Mandy Fessenden Brauer
Maternal Narrative: Theory and Representation
10 January 2018 revised April 2018
A Cold Death:
Storying Loss and Writing Toward Forgiveness
“Good morning, sis. Are you sitting down?”
“You know I’m not. The phone is hanging on the kitchen wall. Besides which, we were all raised with the egg-timer limit of three minutes for what dad called ‘the rudest instrument in the world’ and I have stuck to that through the years . . . Has something happened to dad?”
“It’s mother.”
“You mean dad.” Our father had just had massive throat surgery for cancer less than two weeks before.
“No, I mean mother. She died.”
“What?” Incredulity laced my response.
“They think she killed herself.”
“Oh, how horrible. Poor dad, alone in that god-forsaken place in nowhere Maine.”
I wished there was somewhere to sit as I began to absorb the news, but no chair or stool was nearby.
“What are the plans? Are you there?”
“Of course not. Just heard about this myself. Will be driving up tonight after work. A neighbor agreed to stay with dad until I arrive.”
“What about arrangements and all that sort of stuff?“
“I’ll know more after I get there. There needs to be an autopsy since mother died unattended. That will take awhile. Come quickly. We’ll make the arrangements together.”
And so, at last, our mother had succeeded doing what she had tried so many times before. I wasn’t sure what I felt. For some reason I wanted to laugh, so I did, all alone in that bleak kitchen. However, there was nothing remotely humorous about the situation.
My life at the time was falling apart: My second husband had recently said he wanted to sleep with anyone and everyone: I had just given notice at a job I hated and I had two young children (who, fortunately, could stay with friends while I was gone). Aside from how I felt, the idea buying a ticket from California to Maine was a real stretch financially and would necessitate putting the charge on a credit card, something I hated to do.
The trip across the country was, and remains, a blur. I had shed only a few tears for my mother, someone with whom I had had a problematic relationship as long as I could remember. My brilliant, witty, terribly unhappy mother had become a raging alcoholic, in addition to being abusive verbally and physically. She also staged constant fights with those she thought of as friends. Before the move to Maine, she’d had no one in her life except my father and the Episcopalian minister, who was her drinking buddy.
No matter how hard I tried to deny them, the death of my mother evoked certain feelings. I moved from being shocked to saddened, from angry to disgusted, and then, to feeling relieved.
Years later I wrote poems about my mother that I shared with no one. I now wonder if they were written in an effort to come to terms with the reality of this person who was both a woman and my mother. My image of motherhood was confused and laced with disgust. As I reread them, I note the absence of this sense of relief. I can only guess that maybe the thought of relief consumed me with an unrelenting guilt that I had no option but to bury. [BAM1.1]
A Portrait of Motherhood[BAM2.1]
Craziness spilled like a pitcher of water-
bits of broken glass glistened, sparking escape;
to follow became not a game, but necessity-
soaking into image of motherhood,
where safety’s not found in insanity
nor comfort in chaos.
To be touched became a constant threat
like a herd of sheared sheep hurrying forward,
pink trim of their cut coats nakedly pristine,
the serenity of pastoral scene deceptive:
peaceful, cloud strewn sky harmonizing with
towering dark mountainside merging into
miniature animals magnified into momentary
annihilation under hurtling, hurting hooves.
Bedtime was another very different painting,
a strangely subtle, secret nocturnal battlefield
where perceptions of unknown intentions
lacked a clarity discomforting, as grin sneered
into grim, with condemnation commonplace,
as smeared smile slid into startling sadness
when that tearful woman bent into a pitiful creature,
whiskey-saturated, smoky breath bleating
what she needed, or thought she did, to think
about giving that which could only be imagined.
It was late February when my mother died. The year was 1973. There were no cell phones, no easy ways to reach anyone. From Logan, I took a bus to Portland where my brother picked me up in his souped-up Chevy. He was his usual efficient, grim self: “Tomorrow we meet the funeral director. He will tell us the various arrangements we can make. Dad is okay, kind of in neutral gear as always. He can’t speak because of the surgery so he writes little notes. I can’t read his horrible handwriting most of the time. Never could. I don’t know how he feels, but never did. Mother always yelled enough for both of them. Dad never expressed his feelings. Loss of his vocal chords will not be any great loss for him,” he chuckled and I sadly agreed. As vividly as it was lived, I could recall the goodnight ordeal characterized by my mother’s biting tongue and my father’s dispassionate silence punctuated by infrequent utterances.
Childhood Help (excerpt)
. . . at other times she would grimace and contort her bright painted mouth
just as she would twist small limbs into unnatural positions
pain and powerlessness feeding fear.
She seemed to relish screams and protests,
Which poured forth as my father looked on dispassionately.
“That’s my child, defend yourself with words
because it’s your only weapon, you puny little
excuse for progeny,” laughed the distorted red lips.
“She’d make a good lawyer,” my father proclaimed proudly,
as I writhed and fought to escape
the nightly nightmare of saying good-night to parents. . .
I returned myself to the present scene in Maine. “How’re your wife and kids . . . and the job?” I asked my brother.
“Same as always. Sue runs everything and that includes the kids. She’s a good woman, too good for me. The job is the same old, same old, no matter who’s in charge. Never should have become a banker. For a while it was okay. This merger business, though, is destroying me. I hate going to work now. Dad’s okay, the same as always. A visiting nurse comes to the house to change his dressings. Now we have to deal with mother’s demise.” He laughed as he said ‘demise,perhaps because it was not part of his usual vocabulary.
The next morning we drove the short distance into town to go to the funeral home. The streets were empty, partly because Kennebunkport had not yet been discovered-as it would with the Bushes-and partly, of course, because it was still winter and there was snow on the ground and icy patches on the streets.
We had summered every year for as long as I could remember in this area, famous as the setting for some of Booth Tarkington’s novels, and for an old ornate home called “The Wedding Cake House.” For me, the most delightful thing of all was going to the bathroom in one of the small restaurants built over the inlet, a shack really, where you could hear your production plop into the water below.
The McMaster Funeral Parlor was a three story Victorian home with two imposing oak trees in the front yard. It had been a long-standing custom in New England, for a husband and bride to plant two trees when they built or bought a home. The enormous trees were a reminder of this custom. My brother and I walked up the curving driveway and climbed the massive granite steps.
Before we could ring the ship’s brass bell that was hanging by the door, a middle-aged man wearing a black, three-piece suit stepped outside and greeted us. “You must be the family of the deceased,” he said very somberly. “I am James McMaster, funeral director. I believe I talked to you,” glancing at my brother, “on the phone yesterday. May I ask how you heard about me?”
“The police recommended you,” my brother responded.
Police? This was the first I’d heard about their involvement. That was something I would definitely ask about later but then, an unattended death, even in this god-forsaken place, probably prompted their involvement.
“Aye-up. Coffee or tea for either of you? I know you probably don’t have much of an appetite right now but Mrs. McMaster can brew up a great cup of Folgers best. She also makes delicious lemon cake, if I do say so myself. I’ll have her slice some. Even if you don’t want any, I do. Meanwhile, why don’t you two come into my parlor and sit.” With this invitation, he smiled.
I looked around the room and noticed the incredible carved wood framing the entryways and the shining silver doorknobs and hinges.
“Aye-up, right you are. They are indeed sterling silver. The place was built in the late 1860s by one of those robber barons. Made his fortune in lumber. Many fortunes were made in this part of the world. People don’t remember that these days. Think fortunes are only made out West with the oil boom. When my father bought this place, he saw immediately through the decay and tarnish that had taken over the place. As a kid, I had to remove all the hinges and window openings and then polish ‘em until I could see my face, like mirrors they had to be. Now of course, we have someone who comes in and does that hard work. Ah, here’s the coffee and the cake. Enjoy. Then let’s talk about the deceased. Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Well, as I always tell people, it’s proper to consider her wishes. Do you know what she’d have wanted?”
My brother and I exchanged a knowing look, each of us remembering dozens of family discussions about how death was the end and how nothing fancy should be done. In fact, returning home from funerals our parents would criticize how much money had been spent on a casket that would eventually rot. Then they would reiterate what a horrible thing it was, the way funeral directors took advantage of people’s grief, selling them the most expensive caskets which were a waste of money.
“Our parents were very frugal when it came to their wishes about such matters. Everything simple: a plain pine box, no embalming, cremation and then a hole in the ground.”
“Well, that’s sure simple. The police probably told you it was a suicide. There were enough pills in her to finish an elephant. Seems to be what she wanted. Sure is a sad thing to have to live with. My condolences. But since it’s illegal in the State of Maine, don’t worry; it’ll be ruled a heart attack. Here, another slice of the cake? Not from a cake mix or the store either. Aye-up, the genuine thing.”
“Why is it illegal?” I asked.
“The church, young lady. In fact, no one who commits suicide can be buried in consecrated land. That’s why you will see graves just outside the cemetery walls. You wouldn’t want your mother out there, would you[MaP3.1]?”
***
In a sad little Episcopalian church, a minister, who had never met our mother, kept talking about “this wonderful lady who was now in the arms of the Lord.” All I remember is how cold it was in that church and how our mother would have criticized the service in her witty, sarcastic way. She would have probably, also, made some mention of the Anglicans not having much influence in an area where many had been viewed as traitors during the Revolutionary War. To New Englanders that war was not in some distant past, but still influencing the nation.
I remained in Maine for a while after the funeral. My brother returned to his normal life and my father was speechless and busy with his two hounds and crossword puzzles. One day, I decided to call the local police to see what more I could find out about our mother’s death.
“So glad you called,” said the man who answered the telephone. “Please come to see me as quickly as you can. I really want to talk with you. I’m Chief Gordon.”
I asked directions to the police station, which was in Cape Porpoise, a nearby town. I bumped along a road with patches of frozen snow and some very slick ice, then pulled into the parking lot and walked to the front of a surprisingly large building.
I opened the door and was met by a huge man in a leather and fur jacket, his somewhat flabby face tense with anger. “These god-damned prisoners want blankets!” he proclaimed, his frigid breath sending up little visible puffs in the freezing room.
“Well, it is very cold in here,” I said. “I can understand their wants.”
“What are you, some sort of flaming liberal who feels prisoners deserve the Hilton treatment?”
“No. It is just very cold and I am not accustomed to it. I’d want a blanket if I had to be here.”
“That’s right. I forgot. You are the daughter that lives in Califor-ni- ay, right? Probably hang out with those god-damned-hippy Hollywood types. Anyway, I do want to talk to you. Come into my office.”
I followed this enormous man away from the jailed inmates and sat in a typically uncomfortable cracked plastic chair while he sat in an ergonomically designed black leather desk chair. He stared at me, then began to speak: “There is nothing we can prove, I want to assure you. But me and the others think your father murdered your mother and we wanted to warn you. You’re alone there and, I don’t know, you might just remind him enough of your mother that he would turn on you. You get what I am saying, don’t you?”
To say I was shocked would be a gross understatement. My father was Mr. Meek, the most passive man alive. I once wrote a poem that said he had died before I was born, only he hadn’t. It had just seemed that way growing up.
“What makes you think that?” I asked, trying to sound calm.
With that Chief Gordon pulled out a stack of notes, all written on the same small pad. Even from a distance, I could recognize my father’s handwriting. “Just look at these. This one says, ‘If you do that the kids will think you were crazy.’ Or “Okay, if you really want to do it no one can stop you. It’s your life.” Or this: ‘Now just go to bed and sleep it off.’”
There were others, all in a similar vein. I could see how this one-sided, strange conversation gave the impression that my father had, if not encouraged, at least not discouraged our mother’s final escape.
The police had no awareness of her multiple suicide attempts so I filled him in. He added something that I found more complicated to explain though, that my mother had been dead for a few days before anyone found her. I had to explain that our father couldn’t speak or use the telephone, nor could he go outside because he had to keep warm after his very recent extensive surgery for throat cancer. It was only when a neighbor noticed that no one had picked up the newspapers for three days that the police were alerted. Having interviewed my father, what did Chief Gordon not understand?
“It was not a good sign, not a good sign at all,” Chief Gordon reiterated, “that poor woman lay in that house dead for so long.”
“But I explained why,” I said.
“No explanation is sufficient. Don’t you see that? As I tried to warn you, you must be very careful, very careful indeed, because I, for one, don’t want another murder on my watch.”
I knew, unfortunately, what he meant by ‘another’ but saw there was no point in arguing.
As Chief Gordon walks me to the door, he grumbles again about the god-damn prisoners thinking this was the Red Cross and if he gave them blankets, there’d be no saying what they would want next.
It has been years, decades, since this happened.
I Wish I Could Forgive Her
Even after
all these years
I can still hear her
strident, biting voice perfectly enunciating
every tainted syllable spewing forth
from her smoke-ruined voice,
a ruptured septic line.
I think of her
grey, spikey, unkempt hair
and her exquisitely aquiline nose
almost hidden
by her thick, black eyebrows
framing melancholic, shifty eyes,
magnifying fear and turmoil,
ideas
thrown around
like balloons . . .
some floating away
others
bursting into self-destruction,
into the oblivion of annihilation
Panic frightened into silence.
So many nightmares
entertained sleep
they were routine
and indistinguishable from day.
Still, I can walk by the river where she made books alive
and recall the wonder of those unknown worlds
where
adults loved children unconditionally
and happy endings prevailed.
Time plays games with the mind, of course.
But why do I remember so much pain and disgust
I want to forget?
Am I forever doomed to eulogize in anger[BAM4.1]?
Why can’t I forgive an act brought on by such misery
and break these bonds?
Perhaps reluctance is fueled by a knowledge that
forgiveness might be synonymous with good-bye.
It has taken years for me to come to terms with my mother’s suicide; and, it has taken many years to try to come to terms with my relationship with my mother, that very unhappy woman who committed suicide after numerous attempts.
Maybe the years have mellowed me because I now see my mother with more understanding, more compassion. She undoubtedly did the best she could. Her own mother died in childbirth before she reached adolescence. She did not have role models to show her how to be a lovingly, consistent mother; a mother who could guide and not criticize; who could hug and not just hit. She gave as much as she could and what she couldn’t, she didn’t. Part of me wishes I could mother her, surround her with the sort of love all children need and heal the emotional scars that plagued her.
I suppose we all do the best we can under the circumstances, whatever those may be. My mother was clearly severely depressed. She was even hospitalized from time to time, although the stated reason was either “for a rest” or later, “because of a drinking problem.” I, too, suffered through many years of major depression and therapy but, fortunately, I never engaged the cycle of destruction that claimed my mother.
A Story within the Story[BAM5.1]
When I was sixty, the same age as my mother at the time of her death, my beloved son died in a plane crash. Suicide seemed like a viable option. Family and friends were there for me. An old Siamese cat stayed with me continually as I lay in bed and mourned inconsolably. She kept me alive and I still think of that cat as an attentive caregiver, as a mother of sorts.
Dancing on the Moon (excerpt)
. . . my father was hospitalized, struggling for breath,
after I’d smuggled one of those small furry creatures
into my bed one night.
“You’ll be the death of him yet,”
said the woman in the kitchen with her usual acerbity.
It was her normal approach to life
to see the worst, then with poisonous power,
to eviscerate—
with words pressed together like bodies
at the prom,
Perhaps more reminiscent of a masquerade ball
with unknown dancers menacing
behind a series of masks
while the music played on.
Revisiting the poetry I’ve written over the years about my mother forced me to acknowledge that in many ways I had become very much like her. The act of writing this chapter has helped me not only to better understand and work to forgive my mother, but also represents an attempt to initiate the process of understanding and forgiving myself. I, like my mother, also spent many years making momentous mistakes, which continue to plague my daughter. In spite of our distant relationship, I am proud of the wife, mother, and teacher that she has become.
Green Robe (excerpt)
. . . How do I explain all this
to a young woman who probably will
never understand her mother. . .
Choices (excerpt)
. . . such matters require choices
and she disapproves of the ones I made. . .
I tell others that I chose life. And writing for and about children to honour my son’s memory . I see now that I am also honouring my mother. I think she would be proud of me. Today, when I tell others that being alive is a privilege, I am saddened that she is not here.
Survival is a choice.
Mothering is a complex job, one that I was not prepared for having grown up in such a dysfunctional home with a mother that I considered to be less than a loving and caring role model. Today, I am doing my best to accept that my mother truly did give me all she could. She taught me to love words and how to craft them into stories and poems.
Listen
She taught me to write.
The only attention
I can remember fondly is
her reading aloud to me
when I was small.
At least she read
about a gentle world
although she
never knew one.
When I had to write
for school she said,
“Worry about spelling
and punctuation later.
Just let it out and
don’t stop until you
are finished.”
After that she added,
“Now consider clarity.
But always remember:
listen to the sounds,
hear their beauty.”
For that alone
I can now
love my mother.
Even though she’s gone,
I still write,
then read aloud to her.
Just let it out and
don’t stop until you
are finished.”