Michele Cohen
St. Thomas More Writing Group
Among the many reasons our short marriage failed were Neil’s accusations that I used my so-called novel (his words) as a way to escape reality.
“You’re always miles away, lost in the past, avoiding intimacy,” Neil said.
“That’s a little harsh,” I argued. “It would be nice to have your support.”
“I can’t turn down this promotion, Janet. Come with me to California. We can start over.”
“Leave Corning? Not now. I’m trying to get my mother to finally open up, so I can use it in my writing.”
“Not likely,” he said, and walked away.
We had to leave the house his company had provided. For a few weeks prior, I’d stashed money in sock drawers, shoeboxes, and empty coffee cans, enough to survive on for a year, since I was going to live in the Subaru Forester Neil happily relinquished. The idea of suffering for my art was appealing to me, and I spent the early spring days of 2002 reading, writing, walking barefoot through the wet sand on the shore of Lake Seneca, sleeping in my car, and finding creative ways to shower. I spent a lot of time thinking about my mother too. She’d never met Neil, and she didn’t know I got married.
I never told her about the novel I was working on either, even when I saw her the Christmas before when we met at the Thompson Restaurant for dinner. She arrived first and sat hunched over the table strewn with empty sugar packets. Her old, baggy coat hung over the chair; her unkempt dark hair was streaked with grey.
“I didn’t think you were coming!” She stood to hug me.
The odor of cat urine, which emanated from her clothes, brought back the flea infestation from when I was ten years old. I took a mental note to use this olfactory memory in my novel. The infestation had prompted a call to the exterminator, who came into the house. At the time, I was angry and confused; no friend or anyone had ever been allowed in before. It hadn’t dawned on me until that moment how I had scorned Neil’s requests to have friends over to watch football games or have his parents or colleagues over for dinner.
“Janet, did you hear me?” my mother said. “You are as pretty as ever. I tried calling you on your birthday last month—thirty is a big one—but I couldn’t find your number. I’m always misplacing things.
“You’ll have the buffet, right? And the chocolate pie you love.”
The Thompson Restaurant was within walking distance of the house I grew up in and had been a refuge, the place where we ate every meal. My mother still ate every meal there, and during our Christmas dinner she was more interested in talking with the waitress who served us than in answering my not-so-subtle questions about her family.
When it was time to part, she asked, “When will I see you again?”
“Next Christmas?”
“Sure,” and we agreed to start a new tradition.
****
After four months of living in my Forester, I made little progress with my novel and blamed it on my mother’s reluctance to share. Doubt plagued me. Neil was right. I mulled this over, as the moon rose over Lake Seneca on a warm summer night, when I was inspired to write my mother a letter.
Dear Mom, it must be painful since you lost your parents young. Truthfully, I have this burning desire to know more about them, and I’ve been trying to write a novel, hoping it will help me understand myself, and you. Not knowing anything about my maternal or paternal history, I feel like a rudderless boat tossed by a tsunami. Love, Janet.
I checked my post box daily and had all but given up hope when, finally, at the end of September, I received a letter.
Dear Janet, it never occurred to me that you would be interested in us ordinary people with no heroic tales and little talent, wealth, or fame, but I’m sure I must have told you something. I couldn’t find the paper or pens and was reluctant to write. Then I thought of the flood. You learned about it at school, as every child in Corning does.
In 1972, the summer between my junior and senior year in college, my father had a position at the Corning glass factory and was saving for a house. We—my parents, older brother, and I—lived in a first-floor apartment when Hurricane Agnes caused the Chemung River to overflow. I managed to escape to the rooftop, where I watched raging waters toss vehicles around like toys. I even saw a few caskets, which I found out later were uprooted from cemeteries.
I never finished school. Love, Mom.
My heart broke as I read the letter handwritten in blue ink. I eagerly awaited the next letter, which came in late November:
Dear Janet, I’m trying to get better. I’m in the therapy and the support group at the church. They pray for me.
It’s the little things: the gold carousel necklace my grandmother gave me, my Kiplings and Nancy Drews. The Bible with dates of family weddings, births, and deaths. My baby pictures.
I’ve been thinking about being with my father in the garden, when I was a young girl, before the flood, and I yearn to put my hands in the dirt again.
Until Christmas. Love, Mom.
But the blizzard of 2002 upset our Christmas day plans. I had secured a room at Motel 6 hours before travel became nearly impossible. The New Year brought a two-day snowstorm, record low temperatures, and the near depletion of my money. February brought more than twenty inches of snow and a historic ice storm. My teeth chattered and my tears froze, my fingers too cold to create.
I cherished my mother’s letters and yearned for another one, which never came, but I was horrified at the thought of living with her again. Yet, on St. Valentine’s Day, penniless and cold, I entered the dark, dank, and musty house I hadn’t been in since I was seventeen. A cat meowed and rubbed up against my legs. I maneuvered the narrow paths between stacks of empty cat food tins, boxes, plastic containers, clothes, books, decorations, mail, and packing material to get to my childhood room, to put away the few things I brought with me.
My mother burst into tears as I opened the door. “I tried to clear the room for you, I swear. I even bought new curtains and a matching bedspread, with roses on them. Your favorite. But I didn’t get far. I’m sorry.” I’d never seen her so vulnerable.
“It’s okay, Mom, really.” I put my arm around her, “I’m sorry too. For not coming back, for not helping, for not telling you I eloped. He left me by the way.” I expected condemnation, but she wanted to talk about all that had happened to me, and I did my best to share.
The next morning, I wrote Neil, “You were right; the mysteries of love elude me. I’m trying.”
Paula, my mother’s support group leader, helped us to create a plan to remove one small pile of stuff a day, every day except Sunday.
“Maddy, you call me daily and continue to go to meetings. We’re praying and rooting for you. You’ve got a lot of support,” Paula said and glanced my way.
****
I postponed writing to help with the house. On Valentine’s Day the following year, the floors were clear and vacuumed, the shelves dusted. My mother found her wedding ring.
Over eggs, toast, and coffee one morning, my mother said, “After the flood, I volunteered with the cleanup crew over at the glass factory. I met your father sifting through mud trying to find shattered pieces of glass for restoration. But when he died while I was pregnant with you, my world unraveled. Again. But you are the blessing I took for granted.”
I discovered that my mother had learned how to cook from her grandmother. I’ll never forget the first meal we prepared. The roasted herb potatoes and homemade honey buns were superb. Poached salmon with hollandaise. She taught me the satisfaction of whisking clarified butter into deep yellow egg yolks and watching it froth into a thick, yellow cloud. We continued cooking together, trying new things. Occasionally a crust burnt, soup was oversalted, a pot was scorched, and a finger bled, but we wanted to share our meals with others.
“There’s still clutter,” Mom said, “And I can’t banish dust. The good dishes are misplaced, and I can’t find the pot I love.”
“It’s scary,” I said. “Maybe something small. We’ll invite Paula for soup and bread.”
We chopped vegetables and chicken. We shaped loaves. We set our everyday dishes on a freshly washed tablecloth. Classical music, wine poured.
When the doorbell rang, we stared at each other for a moment, wide-eyed. Mom took my hand to steady it as we opened the door.
“Come in.”