Deidra Alexander's Blog

June 12

I was cleaning out another closet when I found boxes of old clothes, too small for me. I keep thinking I’ll get down to a six again. I haven’t been a six since the eighties, leg warmers and stirrup pants. It’s a shame I was thin when fashion was stupid. I donated them to charity; maybe someone will need a Halloween costume or some rags.

A dusty box on the top shelf had pictures from my childhood. There was Allie staring up at me with red pigtails and a front tooth missing; Bryan in a cowboy hat sitting on top of a pony; and the three of us on Christmas morning.

I flipped through pictures, instead of organizing. It was a good distraction and distractions are what I need most these days. I found a black and white of my father. He was best man at his friend, Chuck’s wedding. I think Chuck was at Dad’s funeral. There were too many strangers to remember.

I came across the only picture I had of Mom, an old picture from when she taught art at the local high school, blue background, white shirt, red hair flung back over her shoulders, and green eyes.

I remember how Dad was after Mom died, like a drowning man. I asked him if I could put a few pictures of her up in my room. He grabbed them from me, hanging onto her images like they were life preservers. I think he knew he was slipping away and was desperate to stay afloat. It was like he hoped her memory could pull him back to the surface. I watched him slipping further under, further away each day, unable to help him, unable to bring him back.

Dad died not long after Mom. He’d been sick, but I hadn’t realized how sick he really was. Perhaps if I had, I could have helped him somehow. One night he didn’t come home. I called Grandma the next morning.

They found him at the cemetery lying on Mom’s grave. He had pneumonia and he died a few days later. It was rumored that someone gave Mom a lethal dose of morphine. Even at the funeral, I heard people talking. It must have been Dad. He was the only one who took care of her. It must have been him. I always wondered if he died from a broken heart or guilt over what he’d done. As a kid, I was angry at him for taking Mom from us. As an adult, I realized it wasn’t as simple as it seemed. Dad would have done anything for her and maybe he did.

When they met, it was love at first sight. Dad seemed to have found what he was looking for when he met Mom. He quit college, gave up a full scholarship and never looked back. He took a job working for her father. Always a loyal employee and devoted husband, both of those seemed out of place these days, old fashioned.

These were the only pictures that had survived the many evictions and moves from when we were in college. I lost so much during those times.

It wasn’t hard to figure out my parents had to get married, if you counted the days between their wedding and my brother’s birth date. Mom had been on her way to New York to become a commercial artist when she was waylaid by my brother. Girls didn’t have babies out of wedlock like they do now. She dutifully married and settled down, having a couple more kids.

When I was a child, she took me to gallery openings and art exhibits. We went to Olla Podrida, her favorite gallery several times a year.

I asked her why her pictures weren’t in the galleries.

“That’s not what Mommies do,” she explained.

Even I knew her art was as good as any in those galleries. I heard other artists urging her to submit her work, but I knew something they didn’t, that’s not what Mommies do.

She never got rid of her easels, always kept painting. Painting pictures for no one. That would never be hung.  I could tell she wanted to do more than teach. She regretted having to throw away the life she wanted.

As a girl, I thought I wasn’t going to let that happen to me. My pictures would hang in galleries. No one was going to stop me. But then I did stop. I accepted the responsibilities life handed me. I couldn’t just abandon Allie. I wasn’t like Bryan.

I did what women of my generation are expected to do get a job to support themselves and their families. Don’t be dependent on anyone else, especially a man. Be responsible for yourself and your family, always doing your duty and ignoring yourself. Am I like my Mother? As much bound by my modern societies’ conventions as she was by hers? What would I have done if the rules hadn’t applied? It’s too late to even consider what if’s now. Nothing could come of that.

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June 11

The last person I was thinking about this morning was Charlie’s mother, Livia. To be honest, we barely knew each other. She was a mover and shaker in town, running much of the political scene both in the university and out. Her husband’s family had a long history at the university. They were founders, deans, and department heads. Her family was long time supporters of the university, the arts and the local political scene. Allie was more likely to run in her social circles than I was. Livia didn’t even know I existed before Charlie and I were engaged. I’d hardly seen her more than six times, including the wedding.

So I don’t think it’s terribly surprising that I told everyone I had cancer – Charlie, Allie, everyone at work, and all my friends, but I forgot to tell Charlie’s mother.

“How do I learn my daughter in law has cancer?” Livia asked, perched on the edge of the sofa, sipping tea.

I didn’t reply. I thought it was more of a rhetorical question. She would tell us anyway so there was no point in guessing.

“Louise from Ladies Guild, that’s how. Louise knew before I did. She insisted on taking over my chairmanship. So I’d have time to help my daughter-in-law.”

“We’re really sorry, Mother. We should have told you,” Charlie replied.

I think he was hoping for a quick exit but he should have known better.

“It wasn’t just any chairmanship. I was chairman of the Arts Committee. Do you know what it took me to get that position? Do you know how many women I’ve had to lie to, persuade and court? I practically had to wrestle it away from old Mrs. Gartner. Now it’s all gone. Louise has had her eyes on the Arts Committee for years. I’ll never get it back.”

I know I should have felt bad for not telling Livia myself, but the idea of being used to stage an uprising to overthrow Livia made me want to laugh. At least cancer could be used for something positive. It also made me certain in my decision to never join the Guild of Backstabbing Biddies, as Charlie called them.

“Livia, I’m sorry we didn’t tell you. I’m still in shock myself,” I said trying to sooth her ruffled feathers.

“What’s done is done,” she sighed. “I must turn my attention to you, of course.”

“We’re fine. Aren’t we Charlie?”

I gave him a swift elbow in the side, just in case there was any doubt.

“Nonsense, there must be something I can do. I’d loan you my housekeeper,” she sniffed, looking around. “But I depend on her too much. I’ll drive you. I’ll be your constant companion through all of this.”

I had just heard my worst nightmare, six weeks of constant and continuous Livia. I pinched Charlie so hard, he could hardly speak.

“Really, we’re fine Mother,” Charlie said, with tears in his eyes. “It means a lot to us that you would even offer, but I think Allie has already volunteered. We couldn’t tell her no now.”

“Yes, yes, of course not.”

Unfortunately for Logan, he picked the wrong time to come romping through the house with his football in arm, fresh from a game with his neighborhood friends.

“The boy, Logan, I’ll take the boy,” Livia said, triumphantly. “Logan dear, I’ll take you to your tennis and golf lessons.”

“I don’t take tennis or golf,” Logan innocently confessed.

Livia was floored. There for a moment, I thought she was speechless, unfortunately she recovered quickly.

“Then we’ll start. Business is won or lost on golf courses and tennis courts, my father use to say. Leave it to me, by summer’s end you’ll be a gentleman ready for society.”

And here I thought business was conducted in boardrooms and on the stock exchange.

It seemed to be settled to everyone satisfaction, though probably not Logan’s. Livia and Logan would spend the summer together, with luncheons at the club, tennis lessons, and golf lessons. I don’t think Logan really knows what he’s in for, but my boy’s tough. It will take more than Livia to turn him into a socialite fit for society.

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June 10

I wasn’t sure how long Margo could keep from telling Allie about my cancer. I wanted to be the one to tell her, but I didn’t want to tell her on the phone. I was starting treatment in a few days. I had to tell her today, no more excuses.

We met at a sushi restaurant near her house, of course. I’m not much of one for raw food. I even like my vegetables cooked until there aren’t any vitamins left. But today it didn’t matter. I picked over fried rice while Allie ate eel and squid wrapped in rice and seaweed paper. Eel and squid, really?

She was telling me about her latest coup at Ladies Guild. Almost every woman in town was involved in some way; I never had the desire to get involved in ladies politics.

“I’m chairing the fund raising committee,” Allie was saying. “I’ve wanted to do an auction for years now, but no one ever listens to me. We always do bake sales and the fall dance. I think we should forget about the little bake sales and hold a dinner and silent auction.”

Allie continued talking nonstop through lunch. I was trying to find the right time and way to tell her. But to be honest, it was easier to let her talk, putting off the inevitable as long as possible.

Finally, the bill was paid and we were gathering our things to leave. I couldn’t put it off any longer.

“I have cancer.”

Allie slumped back in her chair. Her face was motionless, frozen in confused, disbelief.

“You mean they think you have cancer. They don’t actually know yet.”

“I mean the biopsy came back positive. I have cancer.”

She looked at me the way she did the day Mom died. The way you looked at your big sister when she’s failed you, again.

“How long have you known?”

“About a week now.”

“You waited a week to tell me?”

“I couldn’t find the right time.”

“Well that’s just great Jo. I have commitments. I finally get a committee.”

“You’re worried about your committee? I have cancer and that’s what you’re worried about?”

But Allie was already dialing the phone.

“Hello, Louise Honey, bad news,” Allie mewled, “I’m not going to be able to chair the fund raising committee after all. I’m sure. I’m just not going to have the time. Jo has cancer. Yes I know. It was shocking to me too.”

I left Allie giving her big resignation speech.

I thought she’d fall apart, that I’d spend most of my time consoling her, taking care of her. Like I did after our parents died. Part of me wanted her to crumble, to be devastated. Wasn’t I worth a little devastation? I guess Margo was right. She wasn’t that little kid anymore. I’m just not sure I know who she is.

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June

Past

June 3

I spent the day sorting through the kitchen. I packed up sets of dishes. It’s amazing how many sets you can accumulate over the years. Yellow flowers, solid pink, and a blue lattice pattern I never really liked anyway. I boxed up bowls, saucers and cups. A couple of teapots bought for a party that never happened, all found their way into the donation box.

Sushi plates? Do I really need sushi plates? They’ll go to charity. Someone will find a use for them.

I kept the important things. Grandma’s china from the 40’s, Mom’s stoneware from the 50’s, Charlie’s Grandmother’s fine china, and Portuguese crystal goblets with an intricate floral design. Allie brought them back for me when she was on vacation in Lisbon. She was always traveling to some place exotic and I was always saying maybe next year.

I kept the dishes Mom helped me pick out, a delicate pink floral collection of fine china. She took me to Europe when I was eleven, just the two of us. We brought those dishes back.

I was captivated by Venice. I was going to be a great artist. I was going to paint in a studio overlooking a canal with an orange cat sitting on the windowsill. I don’t know why the orange cat. Cats seemed to be everywhere in Venice and it sounded romantic and a little tortured. The great American artist painting alone with only her cat for company. Now I would add the occasional hunky Italian, but mostly just the cat. How silly childhood dreams are.

Mom and I brought this set of china back with us. I’ve never used them. They’re the “good” china. Why do we wait for the right occasion before we use the things that mean the most to us? Why do we keep those things packed away waiting for the right time? A time that may never come.

I thought I would have plenty of time. That I’d wait until after my son was grown or I retired to start living, but what if that time never comes? What if my right time has already passed? What would I do if I knew I only had a year or two left? I’d certainly use the good china. No one has ever used Mom’s good china. Those plates were made to be used. I think I’ll use them tonight.

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