Stars align, waking a long-ago sadness

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

Sometimes it catches up with you. That's what my husband said.

And I said that's nuts. It's been 39 years. No one cries over something that happened 39 years ago.

The stars have aligned, that's all. It's 1971. The autumn light is dazzling. It's cool in the morning, but warm late in the day. There's a hum in the air of cars and trucks and school buses. I swear, if I turned on TV and saw Peggy Lipton in ``The Mod Squad,'' I would not be surprised.

More stars aligning: My son, who has a 3-year-old and a toddler, asked me last week: ``How did you do it, Ma? How did you manage with a 2-year-old, an infant, a husband who traveled all the time, and a mother who was in a coma?''

I don't remember, I told him. But this was a lie.

I remember.

Friday, Oct. 24, 1971. I call my mother. We are supposed to go shopping for baby clothes. My mother is as excited about this baby as I am. It's 8 a.m. and there is no answer.

My father calls back. She fell. She won't wake up. An ambulance takes her to South Shore Hospital. She has surgery. ``If she lives, she'll be a vegetable,'' the doctor says late Sunday afternoon. His exact words. I am nine months pregnant.

Two days later, I give birth to a beautiful baby girl. I am alone in my hospital room and I hear the click, click, click of high-heeled shoes hurrying down the corridor and I know it's my mother. She's OK! The clicking gets closer and I look toward the door and I see my Aunt Lorraine smiling a sad smile and holding a pink cloth baby doll.

Now it is December, and my children and I are at Lemuel Shattuck Hospital, where my mother is a patient. Night has come early, the winter stars like broken glass across the sky.

I climb into the back seat of my red Maverick and unstrap my son, then button his double-breasted navy blue wool coat, tie his hat, slip on his mittens, then lift him up and set him on the ground next to the car. ``Wait here,'' I say. ``Don't move.''

Then I reach into the front seat, pick up my sleeping daughter, lock the car, hold my son's hand and shield my baby from the sharp wind as we walk the long, cold, hard hike across the parking lot, up the icy hill.

The children and I take the elevator up to my mother's room. My son presses the number ``8.'' This is his routine now. He doesn't have to ask which button to press. He knows.

We walk past men and women tied in wheelchairs, mouths open, eyes vacant, past metal trays with uneaten food, past respirators and ventilators and nurses in soft-soled shoes, to where my mother lies with a tube feeding her and another tube breathing for her, her fingers stiff, her face slack, her skin cold but warm, too, tears leaking from closed eyes.

``Nana,'' my son shouts.

``Mama,'' I whisper.

He sits on one side of her and I lay my daughter on her other side in the warm space between her body and her arm.

I hold up photos of my son's birthday party. I describe each to her. I say, ``You have to wake up, Mama, because it's almost Christmas and Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without you.''

The baby stirs. ``Nana! Nana!'' my son shouts. ``Our baby's awake. You awake, too?''

But my mother doesn't move.

Thirty-nine years later those days are like 3D, only the tiniest bit out of reach.

``Sometimes it catches up with you,'' my husband said.

But if something catches up with you, it's been following you all along.