Songbird (25 page)
“Maybe. But how rich would it be that he says this stuff and his own wife is popping pills?”
“You make it sound so vulgar, Charmaine.”
“Isn't it? A little?”
She nips the delicate handle of her cup between two fingers. “No.”
I get the feeling she's not going to explain further. But she says, “If it helps, it helps. All I know is that your mama was a different person with some help.”
I tell her about Harlan's sister-in-law and her therapeutic life in Virginia Beach.
“That explains it then. Most people have a personal reason for being adamantly against things. I can't say I blame him for feeling the way he does.”
“Me, neither.”
“Well, you could at least talk to a doctor about it and see what he says.”
“It doesn't really matter much anyway. I couldn't afford it, and how would I hide the expenditure from Harlan even if I could?”
“I’d get it for you, Charmaine. I would. But in the meantime, while you're here, you can sleep as late as you want.”
“Thanks, Grandma.”
“You know, even if this stuff wasn't in the family, you'd have a lot of reason to be depressed. I’m surprised, after all you went through, you didn't go over the deep end.”
That sure is the truth.
We are silent for a while as Grandma finishes the crossword puzzle she began this morning. I’m thinking about this revelation regarding Mama and amazed at how Ruby nailed it. I am equally amazed I missed it. I was a child, though, and I guess my views of her failed to grow up as the rest of me did.
“I was sorry to hear the initial investigation years ago turned up with nothing.”
I nod. “They were thorough. Even the hospitals turned up empty.” I had called my social worker from days of yore earlier that morning and she told me the entire story.
“Well, when people want to be gone and stay gone it's easy enough to do.”
See, it's okay for Grandma Min to say words like those, because we both bear the brunt of Mama's ways. From anyone else it would sound callous.
“Where do we look next?” I ask.
“I guess cemeteries. Get death records and all.”
“How do we do that?”
“I have no idea.”
So I know what tomorrow will hold.
I reach out for Grandma Min's hand. “Well, at least we're not going through this alone.”
She squeezes my fingers.
“Grandma, why didn't you ever try to find her?”
“It wasn't the first time Isla disappeared. And Isla never liked me. I couldn't imagine what it would be like if I suddenly showed up.”
“But she was gone so long.”
I know. I had heard from her once while she was in Lynchburg. And, Charmaine, I was scared to find out why I hadn't heard from her in so long. The days turned into months and so on and so forth. I can't explain it any deeper than that. Sometimes a mother just doesn't want to know if she's certain enough the news is bad.”
“Then why now?”
“It's time to know. There's two of us needing it. Not just me anymore.”
“You really think she's dead, don't you?”
“I do.”
“So do I.”
“Well, Charmaine. At least it will close some doors when we find out.”
“But it's opened up others, hasn't it? I mean, we're here together, Grandma Min. You and me.”
That night I slept in Mama's old room for the second time. I’d gone through her yearbooks and saw someone involved in the more creative type of thing: drama club, art club, school plays, choir, the glee club. But all that stopped when she hit her junior year. And I knew suddenly why Mama sat there and cried that night I sang “Away in a Manger,” and it felt good to know.
“Do you think she died of illness, or foul play or natural causes?” I ask the next morning as we clear the breakfast dishes and the kids watch
Sesame Street
in the next room while they color.
“I’ve always thought of Isla as a victim, Charmaine. I guess I always will. Whether she was a victim of her own devices or someone else's remains to be seen.”
Her words are tidy. Her expression is not.
After the dishes are finished, Grandma begins calling the offices of vital records all up and down the eastern seaboard. I’m sure there must be an easier way to do this, but if there is, we don't know it. We're not detectives.
I watch the kids and look through photo albums.
Mama was a cutie pie. Her little heart-shaped pale face framed by dark hair pulled back in a headband. Saddle shoes, sweaters. Ballerina pictures. Piano recitals. Softball and gymnastics. Vacation at Disneyland, the big national parks.
Strange that there are mostly pictures of Mama and Grandma. No big family gatherings, nothing like that.
“I heard from Tanzel over at Grace and Truth that you're originally from Florida,” I holler in after I hear her hang up the phone with New Jersey.
“That's true.”
“Did you lose contact with your family? I don't see any other family in these pictures.”
She appears at the door.
“So to speak.”
“What happened?”
“I was excommunicated from the family if you want to know the truth.”
“Why?!”
“I married a Christian man.”
“What's so bad about that?”
“They re Jewish.”
“You're
Jewish!
”
She raises a finger to her mouth. “Shhh. Don't want this whole town to find out.” She smiles.
“Then I’m —”
“A quarter Jewish.”
“Oh, my lands!”
“Does that dismay you?”
“Oh, goodness no. It's nice to know you're one of the chosen people even if only a quarter of you is.”
I figure I’m in for a lot more surprises like this.
“What about Grandpa's family?”
“His parents died when he was little. Raised in orphanages and the like until we met. They were Irish. He had red hair just like yours.”
“So we have more than a little in common that way, he and I.”
She nods. “You favor his mother quite a bit, Charmaine. He only had one little picture of her made just before she died.”
Oh, well. So much for getting a big ready-made family out of all this. “Looks like it's just you and me, then, Grandma?”
“That's about it. You disappointed?”
“A little. Not in you. But I always pictured something really different. Lots of aunts and uncles and all.”
“I can't blame you there.”
“So how're the phone calls coming?”
She waves a hand, mouth curling down. “I hate the government. They all want requests in writing. I’m getting down the addresses and I think that will be our next step. Writing all these letters.”
“Well let's just write one and I’ll make copies of it down at the stationery store then handwrite the addresses in and all. You got a typewriter? I can get started on that while you make the rest of the calls.”
“It's there in the underneath part of the secretary.” She scribbled down something on her notepad and ripped off the paper. “Here's Isla's social security number. You'll need that. You can just set the typewriter up on the dining room table if you'd like.”
So I begin the letter.
It all suddenly seems so strange. Just two weeks ago I’d been riding along in the motor home doing my thing. Sewing costumes, singing, taking care of Harlan and Hope, worrying over Grace, and missing the folks in Baltimore. And now here I sit trying to find out whether or not Mama is dead and I have a Grandma and a little boy to take care of, too.
But I do believe that God is lurking about, waiting to show me His glory. This situation has sailed in too fast and furious to count as just a mundane happening in an already extraordinary life.
It is Sunday afternoon. Grandma took me to Lutheran church and everybody seemed glad to meet me. We ate lunch together at the Virginia Diner and now we hug by the motor home parked on the street outside her house. We're both small and the hug is perfect.
We are the same size. And I keep looking for all sorts of things we have alike. We both wear size five shoes and our fingernails grow out of their beds in the same squarish shape.
“You be careful now, driving that big thing all the way to Mount Oak!”
“Oh, I will. The kids are finally asleep back there so I’m hoping I can make it the whole way during their nap.” I lean forward. “I gave them both a little children's aspirin to aid in a good sleep.”
“Call me and let me know you got there safely.”
I think those are some of the most beautiful words I’ve ever heard.
We don't cry. I’m not much of a crier and I guess Grandma is cried out after all of these years. But the sun seems to shine a little brighter.
“You can call Bee's anytime and I’ll get back to you within a day.”
“I’ll remember that.”
I thought of the packet of request letters we'd taken to the post office on Saturday afternoon. “As soon as you hear something —”
“I’ll pick up the phone.”
“Okay.” I want to say “I love you, Grandma” but maybe it isn't yet the time. “Bye, now!”
And she kisses my cheek and I kiss hers and when I drive away, I feel there is a little more of me along for the ride.
I
’ve been redeemed by the blood of the lamb!” Oh, we are singing like there's nothing
but
tomorrow and this congregation is really jumping at the Port of Peace Assembly of God of Mount Oak.
Now this is worshiping. This is praising your Creator. This is rejoicing in the Lord!
And this is what I have been created to do.
I grip my microphone and Ruby and I slip into harmonies on the second verse, her deep alto supporting my thinner voice. God made our voices to go together. Sometimes I can't tell where mine ends and hers begins.
I forget about everything else at times like these.
See, a lot of people think that someone like me, up in front of folks singing and performing, are doing nothing
but
performing, that we are up there singing for ourselves and conscious of nothing
but
ourselves. But that's just flat out not true. I sing before the throne of God, the gift box in my throat pouring forth the light of praise.
If you could crawl inside my mind while I praise the Lord this is what you'd see. You'd see a multitude of people of all colors, shapes, and sizes to your right and left and in front. And you'd know they were behind you, too. Before you, you'd see a giant throne, and pillars aglow. The line of pillars recedes so far into the distance that you cannot see their end and they curve, so it seems, into infinity. Now, in my mind the throne reminds me of the Lincoln Memorial but that's only because man hasn't seen nor heard of the wonderful things God has prepared for those who love Him.
I see lots of white, but I see color, too. Vibrant purples, of course. And scarlet and saffron and cloth of gold. Midnight blue and lapis lazuli blue. Amber and emerald. And the colors are clear and perfect and a praise in and of themselves.
I stand there amid the throng and sing because I am made to sing. Now, some people can't understand how heaven will be so great if all we do is stand around singing. Harlan doesn't believe everyone will be in that eternal chorus. He thinks some will have other jobs to do, jobs that they love, jobs they were made to do. He thinks that some of who we are and what we enjoy here on earth goes right on up to heaven with us and is used for God's glory there, too. He thinks this is just a training ground.
I like that.
I am made to sing. Therefore I take comfort in the fact that I may just make it to the vocational heavenly chorus. I may get to sing for eternity and that would be bliss indeed.
So when I am up before a congregation and we're singing “I’ve Been Redeemed,” I really am not completely there up on stage. I’m surrounded by gemstones, gold, and the glory of God and the people before me are a most celestial throng and we are offering up a sacrifice of the praise of our lips to He who sits upon the throne.
Harlan's hands are over my eyes. “Okay, Shug! Keep walking.” We amble slowly down the hallway of Port of Peace Assembly and the time has finally arrived for my big surprise.
I’m thinking now it may be a surprise party of some sort. I doubt if it's jewelry. Harlan's not the type to even think of something like that.
The doors to the church open in front of me and I feel the nip of November air caress my cheeks. My shoes thud on the asphalt. I’m trying not to get too worked up. But I do know it's big. Is it a new car maybe? Something cute to tow behind the motor home?
“Okay now, Shug, get into the truck.”
I do.
He ties his bandanna around my eyes.
“Harlan, this is freaky.”
“No, it's not. You'll see. I can't wait to see the look on your face when you see what I’ve got cooked up for you!”
“Where are the kids?”
“Ruby took them first. They're waiting for us there.”
Can it be?
What else could this be?
It is a house he's driving me to. I just know this. A new home. Real walls and sturdy cabinets. Square rooms. Not just an aisle running down the middle.
“How long is the drive?”
“Just five or so minutes.”
Oh, good. It would be nice to be so close to this church. I mean, if we're going to settle in Mount Oak, then this is the house of worship for me.
I hear gravel crunch as Harlan turns off the main road. He brakes, stops the truck, turns off the engine, and then comes around to help me out.
“I feel so shaky, Harlan.”
He chuckles. “Oh, Shug, I can't wait for you to see this. It's what we've needed for a long time. Especially you. I know you've been cramped in that motor home.”
“Oh, Harlan!”
I can't wait to see the house.
“And it's luxurious inside, too,” he says.
“Really?”
“But I’m not saying nothing else. I don't want to give it away. Just a little further. Okay, now stop.”
I feel him working the knot of the bandanna free at the back of my head. “Now keep your eyes closed until I say.” He shouts, “Ready y'all?”
“Ready!” a chorus of voices responds, and I hear Leo's and Hope's in the throng. Oh, they must be so excited.
“Charmaine Hopewell, here is your new home! Open up!”
