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TwitThisI Never Got to Say Goodbye
Born in Detroit in 1910, my mother, Doris, used to say she was a natural mother. She loved caring for her husband, Gordon, and her two girls. I wasn't very coordinated and often fell down. Mom was always cleaning dirt and gravel off my knees.Her dream of family was shattered when Daddy said he wanted a divorce. Soon after, the death of her own mother, who lived with us, sent her into a deep depression. Nanna and Mom were very close, more like best friends, and my mother just lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling and crying. Shortly after this, Daddy took Kate and me next door to the Shellers to spend the day. I sensed that something important was up, otherwise why would Mrs. Sheller offer us cookies so early in the day?
I sat out by their pool, periodically excusing myself to use the bathroom. It was a ruse so I could look out their living room window and try to figure out what was going on at home. On my third trip through the living room, that's when I saw them. Daddy was guiding Mom by her arm toward his car. She kept turning toward him with an imploring look, crying. Finally she got in the passenger seat and Daddy locked the door. He climbed into his seat and drove away. Through the window, I watched them move slowly down the street, getting smaller and smaller.
Late that night, Kate and I were asleep when Daddy returned. I vaguely remember him leaning over me, and as he kissed my forehead, I smelled his breath mixed with alcohol and tobacco. In the morning, he explained to us that Mom wasn't well and that he'd taken her to a hospital to recover.
"When will she be coming home?" I asked.
"Not for a while," he said. I never got to say goodbye.
Overnight, it seemed, Kate and I slipped into a strange new category: motherless children. The mom who stroked my hair off my forehead when I was sick, who played the piano passionately, who loved to set a beautiful table for her family, was now gone. Just like that. It didn't seem fair at all, and Kate and I were never sure who was responsible for our feelings of sadness, of aloneness. To our faces, neighbors said things like, "Such strong little girls. Everything's going to be fine." Or, "Don't be sad. You still have your father." When they thought we were out of earshot, their tone changed. "Poor little things," we'd hear. "What will become of them now?"
In those days it was rare for a man to have sole custody of his children. "Stuck" is how my father described his situation. Bound to him now by need, fear and love, I began twirling my hair and sucking my thumb.
Daddy hired a series of housekeepers to look after us, but none lasted very long. Then, one day, my father was suddenly shipping Kate and me off to a convent boarding school. We'd live there for seven years, going home once a month and for holidays. "This is the best thing," I heard him say on the phone. It all happened so fast.
It was 1957. Mom was in her prison 75 miles away, and I now entered mine.
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