Second Child

“Carol’s like me,” my Mom proclaimed one Easter as we sat at a glorified diner where candidates often came to meet and greet: it was called an ‘Inn’ and it had a banquet room downstairs. I couldn’t imagine holding any kind of festivity there, but after my Dad died, my Mom seemed determined to make good on her desire not to cook holiday meals. This depressed me. Losing my Dad in a horrific accident when I was 29 devastated me; Mom’s hometown that she returned to like a fledgling depressed me enormously; I dreaded going there even when I was a child. There were very few people on the streets; there were one or two actual restaurants in town. I was used to big Italian dinners, with my Dad at the head of the table, holding court, after having made magnificent manicotti, light as a feather. He would tell stories about his youth and we would sit at the table for hours, refilling our glasses of Lacryma Christi: it was home. Now we were at a diner on the outskirts of a town known for two things: a steel mill, and a university.

Back to Mom’s theme, which she was free to indulge now that Dad was gone. “Carol’s like me” was code for: Carol is the good child, Karen is like her Father, which carried heavy baggage — he had lovers, he cheated, he swore, he drank too much, he caused me pain. I heard it as, ‘I renounce her and her blonde hair and all that I associate with her, factual or not.’ I was hoping she wouldn’t make the predictable segue into, “when they brought her to me in the hospital, I said, ‘this is not my baby! This can’t be my child.’” My hair was platinum blonde and Mom’s was black. Carol’s was almost black. Aside from that, I was unexpected, coming along seven years after my sister. “The doctor said to me, ‘Get off the table, Mommy, you’re pregnant.’” ‘But I don’t want this baby!’ Mom replied.

I had traveled for two hours to be with my family for Easter, and I had a long trip back awaiting me, because I would have to deal with the Lincoln Tunnel snarl on my return. No one spoke in response to Mom’s statement, but the silence was weighty. There were 7 adults at the table. On this occasion, it upset me more than usual. I went to the ladies’ room, looked in the mirror and thought, “What if I just head out the door, get in my car, and leave?” I imagined myself doing it. But I knew the backlash would be unbearable. I went back to the table, and ate in silence.

My Mom went through life threatening health issues in her later years: open heart surgery, weeks in the cardiac ICU; years later, cancer. (Her oncologist said, “She lived long enough to get something worse.”) During the heart surgery and long recovery, my sister and I took turns staying in Bethlehem. At the end we both stayed there. One Holy Thursday evening after a hospital visit, my sister and I went back to the house. I made dinner and told Carol that I wanted to go to church for the Adoration of the Holy Sacrament. When we were young, we would go with my godparents to seven churches, but one parish tonight would be enough, I felt that the ritual was among the most meaningful that our faith offered. Silence. Meditation. As the Lord prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane, knowing what was to come.

Carol didn’t want to go. I told her I would take her Mercedes and go alone. So she relented, and we went to the church, where the silent service was held in the basement! The Sacrament was displayed, and we sat on folding chairs or knelt on the cold, hard floor. I had never been to a vigil so stark. Bethlehem! I prayed, I begged. The next day my sister left for a few days and I went to visit my Mom at night: I tried to hold her hand, but it was bruised and she pushed my hand away. Her heart surgeon passed by while I sat there. “That’s all you can do,” he said. “Pray.” I stayed in Bethlehem for the whole weekend, and left late Saturday after another visit, because I knew the rest of the family would be there on Sunday. Reportedly, my Mother was awake then and seemed to be doing a little better. They had given her letter cards to hold up because she had a breathing tube. She held up the card with “K” on it. My sister told her I went back to New York. “Did you tell her that I was with her last night?” I asked. “No,” Carol said. I was anguished.

I went to Easter Mass in New York that Sunday; my chosen parish was St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and my favorite priest was saying the Mass; I knew him from another church. The cathedral was packed; I wept through most of the service. After the final blessing, the priest walked down the aisle, opened the massive doors of the church, and stood outside greeting people. He had never done this before. I was wearing a plum colored dress. I said, “That was beautiful, Father.” He opened his arms to me and hugged me tight.

That’s how this part of the story ends.

Karen Bennett