The Waters of Bethesda
I remember the exact moment when I learned I was the child of a child. It was Autumn, and instead of the usual vibrant explosions of wet-leaved color, this year there was a bronze wash that made everything glimmer and glow. The meteorologist on TV said the extreme summer heat had stressed the leaves so that they wouldn’t turn as dramatically this year. I thought that was a funny idea — stressed leaves. I imagined a conversation among the maples going something like, “Martha, I just can’t take this heat! There’s not enough lemonade, there’s not enough rain, the squirrels are driving me crazy and I refuse, I just refuse to put out all that energy into changing color this year. I need a drink!
I was 13.
I was taking the compost out to dump over the road railing so the animals could nibble on our banana peels, coffee grounds, popcorn seeds dusted with nutritional yeast, the snipped off ends of green beans.
I turned back and looked both ways before crossing the road and when I looked up my Aunt CiCi was looking at me in a strange way I’d never seen before. She looked surprised, like I had stolen her compost, and throwing it out was the most unlikely thing anyone would ever do. Like she’d never seen me before. I actually looked behind me to make sure something hadn’t just leapt over the guardrail in back of me and was about to land on my head or something. But there was nothing there.
She watched me walk across the road and up to the front step where she was holding her 42nd cup of Darjeeling of the day.
“What’d I do ?” I asked her, as she was still regarding me with absolute disbelief on her face.
“Nothing. You didn’t do anything. I just. Uhhhh — hmmmm. I just didn’t see it ’til now.”
“See what? What are you talking about?”
“Wow….you are the spitting image. Holy shit. The absolute fucking spitting image. Did you change your hair or something?”
“I’m using a hairband today, if that’s what you mean. My bangs are too long and I need to keep them back or it drives me crazy. Spitting image of who ?”
“Oh, that’s it then. Your forehead. Isn’t that something? That’s what it is, your forehead. Your hairline is so high. Hmmm. Ok. Ha! Holy shit, you can never plan things like this, and if you wrote a script for Hollywood they’d fire you from Miramax and accuse you of being too schmaltzy. Come in here, I want to show you something. Actually, make me some fresh tea, if you don’t mind, I gotta call Ronnie and ask her something first. Give me a few…”
So, I boiled some water and put the fancy catalogue Darjeeling leaves in the little pot, added some chai spice just to surprise her, and eavesdropped on her call to my Aunt Ronnie.
“Ron? Hey — well, guess what? Gotta have the conversation with Larain today. Like now. No, I mean like right now. Yeah, yeah, I know, but it has to be, and just trust me, you’ll agree later. Well, because I sorta, well, really I just want to tell you later, just believe me, OK? If I was wrong you can be mad at me and I’ll take it like a man. Ok. No, no, why don’t you call back in, like an hour, and then you can talk to her. OK. OK, thanks, I appreciate it. Oh, you’re sweet, OK, thanks that was really a nice thing to say, Ron, you’re the best. OK, bye.”
She was looking at me during the whole conversation.
I set the tea on the kitchen table and sat down and started biting my nails. She took her time putting in creamer and honey, got the last of the stale haystack cookies we’d baked a few days ago and put them directly on the table, no plate or napkin, she didn’t care much about crumbs. I grabbed one and so did she.
“Thanks for the chai in there! mmmmm, love it. I gotta stop drinking so much of this stuff, my teeth are starting to look like a new color of brown Crayola and they can name it after me! Ok, I have to tell you something and I hate that this is so dramatic, but it just is. You know I was just looking at you funny because you look exactly like your mother at your age. I mean exactly.”
“OK, so I look like my mother you’ve said I looked like her before, why is it so different now? Where’s the drama?”
“Because you don’t look just a little bit like her, you look exactly like her. And just now you turned around and the sun fell on your face a certain way and behind you was the ravine all golden and glowing. And the last time I saw her as she was it was a day just like today. And her hair was back and she was 13. Just like you. So, it just hit me that time feels like it’s looped around, I know that sounds crazy, and it occurred to me that today you need to know a part of the story that we decided you had to wait to hear. But now here you are, and I think it’s time to tell you some kind of upsetting things. You in the mood?”
That was a tease, her own special brand. She knew once I was curious about anything I was an absolute hound and wouldn’t stop until she told me the secret, or the plot to the TV show, or where she hid the chocolate chips or how whatever book I was addicted to at the moment would end or if a boy had called. I decided to tease her back. How funny that I chose that day to turn the tables on her!
“No, not really. I was thinking I wanted to call Linda and see if she feels like going down to the pharmacy and make some phony calls from the pay phone. Maybe later.” I actually pushed back my chair as if I was going to leave, but I started busting up laughing and she did too.
“ Oh, OK,” she laughed, “Just kidding ! ‘Nevermind !’” she said that in a real high voice like Gilda Radner did on Saturday night Live when she played Miss Emily Latella. My aunt was so funny!
But with a build up like this I really DID want to know so I settled down and gave her my full attention at last.
“OK,OK, I’m ready…shoot.”
Aunt Cici stirred her tea and licked the spoon. “Well, here’s the deal. You know everything about the accident, there’s nothing new there. You know that your grandparents died immediately, and that your mom made it through, grew up, got pregnant with you, and then died giving birth to you.”
“yep, yep, yep …”
“So here’s the part that you don’t know. Your mother didn’t die giving birth to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Audrey made it through the accident alive, but she was in a coma. Her brain was so damaged that she was in what’s called a persistent vegetative state.”
“And then she died?”
“Well, no, silly, remember YOU’RE here, and there must be a part about you arriving on the planet before we can kill her off, right? Laws of physics, and all that.”
“But…huh….Wow. Ok, so, when did she die, then?”
I had grown up with my Aunt Cici and her husband, Uncle SMOE. They were the only parents I had ever known. SMOE was short for the Sweetest Man On Earth, because he was. Everyone had called him that from the time he was young. (I asked him once if he used be called SKOE for Sweetest Kid On Earth, and he blushed the way he always did when anyone brought attention to the fact that he really was the nicest person that any human would ever meet in their entire lives.)
Aunt Cici (for Cecilia) had two sisters -Aunt Ronnie (Vernonica), and Aunt Jam (her real name was actually Jeannette, but she passionately loved fruit jam from the time she was a little girl, so she got the nickname Jam. Everyone was used to her walking around licking off a spoon she had just dipped into one of the several jars kept in the refrigerator, and she wore the name proudly.) They had a little sister, Audrey, 10 years younger than Jam, and by the time she was seven years old all of the others were out of the house and she was alone at home with the parents. It always seemed to me that they must have had a nice family before Grandma and Grandpa died in the accident that also terribly injured Audrey. I was told she was in the hospital for months, finally recovered enough to resume school, start college, then get pregnant and lose her life giving birth to me. My aunts were always gentle with this information when I would ask for more details as I got older. Evidently, there had been a boyfriend, a romance that went sour, she decided to have the baby anyway, and then she developed necrotising fasciitis which spread so quickly that she was gone in two days.
No one ever mentioned who fathered me, and I guess I must have been afraid to ask. Or maybe I was just a happy idiot and didn’t need to know. I had Aunt Cici and Uncle Smoe, and it always seemed enough for me.
The aunts named me. Evidently, one night after they had brought me home from the hospital, they were up late discussing the situation and decided to think it through over a game of Scrabble. Ronnie was drinking straight vodka, Jam was smoking a joint, CiCi was sipping Darjeeling even though it would keep her up all night, and surrendering to her addiction to blue corn tortilla chips by slowly devouring a whole bag. At one point in their game they decided to try using their high school level French and started putting LE and LA in front of words. LE tree, was Jam’s first attempt. LA cloud, was Cici’s.
LA rain, was Ronnie’s — and they all looked at each other and laughed. They named me Larain.
This was the naming myth, the story I knew. Was it still true? Pardon MY French, but, what the F???
We sat in silence and munched cookies. I drew pictures on the table cloth with my index finger wetted from the ring of tea left by Aunt Cici’s cup. Later I’d remember that it felt like no time passed before we talked again, but the entire span of time since the Big Bang had lapsed.
“So…. I guess I need to ask something obvious. Are you telling me that my mother is still alive?”
I’d never seen my aunt at a loss for words, but she was this time. She looked down at the table but it was as if she was looking at a TV screen and was watching a film unfold in front of her. When she finally looked up at me, I was an adult, not her sweet niece whom she treated as a daughter. And I knew what I was about to hear would somehow change me into something else, not better or worse, but different, and that I’d never be the same person again.
My mother, Audrey Zucker, lay in a hospital room in a coma for weeks and weeks, with the three older sisters in constant conversation with doctors, physical therapists, social workers, insurance people, you name it. Jam was the most religious of the three, but even she didn’t see the point in letting things go on and on if it seemed her little sister was suffering in any way. They deliberated about taking away the feeding tube, and almost did but just couldn’t do it. They did take out the breathing tube and miracle of miracles, Audrey lived anyway. Jam had flown in from Chicago, and when things seemed stabilized she went back to her job and remained on standby in case anyone needed her. Ronnie was only two hours away, she could be there in a flash if needed. Only Cici was in town, and she took an unpaid leave of absence, and thanks to FMLA her job was secure so she could come back when things either went south with Audrey or just stayed the same.
Which is what happened. They just stayed the same. Just as Karen Ann Quinlan and Terri Schiavo lingered for years in their PVS conditions, so did she. She was moved to a nursing home that could accommodate her needs, insurance money from the DUI man responsible for the accident took care of the bills, and the family adjusted to the shock and sorrow of losing beloved parents and a sister all at once.
Silence. I had to ask it, so I did.
“Tell me why — um, more like maybe, HOW, I got here.”
A year later a new aide was hired at the care facility. A man. One night he was working a double shift. He snuck into the room. Five months later someone noticed Audrey’s belly looked different, the distension was not like a gastric disorder. She was pregnant.
At this point I kind of forgot how to think. I know that sounds weird, but I really just looked at things and felt like some kind of bird or flower or even a piece of wood like a table or something, perception with no reaction, seeing but not thinking of anything.
“Where is she?”
“It’s visiting hours. I’ll take you to her now.”
It was just that simple. Your mom isn’t dead. She’s in a coma. She was raped. You were born. Let’s go see her. Would you like a bottle of water for the drive?
We got into the car, it was a gorgeous day, early Autumn, warm and sunny. My aunt put on the radio to a folky kind of station we both liked, and a new song I’d been hearing a lot lately came on. It was called “The Waters of Bethesda” and I loved it. Even though it had a religious tone to it, I was 13, I wanted to join the Peace Corps, I wanted to do something important with my life, if there was a way to make a difference while still watching TV and Netflix as much as I wanted to, that is.
If there was a way for me to suffer for you all
I’d do it in a heartbeat, for my being feels the call
It’s not up to me, although I’d do it if I could
You’d have to be some kind of saint, I’ve never been that good
We sang along to it together, Aunt Cici and me. She loved to sing and I was trying to learn how to harmonize, so she would take melody and I’d play around — sometimes with disastrously atonal results, and we’d crack up, with her howling like a dog whose ears were hurt by the horrible sound. But that day, as we rode for me to meet my mother, we blended together like Gillian Welsh and Allison Krause.
I peppered her with questions.
“How did she give birth to me?”
“C section.”
“Did they punish the man?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“In prison.”
“When will he get out?”
“Never.”
I did the math — I’m 13, she was 13 when she had the accident, she got pregnant a year later, she gestated 9 months…
“Is she 27 years old now?”
“Yes. Her birthday was two weeks ago.”
We parked at the long-term health care facility. I was scared, I was excited, I was — I was other emotions I didn’t have names for.
“How often do you visit her here? Why didn’t I figure this out?”
“I come when you’re in school. When I say I’m volunteering at the Food Bank sometimes I do, but sometimes I come here.”
Oh.
We mounted the steps, we entered a lobby and signed a book and had our pictures taken by a little machine that spit out a sticker with our faces and names so we could peel off the back and put it on our shirts.
We took an elevator to the fourth floor, turned right and walked down a quiet hall towards a central nurse station. One of the ones on duty saw Cici and started to say hello, then noticed me. She looked at my aunt, wide-eyed, and said, “and would this be Larain….?” “The one and only,” Cici replied.
“Well, so we finally meet you! Welcome, Larain. We just washed Audrey up. Perfect timing.”
Room 407. I stood outside and started hyperventilating. Aunt Cici took me to the end of the hall and sat me down in a visitor lounge room, breathed with me. “I’m such an idiot! Too much, too fast, how could I be so stupid?” she berated herself. “Let’s go, we can do this tomorrow, honey.”
“No. I’m ok. I’m ok now.”
We walked back down the hall and into the room.
There was someone in a hospital bed who they said was my mother.
Her hands were bent at an acute angle facing towards her body, and she was wearing long, padded sleeves to protect her thin arms from rubbing against anything. A thin face, gaping mouth, her eyes were closed, hair cut short (easier to take care of, I bet) but pretty color of auburn. Feeding tube, but not breathing apparatus. A pillow was under one side so she was canted slightly to her right. A pillow between her legs, her feet, you could see the bumps under the covers. Do I look like her now? I couldn’t see it.
Aunt Cici said, “Why don’t I leave you alone for a bit. You can sit with her and take all of this in.’
“Can she hear me if I talk to her? Is there anything happening in her brain?”
“Some say yes, some say no. Mostly no, with her type of brain injury and how long she’s been under. Some doctors say never say never. Jam and Ronnie and I just figure what will be, will be. As long as she’s comfortable. They’re good here, real good to her and to us. They’ll be good to you now too. We kept telling them we would bring you here when the time was right. Guess that’s today.”
Cici left me. I pulled up a chair and sat by the bedside. I listened to her breathing. I told her, “Hi. I’m Larain. I’m your daughter.”
She didn’t react at all, of course.
I pulled the sheet down, tentatively, afraid I’d startle or hurt her, but there was nothing. She was wearing a hospital gown and I pulled it to the side, I wanted to see her Caesarian scar, that’s where I came from, from this girl so unfairly cut down at my age.
I just didn’t know what to make of all of this.
I was just in there 15 minutes and then came out. I told my aunt I’d like to come back another time, but this was good for now.
On the drive home, my aunt was humming the song, and I joined her for a verse.
Maybe it takes more than one for such a daunting task
Maybe just to save ourselves we only need to ask
The answer could be simpler than we’ve ever thought to dream
Perhaps we’re not afraid and we’re all braver than we seem
We got home, ate dinner, and watched a movie, “Twister,” one of my old faves because it’s so corny and I love disaster flicks. Uncle Smoe hovered around looking concerned, he is such a worrier, especially when it comes to peoples’ emotions. I used to tease him that he was the family empath, our own Deanna Troi like in Star Trek: Next Generation. But I was fine. I really was. I was just — kind of floating through it.
My mother lived a long time in her PVS. I visited her a lot — I did things some people might think were strange, but things I felt I not only had to do but felt I had the right to do. I took felt tip pens in different colors and drew pictures on her C-section scar, vines and leaves, sometimes paisleys, cars on the road. I brought earbuds and put them in her ears, noticed she twitched her nose at Talking Heads, fluttered her eyes a bit at “Across the Universe,” her breathing seemed to change a bit with Tom Petty. Maybe I was imagining it. I put posters up on the walls, the folks at the nursing home didn’t mind. Sometimes I sat and did my homework in there. My aunts would take me to visit and they started to tell me stories about her as we sat around her bed. They found an old video of Audrey when she was a child, but whomever was shooting it used a zoom lens and though she seemed to be jabbering happily about something she was too far away to hear.
It felt odd to refer to her as “Mother,” “Mama,” “Mommy,” as I became older than she was when she had me. She would remain stuck as she was on a golden afternoon when she and my grandparents drove off and were lost forever.
The unfairness of it all was a constant source of anguish for me, though I was not and have never been much of a drama queen. I would sometimes catch the aunts and uncles studying me, probably wondering if I should go to therapy. It might not have been such a bad idea, and they did ask me one time if I wanted to “talk to someone” about “all of this” but I didn’t. I did feel like I needed something, but at ages 13,14, and 15 I didn’t want to open up to a stranger. I did feel I wanted to mark this somehow, a ritual, an event, something…I wasn’t sure what.
Audrey — my mother — did finally succumb to pneumonia, as often happens with people in her condition. It was just a couple of years after I “met” her. By then I had spent enough time in the room, with the staff who were constant and the ones who were quick turnover, that I was comfortable being there. I wish the aunts and I had been with her when she died, but she slipped away in the night after we had visited, after it seemed she was actually stabilized and might make it through.
I was grateful I had met her. When we drove home after saying goodbye to this emaciated husk of a body, gathered the things I had left in the room, stopped for onion rings to convince ourselves that life would go on as before, my old song came on the radio, the one I was singing with Aunt Cici the day she took me for the first time. The last verse gently crooned:
Come with me, we’ll all begin to heal this very day
And let the waters of Bethesda wash this big world’s pain away
Water. Under water…
In oceanic trenches there live different plants and animals way down there, that’s where my mother’s consciousness lay. Sometimes small particles of living matter may have made their way up through the depths and attached to passing fish and ships like barnacles. Perhaps in that way she traveled in ways we couldn’t know, perhaps she lived in twilight remnants of life that floated around the world.
I looked up Bethesda and read the various accounts of interpretations and meaning. A pool in Jerusalem that was said to heal. A place of mercy, a place of grace. Waters…
As I did my cursory research I found a picture of a sculpture in the middle of a fountain in Central Park. I looked up park rules and learned that it is legal to go into the fountain on a hot day. I decided right then and there what I had been in need of for so long. Yes, I was fabricating personal meaning from this song, yes, I was taking something literally that was meant figuratively. So what? I realized I had to make this happen.
Aunt Ronnie, Aunt Cici, Aunt Jam and I did a girls’ road trip to NYC that summer and saw a couple of shows, ate some awesome food, bought cheap stuff on Canal Street, walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. And we finally went to Central Park. I took off my shoes and rolled up my jeans. “You guys wanna come too?” I asked them.
Jam said, “We thought you wanted this for yourself.”
“I want it for everyone in the world,” I said.
So we all stepped into the fountain, dunked under the water, just long enough for me to hear sounds muffled and gurgly the way it sounds when you submerge. I imagined Audrey, a sweet, laughing girl standing in the sunshine and turning to see who might be calling.
I have felt so all alone, so untethered, my umbilical cord meaningless as the trailing string of a balloon that escaped from a child’s grasp at the fair. I have often dreamed of who she might have been, who we might have been together. When I spent time in her room, I would wait until the nurses were finished with the feeding tubes and the ritual of repositioning, and when they left I would pull back her eyelids to look into her sightless pupils. The reflection was always just my own searching, quizzical face.
Yes, I have often dreamed of her. I wonder if, perhaps, somewhere in my mother’s drowning sleep, she may have dreamed of me…
If there was a way for me to suffer for you all
I’d do it in a heartbeat, for my being feels the call
It’s not up to me, although I’d do it if I could
You’d have to be some kind of saint, I’ve never been that good
Maybe it takes more than one for such a daunting task
Maybe just to save ourselves we only need to ask
The answer could be simpler than we’ve ever thought to dream
Perhaps we’re not afraid and we’re all braver than we seem
Together we can join our hands, the flag of peace unfurled
Let the waters of Bethesda heal this big old hurting world