I saw a therapist after she died. The first question I asked the Dr., was if she too had lost someone. She had. After all, how could someone understand the magnitude of loss without an experience that came close, even after years of medical schooling. This is the first shrink I have ever seen. She tells me to call her Bonnie. She has Mom/Grandma energy and a cozy cardigan. Her husband works in the office next door. He was recommended too, but I prefer a woman. She looks sensible with cropped hair and tiny round frames, but surprises with her brand of cool knowing. She also looks like Leslie, my book publisher, and I realize I am drawn to these warm mother types.
Love and loss appear to ride so close to one another. Like race cars that may collide in smoke and danger at each high speed curve. They are also polar opposites in a tug of war I can’t make sense of. The more you have it seems, the more you lose. You surely can not experience the depths of grief for another if it does not match the oceans of love you had. That is the secret of such buried treasure. But until it needs unearthing, it is tucked safely in the deep soft sand waiting to be found and unearthed. And mourned.
When I began to recount the stories of my Mom to Bonnie, even to me it sounded unreal. I felt her listening. A life filled with car rides down the Garden State Parkway, windows down en route to Grandma’s in Clifton or the Seabright beach club after school or a new Broadway play in New York City on a weekday matinee. The school of Mom she called those days off. I could tell by Bonnie’s nod, she approved of this behavior. I swear I could feel her falling for Mom.
Me and my sister and Mom belting Camp Wicosuta songs at top volume taught to us from years there. Her two little legacies in the back seat. Sometimes it was some a.m. pop, a Carpenters croon or You Light up my Life. Or an oldie of hers that made us giggle. Ba, Ba, Ba, Barbara Anne, or Barry Manilow at the Copa. Beats and claps amidst the waves of smoke from Mom’s trusty Marlboro.
I regaled the Dr., appointment after appointment of our history. I reflected on the late nights at the mall or craft store, getting what you needed for a project. Mom was a realtor with hours set by busy buyers and sellers that were hard to say no to when you are on commission. We thought it was an adventure, my sister and I. Soaking up life to closing time with a hand in hers. It was mom, squeezing it all in. Finding balance. But we saw magic. Last ones there. Like a game show, running and gathering the goods before lights out.
You could find us late night dinner at Buxton’s after gymnastics practice, it made you feel grown so grown up. A few bucks in our pocket for whatever we wanted. Those silver dollar fries in the tiny coffee cup saucer. Endless packs of ketchup on top. A scoop of rocky road. A hot cocoa with extra whipped cream. We would see her lights pulling into the parking lot and dash out, paying at the register, and sorting a tip from the change. This was a dabble at independence. Learning to be alone in the world. And likely a lack of someone for a divorced mom to call on for support.
I tell Bonnie about the way she dressed. Discount, but just right. Anne Klein from the outlets and how heads turned. She was vibrant. Vivacious. Made everyone laugh and look. A favorite customer at the tailor and dry cleaner. We were always watching and wondering how she was really ours. I gather Bonnie is in on it too.
I told the Dr. one day, that while all of her lessons had been bestowed upon us (never go to bed without washing your face, be kind to strangers, always do your best and I will be proud, give back) in her 50 short years, she seemed more like a fairy of sorts. in the darkish monochromatic office, Bonnie seems to step into my light. Leaning in like I am a kindergarten teacher finishing story time.
Drifting in, sprinkling magic and memories and family trips to New Orleans and cousin fests in St. Thomas. Our family Thanksgiving, a be there or beware reunion of legendary traditions. Bonnie was coming along.
Was she real? Was her time here a slip of life like A Wrinkle in Time? Was this another plane? I turned to find my account of this magical creature had turned my therapist into a pool of tears. I felt the need to take her shoulders, but did not. How could she cry when she was supposed to help me back together?
Bonnie and I have proselytized the truth of Mom at this age. I have made her to be Uber Gram In my mind Bonnie cleverly agrees she would likely tell me to “buck up”. She would not swoop in to save the day. She would be soaking up life. And somehow I know this is right. She taught me to fend for myself.
I realized in all of these appointments, that alongside processing and wondering how in hell I could even be a Mom without her here, it was a love story like no other. I had it deep in my being. Just like that Wico spirit. In my bones and grit, anemic blood and DNA. And while she could not be here, she had planted those seeds. With a knowing. A love for the ages.
We ate the Carvel ice cream cone for dinner, with sprinkles. Passed the test with her acronyms and secret study tips. Ate steamers at Docks and late night powdery beignets. Midnight breakfast buffet at your Bat Mitzvah made more time for dancing. All a vivid dream of a life while we were indeed awake for. Holding her hand while walking the sidewalks of any adventure. Pumping her three signature squeezes into your palm. I. Love. You. This was her shorthand.
God was she real? I still wonder.
Jennifer Vallez
