FRIENDLY SHADOWS

Sometime during the night, I vaguely remember opening my eyes, and
hazily, through the cobwebs of deep slumber, I?saw two somber-faced men in white clothing maneuvering a stretcher down the hall. They were slowed
imperceptibly by the weight of the slight, motionless form draped in crisp cotton. My father was numbly following the surrealistic procession with slow, halting steps, his hair disheveled from sleep, his eyes open but unseeing. I noted that his skin tone blended eerily with his pale-blue cotton bathrobe, but before I was able to discern between reality and dreamland, I spiraled back into a deep, but
disturbed slumber.

•  —  •  —  •

My mother and I were never very close. She was often sick, and when she did feel well, she was dedicated to her role as den mother for Mike’s boy scout troop, and was trying her best to catch up on all the things she had not been able to accomplish during her latest excruciating headache. Mom was artistic as well as creative. Once she made a little village on a piece of plywood using cotton for snow and made little painted popsicle-stick cabins. She created small people out of pipe cleaners and used styrofoam to fashion their tiny heads. Mike’s school project was a hit—thanks to her efforts.

Each day she combed and braided my long hair, and on some days we wore look-a-like dresses that she had sewn herself. The dresses were sleeveless, made of tangerine-colored cotton, with white zig-zag trim around the hem and neck. (I really hated those dresses.)

Mom used to make us tapioca pudding. We’d sprinkle sugar over the top, drizzle it with milk, and eat it while it was still warm and skin was forming on top. That was heaven on earth for me and I loved feeling
nurtured by her like that.

I was an introverted young girl and terrified of people in general. I always worked alone on my school projects and didn’t particularly feel the need to be extremely close to anyone except little Pat. The only times that I can remember my mother actually showing me affection was when other people were around. She was a good mother, who truly loved her children, but pain unmercifully depleted her energy, and she could only give us what was left over. By the time I was ten, I was fairly detached from the mother-daughter bond.

It wasn’t until more than thirty years later that I would discover the
primary cause of Mom’s emotional distance to me and the inner pain that she had carried, unspoken, to her grave.

•  —  •  —  •

I woke that Monday morning after our special day in San Francisco, with an urgent need to see my mom. Patrick was still in my bed, just beginning to wrestle his way out of sleep. I quietly walked into her bedroom and saw only the subtle indentation that indicated where she had last lain. I knew in that instant that she was dead— my disturbing dream had been reality.

I walked down the hall on my way to the kitchen, watching my feet make each step, looking at them as if I had never seen them move before. It was something to think about, something that was simple and real. Gram was cooking breakfast and I could s