Mothered (42)

“This really is a lovely place,” said Jackie.

Grace heard the exertion in her mother’s breath and wondered again about the illness that had killed Robert and sent Jackie to the hospital and then “home” to Pittsburgh. Robert had first fallen ill months before the pandemic. Grace didn’t know what all his symptoms were, but Jackie’s labored breathing, on such a gently rising slope, could be an indicator of lung damage. Could she have previously been exposed to the virus? In a parallel universe, Grace might suggest her mother get a chest x-ray. But with the surge in cases, the county had issued new precautions and Grace assumed every medical center was swamped—and probably the last place a reasonably healthy person should go.

“Do you want to take my arm?” Grace switched the blanket she was carrying to the other side and offered her mom her elbow.

“Thanks, hon. Not as fit as I used to be.”

When it was time to leave, Grace might want to run ahead and get the car and come back to pick her up. For now, slowly guiding Jackie along, Grace took in the rolling hills and lofty trees, the stately grounds of the huge Victorian cemetery. The birds sang their merry songs, making the ambiance much more about life than death.

“It really is beautiful here,” Grace said, almost as if she’d never noticed before.

Their pace slowed even more as they left the paved road and headed across the lawn.

“Almost there,” said Grace.

“I remember. I probably should have come home more often, to visit Hope, and you. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You made a good life for yourself. You deserved that.”

Jackie gave her arm a little squeeze. “Thank you, Grace.”

The walk had aged Jackie—all the health she’d regained seeped out of her in the fifty yards since she left the car. If Grace had parked any farther away, her mother might have perished before reaching the grave site.

Hope was buried beneath the broad, shady canopy of a yellow buckeye. Grace spread the blanket on the small clearing beside the grave, silently speculating whether someday she or her mother might be buried there. She helped Jackie ease herself down, but Grace stayed on her feet. She took a moment to read her sister’s headstone, though she knew exactly what it said. A smirk skated across her face as Grace thought how, if this were a dream, she’d find new words engraved in the granite, a cryptic message from her psyche.



Jackie closed her eyes and turned her face skyward, basking in the sunlight that filtered through the leafy boughs. Grace sat on the opposite corner of the blanket. She observed her mother, still unaccustomed to her more petite, more fragile form. When Grace was little, she hadn’t thought that she or Hope resembled their mother at all. Daddy—Paul No-Last-Name—had been a blank canvas upon which she could create whoever she wanted. Sometimes Grace had attributed Mommy’s anger to the fact that Grace looked so much like her dad—a thing she didn’t know to be a fact at all. But she saw the unmistakable similarities now, the familiar averageness in her mother’s features.

Perhaps it wasn’t the time or the place, but her father was on her mind now: if Grace dug gently, perhaps she could excavate a little more info. The thing she’d always wanted to know was his last name. That would be enough for a Google search, and she trusted in her abilities to get the internet to deliver what she wanted.

“Why didn’t you ever talk about our dad? At least tell us who he was?”

Jackie remained so still that Grace thought she’d dozed off. Then her mother sniffled and blinked her eyes a few times.

“He was such a disappointment, Grace.” Grace waited for her to say more. Jackie awkwardly repositioned herself, switching from the one hip she’d been leaning on to the other. “Afraid I won’t be able to sit like this for long, as lovely out as it is.”

“We can go whenever you want.” Grace knew she’d wrecked the peaceful mood. Her mother was somber now.

“Paul . . .” Jackie shook her head. “That motherfucker was the love of my life. That’s the truth.”

The force of her words startled Grace. She hadn’t actually expected her mother to open up, but Grace saw Jackie surveying her past, assembling the bones of her story.



“We first met in high school. Just friends at first, but friends in the best way. Then there were years apart while we were exploring our options, figuring out how to make adulthood work. Sometimes Paul sent a postcard from wherever he was. California. New Mexico. Florida. We wrote letters and sent each other the occasional Christmas gift. My parents always thought he was a bum, lazy. But Paul just wanted to see everything.

“I didn’t wait for him, exactly. I did my thing. Worked; took care of my parents. But maybe . . . maybe part of me did wait, put off getting married, having kids. I had this suspicion, this hunch, that Paul wouldn’t come back until after both my parents were dead. They barely let him in the house when we were in high school. Every time I didn’t hear from him for months they were sure he was in prison. But he wasn’t like that.”

A man started to materialize in Grace’s mind, a hobo drawn in pencil. He had worn boots and strong hands, a weathered face. When he smiled it was genuine and wise.

“Want to know the worst thing I ever did?”

Grace held her breath and nodded, afraid to speak, afraid to do anything that would make her mother go back inside herself and shut the door.