The night Pearl left this world I got no sleep. I was out of place physically, emotionally, and spiritually. My brain hurt, my soul ached, and questions of God and the afterlife swirled in my head all night. I couldn’t have slept if you juiced me full of Xanax and stapled my eyelids shut.
Pearl was deeply mentally ill. As I’ve grown into my Catholic faith, matured in my views of God and morality, and understanding of human flaws, I wondered the degree to which Pearl would be held accountable for her earthly actions. Mental illness is medically-recognized, no different than dementia. Right? If a person with advanced-stage dementia commits a crime, are they accountable for it in the afterlife? I have to believe the answer is no. I was lying in bed trying to logic my way into heaven, for Pearl.
Thoughts that Pearl was suffering in hell tormented me that night in twisted and morbid ways. Is it dark there? Is it like her addled brain? Will she be alone? Is she scared? Does Lucifer actually torture departed souls? My God, she’s been through enough.
The fact of the matter is that the medical establishment failed her, her family of origin failed her, and Mick failed her. Had someone, anyone, shown care, attention, and respect for her illness, she’d have lived a better life, and maybe I wouldn’t have been the recipient of such atrocities because of her mental instability. I know this with absolute certainty. How? Because I carry some of Pearl’s mental burdens, yet I come nowhere near her level of illness. When my family, doctors, therapists, and friends got on the same page – and saw me for what I was, through no actions of my own – my life improved. By 10,000%. Nobody did this for Pearl.
I nevertheless concluded that night that Pearl does not get a complete pass for her earthly indiscretions. God made us human, and we are all flawed. I do not think anybody gets an absolute green light through the pearly gates. But, I believed there was hope for her soul; she was entitled to a lot of grace and understanding. True, there are things she could have done to take some ownership of her wellness, but only in small part. However, I make this judgment from a time she never saw or experienced. In her era, women couldn’t open a bank account or have a credit card on their own. They were practically chattel to their husbands. She had no support structures, Lithium was thrown at her like TikTac candies, and her husband, my father, was absolutely useless on a good day. There’s not really much she could have done. Despite my convoluted relationship with Pearl, this gave me some peace.
Alone in the guest bed, my son spent the night sleeping with his dad. Normally I’d snuggle him at night; not only did I love my baby near me, I was not leaving my child alone at night. Ever. Not with anyone. But, this particular night, I wanted nothing and nobody near me. I didn’t want hugs, kisses, snuggles. My body recoiled at the notion of being touched. I still haven’t figured out why.
On a practical level, I needed to be alone because I had a confluence of emotions and OCD-type thoughts and behaviors circling me like buzzards do fresh roadkill. Pacing, crying, standing, sitting…all the movements. I went through the cycle. Shaking the feelings I had wasn’t going to happen easily especially since I couldn’t even identify what was happening. My son was in tune to my emotions like nobody else, he still is, and he deserved a restful night at 13-months old.
My mind had seamlessly slipped back to a place when I feared Pearl. When she confused me, her brain making my reality a distorted Salvador Dali painting. In a moment, I slipped to the time in my life when Pearl danced between two worlds and I didn’t understand them. The fear that coursed through my veins during the Purple Flavor, even though I am not certain she was the perpetrator, and of Evil Waters, when she was, was back. It was a different type of fear now, the aged me. I was an adult, a mother myself. My perspectives were defined by the culmination of what I’d become. But the feelings that night were replicas of yesteryear when life was contextualized by my youthful innocence. It was tainted by concepts of the boogie man, creatures under the bed at night, being locked in my bedroom, and otherworldly forces coming out of the walls, “keeping watch over me.” Of late nights, lit candles, and machetes. Supernatural fears and demons. As an adult, I can look back at my life’s situation and rationalize it, logic my way through it; but in my head I was a kid again. I was as scared that night as I had been 45 years prior.
But Pearl was gone, I understood her better, and this fear made no sense. Yet it persisted. All night long.
The worlds where Pearl bounced to and fro weren’t so far away, no longer obscure. I had danced near them as an adult and now as a mother. I might not have lived the severity of her experience or mental anguish and maladies, but I understood it. Intrusive thoughts with inexplicable origins and nonsensical in nature, panic attacks, indescribable fear, vigilance in every setting, and brutal bouts of rage directed at anyone that sneezed inappropriately near my son defined my life. Every day. With the passage of Father Time, Pearl began making more sense to me. It was equally terrifying and illuminating.
Still, I was boarding a plane the next morning with my son, and staring my fears square in the face. And I hadn’t seen Pearl in roughly 22 years, when I was 16. This trip was going to be brutal on every level. Why did I take my son with me and not my husband? Irrational fears; I could not leave my boy alone with anyone. He has never, not in the 16 years of his life, ever had a babysitter; neither has my daughter. Not one. Trust nobody with your child.
My husband and mother-in-law would later join me; I had a week to sort through the business of death. And, there was a part deep inside of me that had to do this alone, the heavy front-end lift. Me and Pearl. I had zero plans, no idea what I was walking into, and a full bottle of Xanax. I’d never planned a funeral, avoided them at all costs, didn’t know where she lived, and had no clue what the morning held for me once the wheels touched down in the place I was born.
I can’t remember packing my bags, I completely forgot underwear, or running to Babies R Us to buy a portable stroller. Maybe my husband did it. The drive to the airport is complete vapor. Hugging my husband at the gate, a detail forever lost in my mind. Maybe I didn’t hug him goodbye and I just slogged onto the plane. Who the hell knows? There are odd details I have hung onto, though. I wore a blue and white striped hooded sweater with deep navy yoga pants. A crisp white tee shirt. Nike sneakers and my hair was thrown in a messy bun. My son had a blue onesie on, cute toddler socks with grippy bottoms, his favorite yellow sippy cup, and Duckworth, his yellow stuffed duck. Duckworth went everywhere with us, and he still sits on my son’s bedside table.
We flew first class. Privilege? Yes. But also absolutely necessary. I hate flying and have actually been removed from a flight for having an uncontrollable panic attack sitting on the tarmac shortly before takeoff. Claustrophobia kicks in and I am completely uncontrollable. Plus, it was a 4-hour flight and I had my son in my lap. As luck would have it, the couple sitting behind me loved babies; they were struggling with infertility. They willingly held my boy every time I excused myself to vomit, which was about every 30 minutes. The elderly lady next to me smelled like moth balls but loved children and had several grands of her own. Once the flight crew and my neighbors knew the reason for my flight home, I had tons of hands offering help. And since nobody could kidnap my kid flying 37,000 feet over the Midwest, I felt ok. Not good or safe, but ok. It was a post 911 world, so we ate with plastic forks, there were no sharp objects on board, and no gigantic bottles of liquid could explode. I could continue my list of rationalizations why this was a safer flight, and handing my son over to complete strangers was moderately acceptable, but that would end up as long as The Odyssey.
My boy did splendidly on the flight. He loved every moment of it. Looking out the window, pointing and giggling, playing with buttons overhead, and the window shade. Up, giggle, peek-a-boo, down, giggle. Repeat at nearly every window. He never cried once. He was cool, calm, and a joy to all in his presence. He left his go-go juice at home and was happy just sitting in laps, pointing and cooing at things; normally he’d have climbed the overhead compartments with energy, but today was different. He was at ease. I was a different story. With each moment closer to Pearl’s corpse, my unraveling sped up and started to bust through my veneered outer shell.
Lunch was served and we had tons of fresh fruit and pasta with some mystery meat, which we didn’t eat. Something fluffy and sweet for dessert. My boy and I shared strawberries and slurped long noodles. Noodles require slurping when you have a toddler. It’s fun as hell. I was moderately distracted and reasonably calm until I remembered that kids can’t have strawberries. Or can they? Fuck. My son was going into anaphylactic shock and I was certain of it. I would be responsible for killing him somewhere over Kansas. 2.5 hours into our flight, I came unhinged.
Goddamnit, Stuart. Why can’t you remember what the pediatrician told you?!? No nuts until age X, no eggs until age Y, and no strawberries until…holy shit. When can the fucking strawberries go in his mouth?!?! Commencing meltdown in 3…2…1. I lost it. The flight crew, my seated neighbors, the captain, and everyone was wonderful. I had seat 1B. I’ve heard horror stories of passengers coming unglued and flight personnel bungling the whole situation. Delta Airlines pulled out all the stops for me that day. I was a mess, crying the entire flight, shaking, but deeply grateful. They extended me kindness in ways I’ve never forgotten.
The captain made a call for a doctor mid-flight; his request turned up a young-ish resident endocrinologist who was able to assure me that no, the strawberries wouldn’t kill my son, but they had stained my sweater, tee shirt, and his chubby face. He looked at me, forced me to sit, took my blood pressure and pulse, and then talked to the crew. My blood pressure was elevated, and not moderately. I wasn’t near stroke zone, but 150 over anything isn’t normal for me at all. The Xanax wasn’t working, and I had 3mg on board. I was stone cold sober and adrenaline coursed through my veins as if white water rapids. I was crashing quickly. He was concerned that I was crumbling under the stress of my circumstances. I had been crying non-stop since I had convinced myself I’d be burying my son next to my mom because of my stupidity. Oh, and vomiting.
Who was picking me up at the airport? The crew asked if they could call ahead, upon our descent, and have my companion meet me at the gate. It would require a security work-around because of post-911 protocols, but they were prepared to do it. Nobody was. I was doing this alone. I had to. With crocodile tears in my eyes, I looked at the flight crew and told them I hadn’t seen my mom in 22 years. It was me and my baby boy against the world as I planned my mom’s funeral. Before the plane stopped at the gate, my seat mate extended her hand to me and offered up a moment of prayer. Here we were, two women on completely opposite sides of life, and we shared a connection on one of my worst days. She was Jewish and an unbelievably sweet soul. Calming. She prayed for me in Hebrew while she held my son in her lap and onto my hand; to this day I do not know what she said. I just know I felt it. Her words were rhythmic and soothing. As she spoke, I realized she wasn’t so much praying as she was building a melodic and spiritual bridge between our faith practices. God exists and he comes in all forms. That day, he worked through someone who celebrates her faith completely differently than me. She wore a gold Star of David, I held Rosary Beads in my pocket. But God was there, between and on behalf of both of us, of that I am absolutely certain. I believe in the unity found amongst our differences, most especially when humans build bridges in the aid of each other, meeting halfway, and offering help. I think of her often.
Upon exiting the plane, everyone offered hugs and well-wishes.
I exited the plane and it was late, after 11pm mountain time. My boy slept in the stroller and I walked to Enterprise Rent a Car. My heartbeat slowed down as the familiar smells of home and the arid, chilly air coursed through my lungs. I had to recalibrate to the altitude and to being ensconced, again, in the old vibes of the place I left behind.
At the counter to get my car, I looked up. There stood Mick. Holy fuck. Hello shitshow. But this was an old-school shitshow. The kind I was masterful at handling if I could only find my brave. It felt somehow different, but I couldn’t pinpoint why. My initial reaction was flustered. My brave was quickly located when I remembered that I was emboldened by an education that put every single member of my family to shame and an instinctive intelligence they could never possess. Mick loved to say both Pearl and I were, “dumb as a fox” and holy shit, he was right. My education shouldn’t matter in this situation, whatsoever, but I had to borrow some brave to restart the engine in the old Stuart. I was quickly reminded that my mother was a genius, and I her prodigy. I fought for my education because I was robbed of it…entirely because of Mick. There it was…my slice of brave. Sometimes you have to look a little harder for it, and then exploit the shit out of it to address the task at hand. Still, this felt different.
In a rather sick moment, totally uncharacteristic of me, I actually chuckled to myself at the thought of fucking with them…all. The mean people, Number 3, the people that abandoned Pearl, each of whom was now within a 100 mile radius of me. For the first time in my entire life I felt like a hungry tomcat that plays with the mouse before ripping it open to eat. I switched from being scared to calculated, maniacal, and cut-throat in a millisecond. I was glad my inner Pearl was there because this feeling I had was wholly new.
Hi mom, I can still feel you.
Fervently searching for my brave felt different this time, palpably so. But why? And then it hit me like a ton of bricks: Mick was near my son, they had never met, and I was like a honey badger that had just delivered pups. One wrong move and I’ll gouge your fucking eyes out and enjoy my handiwork. No more playing the victim, Mick, this time you will actually be one. Mine. I could practically hear myself hissing and feel pelts of badger fur standing up along my back. Calmness washed over me as if sent from the Archangels themselves. My sensory perceptions were on high alert, but constrained.
The power dynamic changed and I was instantly freed of seeking his approval. Fear was gone. Mick didn’t control me, and he was, for the first time, meeting the mother that also happened to be his daughter. It seems my venture into motherhood imbued me with a little badass who would stop at nothing to protect her beloved son. Mick had no idea what motherhood had done to me, and frankly, neither did I. Not until that very moment. Seems I did have more brave, tons of it, and it was in the form of my beautifully perfect son.
My God, what a gift my son is. That night, my eyes opened and saw the power of motherhood.
My mind stopped racing, this was instinctive fight mode. There was no flight here because I wasn’t going anywhere. This was a fight; maternal protectiveness amplified by years of abuse and knowing Mick’s every tactic. My breathing slowed and he was taken aback when I looked at him and said, “stop it” as he tried to touch my son’s cheek and awaken him.
My countenance was different, my tone, the look in my eyes. Fuck around and find out, Mick. You played your last ace of spades years ago, you know it and so do I. Now, I’m the dealer with a brand new hand you arrogant, pedantic, imbecile. Game on.
I was taken to my rental car, and like a fucking moron I had reserved an “energy efficient” vehicle. Translation: E95 gasoline that is hard as shit to find. When I turned the ignition on, there was less than half a tank. Awesome. It took me an additional hour to find a gas station that carried the correct fuel, which added to the long commute and delayed my bedtime even more. Ugh.
It was seventeen degrees and the roads were covered in black ice. As I made the hour-long drive to my hotel, new Stuart, the one I had meticulously crafted over the course of the last 14 years was gone. Not a trace of her. The old Stuart was here, with a vengeance, and in the driver’s seat…literally and figuratively. It’s as if the prior self-help work I had done, carefully hiding my past from everyone and everything, curating a new persona and history, was completely in vain. I was prepared, ready to attack, and my mind was running through if-then scenarios like military masterminds did before storming the beaches at Normandy. Only now I had a child and I’d kill the person that looked at him the wrong way. Basically, I was old Stuart on crack.
Mick followed me to the hotel, and on the highway he followed me too closely. He knew how much I hated that. Funny thing, I actually found it humorous. He helped check me in, and insisted on paying for my room. This would be the very last time one of Mick’s actions threw me off guard; I needed to steady my new footing. He sensed the power shift and he knew I did, too. The man who forgot birthdays, stuck his penis in my aunt and mother’s best friend, left me without food, took my Christmas presents away because I “wasn’t a good girl” and no longer deserved them, made me sleep on the floor because I didn’t make my bed properly, and who blamed me for being a victim in my own abuse, was now putting down a credit card for me? My God he was so transparent. No fucking way you are showing up as a hero in this story. Whatever, you can pay the $1,000 tab. I wanted a new handbag, so thanks.
When my sweet boy and I finally climbed into our temporary bed, it was 3am mountain time, 5am Atlanta time. Please God, let me sleep. I’m going to see Pearl when I wake, for the first time in decades, and I was apprehensive, something I have never been. Old Stuart, new Stuart…neither of us did trepidation. But Pearl was full of scary, and love, and mommy. She was the keeper of my heart, she made it. She hurt me, confused me, emboldened me, crafted me, scared and scarred me. I understood her now, more than ever before, and I had to get to her.
I hadn’t seen a dead body since I was 8, at least one I gave a shit about. The only one was my husband’s grandmother who called me fat on my wedding day and several times subsequently. I didn’t care that she was dead. She was one of the instinctively mean ones. Regardless, I avoided dead bodies, funerals, wakes, prayer services, and anything else to do with the deceased.
But now, it was Pearl’s turn. This required eyes wide open, me alone, walking straight into the scary.
I’d have paid any amount of money for that lovely Jewish grandmother to have sat at my bedside that night, watching over me and my boy while I fell asleep silently crying.
