandfather and me, eating swordfish and drinking sparkling wine on the porch.
You’ll unpack at the hotel, and you and your mother will drive to the house and pick up sandwiches for everyone on the way.
