Carole Page - In Search Of Her Own

When I stood, my nylons were drenched; my knees revolted against the coldness I wanted to do something or speak or walk somewhere. I wanted to feel some satisfaction in standing there, staring down at my parents’ graves But I felt as numb as my fingers I wanted to turn and walk away or run to my car and drive somewhere where music was playing and people were singing-some lovely cathedral perhaps where spires rose heavenward and a man of God might declare triumphantly, Death, where is thy sting; grave, where is thy victory?

I wanted to be with somebody today. Not just somebody. I wanted to be with my mother. But there was no one around, except a stranger standing a short distance away by a large marble stone, his head bowed, his back to me-a tall, broad-shouldered man in a leather trench coat, a deep smoky gray color, his collar upturned against the cold. He wasn’t wearing a hat and his thick brown hair looked wet from the snow.

“I’m here with you, Mother,” I said aloud, but my voice came out too small, swallowed by the wind. I realized I, too, was being swallowed, but not by the elements — by something more immense and just as impalpable. For this time, — for however long it lasts — I am as immobilized in life as my mother is in death. Perhaps worst of all, in spite of my faith, my life no longer matters to me. I know I should release my pain to God, but how? How can I surrender to the One I’m afraid now to trust?

It was irrational, I know, but I kept talking to Mother as if she could hear me. “I’ve received so many cards and phone calls Even people I hardly know have offered their condolences,” I said, raising my voice against the whistling wind.

The stranger turned and glanced my way, as if he thought I might be addressing him. I caught a glimpse of dark mahogany eyes and chiseled, aristocratic features.

I looked down, abashed, then lifted my gaze as the stranger came my way. Our eyes met and held for a long moment as he passed by, his expression warm with sympathy and compassion. He had the most compelling eyes I had ever seen He seemed to be telling me, We are kindred spirits inhabiting the same emotional place. You’re not alone. I understand your pain.

Something leapt inside me, an instinctive response, a yearning to hold on to this moment of connection with another grieving soul. I wanted to say something, offer a smile But as quickly as our fragile alliance formed, it slipped away. The stranger walked on through the fine blanket of snow, and I felt even more alone than before.

I turned back to my mother’s grave and said, too brightly, “Like I was saying, Mother, you wouldn’t believe all the people who’ve phoned—dozens of your former students, and mine People we haven’t heard from in years, some even since Father’s death six years ago “

Six years

It’s hard to believe Mother and I have been alone, had no one but each other all that time Even our colleagues at the university have maintained a polite distance all these years, comfortably insulated in their lofty bastion of academia. Convivial intellectuals, they are, who enjoy a good time as much as anyone, I suppose, but two lone women never quite fit their scheme of things.

Or perhaps we never tried—or cared to try—to fit their scheme We kept to ourselves, pleased to dwell in peace, living quiet, orderly lives. And, of course, for me, a predictable routine was an immense relief after those earlier days, after that black hole of time seven years ago.

As my eyes returned inevitably to my father’s headstone, memories swirled around me like a dark funnel cloud drawing me into its vortex. In its violent maelstrom I could hear my father’s voice thundering, “How could you do this to us, Victoria? How could you let it happen? You’ve thrown away your future for some gypsy actor. You’ve shamed us all with his misbegotten child. Is this the kind of woman we raised you to be? Mark my words, daughter, you’ll be the death of me yet.”

I was the death of you. Father. No one said an accusing word, but everyone knew the heart attack was my fault, my doing. If only I hadn’t disappointed you; if only I hadn’t broken your heart’

But it does no good to dwell on the past. Haven’t I learned that by now? You’re gone, Father. And now Mother is gone, too. I’m alone for the first time in my life, tied to no one, no bonds by blood, by birth, by affection. My last living relative has died

No, that’s not so.

There is another—blood of my blood, bone of my bone

My child.

Somewhere in this vast world lives a little lost boy whose face I’ve never seen, whose voice I’ve never heard, except that day in the delivery room for a sliver of time before he was whisked away from me forever

Where are you now, my son? Who do you call Mother? Do you have my eyes, my nose, my hair? My penchant for privacy? My love of books? When I lost you, my arms ached for months for someone to hold I felt as if someone had plundered my heart and left me for dead.

But I denied my pain because I felt I had no right to grieve. For my parents’ sake I bore my shame in silence and denied my son’s existence.

But he lives.

He’s somewhere, someone’s child

I’ve voiced the question over and over through a thousand sleepless nights, but now that I’m truly alone the question takes on an urgency I can no longer deny. I have to know’

Where is my son?

It was the first of May before Victoria returned to the cemetery—a gray, chill, cloud-heavy day with only faint streamers of sunlight to remind her it was spring. Her mother’s headstone was in place now, surrounded by a lush green carpet of tender new grass The imposing granite monument matched her father’s marker, stately without being ostentatious. She stooped down and placed a potted plant in the grass—butter yellow chrysanthemums as bright as sunbursts, her mother’s favorite; the house and garden had been filled with them when Victoria was growing up

“I’m sorry I haven’t come more often, Mother,” she said, wincing with shame. Somehow, even from the grave, her mother could make her feel guilty! “I don’t know why I haven’t come. I guess coming here makes your death more real and stirs up the pain,” she said, feeling the need to explain, to justify herself. “I’ll do better, I promise.”

God help me, I sound like a schoolgirl who’s been caught cheating or skipping class! God, you’ve forgiven me; why can’t I forgive myself?

Blinking back bitter tears, Victoria turned her gaze away from her parents’ markers. Her eyes settled on the immense gravestone a few yards away where the tall stranger had stood, head bowed, during her last visit. The lowering rays of the sun breaking through the cloudy sky highlighted the inscription Pauline Anders, Beloved Wife.

Victoria could barely make out the dates beneath the name. She squinted, silently calculating. Dear God in heaven, how tragic! The woman died at thirty. So young! Only a few years older than I am, Victoria noted, stunned, recalling the pain, masked but still apparent, in the furrows of the stranger’s brow. She turned and fished in her purse for a tissue I shouldn’t have come. I can’t handle this. My emotions are still too fragile.

Blotting the moisture from her eyes, she squared her shoulders and began walking back to her car. She was almost to the road when she noticed someone approaching—the mysterious man in the trench coat who belonged to Pauline Anders. Only now he was wearing a brown leather aviator jacket with a fleecy wool collar. And he was carrying flowers—red roses in a deep ceramic vase, a dozen at least. He offered Victoria an oblique smile as their paths crossed, and she obligingly returned it. In the fractional moment their eyes met she was reminded that theirs was a peculiar alliance—deep losses borne separately and in a sense shared wordlessly, beyond time and circumstance.