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“Could I get a copy of that picture, just to see what she looks like?”
“No,” Clem answered, his voice firm. “I don’t got nothing.” He hung up the phone.
A week after I got the news of my mother’s death, I called my aunt Phyllis, her only sister. Clem had told me she had remarried and was living in a retirement community in Texas, just enough information for me to find her phone number. Despite Clem’s promise of the family’s anger, Phyl spoke with me for an hour and a half.
“Your mom loved you kids so much,” Phyl told me. “She loved you more than she loved herself.”
Phyl told me mom tried to reach me many times. My aunt was 73, but she too sounded younger, the Kansas accent flattening her tones. Your mother even went to your dad’s house in San Francisco to try to see you, she said. She said someone who worked for him answered the door (my mother thought it was a butler or a maid) and told my mom to never set foot in the vicinity again. Of course, this was a fantasy: my father lording over a batch of servants. Supposedly my mom called repeatedly. Phyl’s assurance made me doubt myself. Had she ever really called me? Why hadn’t I answered the phone? She went to your high school graduation, Phyl said. “You looked right at her,” she claimed. “But you wouldn’t speak to her, so she left.”
This story, at least, I had heard. When I was set to graduate from high school, I sent an invitation to my mother but didn’t receive a reply. I gave a speech, but there were hundreds in the audience, and the lights were in my eyes. My brother said later that he saw her there, phantom-like, hovering in the back. When I went to look for her, she was already gone.
My aunt said my mom wanted us to have the things my father could provide—private school, those imaginary butlers and maids—that she herself could not. And then she wanted us to make our own decisions about him. She never wanted us to hate our father the way she did.
Phyllis remembered the trip my mom and brother and I made to Kansas more than a year after the divorce. My mom hadn’t told anyone the news for many months, so it wasn’t surprising that she hadn’t spoken about her fantasies of suicide, her fears of starvation, or the way she would crack up at night. Nevertheless, my aunt said my mom was in a state of shock during the visit, withdrawn and barely speaking. I wish someone had known to help her more.
Later, Phyllis sent me a few things from my mother: two tiny paintings my mom had liked and probably picked up from the weekend garage sales she used to troll, as well as a few pictures of her in college, looking surprisingly young and pretty. She didn’t have pictures of me or my brother, save for some silhouettes she rescued from my mom’s attic. I remember these silhouettes: We had them made during a trip to Disneyland, and I find it somehow fitting that this final keepsake is but an outline.
After I got off the phone with Phyllis, I decided to call Kathy, the cousin to whom my mother was closest.
Kathy, too, told me how much my mom loved me, and said she used to have pictures of my brother and me all over the walls in her house. She said my mother told her that she had tried to be in touch with me but that I “wanted nothing to do with her.”
I think about the reasons a mother would need to believe her children betrayed her. The simplest answer is the sympathy such a story garnered, the wall of warm bodies it built around her, soothing her. Maybe she just couldn’t endure the idea that she had caused pain; there simply wasn’t room in her psyche to stand up and be accountable, as she’d been curled up in a little ball, ready for blows, for so long. And perhaps my mother needed a betrayer because she had been betrayed. Maybe the pictures on her walls weren’t really of us but of herself, the little girl she couldn’t remember. Somebody had betrayed that child. She lived through a horror that she couldn’t name because she couldn’t remember it. But she knew that she felt it, so it had to have been real. My brother and I were the people she remembered, and we had loved her and left her behind. We were the requisite beasts.
Kathy wondered out loud whether her brain cancer had been around much earlier than anybody knew, whether maybe cancer kept her from living in reality sometimes and she just learned to hide it.
Kathy described the day of my mother’s diagnosis. My mom had been to her local gym, but after her workout she just sat in a chair staring into space. The gym was closing, and an employee urged her to go home. She didn’t respond. The employee tried again; she seemed catatonic. Finally, my mother got up and walked away.
According to Kathy, Clem found her later, at home and in bed. When he walked into the bedroom, my mother started yelling: “Who are you? Get out of my house!” Clem ran for the neighbors, and she yelled at them, too. They called an ambulance, and at the hospital doctors ran scans and discovered the tumor. She later told Kathy that she didn’t remember a thing; she had no idea how she even drove home from the gym.

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