A Memoir
Just Us Girls
A Memoir of Coercive Control, Motherhood, and Survival
Chapter Twelve
Mourning and Hope
I pulled up to the white house on the dead-end street in Westchester. Taking a deep breath before removing my hands from the wheel, I prepared myself for what was happening inside. The humid September afternoon mirrored the suffocating feeling inside me as I moved up the walkway, past meticulously kept rows of purple, pink and red flowers. Each step naturally landed inside the borders of the stones, just like they had for so many years of childhood hopscotch. I smiled slightly at the sole towering tree in the middle of the front yard—its thick branches still strong, years after being abandoned by the cousins who spent summer days racing up to claim a perfect lounge spot. Reality lodged in my throat. The house, the walkway, the tree—would all soon belong to a new family.
My mother and aunt greeted me at the front door, exhausted. Both of them, nurses, had essentially moved back into their childhood home after my grandmother was diagnosed with stage four cancer in August. For weeks, they diligently tended to her, keeping her comfortable in her own bed, while they watched her quickly deteriorate.
Remembering my last somber visit, I knew she was ready. Her brothers had passed in the years before. My grandfather followed. Then, her sister also left this earth. My mother had sent me down to comfort her and didn’t deliver the blow until I arrived. That day, I witnessed life leaving her at the realization that she was the last of a generation. “I’m all alone,” she said. She was a religious woman who never missed a Sunday service. She knew they were all waiting for her in heaven, and she was ready to join them.
Still, no one was ready to lose her. She was the anchor of our family. With five children and thirteen grandchildren, she was the bringer of holiday cheer—the short-order cook while grandchildren crammed into the kitchen breakfast nook after nights when the entire family came together.
My mother nodded toward the stairs. “You can go up.”
I slowly crept up the brown, thick carpeted steps like I had so many times before. When I needed healing, I went to her, spending countless nights sleeping in my mother’s childhood bedroom after making the drive south just to be in her presence. There was comfort in knowing she was right down the hall. She was my person. Her hugs were fully embracing. Her laugh, her strength, her distinct smell of ancient Charlie perfume and too much hairspray—I loved her with my whole heart. In times when I felt I didn’t belong anywhere, I knew I always belonged with her.
At her doorway, I was met with the scents of her—the aerosol spray, the perfume, clothes that had seen her through decades. Yellow wallpaper with purple and red flowers wrapped the room. Golden drapes adorned the windows; she always changed them with the season. On top of her vanity sat a tray filled with her clip-on earrings and a neatly placed comb. She would only use a comb in her hair.
I slid into bed next to her. She looked up and smiled. I took her cold, worn hand in mine.
“Did the Yankees win tonight?” Her voice pushed out through dry, chapped lips.
“Yes,” I said, swallowing a pain I had never felt before.
“What are you going to name that baby again?”
“Megan, Grandma.”
“Oh, Megan. That’s right. That’s a beautiful name.”
That was the last conversation I ever had with her. I wanted to stay until the end. I didn’t want to leave. But my mother told me I had to. I had one final trip booked to see Marcus; my flight was the next day. “Go be with your husband before his deployment,” she insisted. “It’s important. She’ll be here when you get back.”
She didn’t know everything I had been through, and it wasn’t her fault. I hadn’t told her any of it. To her, marriage came first—that’s how she was raised. So I listened.
I flew to California and celebrated Marcus’s birthday. My heart remained in New York throughout the entire four-day stay. For once, we didn’t fight. Maybe he didn’t want to ruin his own birthday. Maybe because deployment was coming and he needed me back home—writing him, supporting him, being a good wife. For whatever reason, I was grateful for the hope I carried home with me as he headed out to sea.
As soon as I landed in New York, I returned to my grandmother’s house. I barreled through the front door, straight to the stairs leading up to her.
My mother’s words stopped me. “She’s gone,” she said.
“What?” It hit like a gut-punch. “You didn’t tell me. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to ruin your trip,” she answered through tears.
She was gone. Megan would be given her name as a middle name—Megan Ruth. It would have been her first great-grandchild, if she had held on a few months longer. My mother was angry with God—a grudge she would hold on to. She couldn’t understand why her mother was taken right before her first great-grandchild would enter the world.
I found the silver lining in it—I had to. My baby gave my mother something to hope for. My baby gave my mother something to get out of bed for. She lost her mother and gained a grandchild. Megan Ruth would bring my mother joy through the most significant pain of her life—just as only a grandchild could.
— Sophie Marino
