Grace a Short Story by Amy Martin
Grace
I held the treasure that had fallen from the pages of a long-abandoned sketch book and stared at a forgotten version of myself. In the photograph my hair was fluffy in a cotton candy type of way that not even Aqua Net could tame, puffing angelically around the birthday crown that I proudly wore. My tear streaked face contrasted nicely with my toothy grin, a metaphor of my childhood. The tampon hanging out of my nose to stop the bleeding was decorating my face like a badge of honor, while my mother stood in the background with a look of horror on her face. I stared at the picture held delicately in my hands, my only souvenir from that birthday party. I turned it over, Marie’s 9th Birthday 1944, was scripted in pencil with my mother’s perfect handwriting. I stared at my hand holding the photo, wrinkled and producing the same map of veins that graced my mother’s hands before her death. It sobered me to realize that my mother died at the age of 44, the same age that I am today. Twenty-three years ago, dad and I had stood silently staring at her freshly dug grave. I had contemplated going to the cemetery today, but instead I wanted to remember and sketch from the orchard.
The yard was strung with banners and birthday balloons. Girls with pinafores and matching frocks, ankle socks and beaming smiles were a flock of starlings performing in an effortless murmuration around the lawn with synchronized precision. One odd duckling happily toddled around the others. It was me. I was the duck. In my mind’s eye, my nine-year old self emerged from the vault of memories locked deep within my brain. Shaggy bangs blew in the wind, glasses toddled on the end of my nose, my birthday crown at a lopsided angle…I was so happy. That was before I hydroplaned on a tootsie roll and did a triple toe lutz down the steps. Olympic gold was not in my future as I not only botched the landing but broke my nose. There was one photo snapped of me that day, right before I was whisked off to the emergency room. Tear streaked and eyes swollen as my friends sang happy birthday, I knew that once again, I had disappointed my mother.
My mother was born in a time when she was raised to believe in God, America and the art of landing a husband. Mother was not all beauty, as she was also the valedictorian of her class and the first woman to hold that honor in the history of North Star High School. It was with great gusto and theatrics that she would recite her graduation speech, clouds of flour creating a halo around her head as she performed for me. Standing in the kitchen with her wooden spoon floating through the air as she punctuated each syllable. “A woman’s worth transcends beauty. But her intelligence, compassion and drive can make the world around her more beautiful.” I drank in her words with the same reverence I had for life-sustaining air, trying to be a good understudy. My pudgy fingers squished into the intricate lace designs on the top of the pie that mother had artfully sculpted with a fork as I tried to memorize the words that might magically transform me into something beautiful...like pie.
Mother was a wise old peacock, strutting proudly, graciously sharing her beauty with the world. I, on the other hand, was a straggly chicken at best. A scrappy child with thin, sharp wings for shoulder blades. It was hard to imagine that we were from the same family, let alone the same genus or species. As I grew uglier, mother worried about my future-prospects, my ability to attract a man and my ultimate happiness in life.
Determined that I would not live up to her fears, my mother started my etiquette lessons promptly after the cake was cleaned up and the decorations taken down on my 9th birthday. She would harp on me to take smaller bites and watch my figure. Standing with my arms out, trying to suck my stomach into my spine, I endured the weekly measurements. “Tsk,” the sound would escape from my mother’s mouth before she could contain it. She tried hard to never pucker her mouth, as it created unwanted creases and wrinkles on her perfect canvas. I stared at my small hands, trying to envision the blood pumping through my veins and the ligaments connecting my bones in perfect harmony, allowing my brain to puppet master my mannequin form. With such a flawed and imperfect outer shell, it gave me comfort to imagine that I was perfect and functioning under the surface.
I leaned against the apple tree, allowing its strength to support my no longer adolescent frame. This orchard was a Pandora’s Box of complicated memories. I shifted to balance the lapboard across my knees. Vine charcoal in hand, I leaned back to observe the field of bison grazing in the pasture below. Even in 1979, the silence was still peaceful beneath this tree.
This was the one place where silence was not awkward in my childhood. Buffalo are an easy subject matter to sketch, as their movements are slow and ambling. Giant statues in the field, lazily grazing under the summer sky. Occasionally, one would swish a fly away with its tail and an agitated kick. I loved the juxtaposition of the beasts’ raw strength and grace. I spent hours trying to capture their ragged fur masks framing their oddly delicate faces. Eyes small and confident, horns placed like royal tiaras, hump accentuating their small waist and sleek powerful legs. Somehow this unsightly beast managed to live with both acceptance and self-confidence— something I had never mastered.
Sipping sweet tea and munching on Ritz crackers my mother and I would quietly and contentedly sit and sketch away the summer afternoons. I can still smell the lavender mixed with buffalo that created an odd potpourri, like mother and I, as we learned to co-existed in the orchard. She helped me blend colors and follow contour lines around the meadow with my pencil. And in those moments, in those lessons, I hoped that I was not just a beast full of flaws in her eyes.
I remember looking at my mother. A soft breeze blew a curl across my forehead, and as I distractedly pushed it away, I created a smudge that connected my eyebrows in a way that would make Frieda Kahlo proud. I wanted to tell mother how beautiful she was and how sorry that I was that I would never live up to her legacy. She caught me looking at her from the corner of her eye and gave me a rare and authentic smile. Mother licked her thumb and tried to scrub the charcoal off my brow. “I love how the baby is sheltered behind the mother in your drawing. Your composition is very strong.” My heart burst with joy at the rare compliment. When mother was completely at ease, she would happily sing and sketch. Her voice was quiet and surprisingly mild as she sang her favorite hymn and let the words of John Newton soothe her soul:
Amazing Grace, How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found
T’was blind but now I see
There were moments where this grove could transform my mother into being beautiful on the inside and the outside, truly the fairest in the land. These were the moments where we were able to find the beauty in beasts, both human and bison.
As I concentrated on connecting my eye and hand as they traced the contours of the buffalo in the field, I flexed to relieve the stiffness in my fingers. The faint ache of arthritis sometimes settled into my joints, reminding me that I am older than I feel. I’m still trying to find a connection with my long dead mother, a woman that I loved and despised and loved again in a never-ending cycle that we tried so hard to work our way out of. The tension continued as I struggled through my memories, willing myself to remember… I struggled to remember with grace as I tried to wash the aftertaste of a bittersweet childhood down with sweet tea and salty Ritz crackers.
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Cooking was one of the areas of concentration in my mother’s refinement curriculum. We made pies. Lots of pies. Meat pies, fruit pies, nut pies and custard pies were all ways to a man’s heart. As I worked to perfect my ability to peel an apple and land a husband, I could not help but feel resentment. “You know, there are many people in this world, and you need to stand out and be heard. It is easier if you are presentable.” Mother harped as she rolled the pie dough onto the glass cutting board. Everything she did was calculated; her measurements, temperature readings and cold words. I angrily cracked an egg against the hard edge of a ceramic bowl, weaponizing my culinary skills. Instead of pulling the shells apart I squeezed until the egg gave a satisfying plop before launching through the shell and landing on the ceiling. With a soft thud the yolk missile stuck and the dripped in slow motion from the ceiling on to the ceramic tile of mother’s clean floor. With squinted eyes I glared at her, silently daring her to yell. Mother sensed she had pushed me too far and refused to engage in a scrappy chef-style-chicken-fight. This was unladylike. Instead, she threw a dish towel at me and said, “Since you are not athletic, intelligent or beautiful, we need to make sure you are strong in the kitchen. You know, when I was your age, I was both beautiful and talented.” I slumped down on the hard, oak chair at the dining room table, stirring my iced tea and wondering if mother could still pull off perfection dripping wet. I thought about my gifts and talents. I was outgoing and likeable. Except in my own house. Then I metamorphosized into the Quasimodo that mother had projected on me. I hated how inadequate and ugly I felt around her. I hated that I was never good enough. I was quiet and sullen around her, as it was easier to be quiet than not enough.
I smudged the charcoal on the paper with my finger, trying to blend the shadows toward the highlights and give my drawing dimension. I tilted my head so that I could see more clearly through my bi-focal lenses. As I cross-hatched a bison standing in the foreground of my composition, what I assumed to be her calf ran across the field toward her. The mother was intent on her grazing and did not want to be bothered by the antics of the young calf. Clearly irritated, the mother threw her head into the air and kicked at the calf. Bawling and yipping across the field, the calf limped and cowered behind a small grove of trees at the edge of the field. Unfazed by the bawling of the young bison, the mother turned and continued to graze. As I blended the charcoal hues into the textured surface of the paper, I could not help but wonder if there is a species where a mother’s maternal instincts come naturally.
As a young teenager, I was surrounded by friends and laughter. That feeling of love and acceptance faded though as I crossed the threshold to my own home. I bounded through the door, breathless as my poodle skirt flounced and my kitten heels crisply tapped on the kitchen linoleum. The smile faded from my lips as my mother’s voice sucked the happiness out of my soul. “Where have you been young lady,” my mother waved that damn wooden spoon around. I twirled my finger through my bouffant, catching a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the window. I had finally learned to backcomb my fluffy cloud into some semblance of a hairstyle. I looked her straight in the eye and said, “Do you want me to tell you what you want to hear, or do you want to know the truth?” I had been at the roller-skating rink with Sally from next door, but my mother wanted me at the library as I only had three years to achieve her dream of being crowned valedictorian. “I can tell by the way you stink, the sweat around your collar and your untucked blouse that you have been doing something that I don’t approve of. When are you going to learn? Nobody wants an unrefined, uncultured, uneducated, homely girl hanging on their arm. You could be more, but you choose again and again to disappoint me. When-are-you-going-to-start-thinking-about-your-future?” She emphasized each word of the sentence with the wooden spoon banging on the stove. I plunged my arms into the dishwater, vigorously scrubbing the pot that had been innocently soaking. “When are you going to start accepting me for who I am? I am not like you, and I kind of like the girl I am outside of this house. I can breathe when you aren’t sucking the air out of the room and deflating me in the process. I am ugly and clumsy and forgetful and I talk too much and I snort when I laugh. But I am intelligent and kind and funny. Do-you-know-that-I-am-funny?” I scream-cried at my mother, punctuating each word as I banged on the pot. “AND I was just at the roller-skating rink and not in the backseat of some Volkswagon. Just because you don’t know me, doesn’t mean you can always assume the worst about me….and my future.” Snot ran out of my nose and tears fogged my cat-eyeglasses. I didn’t care. I owned my ugliness in this house. I threw the dishrag into the sink and ran into my room, slamming the door behind me. I lay on my bed as Elvis crooned “Don’t Be Cruel”. I cranked the volume loud enough on my record player so that the King could preach his wisdom to my mother, the Ice Queen. Sometime later there was a timid knock on my door. “Honey, I’m sorry. Can we talk?” Mother opened the door and sat on my bed. My eyes were deadlocked in a staring contest with the ceiling. “I know it is difficult. I know I am difficult. I just want so badly for you to have a future. I want you to be taken care of and cherished. I want you to realize you are as beautiful on the outside as the inside and I want the world to know that. I know I’m hard on you, but it’s because I care.” Mother gently pushed a stray curl from across my forehead. I just kept staring at the ceiling.
That night was the first clue I had that something was wrong with mother. I didn’t hear her enter my room but immediately sensed something was wrong as she shook my shoulders. “Wake up. The tents are on fire, we need to pack everything up.” She had an empty pillowcase that she was frantically shoving books, plants, shoes and cardigans into. “Mom, stop. What are you doing?” Mother was disheveled in a way that I had never seen her. “Hurry, when it burns, we will have nothing.” Mother threw the pillowcase onto the floor and roughly grabbed my arm. “Don’t you hear me, MOVE!” Her scream woke dad.
“Eva, wake up. It’s just a dream. You were dreaming.” Dad held mom close as he stroked her hair lovingly. “Shhhhhh….it’s ok. It was just a dream.”
“A dream?” cracked mom’s frail voice.
“A dream darling, come on, back to bed.” Dad tousled my hair and lovingly tucked me back into bed. “Don’t worry sweetie. Mom is still frazzled from the excitement you two had earlier today. Get some sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow.”
The next morning mother hummed as she scrambled eggs at the stove, her apron tied smartly and her hair perfectly smoothed. “Mom, what happened last night?” I asked as I weaponized myself with a spoon and brought my plate to the table, waiting for the verbal duel to begin. “Oh honey, not too much toast this morning. Today, why don’t you try and see if you can squeeze into that new dress I bought you. You might be able to if you don’t fill up on a big breakfast and you hold your stomach in.” She squeezed my chunky cheek as I wearily regarded her from my bunker behind my orange juice and place mat.
Later, dad pulled me aside. “Why doesn’t she love me?” I whined into his bear hug. “She does love you, she just doesn’t know how to show you.”
“What was last night about?” I looked up into dad’s eyes as I carefully watched his face for emotions.
Dad shut his eyes and paused before speaking. “Your mom didn’t always have an easy life. In fact, it is something that she refuses to talk about. Lately it has been haunting her, especially at night.” Dad went onto expose secrets locked deep within the tough and calloused heart of my mother. The Great Depression hit in 1929 and in the spring of my mother’s senior year, grandma was behind on the taxes and could not make their rent. Mom insisted time and again to quit school so she could help, but her mother refused to let her. Dad paused as pride lit up his face. “Not only was she the first person to graduate in her family, she was the valedictorian of the class of 1930. However, she soon learned that the world can be a cold and ugly place. Her mother, your grandmother, was able to see her graduate. She died from a heart attack soon after, leaving your mother alone. In desperation, your mom was forced to live in a shanty town, a Hooverville, that sprang up during the Great Depression. She made a home for herself out of unwanted boards and crates. Living in a camp full of mostly unemployed, desperate and impoverished men…as you can imagine it was not easy. As you can imagine, it was dangerous.” Dad went on to explain that he didn’t know much about that time in mom’s life, as she refused to talk about it. He did know that she was unable to get a job and was forced to take extreme measures to survive. “It hardened her. Even though she was intelligent and had a diploma, she also was homeless. Your mother’s dream was to be a teacher or a secretary. What the world taught her is that few people could get past first impressions or see beyond her exterior to give her a chance.” I stared at my father, silent shameful tears streaming down my face. I realized in that moment that I did not know my mother, and I had assumed the worst about her…knowing nothing of her past. “Your mother eventually was able to get a job as a live-in housekeeper. She met some people who helped her along the way.” Daddy kissed my forehead and said, “You may think that you are not enough for your mother. She is hard on you because she does not ever want you to be vulnerable like she was. She wants people to know your worth from the moment you walk into the room, and she does not want you to end up alone in what can be a very cruel world. She has a hard time showing her love, but I promise you she does love you.”
Mother was softened by Alzheimer’s. She started showing increased signs of forgetfulness while still in her early forties. In addition to the confusion at night, some of the initial side-effects were that she was less judgmental, more forgiving and smiled more authentically. She became intrigued by me, not just my flawed exoskeleton, but the person I was on the inside.
We would still cook in the kitchen. As a fifteen-year old, I was still trying to find out where I fit in. Mom sat with fascination as I hesitantly told her about the girls that I admired, the boys that I didn’t understand and the friends that I felt I could confide in. I shook nutmeg onto a measuring spoon, trying not to spill any extra granules into the bowl. “How much nutmeg goes into the spinach pie?” I asked as I precariously held the spoon. A shrug was mother’s only answer. “We should have written your recipes down,” I told her as I dumped more nutmeg into the pan while she sang the words she remembered and hummed the tune for the parts that she forgot:
T’was Grace that taught my heart to fear
And Grace, my fears relieved..
And we kept going to the orchard and drawing in the field. As she faded more and more, mother was able to tell about different aspects of herself that were too guarded and imperfect to be acknowledged when she was mentally sharp. “A clean face and lipstick help when people can’t see who you are on the inside. Good food helps them stick around when they don’t like you,” she said with a wink.
A few months later I was roused from a deep sleep. “Wake up!” Mother shook me from side to side. “We need to cook. I need your help.” Mom was dressed for the occasion. She had tied her hair back with a sock, lipstick coated her teeth while flour painted her like glitter.
“Mom, it’s 2:00 in the morning, you just need to go back to bed.”
“I can’t turn the timer off.” Mom threw the covers off my warm body as I realized the “timer” was the smoke detector. Thick black smoke obstructed my view and I leaned on the walls, navigating with my hands into the kitchen.
“MOM you know you are not supposed to be cooking alone. Go get dad up!” I turned off the oven and opened the door. Flames jumped out of the stove, scorching my hand. A towel lying on the heating coils had caught on fire. Mom inappropriately laughed with joy as I used the fire extinguisher to douse the flames in the oven, while dad opened the windows and let in fresh air. Standing there in the kitchen, the empty fire extinguisher in my hands, heart pounding against my chest, I stopped to really look at my mother with exasperation. Our roles were reversing as I realized I needed to help take care of her. “Mother, you could have burned down the house,” I barked. Sensing the seriousness of the situation, her demeanor changed. She took in the chaos of the kitchen, the ruined stove, the burned linoleum and the foam residue from the extinguisher. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin it.” Mother cried in a rare episode. She buried her face in her hands, hair astray, makeup smeared as she found comfort in my father’s shoulder.
“Look,” I said as I triumphantly held up the unbaked peach pie lying on the counter that created the perfect diversion. “Let’s have a piece of pie.”
We sat on the steps, under the stars, breathing in the fresh air and eating raw peach pie. “Mom, this is delicious. What did you put it in it?” I asked. Mother pulled an empty half-pint bottle of peach schnapps from the pocket of her robe. “I couldn’t remember the recipe, but this seemed to fit.” The pie was so strong you could have sterilized medical instruments in it. We ate it with a happy buzz while we stared at the mess of the charred kitchen. Mom sat next to me, disheveled and raw like pie, but she put an arm around me, and I was able to lean into her frame contentedly. I was 16. That night I was able to bask in the warmth of her love; and the heat radiating from the still smoldering kitchen.
As I sat sketching, alone and deep in my memories, I saw the mother bison collapse. The small buffalo went over to it and pawed at her motionless shoulder, trying to rouse it. Again and again, the little buffalo nudged it’s quiet mother. Again and again, it butted and pushed. The buffalo herd slowly gathered around. From my spot alone on the hill, I could hear a sad sound lift upon the breeze as the little buffalo’s wail drifted eerily through the air, passed by me, and continued into the world. The calf lay down next to its motionless mother while the rest of the bison slowly and solemnly plodded across the field. One by one the buffalo paid their respects. Still in a line, they kept moving until they had formed a circle around the fallen mother and calf where they joined in the cry of the orphan.
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Mother continued to fade. She forgot her hairbrush. Her shoes were on the wrong feet as she shuffled around the house looking for lost treasures. She innocently beamed when she saw me getting off the school bus and her inner beauty shone. That evaporated too as mother slipped further and further away.
At the graveside, we sang her favorite hymn. Dad bent down to lay flowers at her grave and instead, collapsed on the ground next to the casket. With great sobs, he buried his face in his hands. We stood around him, motionless, a circle of family, offering only our presence and silent solidarity as comfort.
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And here I sit, a 44-year-old woman struggling with new and troubling gaps in my own thinking. Tears cloud my vision as I watch the ring of buffalo being broken apart as the farmer pushes through the buffalo with his tractor. I thought about the buffalo and their song of mourning. I suppress the urge to tilt my head to the sky and howl the same tune, as a graceful tribute to a woman worth remembering. Instead, I respectfully choose to sketch in the sunlight while quietly singing under my breath:
Through many dangers, toils and snares
We have already come.
T’was grace that brought us safe thus far
And grace will lead us home.
