When I walked in she was on the sofa crying. “There’s no hope for any of us,” my mother spurted out between sobs. Just then my father came into the room with a glass of water and two aspirin. “Here, Sara, take these. It will help.” She looked up at him gratefully and swallowed the pills. “Mom, what happened?” I asked. “Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis has just died. Died,” she answered as she set the glass down and began leaving the room, “And I’m going to lie down for a bit.” It was May 19, 1994, I was 44 years-old and my father and I were left to sort out the pieces of my mother’s grief. “I don’t really understand it, Daddy,” I began. “I mean, she hasn’t met the woman. She only knows her through stories in the paper and magazines and tv. Why is she so emotional?” Equally baffled my father posed some possibilities. “Well, they’re close to the same age. And maybe she’s afraid that if someone with so much power and money and connections can die, then, well….” Here he trailed off afraid to finish the sentence. But then looked me squarely in the face and did, “we can all die. We will all die. It’s a hard reality at our age and a sad, but inevitable, truth.” “You know,” he continued, “Jackie was beautiful and elegant, but your mother was so much more so. When I first met her I thought she was the most glamorous woman I had ever known. She still is you know,” he sighed. I had never really thought about their first meetings. Fresh out of a New York University Master’s program in economics, my American father had gone to Montevideo, Uruguay to start a branch of the Schick razor company. He was 25 years old. He spoke little Spanish and knew right away he needed help with not only the language but also the customs of the country. “When she walked into my office I found it hard to say anything. Her raven-black hair fell in waves on her shoulders and when she reached out her white-gloved hand to take mine, I knew I was a gonner.” He laughed remembering the details. “She didn’t seem like she had much experience as a secretary and really, after she started working, she was abysmal at it. Tried firing her twice, but she wouldn’t stay away and neither could I. When we formally became a couple I was finally able to meet her three-year-old daughter, you,” he smiled, “and I loved you from the first moment as well.” He hugged me and continued, “You know she had been in medical school but then stopped. She married Harry and you were born and then Harry was horrible to both of you. When he disappeared, everyone was relieved. And then we met, fell in love, got married, and moved here to the U.S.” It seemed so simple when he told it. But I knew there was more. Now she came back into the living room, her eyes red and puffy, a tissue clutched in her hand, and sat down next to me. My father took this as a cue to leave us alone and wandered off into the kitchen. “I want to explain,” she began, “what troubles me so much. Jackie Kennedy Onassis was a really complicated woman. She had a hard life.” I jumped in, “Sure. Her husband was president and then he was assassinated in the car, right next to her.” Now my mother continued, “Well, of course there was that terrible trauma. But, she was full of so many tragedies. She had miscarriages, and her husband had so many affairs. He was terrible to her. She only married him because everyone said that since she was already in her twenties she was getting very old to find a husband. She went to college and had a job at a magazine, but was told she really should just get married. I understand this. It was like that in those days.” Now she sipped the water she’d left behind, and I noticed a hint of her newly-applied lipstick on the rim. Even in her sadness my mother wanted to look “put-together” as she called it. “So she married JFK, helped him become president, had two children, and when he died, she was alone. Alone. All that wealth and popularity and beauty, and still alone.” “But then she married one of the richest men in the world, right?” I said. She continued, “Who knows why she did that? Maybe she loved him. Maybe she saw no choice. Maybe she was lonely. Maybe it was security. But that too wasn’t happy.” Now she looked at the large clock on the wall and fell silent. We could hear it tick, tick, tick the seconds away. She looked at me again. “When he died, she came back to the U.S. She began working with the arts and with publishing. You know, the press was not kind to her. But she kept going. Kept going. Until today.” Now my mother’s head folded down into her hands. “Mom,” I said as I put my arm around her shoulder, “Is it upsetting to you that if she can die, we all can? I’m trying to understand.” “No, it’s not really that,” she said as her tear-filled eyes searched mine, “It’s her story. Who tells her story now? How will we know about her life, her struggles, her energies?” Maybe my mother had a sense then that her arteries were starting their hardening, her heart beating out a new staccato rhythm, not allowing enough oxygen for her brain to connect the wandering memories. “Sylvia,” she continued, “I’m afraid that all our own stories will be lost. What will happen to all of the life we led? Where will it go?” “Tell me about the time you and father got the car stuck in the thick mud on your way to Brazil,” I began, making us both chuckle at an old family tale. We got out photo albums and talked over tea. My father grilled some steaks and we kept talking over dinner. And into the chill of the May night we laughed. Five years later, my father died of cancer. Five years after that my mother died of her heart conditions. And today I am here right now telling you, dear readers, their stories—keeping them alive. Comments are closed.
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