Pieces of My Mother (23 page)

I was between errands, after dropping the kids off at school, when the call came that my mom had died in the night. Though I already knew it was coming, there was nothing to ease the impact. I felt raw and skinned. Exhausted from waiting.

I tried to imagine her departure. Strangers pushing her out of the house. White sheets surrounding her like a cocoon. Could she grow wings and transform herself into a butterfly or a blue-winged teal?

I imagined the gurney clunking over the floorboards as they wheeled her out of the bedroom and past the carving of the flying owl in the living room. Or maybe they took her out by way of the back patio and past the dying apple tree instead. I will never know because these are not the questions I will ever ask Kim. He was the one who belonged with her on the day she died.

Kim asked me if I could call my dad and brothers. But I couldn't do it right away. I felt an intense need to run—fast and uphill. Before calling anyone with the news, I drove to the base of a steep grade in Los Angeles and sprinted up the wide path like a seasoned runner. I sprinted as if I could outrun the truth. As my feet scrambled over gravel and dirt, I believed that I could still reach my mom. She might still be somewhere in the transition between the dark soil and the flat, gray sky. After all, she had always been like that, a wandering soul.

When I reached the top of the hill, my throat burned like I had swallowed a fistful of salt. I focused on the gray sky overhead.

“Can you hear me, Mom? I'm here. Goddamn it, I'm here. Please give me a sign,
anything
.”

I stood on the top of that wet green hill waiting for something in the universe to shift. A breeze, a subtle change of light, a snap of a branch, a rustle in the grass. But nothing moved. The sky held its gray, cold and hard like river rock.

I sat on the ground and pounded my fists against the dirt. I pleaded one last time, “Can you just tell me that everything is going to be
okay
?”

Silence and stillness. She was gone.

As soon as I got back to the bottom of the hill, I called my dad and brothers. When I reached Eden with the news, his voice was gentle and resigned. Then he relayed a story I had never heard before about his last visit with Mom.

“Mom and me, we did our fifth step together before she died. We made a list of all our wrongdoings so we could make amends to all the people we have hurt. I sat at the foot of her bed and made a list, and she made hers. It was the AA step that both of us had been avoiding for a long time. Even though she had kind of given up on AA and could never really give up the drinking, she knew that she had to do this step.”

Eden said they confessed all their regrets and wrongdoings in one sitting. They wrote them out on paper and then burned them in a stainless-steel cooking pot out on the deck. I tried to imagine the two of them watching the fire that could burn up all their mistakes so quickly.

I was glad that my brother felt this sense of closure with her, but I had to say what I thought.

“That's great that you got to have that experience with Mom, but I have to tell you that she didn't make amends with me. She never really said she was sorry for things that truly hurt.”

“That's not true,” he said. Then he turned his words carefully, tuning them like he was reading them from a sacred text or giving an intimate lecture.

“You don't know how people make their amends. You may think you do. You may believe that it's by saying words like ‘sorry' or ‘I wish I could have been a different person.' But sometimes amends comes in other ways—ways you
never
expect. Think about it. Her amends might somehow be tied to the fact that you have a great family and two healthy kids. There are no rules when it comes to forgiveness. Her amends might be in something that you don't even know about yet—something
huge
that's coming.”

I looked back at the hillside I had climbed up. There was no sign of her whatsoever. All I had were my brother's words. I took them and tucked them away. Because what did any of us really know anyway. Who's to say how these things work in the world?

• • •

In the weeks after she died I found myself unable to identify a single emotion. Unmoored, I drifted through the days, unaware of what was shifting inside me. Grief was charting its own course.

Within the space of fourteen days, cells began dividing rapidly inside me. And dividing again. And then news that seemed impossible—
huge
. A tiny heart, smaller than a flower seed, was beginning to form. I was pregnant.

I cried. I wailed like I never had before.
This
cannot
be
happening
, I thought.
I
cannot
have
a
baby. Aren't I finally supposed to have the time to pursue the dreams I put on hold throughout the years of parenting my first two children?

My mind retreated to the conversation I had with the stranger on the plane on Christmas Day, who had asked me if I was going to have any more kids. “God, no. My kids are big now, nine and twelve,” I'd told him smugly. This I was certain of. There was no way I was going to start all over again. There was no way I was going to be the mother of three children.

But when I saw the black and white heart beating in the ultrasound image, I felt my mom skipping around inside me. I felt her blue eyes open wide. There were no more questions. No sign could have knocked me off my feet harder.

I often go back to that morning on the hilltop—when the sky seemed unyielding and I asked for something, anything to shift in the universe. And I see now that some kind of magic occurred between the earth and the sky that day. Maybe I chose it. Maybe she chose it. Maybe neither of us did. All I know for sure is that eight months and seventeen days after my mom died, I was holding a baby in my arms. This was the unexpected miracle, the sign that swept me off my feet.

Do I see my mom when I look at my young son's bright blue eyes and unfurl his tiny fingers? Yes, sometimes I do.

Can you tell us a bit more of the backstory behind this book? What did you hope to achieve by exploring this particular topic in a memoir?

The story really started when I became a mother. I was head-over-heels in love with this new baby of mine and I wondered,
How could a mother leave her child?
I needed to make sense of how my mother—how any mother—could abandon her children. I had to look at where I had come from, which was a long line of complicated women. I wanted to do what no other woman in my family was able to do—tell her own story. I wanted to give a voice to these generations of women who had so far remained voiceless.

Did you experiment with different structures or ways of telling your story? What made you decide to narrate it through alternating chapters of past and present?

Yes, I tried many different ways to tell my story. At first, I didn't want to write it as a memoir. In fact, I originally wrote it as fiction, but I struggled with that because ultimately I couldn't get away from the truth. My memories of early childhood are nearly photographic and those vivid recollections remained with me during the writing process. As far as narrating through alternating chapters, that structure came later, after my mom died. I realized I was trying to tell two stories: one of my childhood and one of my mother's final days. When I put this structure in place, it made sense. It allowed me to tell both the past and the present.

You write openly and candidly about a subject that is very painful for most people to discuss. What were some of the challenges and benefits of this?

I don't feel I had a choice about whether to write this book—it was a story that just keep pulling me to create it. It's something that's very painful, yes, but it felt necessary. It's certainly a challenge to go into those places. It can be emotionally depleting. And the deeper you dig, the tougher it gets emotionally. One of the greatest challenges was to find the balance between motherhood and writing about my own mother. I often felt starved for time to write and also guilty about the time it would take away from my children. I worried I was being selfish. I hope that one day my children will see my perseverance as a strong trait. The editing process was also a challenge; it was hard for me to go back into this narrative again and again. I worked on this story for twelve years. My children were young and my mother was dying as I wrote.

What is the biggest lesson you learned from publishing the book?

Perseverance. I had so many opportunities to give up on this story. And over the course of twelve years, I wrote a lot of what Anne Lamott calls sh***y first drafts. I had many rejections along the way, but I never really gave up. I had to keep shifting my perspective and trust there was reason I was so determined. The second lesson came after I finally found a publisher—and this had to do with letting go of the story. This was hard for me because I realized that I could keep tinkering with the book for another ten years. It was never going to be “good enough” or nearly perfect, and I needed to accept that and let it go out into the world no matter the outcome or criticism.

What would you like readers to gain from reading
Pieces of My Mother
? Any advice or life lessons they should take away in particular?

It is in telling our truths that we find forgiveness. I think it's important to tell our stories, as hard or challenging as that might be. And the process of doing so can help us to heal and also find compassion. One lesson I would love readers to take away is that it's so important to say the things you want to say to your loved ones during this lifetime and show them they are valued. It would be wonderful if some readers felt compelled to reach out and write a letter to someone they've loved. Why should we leave this world with “letters never sent”?

What advice would you give to someone who is struggling to repair a relationship with one or both of their parents?

We're all flawed and broken in our own ways, and it's important to acknowledge our own shortcomings and our own roles in difficult situations. When we take away that judgment, we can see the other person more fully, more wholly, and begin to repair our bond with them. Try to find a way to forgive, no matter what it takes. It's not easy but it's the right thing to do, and it's how we grow. Life is too brief to hold on to past hurts.

You work at the renowned independent bookstore Book Passage, so you're clearly passionate about books. Did you know you wanted to write a book as well?

I am incredibly passionate about books; working at Book Passage is a dream job. It puts me in a like-minded community and constantly nourishes and inspires me. It couldn't be a better match for an aspiring writer. When I started working at Book Passage, I had a draft of my book done. But I decided to put that draft in a drawer for a year and become immersed in the world of books and authors. I kept a file on my desktop called “Gifts from Book Passage.” I often took notes at author events that resonated with me. It seemed that every event I hosted was a reminder to me that I could be a writer—if I didn't give up.

What are your favorite genres to read? What did you read while you were writing this book?

I read a lot of literary fiction, short stories, memoirs, essays, and poetry. I particularly love short stories (so much that I asked George Saunders to sign my arm in black Sharpie). I appreciate writers who use unique and stunning language or are just great storytellers. That said, I tried not to read too many memoirs while I was working on this book.

How would you describe your writing style in a couple words?

Spare, emotional, and introspective.

Which person in the book do you feel most closely connected to?

This is tough to answer because it makes me name only one member of my family. The person who I had to examine the most fully, of course, was my mother, so through reading her journals and her letters I came to know a part of her that I didn't know outside of those words. She was the hardest to understand, of course. I hope that this book might also be a love letter to my mother, a way to honor her remarkable spirit.

I began writing this story when my daughter was four. She's almost seventeen now. That leaves me with a tremendous number of people to thank and not nearly enough pages to adequately express my immense gratitude.

I am deeply grateful to those who read early first drafts of this story and provided me with invaluable insight—Jackie Casey, Martina Cistaro, Adrienne Coppola, Mark Donnelly, Hope Edelman, Amy Friedman, Susan Hillenbrand, Abigail Jones, Liz Kiely, Deborah Lott, Kathy Lorentz, Helen Storey, Christine Schwab, Alison Randall, and Sam Roberson.

Endless gratitude for the incredible people in my life who have continued to inspire me throughout this journey: Joan Chapin, Monica Golden, Asiya Hassan, Lisa Marvier, Kirsten McCormick, Darlene Mininni, JP Reynolds, Johanna Rupp, and Jeri Stoeber.

Monica Holloway and Liz Berman, what would I do without your friendship and encouragement over the years? Thank you Heather Young for saying yes and helping me with edits in those final frantic hours. Thank you Kate Milliken and Adam Karsten.

I was truly lucky to stumble upon the guidance of Arielle Eckstut and David Henry Sterry—two of the nicest and most generous people in the publishing world.

I am indebted to the many writers and teachers who encouraged me along the way, including the wise and wonderful Barbara Abercrombie, Samantha Chang, Leslie Keenan, Anne Lamott, and Corey Mandell. Steve Wolfson, you cannot imagine how profoundly your encouragement years ago helped me to keep writing.

Laurie Fox, thank you for putting your faith in this story and guiding me through every step. You are a kindred spirit and agent extraordinaire.

Stephanie Bowen, thank you for your keen eyes and big heart in helping me answer the most difficult questions during the editing process. And special thanks to the talented team at Sourcebooks for welcoming me with such enthusiasm and dedication—especially Liz Kelsch, Lathea Williams, Chris Bauerle, Rachel Kahn, Adrienne Krogh, Heather Moore, Sean Murray, Valerie Pierce, Dominique Raccah, Helen Scott, and Heidi Weiland.

This story would not exist without the support of my family. I am blessed with the best true-blue hippie dad a daughter could ever ask for. Jamie and Eden, I marvel at your kindness, humor and compassion. I am ever-grateful to my beautiful mother, who recently ambled over to me in a dream, whole again, and hugged me with great tenderness. This is how I'd like to remember her. Thank you Kim Baxter for taking such good care of Mom over the years.

Many thanks to the amazing staff and events team at Book Passage. Thank you Karen West for your spirited and generous insights, Calvin Crosby for ushering me in, and Elaine and Bill Petrocelli for owning the greatest book store in the world—a place that feels like home to me in so many ways.

I'd also like to thank the talented writers who generously offered to read galleys prior to publication: Tom Barbash, Kelly Corrigan, Katie Hafner, Caroline Leavitt, Cheryl McKeon, Peter Orner, Will Schwalbe, Abigail Thomas, Ayelet Waldman, and Lolly Winston. And as far-reaching as it may seem, I want to thank every author I've had the privilege of meeting and introducing at Book Passage. Each experience remains a gift—a rare glimpse into the creative process and the wonderful, complex journey of writing and publishing books. I remain in awe of every writer who dares to write down the stories in their hearts and imaginations.

Lastly, for my children—Dominic, Bella, and Gianmarco—you are the sun, the moon, and the stars. And Anthony, your unwavering support for my work astonishes me and reminds me how lucky in love I am.