THERE ARE MANY THINGS in my life that I wish I could take back. Many moments I would recast. But the one I would change if I could change just one would not be for me but for my daughter, Maria, who came looking for her grandmother that Sunday afternoon and found her sprawled on the bedroom floor. She tried to wake her. She started screaming. She raced in and out ofthe room, torn between yelling for help and not leaving her alone. That never should have happened. She was only a kid.
I think from that point on, it was hard for me to face my daughter or my wife. I think that's why I drank so much. I think that's why I whimpered off into another life, because deep down I didn't feel that I deserved the old one anymore. I ran away. In that manner, I suppose, my father and I were sadly parallel. When, two weeks later, in the quiet of our bedroom, I confessed to Catherine where I had been, that there was no business trip, that I was playing baseball in a Pittsburgh stadium while my mother lay dying, she was more numb than anything else. She kept looking as if she wanted to say something that she never ended up saying.
In the end, her only comment was,"At this point, what does it matter?"
MY MOTHER CROSSED the small bedroom and stood by the only window. She moved the curtains aside.
"It's dark out," she said.
Behind us, at the mirror, the Italian woman looked down, fingering her papers."Mom?" I said."Do you hate her?"
She shook her head."Why should I hate her? She only wanted the same things I did. She didn't get them, either. Their marriage ended. Your father moved on. Like I said, he had a knack for that."
She grabbed her elbows, as if she were cold. The woman at the mirror put her face in her hands. She let out a small sob.
"Secrets, Charley," my mother whispered."They'll tear you apart."
We all three hung there silently for a minute, each in our own world. Then my mother turned to me.
"You have to go now," she said.
"Go?" My voice choked."Where? Why?"
"But Charley..." She took my hands."I want to ask you something first." Her eyes were wet with tears."Why do you want to die?"
I shivered. For a second I couldn't breathe."You knew ... ?"
She gave a sad smile."I'm your mother."
My body convulsed. I spit out a gush of air. "Mom, I'm not who you think... I messed things up. I drank. I blew everything. I lost my family..."
"No, Charley—"
"Yes, yes, I did." My voice was shaking."I fell apart, Catherine's gone, Mom. I drove her away.... Maria, I'm not even in her life ... she's married... I wasn't even there... I'm an outsider now... I'm an outsider to everything I loved"
My chest was heaving. "And you... that last day I never should have left you... I could never tell you ..."
My head lowered in shame. " ... how sorry... how I'm so ... so ..."
That was all I got out. I fell to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, emptying myself, wailing. The room shrunk to a heat behind my eyes. I don't know how long I was like that. When I found my voice, it was barely a rasp.
"I wanted it to stop, Mom... this anger, this guilt. That's why... I wanted to die ..." I lifted my eyes, and, for the first time, admitted the truth.
"I gave up," I whispered.
"Don't give up," she whispered back.
I buried my head then. I am not ashamed to say it. I buried my head in my mother's arms and her hands cradled my neck. We held each other like that, just briefly. But I cannot put into words the comfort I drew from that moment. I can only say that, as I speak to you now, I still yearn for it.
"I wasn't there when you died, Mom."
"You had something to do."
"I lied. It was the worst lie I ever told It wasn't work. I went to play in a game... a stupid game I was so desperate to please—"
"Your father."
She nodded gently.
And I realized she had known all along.
Across the room, the Italian woman pulled her bathrobe tighter. She clasped her hands as if in prayer. Such a strange trio we made, each of us, at some point, longing to be loved by the same man. I could still hear his words, forcing my decision: mama's boy or daddy's boy, Chick? What's it gonna be?
"I made the wrong choice," I whispered. My mother shook her head.
"A child should never have to choose."
THE ITALIAN WOMAN stood up now. She wiped her eyes and collected herself. She placed her fingers on the edge of the dressing table and pushed two items close together. My mother motioned me forward until I could see what she had been looking at. One was a photo of a young man in a graduation, I can assume it was her son. The other was my baseball card. She flicked her eyes up to the mirror and caught our reflections, the three of us, framed like a bizarre family portrait. For the first and only moment, I was certain she saw me.
"Perdonare," the woman mumbled. And everything around us disappeared.
Chick Finishes His Story
HAVE YOU EVER ISOLATED your earliest childhood memory? Mine is when I was three years old. It was summer. A carnival in the park near our house. There were balloons and cotton candy stands. A bunch of guys who had just finished a tug-of-war were lined up at the water fountain.
I must have been thirsty, because my mother lifted me by my armpits and carried me to the front of that line. And I remember how she cut in front of those sweaty, shirtless men, how she squeezed one arm tight around my chest and used her free hand to turn the handle. She whispered in my ear,"Drink the water, Charley," and I bent forward, my feet dangling above the ground, and I slurped it up, and all those men just waited for us to finish. I can still feel her arm around me. I can still see the bubbling water. That is my earliest memory, mother and son, a world unto ourselves.
Now, at the end of this last day together, the same thing was happening. My body felt broken. I could barely make it move. But her arm went across my chest and I sensed her carrying me once more, air passing over my face. I saw only darkness, as if we were traveling behind the length of the curtain. Then the dark pulled away and there were stars. Thousands of them. She was laying me down in wet grass, returning my ruined soul to this world.
"Mom ..." My throat was raw. I had to swallow between words. "That woman ... ? What was she saying?"
She gently lowered my shoulders. "Forgive.""Forgive her? Dad?"
My head touched the earth. I felt moist blood trickling down my temples. "Yourself," she said.
My body was locking up. I couldn't move my arms or legs. I was slipping away. How much time did I have left?
"Yes," I rasped.
She looked confused.
"Yes, you were a good mother."
She touched her mouth to hide a grin, and she seemed to fill to bursting. "Live," she said.
"No, wait—"
"I love you, Charley."
She waved her fingertips. I was crying. "I'll lose you ..."
Her face seemed to float over mine.
"You can't lose your mother, Charley. I'm right here." Then a huge flash oflight obliterated he image. "CHARLES BENETTO. CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
I felt a tingling in my limbs.
"WE'RE GOING TO MOVE YOU NOW." I wanted to pull her back.
"ARE YOU WITH US, CHARLES?"
"Me and my mother," I mumbled.
I felt a soft kiss on my forehead.
"My mother and I," she corrected. And she was gone.