“He who loves fifty has fifty woes…who loves none has no woe” Buddha.

“he who does not love remains in death” 1 John 3:18.

Mother, December 18, 1958

Shephard’s do not lose their sheep, ever. We do not forsake them. I am a shepherd. I know. We are all shepherds. We are all sheep.

But I did lose a sheep. I lost my mother, and that, as the poet says, “has made all the difference.”

December 18, 1958. The sunset evening was all but done; gray and drab green drear dappled the tunnel view. We stood looking out the second story window, the one on the right, not the left, the one just at the top of the curved staircase that led to the downstairs hallway. On the wall adjacent to the two front windows hung a large square mirror set in a gaudy gold frame; I think it came from Aunt Marys’ house in Charleston. It covered most of the wall, and I could see our reflected image. I still have this haunted mirror, now with a crack in it. Behind us, in the middle of the open space above the mahogany floor below, the glass cut chandelier dangled. On the far side, two-bedroom doors, the one on the left to mother and father’s corner room, the one on the right to Peter’s. Why we stood there, I do not recollect, but we did, and we watched father drive down the pea stone drive, lined with leafless elms on both sides, leading out to Sunset Ridge Road, and out into the dark unknown.

Mother stood to my right, dressed in some gauzy white-gray bed attire, hunched over a bit, because of the low ceiling or fatigue, or something else, I did not know. And I do not know why I stood next to her, on the left, I do not know the reason I was with her, then, and I still do not. But I was. And she said: “There he goes to be with her again. I am going to die tonight.”  And I said: “Go to bed mother. You are drunk.” And mother did go to bed that night. And she did die. And I do not know if she was drunk. But I do know my words were the last she ever heard, ever, and I had said them. It was I, who said them, me, only me.

Who, I wonder, was the lost sheep? Was it mother, the one whose ice bag I filled almost daily, the round rubber-gray flat bag with the round metal cap that I unscrewed, stuffing ice cubes into its dark cavity (full but not too full, not too bumpy so that it could lie flat on her forehead), and skittering back up the circular staircase, holding onto the circular banister, and into the bedroom to place it, gently, on her forehead, hoping to save her from the pain of the migraine.

The mahogany bed held up a white arched canopy secured atop four scrawled and twisted posts.  Though the bed seemed small, half again as large as a single bed, mother made it her sanctuary during these spells. With drawn shades, no red/orange warmth from the fireplace, no yellow from the frosty north windows, no lights from the lamps or music from the radio, with nothing added to nothing, the room reeked of sadness, and of sorrow. The hollowness of the lost sheep, inside and out, a void. She must have been completely empty.

Father woke me in the dark of night, half dressed and in disarray, to say he thought mother was dead. I went into her room and saw her, on her side of the bed, and yes, even at that age, I knew she was dead. She lay on her back, as white the proverbial sheets, eyes closed, still, completely still. I do not think I touched her, but I left. I may have gone to Peter’s room, next to hers; I am not sure. I do not remember shedding a tear.

The doctor arrived, the one who had come so often before (have I blanked out his name?) and arranged all the pill bottles atop mother’s light blue square dresser, so many brown bottles. He said that nothing there, individually or in combination, could have caused her death. I remember that very specifically. I wonder if he was covering up any culpability on his part; at the time, I took it as simple fact. But how, I wondered then, and every day since, did she die? How did she know she was going to die? Then, of course, there was no wondering, no questioning, no thinking, only a deeply wounded, impossibly wounded heart, an unbelievable numbness.

Later, about dawn, I remember a gathering in the downstairs hallway of Penny and Chuckie, my closest cousins, who lived nearby, just down the path that cut through the field, across Stevie Taylor’s lawn, and under the hedges into their driveway, house, and stable. With them were Uncle Chuck and Aunt Beverly, mother’s sister. Penny gave me a big hug, one that has lasted a lifetime; I have never forgotten that hug.

Odd, there was no autopsy. Very odd. The doctor said, I believe, it was heart failure. Hmmmm. Do we know when our heart is going to fail; can we predict that when we stand at a window watching our husband’s car drive down the drive? Father wasn’t going to see “the other woman,” as mother thought, at least that night (though I soon discovered there was another woman who lived in Gold Beach, Oregon), he was going to a meeting of the directors of Sunset Ridge School, my school; he was the Chairman of the Board of Directors, as I recall.

The puzzle, then: Without an autopsy, without a clear cause of death, but with the knowledge of “another woman,” how did mother commit suicide? Or, did she?

I went to see mother at the funeral home; it was someplace in Evanston, but I recall little else. I do remember leaving, walking through the door, and seeing people on the street who did not seem to know that mother, my mother, had died. I fought the urge to scream out: “Don’t you know! Don’t you know! Mother has died, mother has died.” But I remained silent, and they remained oblivious. They still are oblivious.

The service was held at the Northfield Congregational Church. I stared at the sand/pink bricks, the bleached beige pews, the azure windows dotted with crimson specks. Mostly, I stared at Mother’s coffin just to my right, and the carpet of green over it, perhaps with gardenias woven into the fabric; I am not sure. What I do remember, for sure, was that when someone rolled the casket back down the slate aisle, I sprinted after it, sobbing, reaching, until finally we arrived at the doors where Julie gathered me into her loving arms. I shall never, ever, forget that moment. Ever.—