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May 22, 2004 The color red has always belonged to my mother. With black hair, large brown eyes, and an olive complexion, she could wear any color. Perhaps this love affair got its start with the gifts of clothing from her Aunt Vine, a classy lady with a flair for fashion and an attachment to this festive color. A few years ago, my mother announced that her closet holds enough red. Note that she did not divorce herself from the color red. I put my foot in the door to my memories and refuse to let her banish the red coat that holds secrets I could not understand until I had become a mother. Let me explain. There was a red coat, a new red coat, which I suspect would have blended into a sea of red in the deep box we call the past. I was in the fifth or sixth grade. I came home from school and threw open the screen door. The house was a modest three bedroom with a porch across the front. No one would have called it a pretty house, but I was happy to have my own bedroom and a large closet. It was during our two year stay in this house that I became the proud owner of a double bed, a dresser, and a chest of drawers, all in a shiny finish of bleached blond. Every piece of furniture matched. The mattress was firm as recommended by my doctor. I had a problem with my hip which I now suspect was hyper-mobility, but that is a subject best saved for another day. I found my mother slumped in a chair in our living room, clutching the new red coat. It was stitched from dyed wool and had a round collar. The buttons were large and black. The cut was straight. Tears puddled in the corners of her eyes, waiting for a chance to follow the stream made by earlier tears, ready to race to the smooth line of her jaw. I should have been greeted with milk and sugar cookies. I should have been complimented on my perfect spelling test or a star on my paper about the Mayflower. I know I did not have a perfect grade in arithmetic about which to brag. “I’ll never wear this,” my mother said between sobs. Her fingers curled tightly around the lapels. “Why not?” I asked. I had a sense that she was dying. This is not the only time my mother shed tears and scared me into a panic of planning for life without her. “I have TB.” How did she know? A skin test. And, to add more misery to our family, my father had tested positive also. I do not know how my father reacted deep inside. All he said was that there was a mistake. Here we were, my parents, my little brother, and my grandmother. And now my parents were at risk of being sent away for months, maybe for a year. One of their friends had already been packed off to a sanitarium. Really, it did not seem so bad to me. If only my mother would stop crying. My young mind could not grasp the truth that comes with adulthood and responsibility. They could lose their jobs, their house, their car, and their children. What if my grandmother had another heart attack? What if she fell down the steps and broke her hip? Who would take care of us? I had two aunts and two uncles. I do not now believe any of our relatives would have allowed us to go into foster care. But, we were not used to asking for help. The years have come and gone. My parents did not have TB; they were able to raise us to adulthood. It was a few years ago while my mother was in an assisted living apartment that I received a call from the director. My mother’s TB skin test was positive. They might have to test every resident. The woman was not pleased; I felt as if I were to blame. Somehow, as the responsible adult, I should have done something. I reassured her that there was nothing about which to worry, and they should arrange for a chest x-ray. I kept thinking about my mother’s cough. Perhaps the dreaded TB had finally caught up with her. While they were relieved that there was no TB, they seemed to have overlooked the shortness of breath and the swollen ankles. After all, congestive heart failure is not contagious. My mother was like a little girl on that day so long ago. Although she held to the red coat, I do not believe it was the coat that she loved so dearly. It was her husband and her children. My mother used to say, “You should be a nurse. That’s something they can’t take away from you.” I always wondered who “they” were and why “they” would want to take anything away from me. I tell my daughters that they should not marry until they have finished their educations and can take care of themselves. Perhaps that is what my mother was saying. And, there were times when I would wonder what would happen to our daughters if I were not here to take care of them. I do not believe I would hug a coat. I would hug my daughters and my husband. ------------ About the author Marlene Morris: I am the proud author of three novels: Pursuit, Lavender Blue, and The Last Domino to Fall. Read excerpts at my web site: www.geocities.com/marlamorrisnovelist Email: fgmo@fuse.net Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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