In Pieces(97)

Baa had watched me gain Mary’s weight, had read the script, talked to me about the scenes and the eloquence of the language while the whole time I had beseeched her to hang on, constantly telling her that if she died before I got back, I’d kill her. I’d hunt her spirit down and strangle her. “Go,” she said with a laugh. “Go do what you do. I’m so proud of you and don’t worry, I’ll see you when you get back.” I hugged her goodbye as she sat in her bed, turning to go quickly to hide my tears, and cheerfully called her daily, telling her about the filming, asking how she was doing, and always reminding her she must hang on. She had to, God damn it.

That day she sounded chipper and relatively strong, excited about the adjustable hospital bed I’d ordered to be delivered in the afternoon, gleefully saying she’d soon be sitting in front of the sliding glass balcony doors, looking at the panoramic ocean view and watching the sun go down. We were three-quarters of the way through filming, and as I stood there, having my normal conversation with her, without knowing why, I said, “Mom, if you can’t hang on it’s okay. I won’t be mad.” Maybe I’d heard someone say that in a movie once, or maybe I was hearing how difficult it was for her to breathe, like she was running behind, trying to catch up. I told her again that I wouldn’t be mad, not knowing if I meant it or how she would take it.

“What?” she said. “Do you think I’m about to die?”

“No, no. I’m just saying that if it gets too hard… I’ll understand. Really.”

She laughed, saying, “I’m hanging on till you get back.” Thinking I was changing the subject, I casually asked her who she wanted to come and get her, to take her away. It was the question I’d heard her ask my grandmother years ago as Joy lay in her hospital bed, not in this world and not quite in another.

“Do you want Joy to come?” I asked.

With a guffaw she said, “No… absolutely not. She’d be too critical.”

“How about your father? You always wanted to see him again. How about your dad?”

Catching her breath, she said, “Yes, I would like to see him.”

“Good,” I said. “He’ll be there.” After a tiny pause, I continued, “Mom, try to haunt me, if you can. Just generally bother me all the time.”

“You mean same ol’, same ol’?” And we both laughed. “I will if I can.” I heard her looking for a breath. “And Sally, I want you to know how important you have always been to me, always… and I’m so sorry I let you down.”

My heart crumbled. “No, Mom, you have given me everything. And listen,” I swallowed hard. “Please promise something. Promise you’ll be the one to come and get me… Please, come and get me, Mom.”

Whispering fiercely, she said, “I promise you, Sally. I’ll come and get you.”

That night she began to loosen her grip on the bare branch to which she had been so bravely clinging. Was it because I’d given her permission? Do you need the ones you love to let you go before you can leave?

Princess called me early the following morning, and when my sons raced to her side, Baa asked Eli, “Am I moving on?” He took his grandmother’s hand and gently said, “I think so.”

I stayed on the phone, listening, trying to understand how dire the situation truly was. She’d had other episodes, times when she seemed to be fading, but then she’d recover and keep on going. I paced up and down in my hotel room, talking to Princess, not knowing what to do. It was then that Eli—who has always given me strength when I feel weak—grabbed the phone, walked out to the small balcony of the apartment and said, “Mom, come home. Come now. Baa may snap out of it and live for months but I need you.”

Peter picked me up at the airport at nine o’clock that night and by the time I stood next to her hospital bed overlooking the Pacific, her breathing was shallow and she was unresponsive. Rick and Jimmie, who’d been living in Florida for many years, were unable to leave and because I’d been unsure about Baa’s condition when I was running to catch my flight out of Richmond, I told Sam to wait in New York until further notice. I wish I hadn’t. The next day, after gasping one last ragged gulp of air, Baa passed away. I was standing on one side and my sister was on the other and we looked at each other, across the enormous distance of our mother’s existence. After a moment I closed her eyes, kissed her face, laid my head on her body, and cried. It was my sixty-fifth birthday.

That very day, I flew back to Richmond, and a week later, I kissed my dying husband before being guided out of the room by hands I couldn’t see, blinded by tears of grief and loss that were not for the long-gone Mr. Lincoln, who lay on the bed in the form of Daniel Day-Lewis. They were for my mother.


And as I look at this, all the words and memories, my life on these pages, as I spread these pieces out and fit them together, what picture do I see that I couldn’t find before? My mother and me? How we fit together? I see her in my mind, when she was young with her straight black hair and long legs. When she was old, her bespeckled hands, now my hands. I don’t know what the current theories on child-rearing or proper parenting might be; they always seem to be changing. What I do know is this: How you care for your child from the time they are born until they’re eighteen is important, but who you are as a person and parent for as long as you live also counts, and counts one hell of a lot. My mother might have blinked when I was a child—she made huge mistakes, without a doubt—but I cannot fool myself into thinking that I have been a perfect parent either… though my gaffes have been different. But I hope that I have learned from her, because on this writing road that I choose to hoe, what becomes most clear to me is that my mother never backed away. She never deflected or ducked or left my sight. I didn’t need her to be perfect. I needed to know her, warts and all, so that then, perhaps, I could know myself. She struggled to give me that, unflinchingly. She was my devoted, perfectly imperfect mother. I loved her profoundly and I will miss her every day of my life. And I know, without a doubt, that when I close my eyes for good, she will come to get me.