In Pieces(96)

With her face trembling, her meal cut up before her, she searched my eyes until all the tension drained from her body and she knew it was true. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? Why, why?” she kept repeating, over and over.

Very quietly I replied, “I was a child, Mother. I was a child and didn’t know that it was any different than any other child’s life. I was afraid. I don’t know, Mother. I was a child.”

I could see her wander around in her head, not knowing whether to eat or to remain as stunned and overwhelmed as she truly was. “Then he was a monster. You never told me what a monster he was. You should have told me.”

“I don’t know if he was a monster or just a wounded, flawed human like the rest of us. Well, yeah. Okay. Maybe a little worse than the rest of us.” She silently nodded, hardly moving, her frail, defeated body sagging with shame and regret, and I felt engulfed by her pain, instantly wanting to take it away, to beg for her forgiveness. “I’m sorry to tell you about this right now when you’re struggling. I’m so sorry. I’ve been alone in it and needed you to know.”

My job had always been to protect her from everything—most especially from me—and my need to do that begged me to forget myself and to keep her unimpaired. When in reality it had been her job to protect me, not the other way around.

But that was then and this was now. “Mom, it’s fine, really. Look at me. I thrived,” I said, doing a clownish jig around the kitchen. “Come on, let it go for now. Don’t let me ruin your night.”

And after that understatement of all time, she agreed with a meek “Okay.”

I put her dinner on a tray, then carried it to her room, demanding she let it go, telling her she needed to eat and then to sleep. “That’s enough, Mom, let it go.”

“Okay,” she said with her eyes down. After closing the door slowly, I climbed the stairs to my room, feeling just as stunned and shamed as she did.

I don’t know that I slept that night. I’m certain that she didn’t. The next morning when the house stayed quiet, absent of its usual door slamming, I went to her room praying she was still alive. Gently knocking, I called to her, heard nothing, then tried again. Suddenly she threw the door open with a strength I didn’t know she still possessed, then grabbed my arms as though she were about to scold me. In a strong, clear voice she said, “You are not alone in this anymore. It’s mine too and I want to hear it all, every bit of it. You will never be alone in this again. I let you down and I’m so very sorry, Sally. This belongs to me too. I own it with you.”

I couldn’t move for a moment. Then awkwardly, I wrapped my arms around her emaciated body, clinging to this person who was now even smaller than me. The once-beautiful woman who had held me, soothed me, had encouraged and enabled me. The mother I’d spent my whole life looking for and who had ultimately given me everything she knew how to give. There we stood, not a mother and a daughter, but one whole person.

Feeling as drained as she must have, I said, “Later, Mom. We’ll talk later. We’ll sit outside under the oak tree and talk. But not now, okay?”

“Okay, Sal, my baby girl. We’ll talk, for as long as it takes.” We stood in the doorway of her room, looking into each other’s eyes until slowly we started to laugh, wiping the tears from our faces in exactly the same way.

I promised her I would tell her everything. But I never did. I never brought it up again. I didn’t need to.





Epilogue


THE SMALL TIN dressing room was the lower half of a two-banger—a long cargo-size container separated into two units, then placed on wheels to be trucked from location to location. And on Friday, November 4, 2011, while wearing Mary Todd’s underwear—or at least a close facsimile—I stood in the middle of this overly heated little room trying not to move, knowing from experience that I could get three bars on my cell phone if I stayed in that one spot. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, the company had just broken for lunch, and even though it was three hours earlier in California, I hadn’t waited till the end of my day to call, aware that by then, she’d be too tired to talk. I wasn’t looking for a long conversation, only had a half-hour break, and wanted to hear my mother’s voice and for her to hear mine. Baa always laughingly said she felt like the photo of the little kitten clinging to a bare branch: just hanging in there. But she’d promised she would continue to cling to that branch for the three months that I was to be in Richmond, Virginia, filming Lincoln. And every day, I called.

After Brothers and Sisters had wrapped, and during the months that I was preparing for Lincoln, Baa’s health had been declining. Then, just as summer was beginning she made a final request—make that a demand. She wanted to live near the ocean again, and to have a place of her own. Princess and I both felt that our mother living alone at this point was a frightening notion, but Baa was determined. So with my sister’s help she found a tiny apartment located directly on Carbon Beach, walking distance from the famous Malibu waves. One last time, we packed all her things, or at least I did, with Sam and Eli helping. When the tide was high enough to roll under the building, Peter and his two daughters, Isabel and Sophie, appeared, just in time to help us carry everything inside.

By late September, when I was departing for the Virginia location, Baa was in a serious uphill battle for tomorrow. Luckily, Princess had taken a leave of absence from Shameless, the television show where she’d been working as the production manager/producer, so she’d be able to visit daily—though my mother preferred to be left alone a good chunk of the time. Even the lovely hospice helpers had restricted hours and needed to keep their distance.