She Ain't Heavy, She's My Mother Page 17
Just then the door opened. It was another dear friend, Leslie, carrying baby Audrey, and her husband, Bryan, carrying the gumbo. She announced in her best Cajun accent, “Okay, y’all, da gumbo is here, cher!”
Mom clamored, “Where is that gorgeous baby, let me see that beautiful girl … of course you too, Leslie heart, and Mr. Bryan … Oh she’s a dream, those eyes, what an angel!”
Now the focus was on the baby and cooing, more kisses, more drinks, and stories of the day.
Soon the whole apartment was filled with the hearty aroma of Leslie’s gumbo and Rachel’s red beans and rice, both Louisiana girls who know Creole comfort food.
Mom spent the evening charming and disarming everyone’s fears as she told stories of living through World War II. She and baby Audrey were the perfect diversion from the tragic events of the day, and although everyone still was in shock, this familial convergence helped ease the steely tension and pain, if only for a few moments at a time. Rachel had turned off the TV, there was no new news, just more sensational graphics, more fear, sadness, and shock. And soon it was time to make the pilgrimage home. Completely exhausted, Tom and I wheeled Mom back to our place, and while we got ready for bed, she made phone calls to friends and family. I overheard just a bit.
“Oh, Vilma, everyone was so nice. All of Bryan’s and Tom’s sweet friends got together and made gumbo and red beans and rice … and we are going to everyone’s home for the next few days for dinner. Honestly, everyone is shaken up, scared to death, but what can we do really, it’s all in hands of the man upstairs. No, they canceled all the Broadway shows, but I believe that Thursday Bryan has to go back to work. Yes, Thursday, well, we must get back to normal, whatever that is. Tell everyone that we are fine and I’ll be home as soon as I can … I am … I am so glad to be here right now, I’d be worried sick if I weren’t, believe it or not, and call me crazy, I’m actually happy that I am in New York right now. Love you too. Bye.”
“Baby dear,” she called, “I have been trying to get Delta on the phone to change my ticket. I’m supposed to fly out Thursday, but no one is answering the phone.”
“Mom, you are not going anywhere, not for a while, not until the airports are up and running, and then I would like you to give it a few days, just to make sure,” I answered.
“Oh, but pumpkin, I can’t stay that long, I appreciate you both being so sweet, but I’ve got to get back, and I don’t want to be a burden.”
“Mom, you’re not a burden, and I am not letting you get on a plane until it’s safe, and that is final.”
“Okay, sweetie, but, well, honey, what are we going to do about the bathtub situation, I can’t get in that tub, and I noticed Rachel’s is the same. While I visited the ladies’ room I tried to get in her tub, but then I thought, ‘Don’t do that, Gayle, what if you can’t get out?’ That would be a fine kettle of fish. But sugar pie, I can’t just take little French baths for a week. There must be a spa of sort nearby. They may have treatments or something that could work.”
If I’d rolled my eyes anymore, they would have popped out of my head. “Mom, we’ll deal with that tomorrow. I’m about to drop, it’s been a grueling day, let’s get some sleep, hmm?”
She agreed. “That’s right, tomorrow is another day, Scarlett.”
And with that, she ambled into the bedroom while Tom and I arranged the makeshift combination air mattress and pillow bed on our living room floor, somehow knowing that despite our fatigue, no sleep would come. Goodnight kisses and hugs were dispensed, and the light was left on in the bathroom as a night-light for all. I realized then that I was very much like her, that if there was something I wanted or needed, no matter how foolish or nonsensical, I wouldn’t rest until it was mine.
In the middle of the night, after awaking from a short and light slumber, I overheard a voice coming from the bedroom, so I made my way to the door, only to hear, “Yes, is this Delta Airlines? Oh good, this is Gayle Batt and I am scheduled to fly from New York to New Orleans this … Oh, there’s not … Well, do you know when service will be returning … Uh-huh, well, I just wanted to make sure that my ticket would be honored even though … um-hmm … I see, I understand, but you see, I was visiting my son Bryan, he plays Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast on Broadway … Oh yes, very proud and … what’s that? … Oh yes, I am staying with him and his partner now … Oh yes, he’s been in quite a few shows, Cats … me too, I loved that one, and let’s see, he was in Sunset Boulevard and Starlight Express … Yes, that one was on roller skates, he had a terrible knee injury from that one, you know I have to go back into the body shop myself for a hip replacement, that’s why I need wheelchair help at the airport. Oh, he was a dear today, he ran out and rented a wheelchair while Tom got food and water and milk for their friend’s newborn baby … who is a little dream … little Audrey … Isn’t it a pretty name, I love those old-fashioned names myself … No, just my two boys, I wanted a little girl but the good Lord saw fit that I have two sons and that is just fine by me … Beg your pardon … Oh yes, dear … blessings …”
“Mom, it’s three a.m., what are you doing?”
She placed her hand over the receiver so the Delta representative couldn’t hear. “Coach, I am just checking on my flight status, and you are right, there is no service as yet.” She then went back to the agent on the phone.
“Well, you have been so sweet, darlin’, what’s your name? Wanda? Oh, Shwanda, that’s a lovely name … for your uncle Sherman and aunt Wanda. What a coincidence, my godchild’s name is Donna-Gayle for my brother Donald and little ol’ me … I love interesting names … Well, thank you so much, Shwanda, you have a great night, day, morning … yes, bless you too.”
THE NEXT MORNING Mom appeared in her housecoat, peering into the living room.
“Hey, you handsome boys, I didn’t want to wake you, but can a gal get a cup of coffee in this four-star hotel?”
Tom answered, “Sure, Gayle, a pot is brewing. Black, right?”
“That’s it on the nose. So what do we have on the docket for today? You know I am going to have to find a place that can do my hair; I think there is just a day left with this do. Honey, do you know of a nice salon that does a nice shampoo set and comb out? Oh, and by the way, did you happen to think of a spa nearby, that is a must.”
“Mom, I haven’t had my coffee yet. Can we just turn on the TV and see if the world still exists?”
“By all means, let’s have some coffee and I’ll treat to breakfast. Would you call that cute diner around the corner that delivers? I’ll have eggs sunny side up with bacon, and wheat toast. My, I haven’t had eggs sunny side up in ages. Baby dear, you just order whatever you’d like. Tommy, what would you like for breakfast? Waffles, pancakes, omelettes, I just love New York, the fact that you can call and order breakfast and it comes to your door still hot—well, it’s amazing.”
I love her, and maybe it was due to the life-altering traumatic stress we were all under and our different coping mechanisms, but on day two, I didn’t know how much more I could take.
After we had a great Green Kitchen breakfast, I quickly threw on my jeans and went for a short walk while Tom showered and Gayle applied her daily war paint, a process that usually took at least forty-five minutes. The winds had changed, and uptown we could now smell just a hint of what was unbearable at the other end of the island. I just needed to move, to gather my thoughts, to find a salon to coif honey-colored cotton-candy hair into a Rams football helmet, and a spa to hose down my mother. Luckily, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, a number of “set and comb out” ladies’ beauty salons remained, and as soon as I crossed Second Avenue, I recalled a new day spa that had opened. So I walked a few blocks down, all the while trying not to let the tainted air and the fear bring me to my knees.
Upon entering the Zen-wannabe spa, I must admit I was calmed for a moment, but soon the trickling sounds of water, mixed with Zamfir-like pan-flute tunes, just agitated my stressed state of mind. Finally an employee c
ame to my aid and asked how she might be of service.
“I never thought I would actually ever say these words to another human being, but to be honest, I need someone to bathe my mother.”
I explained the bad hip and knee, the old high-lipped bathtubs of prewar apartments, and this sweet lady actually informed me that there were many treatments in which clients were offered a finishing cleanse-rinse with mineral water and rose petals.
“Fantastic! Her name is Gayle Batt, she’ll be calling soon, have fun.” I quickly made my way back home. Within minutes I was wheeling her to the spa for a ginger-salt scrub and invigorating mineral and rose-petal rinse, and after that she was scheduled for a hair appointment.
About an hour and a half later, Tom and I retrieved Mother from her “treatment.” We found her chatting away with the attendants. “Well, yes, if they give us comps to the show, I will bring them by, oh, here are my son and Tom now. Bryan and Tom, I’d like you to meet Norika, Soon-lin, and Tammy.”
The kimono-clad ladies nodded and smiled and wished us well as they confirmed Mom’s appointment for the next day. As we wheeled to the next beautification station, Mom was a wealth of conversation.
“Sweetheart, if your producers offer any free seats or discounts, I would love to give those girls tickets to see your show. They have never seen a Broadway show, and I know they would adore Beauty. Now, Tammy is from Queens, but the other two are from Japan, I asked them if they knew how to perform the tea ceremony. Remember when Daddy and I went to Japan and when we came home I did the tea ceremony for your class?”
Tom, in disbelief, said, “Wait a minute, Gayle, you did the tea ceremony?”
“Oh yes, she did,” I replied. “For my whole second-grade class. My teacher, Mrs. Dart, never forgot it, or my psychedelic painting of Mount Fuji.”
A slight sadness came over her as she shook her head. “I don’t know what happened to me. I used to be able to do so much, and I think after your daddy passed, I just kind of stopped.”
“Stopped! Stopped what? I’ve never seen anyone do more than you, missy.”
Tom added, “My God, Gayle, you’ve got so much going on, it makes me dizzy.”
The conversation drifted back to the spa as we neared the hair salon. Tom had wanted to know just what a ginger-salt rub was, and what a rose-petal rinse was like. “Actually, Tommy dear, it’s an invigorating mineral and rose-petal rinse,” she said with a giggle. “Well, to start, they rub you all over with this exfoliating ginger-scented salt, and then there is a massage, and then there’s this kind of, oh, I don’t know what you’d call it, a sort of wheel thing that comes down and passes over you a few times. Then from all sides a gentle spray of rose water mists and mists and mists. Then they dry you and apply a protective moisturizer.”
“Like a car wash?” he asked.
“Yes, sunshine, just like a car wash!”
Let Us Pray
RETURNING TO A DEVASTATED yet still beloved New Orleans just seven weeks after Katrina, Gayle was weary, but not broken. She knew she had to be strong for her family. Vilma’s Broadmoor home, their childhood home, had been flooded. Uncle Donny and Aunt Irene’s Uptown home was also flooded. My cousin Donna-Gayle’s home in the east was washed away. Like the entire city, seventy-five percent of Mom’s family’s homes were flooded. But worst of all, Jay and Andree’s Lakeview home had been inundated with eight feet of standing toxic stew that completely defiled the once lush, green neighborhood. The area now looked and smelled like death. Miraculously, Mom’s town house and my carriage house were virtually untouched. At first, many who resided on higher ground and sustained little or no damage to their homes expressed what was called “Katrina guilt” because they had been spared. I’ve never really bought into guilt, by any name. It’s a useless emotion, unless you’ve actually done something wrong. But as time went on, this regional sentiment waned, and the dry “Sliver by the River” was soon being called “the Isle of Denial.”
We returned to a city with practically no services and amenities. Sheets of plywood still covered the shops on Magazine Street and homes’ windows all over. The neutral grounds were strewn with rotten debris and rancid refrigerators. Anything that the waters touched or the creeping mold infected had to go. In Lakeview, on the great promenade of West End Avenue, there were massive three-story mountains of the discarded fabric of decimated lives—not just furniture, drapes, and rugs, but everything that forms a home and a life, the very fiber of memory. These monoliths of despair stretched for what seemed like miles. And this was just one area. Throughout the city, muddied lines, like dirty bathtub rings, covered everything in sight, marking how high the vicious waters had raged.
Restoring normalcy was impossible, for nothing ever was nor ever will be considered normal about our city or her unique children ever again. Progress, as usual, advanced at a snail’s pace, but little by little services came back, groups formed to aid with the clean-up, and Americans came from everywhere to help, as our “leaders” fumbled and passed blame. Those in the community who could do so rallied and did all in their power to assist with what continues to be the arduous process of rebuilding.
We opened Hazelnut as soon as we could, not knowing if there ever would be a need now for a home-accessories and fine gift shop. We soon learned there was. Even during tragedies, wars, and every kind of disaster, people still have birthdays and get married, and Christmas arrives on December 25th just the same.
We organized Magazine Street Retail Relief, complete with wine and Bobby McIntyre’s Dixieland jazz ensemble The Last Straws, to encourage other businesses to open, and stimulate commerce. Bobby returned home days early from evacuation, with drum set and straw boater in tow, so that he could “be in that number.” The crestfallen yet buoyant returnees came in droves, embracing friends and family they hadn’t seen since the storm, telling their stories. They were smiling, crying, laughing, sharing, and, as New Orleanians always somehow find a way to do, celebrating. Celebrating life and death, joy and pain, survival and fear. In New Orleans, all emotions are embraced with a celebration, a dance, a parade. Between fundraisers and benefits for every charity and organization imaginable, I proudly worked in Hazelnut alongside Tom and Katy, our manager, friend, confidante, and recent evacuation sister.
The newspapers and the media were vigilant about covering the enormous tragedy, but so many stories were left untold or deemed not newsworthy. So often we were given, and accepted, sensationalism disguised as “the news.” Just one or two stories of the numerous heroes would have eased some pain, not much but some.
As we neared the holiday season, our shop became a bustling hub. Occasionally we served wine at sundown, but even without the grape, a pub sensibility reigned. Anytime we were behind the counter or register, people found it easy to tell their tales of loss, evacuation, and returning home—or of their hopes of returning home.
Family by family, friend by friend, everyone’s road home was different, all fraught with anxiety, pathos, and miraculous glimmers of humor. Aunt Vilma’s journey was particularly difficult, having to evacuate to Paula’s home in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, while in the middle of heavy-duty chemotherapy for a recurrence of lung cancer. After years of smoking, the tumors had returned and a frail yet vigilant soul pressed on. Mother and she wanted to do something special for all of the family at Christmas. A needed healing.
Traditionally, from birth until I flew the coop, on Christmas Eve we all congregated at Moozie’s, complete with Santa and a multitude of gifts. As she aged, we took turns decorating her signature tree with white doves and the pinkish mauve satin balls that coordinated perfectly with her defining décor hue of dusty rose. Since her death and for years prior to it, as her children’s families grew, other holiday traditions emerged, but it wasn’t the same, so different from the rich, inclusive familial traditions she had created.
Whenever I would see my cousins on trips home for the holidays, we all would recall sentimentally how magical those holidays had been for u
s as children, and wish they could be re-created. Jay would remind us of the day that he realized that Santa was Mr. Gerhardt from Pontchartrain Beach. The missing thumb, knuckle tattoo, stench of cheap bourbon, and a voice that rivaled Harvey Fierstein’s might have given him away instantly, but Jay was too shocked to put the pieces together immediately. Moments before, Donna’s brother Ricky had told him Santa was a capitalist myth perpetrated by the establishment. I recalled the time my younger cousins Kevin, Jennifer, and I were body-blocked from seeing out Moozie’s front door by our older teenage cousins, while they claimed to see Rudolph’s nose leading Saint Nick’s sleigh.
So, in honor and in memory of our Christmas celebrations past, the sisters gave birth to a new tradition, the “Christmas Adam Party,” which was to take place the day before Christmas Eve, on December 23. Adam came before Eve, hence the name. Every relative was invited, and gifts were to be brought for all of the children under eighteen. Each family would continue our tradition by wrapping its gifts in a specific holiday paper and placing them together in a specified area for distribution later in the evening. Mom contacted “Uncle Wayne,” no relation, a wonderful comic actor/musician and sort of a Shecky Green of a Santa, who agreed to lead the family in carols and draw caricatures of the children. Everyone sang carols, and the adults enjoyed Santa’s risqué double entendres, which sailed over the innocent little ones’ heads. Mom’s home was alive with infectious excitement and joy, and the cacophonous laughter of all. It was a magical evening unlike any our family had experienced in years. We vowed to keep this new tradition alive.
AS OFTEN HAPPENS, such great joy was followed by sorrow. Two days later Vilma passed, and one month later Mom’s brother Uncle Donny did too, both from lung cancer. Three months later Mom was diagnosed with it as well. Tragedy following upon tragedy would decimate a weaker soul, but not Mother. She faced the grueling surgery with optimism, faith, and humor, as she had done so many times before. Surrender was a word foreign to her vocabulary; survival with grace was all she knew.