She stood before me, a lavender paisley kerchief wrapped snugly around her head. I knew from our phone conversation just the day before that she was battling lung cancer, and her eyes lacked luster and were unfocused.
She took my hand and led me into her home; through the dimness and feeble cigarette smoke that hung heavily in the air above and around us.
“It was Mother’s Day yesterday,” she announced. “Not one of my kids dropped by. They all live in the area, but I guess they were busy with their own kids.”
She dropped my hand and turned to face me, motioning to a well worn beige recliner. I hesitated, wondering if the chair would hold my weight and whether or not I would be able to rise gracefully, or even at all, when it was time to leave.
I decided to take my chances and settled myself down carefully, holding my breath and praying the unstable old chair would not tip and toss me to the floor. She smiled at me then. “I’ll warn you, Mrs. Ouellette. That old chair is comfortable. You may not want to get up.”
I laughed at her remark and decided it might be time to break the formality.
“That’s if I can get up at all!” I said. We both laughed then, and she began to cough, lowering her head as her tiny frame shuddered. She began to gasp for breath, and I found myself quickly rising from the chair, my hands reaching out to steady her.
“I’m OK, hon.” She cleared her throat several times, before she finally settled into her chair. I eased myself back down into my seat.
“I guess we need to be careful,” I said.
She looked at me and shook her head. “Are you serious? Who can pass up a good belly laugh? I’ll gladly take the coughing fit for the chance to laugh.”
“You are absolutely right,” I agreed. “We need more laughter in this crazy world.”
We nodded at each other in agreement and I began my interview. Once the interview was finished and the paperwork was signed, I asked her if there were any other questions or concerns we needed to discuss.
“Not really,” she said. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?”
I assured her that I did indeed have time for tea and in no time, I sat dipping a Red Rose teabag in and out of a fine china cup, complete with a saucer beneath it. She placed an assortment of cookies on a small silver serving tray and I helped myself to an Oreo double stuffed. I told her I was raised on Red Rose tea, as it was my grandmother’s favorite.
“Do you have children?” she asked.
“I do, actually,” I answered. “He is five years old, 113 pounds, and stands nearly four feet high at the shoulder. His name is Barney.” I waited for her reaction.
“It must be a furry child,” she said.
“He is indeed,” I responded. “And he is quite handsome.”
She explained to me that she had three daughters and they all lived within 20 miles. She saw them rarely, even though they knew of her illness. She was not sure what had happened throughout the years, but they had drifted; busy with their own children and their own challenges. Their father was no longer in the picture. He had moved to Florida right after their divorce and she had not set eyes on him for well over 21 years.
“I hear he remarried” she said. “I can’t help but feel sorry for the poor girl who agreed to be his wife. My girls love him, though. I think they are in touch with him. I think they blame me. They know I am sick but it doesn’t matter. They didn’t even think of me on Mother’s Day. I am nothing to them. Nothing.”
I sat with her for quite a while that day; listening closely to her words and offering a nod of acknowledgement and an occasional word of encouragement. When it was time to leave, I shook her hand and then gave her a light hug. She seemed so fragile; much like the china cups we drank from.
“May I ask you a question?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said. I could see she was searching for just the right words and I could hear the hesitation in her voice.
Finally, she asked. “Do you regret not having children?”
“It was not really my choice,” I answered. “I think children and the honor of motherhood are the most precious gifts this crazy world has to offer us. I would give anything to have children. I would love to have that experience. It was not meant to be.”
“Do you think I should call my girls?” she asked.
I looked past her and into the grayness that surrounded her. The curtains were drawn and there was only one tiny lamp aglow in the living room. I knew she would retreat back into the darkness, afraid to make that call that so desperately needed to be made. It was time to put pride behind her and put her love, her loneliness, and yes; even her desperation on the line. “I would,” I said. “I definitely would.”
I did not see her again, though we spoke on the phone numerous times. Her daughters did visit her several times before her death, and I know that brought her great joy and peace. Their relationship, though not storybook perfect, was resurrected.
I will never know who reached out first, and it really is not important. What matters is that her daughters, for whatever reason, opened their hearts, along with the door, and crossed that line.
Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives in Connor with her husband, Dale, and their Goldendoodle, Barney Rubble. You may contact her online at dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
