“It’s okay, Mom,” I whispered. “You don’t have to fight so hard. If you want to go see the Blessed Mother, you can go. I’ll take care of Dad. I promise. I’ll take good care of him.”
And she opened her eyes.
“Were you playing possum with me?” I asked.
She smiled. “Don’t cry.”
But I couldn’t help it. In so many ways, I remained a child, in need of someone to care for me. That person had been my mother all my life. I feared losing her. I feared not having her near me, not having her around, a part of my life, a part of Fernando’s life, if I was so lucky as to be approved. Mostly, though, I knew that I would miss her something fierce.
“I’m going to miss you, Mom.”
She pointed to my chest. “I’ll be right here. You felt it, didn’t you?”
I had. “It won’t be the same.”
“She’s so beautiful, isn’t she?”
I thought she was speaking of Mickie, but then, uncertain, I asked, “Who, Mom?”
“The Blessed Mother,” she said. “You saw her, too, outside the baths.” And I realized why my mother’s gaze had shifted when she approached me in the grotto. Had she actually seen the Blessed Mother of Jesus Christ? I don’t know. What I know is her gaze was so intense and so focused at that moment that I am convinced she saw something. And if she says she saw the Blessed Mother, I’ll go to my own grave supporting her belief, as she had so ardently believed in me.
My mother took a deep breath, and I was certain it would be her last.
“Mom—”
She exhaled, took another shallow breath. “Do you know what I prayed for in the baths?”
I shook my head.
“For a miracle.”
“I wish it was so,” I said, taking her hand in mine. “I wish it was so.”
“For you,” she said.
“For me?”
“The miracle of Lourdes is acceptance, Sam. I asked God to help you to understand and to accept yourself.” And I thought again of that moment at the baths when I had forgiven so many who had bullied me and, in so doing, I had forgiven myself. Could it have been my mother’s prayer? Could it have been her final act as my mother to once again take care of me?
“Come close,” she said. “I want to see the eyes that looked up at me the moment you were born.” She touched my cheek. “My baby,” she whispered. “When you were born, I thanked the Blessed Mother for making you extraordinary.”
“You were always there to take care of me,” I said.
“Everything happens for a reason, Samuel. Never forget that. Have faith in God’s will.”
Then she closed her eyes.
They would be the last words she ever spoke to me.
12
My mother did not regain consciousness, but she also did not die on the plane or during the transport back to her house. She was too stubborn. She once told me she wanted to die in her own bed, with the man she loved beside her. She got her wish.
Her wake and funeral were held at Our Lady of Mercy. The pews were filled with so many people from our past that the pastor had to open the choir loft, something usually done only during the holidays for the attendees my father had called Christmas Catholics.
I buried her at the Catholic cemetery. Six weeks later, I buried my father beside her. He simply could not live without her.
13
Several months after my parents’ deaths, at the end of January, I walked in the door with two six-packs of Corona and margarita mix. Sunday nights, Mickie and I either cooked or went out for Mexican food. Tonight, Ernie and Michelle were joining us. They had taken their youngest son off to college the prior weekend after a few semesters at the local community college, and we were celebrating their freedom as empty nesters. I recalled Dr. Fukomara’s statement to me during my vasectomy consult that he and his wife were empty nesters and could have sex in any room in the house. When I said the same thing to Ernie on the phone, he’d responded, “Yeah, but do you?”