Auntie Mom

Prologue We all receive a call of some kind in our lives. Oftentimes it’s a call to adventure, though it may be disguised as an accident, a crisis, or a problem to solve. It may come in the form of an unseen event like the death of a loved one, a geographical relocation, or a financial hardship. The call may be revealed by way of a dream, a knock on the door, or an inner voice that rattles us so deeply, we need to leave our job, our spouse, or even still, our very own children. The call is oftentimes an invitation to change our current life. It will ask us to leave our comfort zone, break through our fears, doubts and resistance, to step into the great unknown. We will be expected to participate in our life in a way we have never known and could never have imagined. Auntie Mom is the story of the journey I took when I said “yes” to such a call. The call beckoned me to go back home, to return to my family during a time of crisis. It’s a tale told of a pivotal moment in time, and the forgiveness and healing that occurred when embracing the messy, complex situations we all find ourselves in when we step into the role of parent. Introduction I KNEW THINGS WERE FALLING apart, even though I lived three thousand miles away. She called me drunk late at night every once in a while. It was her way of reaching out. But I refused to take her calls. I’d been building a new life for myself over the past few years since I moved away. I had stopped drinking. I had put myself into therapy. I had even fallen in love and was happily engaged to be married again. My life finally had a soft, easeful rhythm after years of tension and struggle. I didn’t want to be pulled back into my old, messy life. Besides, how bad could things really get? One night, many years before, when we had had a few too many drinks, my sister asked me if I’d be there for her, for her kids, if anything ever happened to her. “Of course I’ll be there. You can count on me,” is what I told her. And I meant it…then. May 1996 1. The Call The scorching heat of the L.A. sun was causing a misty haze to form across the distant ocean horizon. From the top ridge of the canyon, we could hear the steady echoing hum of the freeway traffic from the valley below. Steve, my fiancé, and I were lounging by the pool, sitting side by side on white recliners under a scarlet floral sun umbrella. Steve was reading the latest baseball news in the Sunday Times. I was eating a salad, with my nose buried in a book. We had just returned from church service and planned to spend the day relaxing at home. The house phone rang. Expecting a call, Steve jumped up to grab it, quickly dashing off into the house. Moments later he reappeared in the doorway. “Sweetheart, it’s your dad,” he hollered, waving the cordless phone in the air. Strange, I thought, as I placed the book on the cushion, we just talked a few days ago. Must be important. With the salad in my hand, I walked over toward the shaded arched doorway. Smiling, Steve handed me the phone, then leaned over, gently kissing my cheek before disappearing back out into the sunlight. “Hey, Dad.” “Hi, dear. How are you?” “Good. Steve and I are hanging out by the pool. We’re waiting for the heat to cool down before we take a late afternoon hike.” I walked into the kitchen and placed the salad bowl on top of the counter as I stepped up onto the rattan barstool. “What’s going on? Is everything all right?” I asked, and then leaned over the counter, taking a bite of my salad. Dad cleared his throat. “It’s your sister.” A discomfiting silence followed. I swallowed my food, as a feeling of dread welled up inside. Dad didn’t call me often. He didn’t have to. Since I had moved to L.A. almost six years earlier, I had a ritual of calling him twice a month, usually on the weekends. But I had just spoken with him a few days earlier after Steve and I returned from our first vacation together. We had celebrated our one-year anniversary of the day we met with a ten-day romantic get-away to Jamaica. But I was alarmed because Dad’s tone was the same tone I had heard when he called to let me know my sister-in-law had been killed in a car accident a few years back. It was also the same tone he had used six months ago when he told me my sister’s boyfriend had left her and the kids. I closed my eyes, took a long deep breath, and silently told myself, Please God, let everything be okay, before I asked, “What’s going on?” “Joan’s in the hospital. She collapsed Friday at work and was taken by ambulance to the Brockton Hospital.” Dad’s voice was steady and clear. He tended to maintain a sense of calm and balance when things fell apart. “It looks like she’s had a stroke. Or at least that’s what the doctors think at this time. She’s partially paralyzed on the left side of her body.” “A stroke? Joan’s had a stroke? But she’s only twenty-nine! What do you mean she’s had a stroke?” I pressed. “I know, Laura. We’re just as baffled about this as you are. We don’t have a lot of answers right now,” was his reply. He breathed a long, heavy sigh. “I just came from the hospital. Her doctor said she might be there for some time, but we’re not sure. They don’t have a clear prognosis yet.” “Is, is she going to be okay? Where are the kids? Who’s taking care of the kids?” I slid down off the chair, walked into the living room, over to the sliding glass doors, peering onto the patio outside, searching for Steve. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I paced back and forth, gazing out the windows, while Dad explained what few details he knew. My silence was finally broken when Dad asked, “I hate to ask you this, but is there any chance you can come home and help us out? I don’t know what to do here. It doesn’t look very good.” My only sister Joan was a single mother raising three young children on her own. The two men who had fathered her three kids were absent from their lives; she was barely on speaking terms with them, if at all. She and I had never been the best of friends. Our distance had started early on in our youth. I hated my little sister “tagging” along behind me. By the time I reached my teenage years, I was clear she was an unwelcome guest in my presence. But our greatest dissonance came when I was eighteen, and she was fourteen, and she found out I had had an abortion. She took the Planned Parenthood pamphlets she found in my dresser drawer to Mom. While sitting on my bed studying for a test one night, Mom came barging into our room. As she waved the abortion pamphlets in her hand, she screamed and hollered, “Did you have an abortion? Are you pregnant?” Mom had a tendency to be overly emotional and irrational when faced with difficult situations. Though I lied and profusely denied the accusation, I felt deeply violated and betrayed by my sister. Our distance lessened somewhat when Joan became a mother. I was genuinely happy for her. She loved being a mom and took great pride in her role. She loved and doted over her kids. She hired clowns and a pony for their birthday parties, took them to the animal park regularly, and patiently read each of them their favorite bedtime stories every night. She found early on a way to share and express her love. I, on the other hand, would suffer fear and ambivalence toward motherhood for many, many years to come. But now I was being called to go back home. How could I refuse Dad’s request? Our family was in crisis. Though I was scheduled to leave for Maui the following week to attend a month-long art retreat, I couldn’t picture myself basking in the tropics while Joan and her kids’ lives were in a state of turmoil. So I rebooked my Hawaii ticket for a red-eye flight back home that night. Steve didn’t want me to go. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea, sweetheart. You know how troubling it is for you when you go back there,” he said, stroking my hair as I lay in his arms moments before we left for the airport that e