by Marcie Ruderman
I scan her face, the beads of perspiration framing the ends of her eyebrows, the lines around the sides of her mouth billowing out like two Japanese fans. Her eyes remain closed and I have to bend toward her mouth just to feel the faintest of breath, the defiance of inevitable death. I take a cool, moist washcloth from the basin on her nightstand and lightly dab her forehead. She moans so quietly, I think it’s my imagination, until I see a flutter of her eyelids. Then silence.
I remain there, staring at her ghostly form, just observing, as if her body has nothing to do with me. Suddenly, I feel her hand move on mine. I bend toward her again. “Mama,” she hoarsely whispers, barely audible, lingering in the air like an unfinished sentence. She hasn’t spoken in days, but now that she does, I’m greatly disappointed she doesn’t call me, but rather her own mother.
Grandmama died many years ago, when I was an adolescent. Since that day, my mother and I haven’t spoken much about her. When we have mentioned her, it’s always been in hushed tones, as if our voices might shatter some inner sanctum. But now that my mother has called for her, the memories of the times my grandmother and I spent together when I was a child come rushing into my mind, like a great flood, and most of all, the oath she had me take prior to her death, placed a great burden on my shoulders, but set her free.
The more I focus on the memories of my grandmother, the less I center my attention on my mother’s form, until it becomes diaphanous and then disappears altogether. I can see my grandmother’s ivory face, her blue-gray hair with the single curl above her left brow. I can visualize the slope of her shoulders, the hard bulge of her belly, her long, lean legs and long toes with yellowed nails. I become fixated on her, as if she’s been brought back to life by the utterance of that single word, “Mama,” and she obliterates all else in the room, the way the waves of the sea obliterate all else in their infinite repetition of ebb and flow.
The sea, with its wildness and unpredictability, was the greatest connection she and I shared, and it coursed through our veins and through the veins of everyone in our family, linking one generation to the next. I spent five days a week with her at the seashore every July and August when I was a child. We never left her Brighton Beach, Brooklyn apartment before three o’clock in the afternoon, and by the time our feet actually touched the sand, it was almost four. She would have left home even later because she was determined to protect her pale, unwrinkled skin, but both the bathhouse and the lifeguard station closed at six.
As we walked arm-in-arm, she’d hold her favorite yellow parasol over us both. I held the tote bag that contained our underwear and two clean towels. Once down the seven short blocks to the bathhouse, she’d show her membership card to the matron at the door, walk purposefully to the third locker on the right, and retrieve from it two white swim caps and two pairs of beach shoes. I followed closely behind as she’d slip into a nearby dressing room, and after helping me off with my sundress, shoes, and socks, she’d tend to herself, unraveling the soft green wrap-around skirt that seemed to go on forever, lifting the white peasant blouse high over her head, and once stripped of all but her aquamarine panel-front swimsuit, she’d emerge from the dressing room like a moth emerges from its cocoon, rearrange her pearlescent hair combs in the mirror, lock up our belongings, and lead me out of the bathhouse onto the sand, parasol still shielding us from the unforgiving sun.
The scents in the air were as familiar to me as my own flesh. The strongest emanated from the brown shopping bags that the leathermen carried. These men, their sun-tanned skin gleaming with tiny beads of sweat, wove around the sun worshippers, selling knishes that were wrapped in wax paper. Get your red hots here! they’d bellow. The sunbathers, themselves, smelled like coconut as they lathered their bodies in hopes of getting as dark as the leathermen.
“Never do that,” Grandmama would admonish. “You’ll get old before your time. Your mother and your uncle never listen to me, but one day they’ll see I’m right. I’m always right,” she said with a sniff.
When we approached the lifeguard, she’d ask him to watch me while she went for a swim, then hand me the towels and bathhouse key, remind me to keep my floppy hat and sunglasses on at all times, and to hold the parasol over my head. Then donning her swim cap, snapping the chin strap in place, and wading out to the point where she could swim, she glided through the gray, murky water, arms engaged in smooth, rhythmic strokes, head gently turning in sync with her breath, until only the tiny white dot of her swim cap was discernible.
Then I knew it was time to comb the sand for sea glass. My goal was to find at least two pieces a day, which I proudly deposited in jam jars that my grandmother stored in her cupboard. My collection thus far included many clear pieces, several green and brown pieces, and a few of my favorite blue pieces, but no reds or oranges, which were extremely rare. Grandmama was the one who had introduced me to sea glass. I became mesmerized by her stories of these tiny weathered fragments which looked like flattened gumdrops. She’d explained that sea glass originated from broken soda or beer bottles, from drinking glasses, or from objects awarded to people at carnivals. There were milk and juice bottles, wine and champagne glasses that were aboard ships, even medicine bottles. Her stories evoked pictures of far-off places, of Pilgrims and pirates and medicine men dropping bottles overboard, bottles that would one day become jewels of the sea.
I was determined to transform these weathered pieces of history into earrings for both my mother and grandmother as soon as I could find similarly matched pieces, even though my mother never wore earrings and my grandmother only wore pearls. Each day, I’d stoop low, parasol high over my head, eyes focused on the sand, and walk back and forth in the hopes of finding undiscovered treasure. Grandmama said that I looked like a tightrope walker, and sometimes I pretended I was.
She always swam for an hour. The tiny white dot of her swim cap would faintly reappear in the distance, growing larger and larger, like the moon as it emerges from the horizon, and eventually, I could make out her arms, fluid like the oars of a rowboat. I’d stand at the water’s edge waiting for her to surface, then show her sea glass I’d uncovered. She’d appraise each piece while wiping her face with a towel. Then she’d unsnap the chin strap, remove the swim cap, and place the towel around her shoulders as if it were a fur stole, inquiring if I wanted a lesson. I’d discard my hat, sunglasses, and parasol, wrap the sea glass in my towel, and race into the water. Grandmama would follow and begin instruction in breathing, flutter-kicking, and arm movement, walking alongside me as I traversed the current. After I’d completed five “laps”, the boundaries of which were entirely her conceptualization, she’d end the lesson with the word time. Sunglasses and floppy hat went back on, parasol was reopened, and arm and arm, we’d leave the shoreline, doggedly marching through the sand like two salmon swimming upstream.
When we were back in the bathhouse, she’d lead the way into the shower room where we’d disrobe, rinse ourselves and our swimsuits under the lukewarm gentle spray of the shower, and head back to the dressing room. She’d take our bathing suits to the well where she’d put each suit on the metal wringer and wring it out till it was as dry as it could possibly be. I was fascinated by that wringer. I used to wonder how the water disappeared down the well, and I’d imagine all the droplets of all the women’s swimsuits forming a huge pool that connected to the sea. I asked her if the depth of the sea came from that well, but she just dismissed my idea with a wave of her hand and a sniff, so I kept my imaginings to myself.
The trip back to Grandmama’s apartment always seemed endless. The tote bag felt heavier, and the parasol overhead seemed unnecessary since the sun was so low in the sky, but I never complained. The smell of knishes from Mrs. Stahl’s knish store on the corner made my mouth water and my belly growl, but I knew better than to suggest buying one. My grandmother never carried extra cash, and besides, she’d only say that the knish was greasy and heavy, and would ruin dinner. I never confided in her that I would have preferred the knish to the boiled chicken, parsnips, and carrots that were waiting for me back at her apartment. Instead, I ate the chicken with the gusto that my hunger compelled me to do, and I waited for the knish on weekend beach outings with my parents.
“Are you going to swim forever, Grandmama?” I remember asking her one evening on our way home from the beach. “You’re so graceful. Like a fish!”
“Forever? Well, I’m going to try for as long as I can. It helps these old bones of mine, and that’s why I can still play the piano,” she retorted.
“You’re not old, Grandmama!”
“I’m not? Well, I’ll keep swimming till I can’t anymore.”
“If swimming helps you play better, then keep swimming. When I grow up to be a famous ballerina, I want you to accompany me on the piano.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be playing any more concerts when you’re grown.”
“Why?”
“My fingers aren’t as nimble anymore, Minnie. My arthritis is getting worse. Every concert gets harder and harder. That’s why I want you to learn how to play. Before I’m too old to teach you.”
“But I want to be a dancer, not a pianist, Grandmama!”
“A dancer’s life is too hard. And too short.”
“But it’s what I love!”
“Well, your mother can send you for ballet lessons, but I’m going to teach you how to play the piano. Then you can give concerts and take over for me when I’m too old to play, and when I’m gone.”
“When you’re gone? Where are you going?”
I mean when I die.”
But you’re not going to die!”
Everybody dies, Minnie. What’s important is how you live your life.”
“But Mama told me people don’t have to die.”
She stopped walking when I said that, and stared at me. “She did, did she?”
“Yes! She said that if you’re a good person you can live forever! That’s why you and Mama and Papa will live forever! And me! We’re all good people.”
“Well, I don’t know why your mother told you that.”
“Mama doesn’t lie! She always tells me the truth!”
“So your grandfather, Mama’s father, wasn’t he a good man?”
“I never met him.”
She sniffed. “Because he died before you were born! He was a very good man. A good father. How would your mother explain that? And what about both your paternal grandparents, your father’s parents? Why did they die?”
I couldn’t answer her. I only knew that my mother preached honesty, and here was Grandmama telling me something different.
After a while, she unlinked her arm from mine and put it around my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Minnie. You don’t need to think about death. You’re going to live a long life, just like Hannah will live a long life. My two wonderful granddaughters.”
“Do you love Hannah more than me, Grandmama?”
“Now why would you ask me that, Minnie?”
“Because she’s older and she was your granddaughter first. And because she’s beautiful.”
“I love you both the same. And you’re both beautiful.”
“I’m skinny and short. She’s so tall.”
“I love you both the same,” she said, and with that, she took my arm again, quickening her pace.
After dinner, after we’d eaten the boiled chicken and vegetables, and had the cling peaches in heavy syrup for dessert, washed down by a little ginger ale in the glass with the star on the bottom, she’d lead me over to the baby grand piano that stood in the room she called “the parlor”, and sit beside me on the piano bench, watching me practice my scales, and a few pieces by Carl Czerny and Robert Schumann, continually calling out instructions.
“Cup your fingers, Minnie. That’s the most important thing. If you don’t have the right technique you’ll never amount to anything. That’s it. Play honestly. No fancy swaying. Just honest fingers, cupped fingers.”
When I missed a note, she was patient but relentless. I must have played a piece from Czerny’s Little Pianist six or seven times each night. Then onto Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood. If I was very good, she’d let me play Anthony Macdowell’s To a Wild Rose and a Romanian folk dance by Bela Bartok. If not, I was made to repeat Czerny exercises over and over again. It seemed like punishment. I loved to listen when she played piano. Mama had taken me to two of her concerts. I couldn’t believe that my Grandmama was playing for all those people. When they applauded, I was so proud. I even enjoyed when she practiced each morning, pounding out a Sousa march or a Brahms’ Hungarian dance. But the more I grew to appreciate her mastery, the sadder I felt because I knew she was counting on me to excel. I hated to let her down, but I had no talent, nor much interest.
“I made a mistake with your mother and uncle,” she said one day. “I gave your mother lessons, but she wasn’t good. Your uncle is the one who should have had the lessons. He loves the piano. That’s why he went out and bought himself that little spinet, but he’s untrained. He was so smart in school, I just let him concentrate on his studies. I should have taught him piano. He would have been great. Now he’s too old to learn.”
“Maybe I take after Mama.” I said hesitantly. “I’m not very good, either.”
“Well you’re my last hope, Minnie. You’re going to take over for me when I can’t anymore.”
“What about Hannah? Can’t she take over for you?”
She sighed. “No. She never seemed musically inclined. Anyway, now that she and your aunt and uncle moved to California, no one’s going to give her lessons,” she said, and then she became very quiet.
I waited patiently. She often did her “ruminating” after my piano lesson, and it passed just as suddenly as it began. Then she’d march into the bedroom, take out the combs from her hair and put on her housecoat and blue felt slippers with the cute little tassels that moved like mop heads across the parquet wood floor. She’d even remove her teeth and place them in a glass jar in the bathroom, so when she laughed I could see her gums, and that made me laugh, too. After she was “less formal” as she put it, we always sat in front of the little Hotpoint black and white television set with the v-shaped rabbit ears, that was propped on a stand in the corner of the parlor. I enjoyed our television time together. She usually tuned into The Lawrence Welk Show. The best part of the show was when The Lennon Sisters came on. I’d stand near the TV and begin to dance for her, moving my arms like Anna Pavlova in The Dying Swan. I was convinced that one day I’d be a big star, and then Grandmama would be so proud of me. I wanted to make her proud. I wanted her to love me as much as I was sure she loved Hannah.
When Friday evening came, my mother would arrive after her long work week, have dinner with Grandmama and me, and then take me home for the weekend. The fact that I stayed with my grandmother all week when there was no school relieved Mama’s mind, but it made her sad, as well.
“You know that talking to you on the telephone every evening is the highlight of my day, don’t you, Minnie? That’s how much I miss you,” she’d always say. Then she’d give me a big kiss on the cheek, and hug me close.
After dinner, we’d take the subway train for three stops, after which we’d walk four short blocks back home. I always loved the smell of the train as it screeched into the station. It had a sweet, smoky smell that I can still conjure up when I think about it. Mama and I would sit on the straw seats of the train and catch up on what I’d been doing all week. Snippets of our conversations still resonate in my mind, like the voices on an old 78 rpm Voice-O-Graph disc.
I would tell her about the boat rides around Manhattan on The Circle Line, about lunch at Horn and Hardart’s Automat, about all the foods that Grandmama had introduced me to. There was halibut and huckleberry pie, and Hostess’ orange cupcakes. Then Mama would ask me about my swimming, and I’d promise to show her the following day. Once, I told her about an upcoming trip to the Roxy to see Peter Pan.
“Grandmama says that before the movie there’s a stage show with a very big organ and ballet and even ice skating!”
“That sounds simply wonderful, Minnie!”
“But that’s not until after school starts, so maybe I can sleep over the night before?”
“If you like.”
“Do you think Grandmama will get lonely when September comes? I’m with her so much now that I’m afraid she’ll miss me when I go back home. If I sleep over, she won’t feel as sad.”
“That’s very sweet of you! You’re getting to be such a big girl!”
“Well, I am going into fourth grade, after all.”
“So you are!”
“She makes me finish everything on my plate. Not like you, Mama. And she’s strict about the sun and about turning off the lights when I leave a room, but I love her. And I dance for her every night. The only bad thing,” I confided, “Is that she wants me to play the piano when I grow up. She loves to watch me dance, but she doesn’t want me to become a dancer.”
“She’s going to buy you a piano for your birthday. Did you know that?”
“No! Doesn’t a piano cost lots and lots of money?”
“Yes, it does… What’s wrong, Minnie?”
“Well… I don’t want her to spend money on a piano when I want to be a ballerina.”
Mama smiled. “That’s very thoughtful of you. The fact is, you can do both. You can learn to play piano and you can be a dancer. Okay?”
“Okay.”
The most critical discussion I had with my mother back then was when I confronted her about the conversation Grandmama and I had had on the subject of death. The contradiction between my mother’s account of death and my grandmother’s was quite disturbing. If it was true, then no matter how good we were, we would all have to die. That would include my mother, and this thought above all, filled me with dread. What would I do without her? How would I survive?
“Why were you two talking about such a thing?”
“I don’t know. We talk about lots of things. Did I say something wrong?”
“No, Minnie, you didn’t. But I don’t like Grandmama talking to you about those things, things I already explained to you. I told you that good people can live forever,” my mother insisted.
“But if that’s true, then why did all my other grandparents die? All except Grandmama? Why did your father die?”
“I told you. He was hit by a truck.”
“And Papa’s mother and father?”
She bit her lip. “Your Papa’s father was very nice, Minnie. I didn’t know his mother, but I heard she was very nice, too.”
“And they died!”
“Well, you won’t! That’s all you need to know.”
“And you? I need to know that you will always be here.”
She bent down and kissed my cheek. “I will always be here for you, Minnie. Always.”
“You promise, Mama?”
“I promise.”
Mama’s insistence calmed me down, but just to make sure, every night before I went to sleep, I prayed that Mama, Papa, Grandmama and I would live forever.
Saturday and Sunday afternoons in the summer were lazy days filled with laughter. My parents and I traveled to the beach at Riis Park or to Jones Beach on Long Island. I loved when the three of us rode in the old Buick together. I always sat beside Papa when he drove. Days at the beach with my parents were everything that the times with my grandmother were not. We bought knishes and Good Humor ice cream, and we splashed each other in the water. I’d take my pail and shovel so that we could make sand pies together, and my father would attempt to bury me, though I always found a way to wiggle my fingers and toes.
On the evening prior to the start of the school year, Papa took us to Sheepshead Bay. He parked the car along the bay, and then he and Mama sat on a bench facing the water while I leaned over the railing to watch the boats as they headed out to sea. There were large fishing boats like The Victory and The Dorothy B, and some smaller, private boats with cute names like The Little Scout and The Maltese Falcon. Intermittently, the boats blew sharp horns and I pretended that they were great cruise ships, just as I had done when Grandmama took me on the Circle Line. The water and the boats made me feel peaceful inside.
I loved summer. Time seemed to move so much more slowly in the summer, and I wanted it to go on forever, though I was looking forward to school. What I didn’t realize was that my parents were planning to separate. They’d been having countless arguments over finances, and they agreed that my father should move out.
One day in early September, my parents sat me down and told me.
“I’ll still come to see you all the time,” Papa said to me. “And we can still have our Sundays together.”
“I… I just don’t understand why you can’t live with us,” I said through my tears.
“It’s nothing you did wrong, Minnie. It’s about Mama and me. We just get along better when we live apart. I know you don’t understand this now, but some day we can talk about it again. When you’re older.” He eyed my mother, and she nodded.
“Papa’s right. Just because he won’t be living here anymore doesn’t mean we can’t do things together as a family. We will, Minnie. I promise.”
A feeling of hopelessness enveloped me as I became acutely aware of the fact that my power to change things was extremely limited. I felt very small and insecure. What added to these feelings was the fact that I never knew who would be watching me between the time I was dropped off by the school bus and the time Mama came home from work. It depended on everyone’s schedules. Papa couldn’t always come over because he traveled a lot for work, and Grandmama was often on tour. When neither of them could make it, one of our neighbors would keep an eye on me. I tried to cope as best I could, burying myself in school work and in ballet practice.
One day at the end of October, I came home to find my grandmother in the apartment. She told me that before I started on my homework, she needed to discuss something important with me. I assumed that the piano she bought for me would be arriving. That would mean daily practice. I dreaded that day, but I also knew it was inevitable. She surprised me when she told me that what she wanted to talk to me about had nothing to do with the piano. I looked at her and waited, but she didn’t say anything for a long time. She was ruminating again. This time, I grew afraid. I put my hand on top of hers.
“What’s wrong, Grandmama?”
She pursed her lips. “Well, Minnie, you know how I told you that one day I wouldn’t be able to play the piano anymore?” She stared into my eyes.
“I remember.”
“Unfortunately, the time may have come,” she said.
“But why? Didn’t you just get back from a big concert in Philadelphia?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then why can’t you play anymore?”
There was silence. “It seems… I have to go into the hospital.” She let out a long sigh.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing yet, Minnie. The doctors have to perform some tests on me. That’s all.”
“What kind of tests?”
“Actually… I have what they call a polyp. That’s a tumor. A lump.”
“A lump? Where, Grandmama?”
She cleared her throat. “In my stomach.”
“Oh.” I looked down at my hands. My fingers were long. Grandmama always said that long fingers were good for playing piano. “Does having a polyp mean you can’t play the piano anymore?”
“No… not necessarily.”
I started to speak but she cut me off.
“If the polyp is nothing, then I will come home and everything will go on just like before. There’ll be nothing for you to do.” She folded and unfolded a napkin on the table. “But… if the doctors find that everything’s not okay, I need you to do something very important. No matter what anyone tells you. No matter what Mama says, or your father, or anyone. Do you understand? You have to promise to do what I want! Understand?”
I nodded.
“I can’t ask your uncle or Hannah to do this, because they live too far away. And your Mama… well… she’s too emotional. I can’t ask her.”
“What do you want to ask me?
“Say it. Tell me you understand.”
“Yes, Grandmama. I understand.”
“Good. Now…” She cleared her throat again and continued.
I watched her lips move, I heard her voice, but the words just didn’t make sense.
“If something happens to me, Minnie, if I die, I want to be cremated. Do you know what that means?”
I thought for a moment. “I’m… I’m not sure.”
“It’s when they burn the flesh, instead of a burial. It’s very natural. Like the Bible says, Ashes to Ashes/Dust to Dust. Have you ever heard that expression, Minnie?”
“I think so. But…”
“And then they’ll give your mother the ashes. After I’m cremated. The ashes will be put into an urn. A pretty urn, like a vase for flowers. Understand?”
I just stared at her.
I just stared at her.
“And then I want you to do this very important thing for me. It’s almost too much for a little girl to do, but I have confidence that you can do it. I want you to take the ashes and pour them out of that urn and into the ocean. The same ocean where we always swim. I want you to do it when no one is around because by law, you’re not supposed to do that. But even though I always teach you to follow the rules, this is the one time to make an exception to the rule. The water might be very cold, Minnie. I’m not sure if it will be soon or in the winter. Either way, it won’t be warm like when we’ve gone swimming together in the summer. But that’s where I want to be, so you have to do it. For me. To honor my wishes.”
I couldn’t speak. I didn’t understand a concept like ashes. I didn’t understand why my grandmother was speaking like this. All I felt was intense sadness. We were both motionless. Then I started to cry, tears washing down my cheeks, my chest soundlessly heaving. Finally, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I wrapped my arms around her neck, still crying, and suddenly I felt her tears. My unflappable Grandmama was crying. That’s when I knew that however hard it would be, I would do what she wanted.
A week later, she went into the hospital. Mama took me with her to visit, but they didn’t allow me upstairs because I wasn’t old enough, so I had to stay in the waiting room. The surgery went well, Mama said, but she still looked worried. I was allowed to visit Grandmama when she returned home, but Mama wouldn’t let me sleep over. Grandmama needed some time, she told me. I tried to cheer her up when I visited, but she wasn’t very talkative. I tried to tell her about school and dancing, but she seemed very far away. When I asked if she felt okay, she always said she did, but that was all she’d say. That, and reminding me of my promise to her.
Three weeks later, on a school night, I was awakened by loud voices. I could distinctly hear my parents’ voices, but I also thought I heard my uncle’s voice, then decided that my ears were playing tricks on me since he lived in California. I couldn’t see anything in the total darkness, and I wanted to call out, to ask what was happening, but I was too scared. Even when my mother came into my room to kiss me goodnight, I pretended to be asleep. It wasn’t until the next morning that I learned of my grandmother’s death. My mother’s eyes were heavy. I could tell she’d been crying.
“Was Uncle Sidney here last night, Mama? I thought I heard his voice.”
“Yes. Your uncle was here, along with Aunt Dorie and Hannah.”
“Why? Are they moving back to Brooklyn?”
“No, Minnie, they’re not. It’s Grandmama. She…” Mama remained silent, but took my hand in hers.
“Did she… die?”
“Yes, Minnie. I’m afraid so.” Mama let out a long sigh.
“How?”
“It’s a long story, Minnie. I’ll talk to you about it, but not right now.”
“Is she going to be cremated?”
“Why do you ask me such a thing?”
“Because she told me she wanted to be cremated.”
“She told you that? How could she?”
“Mama! You sound like you’re angry at Grandmama! But she’s dead! How can you be angry?”
“How can I be? Because… never mind, Minnie. You don’t need to know.”
I started to cry and the more I cried, the angrier at Mama I became. Then my anger turned to guilt. How could I be angry at her when she just lost her mother? On the other hand, how could she not include me? I had lost somebody, too! I felt alone in the world. I had no one to turn to for help. Everyone wanted to protect me from the truth, from sadness. It was ironic, since Mama had always taught me to tell the truth.
Eventually, though, the truth came to me. One day I overheard my mother on the phone with my uncle. She was talking about a police investigation. My mother said that when all of that was over, and when Grandmama’s body was released from the “morgue”, she would be cremated, just as she had requested in “her letter.” My mother talked about holding a memorial service for her at the chapel. Then I heard her say something about Grandmama drowning. When I heard that, I became confused. She was the best swimmer I knew. Why had she drowned?
Later that evening, I peeked out from the bedroom and saw my mother sitting alone at the kitchen table, crying. I walked over to her and sat down beside her. Without a word, I placed my hand on hers. We stayed like that for a very long time, and it was only after she seemed calmer that I questioned her.
“Did Grandmama really drown?”
“Yes, Minnie, she did. Her body was washed up on the shore, ” she said despondently.
“I don’t understand. She was the best swimmer I ever saw!”
“Well… yes, she was. She loved the sea even more than she loved the piano, and when the doctors told her that she had a very bad disease, that she’d have to go through a lot of pain and medicine which would leave her very weak and unable to swim or play piano, she made up her mind to die.”
Mama stopped speaking and stared into space. I couldn’t think of anything to say. We sat like that, silently at the kitchen table, the clock on the wall monotonously ticking, until a fire engine’s siren suddenly resounded and startled us. Mama cleared her throat, and continued to speak as if there’d been no passage of time.
“So she left her apartment and headed for Brighton Beach, to the ocean, and when she got there, she walked farther and farther, until the waves carried her out.”
“But she always told me that the salt water makes you float! And anyway, she was such a good swimmer!”
“Yes. That’s true,” she said, still looking at the table, not at me. “But she put stones into the pockets of her coat to weigh herself down.”
This was the first time in my life that Mama hadn’t tried to sugarcoat things. I was only nine, but I felt very old. Nothing in my life was the way it was supposed to be. From my parents’ separation, to the end of my grandmother’s life, I couldn’t count on anything anymore. Grandmama had been correct. Good people died. Even if you were kind or talented or if you played by the rules, you died. But now that I had lost my grandmother, I would make sure that I kept my promise to her. No matter what anyone said, no matter what anyone did to try to stop me, I would scatter her ashes into the sea.
The memorial service was held on a chilly, gray Sunday in November. Someone at the funeral home gave the eulogy. He talked about Grandmama as if he had known her, but I was sure that they’d never even met.
“Marie Litt was a fine woman, a wonderful wife, mother, and grandmother,” he said. “In her eighty-two years, she accomplished much in her life. She instilled in her children and grandchildren a love of music, theater, culture. She was full of vitality and a source of strength to all.”
Empty words, I kept thinking. Grandmama would not have liked the service. She would have told him as much. He never even mentioned her love of the sea, and I guessed that it was an intentional omission, as if it were a blemish on her character, as if by drowning herself, she had committed a sin that was to be hushed up, hidden. But the very fact that he refrained from mentioning it, made it all the more conspicuous. When his brief oratory was over, he walked over to where my mother was seated and handed her the urn with my grandmother’s ashes. And that was that. Mama was very shaky and she held onto my uncle’s arm for support. I walked behind with my aunt and cousin. We didn’t speak. No one spoke.
The following day, Mama and Uncle Sidney went over to my grandmother’s apartment. My uncle had to return to California at the end of the week, so there was an urgency to sort through valuables, and to make plans for the disposal of the rest of my grandmother’s belongings. I asked to go with them because I knew I could sneak out and walk to the beach while they were busy. I took the urn out of Mama’s closet and hid it in my school bag, claiming I needed to do some homework while we were there.
As soon as we entered Grandmama’s apartment, Mama began to cry. My uncle held her until she calmed down. I walked into the parlor and sat at the piano bench. I couldn’t play a note. My uncle tried to lighten the mood. He walked over and sat down beside me. Then he started to play Chopsticks, waiting for me to accompany him just as we used to do, but when I tried, it just didn’t come out right, so we both stopped.
My mother watched us for a moment. “Stupid piano,” she said to my uncle. “She was going to buy a piano for Minnie, but she never did. I guess she had it all planned out. She knew that Minnie would get her piano! How clever!”
“I know a good piano mover,” he said.
“How could she do this to us?” Mama shouted, but her question hung in the air like a raptor.
“If you give me a list of possible dates, I’ll set up the delivery,” he answered softly.
Then he and my mother went into Grandmama’s bedroom. That’s when I said that I was going outside for some fresh air before I started my schoolwork.
“Don’t go too far, Minnie. And bundle up. It’s chilly out there.”
“I won’t go far,” I said. That was the first time I had ever lied to my mother.
The air was crisp and it made my eyes burn. I huddled under my wool coat and scarf trying to keep warm, but shivering, more from trepidation than from the elements. As I walked each block, I envisioned walking with my grandmother, day after day, all summer long, our arms entwined, the weight of the beach bag my only care. Now I walked alone, cradling the urn. Though it weighed very little, it felt as if I carried the world in my arms.
When I finally reached the shoreline, I looked around. Grandmama had nothing to worry about. No one was here. No leathermen, no sunbathers, no swimmers. I couldn’t even spot a boat on the horizon. The sun was almost obliterated by clouds, and the chill in the air discouraged anyone from spending time here. As I watched the waves of the sea monotonously roll in and out, I became hypnotized by their monotony. I could visualize Grandmama’s swim cap bobbing up and down in the distance. I could see her appraising my sea glass as she wiped away the salt water from her eyes. I could hear her voice as she taught me to kick, to breathe, to move through the current. She tried to inspire me with everything she cherished. Now it was time for me to give back.
“I love you forever, Grandmama,” I said, and with that, I overturned the urn and scattered her ashes along the shoreline.
This is what my grandmother has been reduced to, I thought, as I emptied the urn. Weightless, flimsy ashes. I watched the waves swallow the ashes, taking my grandmother’s essence with them. I stood mesmerized by the ebb and flow of the tireless whitecaps, and I could see Grandmama’s face emerge from each one. She smiled at me, her gray eyes glistening in the breakers. I stood there, motionless, observing the coalescence of my grandmother into the sea, until a feeling of comfort and release finally engulfed me. I threw her a kiss, then turned for home so that my mother wouldn’t start wondering where I was.
When I got back to the apartment, Mama and Uncle Sidney were still going through closets and drawers. I hadn’t been missed. They didn’t notice that my shoes and socks were damp. They were too preoccupied. I spent the rest of the afternoon walking through the rooms of the apartment, remembering all the days and nights I had called this my home. I couldn’t concentrate on any schoolwork. I opened the built-in bathroom hamper where I’d once gotten stuck playing hide and seek, I retrieved the jars of sea glass that were kept on the shelf of Grandmama’s cupboard, I moved the rabbit ears on the television set back and forth, up and down. Then I sat at the piano and this time I was able to play some scales, my long fingers gliding along the ivory keys, my hands cupped, just as my grandmother would have wanted.
Later, I walked into the bedroom and took out her small pearl-white combs from the dresser drawer and put them into my hair, studying myself in her mirror. They didn’t look good in my dull brown hair; they didn’t sparkle the way they had in my grandmother’s lustrous blue-gray curls, so I removed them and put them into the pocket of my trousers. Next, I went into Grandmama’s closet and took out her blue felt slippers. I tickled my nose with the tassels, then smelled her housecoat. It smelled of her face powder. The smell made me cry, and I used a tissue that I found in one of the pockets of her housecoat to wipe away my tears. I didn’t want to upset Mama. I continued to walk aimlessly from room to room, touching, smelling, embracing everything that had belonged to my grandmother. Nothing felt real. The afternoon waned so slowly, like the notes in an adagio. I could almost hear its progression. The air was thick with grief and dysphoria. Finally the afternoon turned to evening. My mother and uncle packed up what they wanted and made plans for the rest. Then my uncle drove us home and silently left us.
It wasn’t until a couple of weeks later that I told my mother about Grandmama’s instructions to me, and about how I had carried them out. I knew that she would never have known about what I did because she would never have looked inside the urn, but I wanted her to know the truth. She was angrier with me than she’d ever been before, and she didn’t speak to me for several days. Her silent treatment was unbearable, but I knew that she wouldn’t be able to stay mad at me forever. I also knew that the person she was really angry with was my grandmother, for not fighting till the end, for giving up. Mama felt abandoned. I understood that. I ached for her. But I also realized that Grandmama did not view her suicide as giving up. She just chose to do what she thought was best for herself. She had always told me that it wasn’t important how you died, but how you lived. Grandmama lived exactly as she wished and she didn’t care who judged her. Even in death, she had taught me a lesson.
It was during the time of my mother’s oppressive silence that Grandmama’s Weber piano was delivered to our apartment. When it arrived, my mother listlessly told the moving men to put it in a corner of our living room. The piano’s deep mahogany luster made the rest of our furniture look dingy and old. Mama just gave the moving men some money, then shut the door and walked away. She didn’t look at the piano at all. She didn’t look at me, either. I ran my fingers up and down the keys, remembering how I practiced with Grandmama beside me, remembering how energetically she had played.
It wasn’t until a few days later that I could actually play something she’d taught me. I opened the piano bench for the first time and thumbed through all her books and sheet music. I studied the pencil marks she’d made to modulate keys or octaves, tracing her fancy flourishes with my finger. I sat on the bench, my back perfectly straight, just as she had instructed me to do dozens of times. Then I chose Macdowell’s To a Wild Rose. Perhaps I played that piece because I knew it was my mother’s favorite, and within minutes, Mama walked over to where I sat. I finished playing without making any mistakes. She smiled at me, and I returned her smile, and we both knew that our feud was finally over. Later that evening, after we’d finished dinner, Mama went into her bedroom and returned to the kitchen holding something in her hand.
“This is for you Minnie. I’ve been saving it for the right moment,” she said, as she handed me an envelope.
I opened the seal and found a letter inside. It was written in blue ink, with the same beautiful handwriting that was on the sheet music.
Dear Minnie:
If you’re reading this letter, then I’m already gone. If you were
able to carry out my wishes and I am where I want to be, then I
thank you for what you’ve done for me. It was very brave of you.
I realize it was selfish of me to ask for such a grown-up act of
such a young girl, but I had faith in you, Minnie. I always have and I
always will. You are intrinsically good and I want you to understand
that about yourself, if you understand nothing else. Whatever you do
in life, make sure you are doing it out of love. Don’t base your
choices on guilt or obligation. Live your life the way you, alone,
want to live it. Only then will you find happiness. I hope you can
find it in your heart to forgive me for forcing you to play the
piano, for forcing you to assume my dream. I realize it’s not yours,
and I know I put a great burden on you. I now release you of that
burden. I leave my piano to you, solely for your enjoyment,
nothing more. You needn’t carry on for me if you don’t so choose.
Just be the best you can be at whatever you choose to do in your
life,and I will always be proud of you.
Eternally yours,
Grandmama
After that, I practiced the piano every day. Even when I had tons of homework, even when I had back-to-back ballet classes. I wanted to play for my Grandmama. I wanted her to be proud…
A rustling of the bed sheets causes me to look down at my mother. Her frailty and the beads of perspiration remind me that she refused to do what Grandmama did, that she remained disdainful of Grandmama’s decision to take her own life. Instead, Mama has chosen to live through the pain and the suffering. I wonder what I will do when my time comes. Will I deal with whatever hardships life has in store for me, or will I decide how and when my life will end?
I realize that I am more like my mother. I never excelled at the piano enough to perform. Nor did I become a prima ballerina. I was good enough to join the corps de ballet of a local dance troupe, and that was the extent of my cultural achievements. It’s funny how our dreams start off so big, and then diminish little by little as we age. Maybe new dreams start to take flight and eclipse the earlier ones. Whatever the case, marriage and family became my dream, and now my own daughter is just a little older than I was when I lost my grandmother.
With every stagnant moment that I watch my mother’s frail body, I experience a physical restlessness which I haven’t felt since puberty. This is accompanied by a yearning to revisit my past. I begin to wonder how I could have stopped my connection all those years ago, both to my grandmother and to the sea. My only conclusion is that a lethargy, beginning the day my mother and I ended our feud, overtook me. Mama never wanted to talk about Grandmama because it made her relive the suicide, and I never wanted to upset her. After a while, the memory of my grandmother became less and less distinct, like a coloring book in which a child has drawn outside the lines. But in an instant, at my mother’s bedside, with her single word “Mama”, everything has flooded back as if these thirty-one years have never passed.
It is a cool day in early spring when my mother passes, very different from that day in November when I scattered Grandmama’s ashes into the sea. I am relieved that Mama has found peace, at last. Her passing is anticlimactic. We said our goodbyes prior to her decline, when we first learned the news. Now only convention remains. I carry out my responsibilities, and once they’re done, I am filled with a feeling of abandon, compelled to visit the place where I last said goodbye to my grandmother.
The few short blocks leading from the subway station to the beach look nothing like the street where we had walked arm-in-arm so long ago. The stores have all changed, with signs in Russian, Italian, Greek. There aren’t any knish stores or variety stores. The private bathhouse is now a nightclub. It’s as if my entire childhood has been erased. When my feet finally touch the sand, it feels more familiar, but there isn’t a piece of sea glass or even a shell. Several beachcombers pass, huddled under their jackets or hoodies. Some of them walk along the pristine sand with Frisbees or balls for their dogs. Soon this same sand will be cluttered with people lying on blankets or towels, worshipping the sun.
I stand at the water’s edge, a scarf tied tightly around my neck. The wind whips off the water, spraying my face and sending chills down my spine. I am instantly transported beyond the breakers, into a world that connects the dead with the living. I blow a kiss into the air, just as I did so long ago, and I feel the cool wind transport it beyond the horizon. And just like long ago, Grandmama appears off in the distance, riding a wave. She smiles at me with the same soft gray eyes, the same crooked smile, and this time, my mother rides right alongside her.
Marcie Ruderman’s honors include winning first place in Brooklyn Bridge magazine’s essay contest. Four of her poems and two other short stories have also been accepted for publication in literary journals. Her novel The Marginal Way and poetry book Feminine Faces are available on Amazon. Visit her website at MarcieRuderman.com.