The Visits

These are the stories my mother told me one night, after I asked her what she was like as a child. I wish I could, without a doubt, guarantee the validity and accuracy of the following events. But I must admit to more than a bit of skepticism, as it is not uncommon for my mother to embellish and exaggerate, relishing every second of sustained attention, no matter the audience. These are the stories my mother told me regarding her ongoing relationship with her grandmother.

When my mother was a little girl, she would eagerly await the summers and weekends. It was then when she would often get a few cents for the bus fare required to travel to her grandmother’s house. My mother describes her visits as ritualistic. Her grandmother was still fairly young, young enough, at least, for my mother to recognize that she had one day been stunning. And she would sit in an old wicker chair, knitting, and looking up occasionally. And my mother would sit next to her and tell her everything, her worries and accomplishments, dreams and imaginings. Then her grandmother would give her more than enough change for the bus ride home, which my mother would save up for future bus rides and candy.  

One thing worth noting about my mother is that she is the youngest of five. This meant that much of her socializing, educating and rearing was largely influenced by her siblings. A fact they were seemingly aware of and abused in the mischievous, torturous way siblings often do. They convinced her she was adopted, more specifically that her mother was some widow who lived across the street, who never spoke to anyone. My mother would sneak glances at the widow through her living room window. Sometimes the widow would catch her, and would give my mother meaningful looks, which my mother, with that paranoid imagination that all young children have, took as confirmation of her fears.

I can only assume that my mother voiced these sorts of concerns to her grandmother. But at the moment, I can’t say with great certainty what exactly they discussed in those formative years of her life. What is definite is that when her grandmother passed away, which, according to my mother, was much too soon, my mother fully understood what being an orphan felt like.

Despite her grandmother’s death, the visits continued. The following is what I remember of my mother’s bizarre and captivating story. I am no longer certain which details she provided me and which I have imagined. In any case, it is quite likely that all of it is a lie.

My mother was in her bedroom, crying shortly after hearing about her grandmother’s death. I imagine it must have been late at night, a low hanging moon illuminating her bedroom in silver. And then she heard her grandmother. And her grandmother was next to her, just as young and beautiful. My mother was not frightened by this. I am not sure why, but to her the whole thing seemed to follow logically. Seeing her grandmother standing there, she simply asked her why she had abandoned her. At this, her grandmother simply replied that she had never and would never abandon her.

And so the visits continued, the ritual slightly changed in that this time her grandmother, through some means I could not possibly explain or understand, made regular trips to visit my mother, no matter where she was. This is what my mother has said, that throughout her adolescence, she constantly was visited by her grandmother who would, just as before, listen to all of her concerns and wishes.

My mother was one day a married woman. From the way she tells it, it happened smoothly, naturally, and without her realizing. After having her first child, my oldest sibling, she was again visited by her grandmother. And this was the first time my wondered what great sacrifice her grandmother was making in visiting her so frequently.  And she felt the sort of burden and responsibility that one feels when one is no longer a child. She felt her age. She felt the joys, the pains, the time that had gone by since her grandmother’s passing. She felt that she could move on.

“I wish that I could keep seeing you, but I am a grown woman, now. You don’t have to visit me anymore”.

That was the last time my mother saw her grandmother. At least that is what she told me. Yes, I remember her stories. I was very young, sitting by her, wondering what she was like as a child.  

Portrait

       She might knock everything off my desk. All of the gears, bits, scraps, junk and treasures would scatter and who would pick it all up, then? Sure, she wouldn’t mean to. But just last week, or maybe the year before, just by walking by in that clumsy, bouncy way she caused the sort of crash that- well you could just tell, just from the sound of it, that it was a mess. And, sure enough, there was my bike on the ground. It wasn’t new or anything, just something I had put together from bits I found over the years, but it was delicate. And worst of all, she just stood there, not knowing what to do with herself. She just stood there and looked up at me, as if it were her bike on the ground, as if I were to blame.  I’ll admit it now that I lost my temper, then. Heck, I don’t know anything about kids anymore. So I tell her to just sit still next to me and maybe watch some TV.
She sits down without protest or hesitation. That’s the thing about her, she doesn’t whine or make a fuss like other kids, and that’s what gets me thinking that she should know better than she does. And how old is she exactly, anyway? I ask her. Eleven, she says. Eleven. Well, I thought she was older. No, there is something young in her eyes, like she’s always surprised or wondering.
       And suddenly I remember her fully, back when she was- she couldn’t have been older than four. She had that same look back then, too, but maybe a little more spunk. And suddenly I remember her name. I say it. Just because I figure I haven’t said her name in a while, and one day I might- well… She looks at me expectantly.
      “Pass me that,” I say, pointing at nothing in particular.
       She hands me an ashtray and I guess that is just fine. I pat my chest, feeling around for the pocket, and yes- a cigarette. I sit there, fidgeting with the cigarette a bit. The television hums up a racket, but the sound sort of swims and fades under the echoes of the maybe- well, by now it must be- twenty clocks I’ve built and hung around the house.  I close my eyes for maybe just a second, tick-tick. And now I feel a tapping on my arm, tap-tap. I open my eyes and she’s tapping my arm in that mousy sort of way. She hands me a napkin, just as my eyes start to adjust. I take the napkin from her, slightly irritated and confused. I stare at it and I notice that it’s my face on that napkin- well, a sort of caricature of myself- with not quite as many wrinkles, and maybe a bit more hair.
      And suddenly I see her more fully. Eleven, now, but someday she will be a young woman. Someday she will be an artist. And it is enough to know this and know she will remember me. I stand up slowly, waiting for my bones to align just right, and set my granddaughter’s drawing on my desk, next to some gears, bits, scraps, junk and treasures.  

Saturday Afternoon