Written by Judith Beth Cohen
I counted the days until college would begin; I re-read my course descriptions, admired my
crewnecks, and pleated skirts, and tried to avoid the gloom creeping through our house. In just
three weeks, I would leave for my freshman year at U of M, but what if Mother didn’t recover?
She spent her days lying in bed crying while I hovered, checking for signs of movement.
“I’ll be all right, I’m just tired” she said. If she managed to make it downstairs for dinner,
she stared at the pathetic burgers and beans I’d thrown together. Her hair uncombed, her face
grey, her shoulders hunched, she looked very old.
“Make an effort,” my father urged. “Just try harder.” Like him, I believed that she could
will herself out of this trench.
“I just can’t bring myself to do anything… the house is such a mess, it’s terrible, terrible,”
Mother whined, her food untouched. “I’m ruining this family,” she rubbed her hands as if to
squeeze out the tears she couldn’t shed.
“If you eat something, you’ll feel better,” I said. If she lifted her fork and swallowed
just a few bites, it would be an omen meaning I could leave. Neither of my parents uttered a
word about my impending departure. If nothing was said, I could continue to plan my escape.
Just weeks earlier, my mother had accompanied me to freshman orientation at the
University. Her slender frame and dark curly hair made her seem much prettier than the other
mothers. She even surprised me with a pair of fresh smelling new sneakers. With her at my side,
I listened to lectures on hygiene and studied the long list of rules: men in common rooms only,
curfew at eleven. The belief that I’d soon be on my own unleashed a surge of excitement so
powerful, no restrictions could touch me. Leaving wouldn’t be a betrayal for Mother was at my
side, sanctioning my move, sharing this passage.
Shortly after the orientation weekend, my mother’s sister died of breast cancer. Only fifty,
she’d been ailing for months, and though the words “cancer” or “terminal” were never uttered, I
knew that death was inevitable for I’d heard Mother weeping on the telephone. As we drove to
the funeral in painful silence, I dreaded the rituals: the eulogy, the cemetery, watching Mother
and her sisters weeping behind curtains, while their stiff-lipped brother spoke with the mourners.
Could my cousins survive without their mother? At their sorrowful house with its mirrors
draped according to Jewish custom, my cousins seemed so brave.
Just one week before I was to leave home, Mother didn’t wake-up at all.
Stationed at the bedroom door, I watched my disheveled father, still in his striped pajamas, trying
to rouse her. His eyes settled on the empty pill bottle near her bedside. He didn’t have to explain.
The next moments unfolded wordlessly. My sister, my father and I plunged into the crisis as if
we’d been rehearsing for years. We became an efficient medical team as we forced Mother to her
feet and walked her, dragging her weight. While I supported her, my sister made coffee, and Dad
phoned the doctor. I slapped her face to keep her awake as my father pried her mouth open and
we poured coffee down her throat.
The night we took her to the psychiatric ward was Yom Kippur eve, the Jewish Day of
Atonement, the holiest of holidays. My observant father, mute with worry, had never missed
synagogue services. The next day, while he fasted for his sins, I phoned the University to let
them know that I would not be coming. My father hadn’t asked me to stay, but he needn’t have.
Before he could, I contacted the local college where I’d been accepted as a safety measure. Too
numb to express my crushing disappointment, I explained my plans to friends.
“My mother is in the hospital.” I never named her illness—speaking of depression was
utterly taboo. The mystery surrounding her contributed to the Victorian image that I began to
construct of myself; I’d be a romantic heroine with sobering responsibilities, more serious than
my frivolous friends. It would be too cruel to abandon my poor father and lonely little sister. In
my imagination, they couldn’t survive without me. The unknown waiting at the university, as
seductive as it had seemed, offered no competition compared to Mother’s neediness.
A few months later she recovered and returned to her domestic functions, as if she’d
never been sick. Again, we didn’t discuss her problems; again, I plotted escape, but the bi-polar
illness responsible for her collapse would continue to dominate our lives. Eventually I transferred
to the University in Ann Arbor, but I’d constantly be looking over my shoulder, expecting a
summons. My father’s tearful voice on the phone would bring me home, where I’d coax Mother
to see a doctor, or trick her back into the hospital. These cycles of collapse and recovery repeated
themselves as she grew older.
Years later, after my father died, I brought her to live near me where it was easier to be
mother to my mother. As we developed a new relationship, shopping or sharing holidays, I came
to see my sacrifice as a choice. I could have gone off to college, yet I held back. So submerged
was I in her psyche, it’s as if we’d been trapped together underwater. When she felt well, I could
break the surface and come up for air, but when she went down, I followed. Despite my dreams
of escape, it’s as if we’d conspired to stay together, and finally, late in both of our lives we’d
succeeded.
.
Judith Beth Cohen’s novel Seasons was published by The Permanent Press of Sag Harbor, New York and is still in print. Excerpts appeared first in Ted Solotaroff’s quarterly, The New American Review. The book was originally published in German translation by Rowohlt of Hamburg as part of their international New Woman Series and has been reissued as an eBook. Her short fiction collection Never Be Normal (2021) is available from Atmosphere Press. Her stories have appeared in numerous magazines including The North American Review, New Letters, High Plains Literary Review, and others. In March 2023 she was the featured writer on Alphabetbox.com. Recent publications include: https://www.jerryjazzmusician.com/i-married-a-socialist-a-story-by-j-b-cohen, https://theberlinliteraryreview.com/judith-beth-cohen-underwhelmed-in-cuba/ Crunchy Tales Heart Trouble 12/21/23 https://www.crunchytales.com/chronicle-of-a-heart-less-troubled/ Little Old Lady Comedy – Comedy That Matters (To Us) 5/24 Lobster on Thanksgiving.