“Oh no,” she says gravely. “I did more than ignore it. I fought it. I resisted with every bit of strength I had in me. I wasn’t about to let anyone control my life.”
“For how long?” I ask breathlessly.
“Oh, sixty years, give or take.”
“Sixty years.” There I go, Clara the parrot. I belong on a pirate’s shoulder. “So that’s why you didn’t tell me. Aside from the fact that you were trying to hide that Dad’s an Intangere. If you’d told me that you fought your purpose, instead of the way I’d always assumed it went down, maybe I would have fought mine too.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Except you ended up fighting yours anyway. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“And they let you do that? Heaven, I mean.”
“They let me do that. I had free will, you see, and, boy, did I ever use it.”
“What did you do?”
She sighs. Something clouds her eyes. I feel a hint of regret. Obviously this part of her life was not her favorite time.
“I made mistakes,” she confesses. “One after another after another. I brought a whole world of hurt down on myself. I fumbled through my life. Hurt people, even people I loved.
Became an expert at lying to myself. I suffered, sometimes in unimaginable ways. And I learned.”
I stare at her. “Did you think you were being punished? For not fulfilling your purpose?” She meets my eyes. “You’re not being punished, Clara. But yes, it was terrible at times, and it felt like punishment. I wouldn’t want that for you. But you’re forgetting that in the end it was all as it should be. That kiss on the shore happened, after all.”
“What changed your mind?” I ask, but looking at the quiet certainty on her face, I think I can guess.
“I started seeing beyond the kiss,” she answers. “And I saw you. And Jeffrey. And I got a glimpse of that happiest time.”
She looks again at the TV. The scene has shifted. Now we’re on the boardwalk at Santa Cruz. I am eating cotton candy, complaining about how sticky it is, licking my fingers. Mom demands a taste and the camera lunges in at the cotton candy. I catch a part of her face, her nose, chin, lips, as she bites off a piece.
“Yum,” I hear her say, smacking her lips for the sake of the camera.
Fourteen-year-old Clara rolls her eyes at her mother. But she smiles. Up the boardwalk, Jeffrey calls, “Look at me. Mom, look at me!” I can’t believe his voice was ever that high pitched.
The camera finds Jeffrey standing near the strong man game on the boardwalk. He’s twelve years old, scrawny as all get-out, like a stork wearing a Giant’s cap. His silver eyes are all lit up with excitement. He grins at us, then lifts the rubber mallet and brings it down hard. A ball shoots up from the base of the platform and rings a bell at the top. Lights flash. Music sounds.
My little brother just won the strong man prize.
The guy running the booth looks flabbergasted, suspicious, like Jeffrey must have cheated somehow. But he hands over the giant stuffed panda Jeffrey picks out.
“Here, Clara,” Jeffrey squeaks, running up to us with his chest all puffed out. “I won this for you.”
“Way to go, little man!” Mom says from behind the camera. “I’m so proud of you!”
“I’m little but I’m strong,” Jeffrey boasts. He never was one for being modest. “I’m Mr.
Amazing!”
“How’d you do that?” Younger Clara seems as puzzled as the carny as she accepts the giant black-and-white bear. I still have that bear. It’s on the top shelf of my closet. I named him Mr. Amazing. Until now I’d forgotten why.
“Want to see me do it again?” Jeffrey asks.
“That’s okay, buddy,” Mom says gently. “We should give the other people a chance.
Besides, we don’t want to show off.”
The camera tilts as she hugs him, up into the blue, cloudless sky. For a moment the noise of the boardwalk lulls, and you can hear the crash of the surf, the cries of the seagulls. Then the screen goes blank. Happy time over.
I turn to look at Mom. Her eyes are closed and her breath is deep and even. Fast asleep.
I pull the blankets up over her. I kiss her, lightly, on the cheek, breathe in her smell of rose and vanilla.
“I love you, Mom,” I whisper, and even in sleep she hears me.
Later Dad carries her out to the back porch to see the stars. It’s a warm night, crickets chirping their hearts out, light breeze blowing. Spring is about to give way into summer.
Watching my parents together, the way they seem to speak to each other without words, the way his touch seems to strengthen her, it is undeniable that their love is a powerful, transcendent thing.
This love will survive her death. But was it worth it? I can’t help but wonder. Was it worth all the hardship she mentioned, the suffering of their separation, the pain of having him for such a short time and then having to let him go?
Watching them, I think it must be. When he kisses her lightly on the lips, brushes a tendril of hair out of her face, adjusts the shawl around her shoulders, she gazes up at him with nothing but pure love in her midnight eyes. She’s happy.
