ellen in three parts

what i know. what i think i know. and other remains of the day.

one:

June 18, 1993. A Friday.

He leaves a message on the answering machine. Nine pm or so. We were home. Volume down, tv up and the AC unit humming. City summers, always hotter than “the beach”. We head to Jersey often, to go to Tradewinds. Mom has a stash of guest passes and a cabana.

A 750 square foot one bedroom. Hard to believe I missed the call.

I wake easy and early on Saturday. Pad into the living room to let the dog out back. The machine blinks its red reminder. “Barri, it’s Peter, call me back”. His voice is deep and stern and serious on any given day. He is township attorney, trial lawyer and Mom’s second husband since I am 12. Many hang ups after this. He tells me to come home. There has been an accident at the beach. Mom is in the hospital. He has been calling all night.

I tell my husband and he orders a dial car on his work account. I don’t remember packing. But recall putting bags in the car. Make up in my tote. Danna is on a plane from Denver. I think, she is alone in the air.

I lean against the window. An accident at the beach. Mom was an amazing swimmer. Bit by a shark. I swear this is what I conjure. Accident. There are no accidents at the beach if you are Mom. I tell Eddie I know that she is dead. He tries to talk me out of this with small talk and platitudes. She is 50. She is dead at 50. I have nothing black packed. Does Danna?

We hit the Parkway. 161, Clifton. This is Grandma’s old exit. She lived there for years in The Dorchester. A swanky highrise with a pool and a pond in the lobby--replete with turtles and succulents. And a candy machine in the mail room.  Grab a quarter for a pack of Chuckles.

Edison, 127. Aunt Trudy has lived here our whole lives. The sister’s had a pact never to live more that 30 minutes from one another. Did Peter call Aunt Trudy? I need to call Dad. Dad will want to know. Divorced and remarried since I was in 4^thgrade, they are friendly and still fond of one another. Mom will want him to know. He will want to know.

The Garden State Parkway has always been dotted with seasonal blooms. It is especially flush in Summer plantings. I remember purple, red and white whizzing by. I don’t remember what the flowers are called.

52 Hubbard Avenue. All of our friends used to toot when they would drive by.  Mom went to take a listing from the DeMartino’s and decided to buy the house. An old Tutor on the corner with a primary bedroom extension on the first floor, and the upstairs all for us. Perfect for the privacy of budding teens and their new Stepdad plotting a new way together. We have lived in four houses in Middletown and never changed schools. This one seems the most Mom.

He is there. Home alone. We stand in the dining room. I don’t remember all that he said. A few words blanch my memory. Beach. Aneurism. Life support. I knew she was gone. Know she is gone. But he does not say dead or died.

Peter’s brother.  Newark Airport to get Danna. We should have picked her up on the way.

two:

I wasn’t there.

She took the day off, too fucking hot to sell a house, she told me on the phone. She was heading to Sandy Hook.

Mom has been a top realtor in Monmouth County for years, she grew up in nearby Deal. Selling a house here, innate. In her bones. As a teen, she is a swim and diving instructor. Coach Ellen, at Oakhurst Day Camp. I loved to watch her swim. Holding court at the Scrabble game one minute, and then retreating to the pool or ocean for a plunge. Racing dive and strong, steady strokes. Perfect form, like the students are still watching her, all these years later.

I imagine this day. She took the folding beach chair from the trunk and set up shop miles from the ladies and their game. Anonymous, alone time. The Hook, as we called it, was the free beach, the one where you would also go to skip school and toss in a few bucks for a keg. A craggy jetty, endless shoreline of shared space – all protected by its national park status.

Photo by Marissa Rodriguez on Unsplash

On this day in June, it was nearly empty. She places her black patent leather and mesh, Adrianne Vittadini tote by her seat. Inside sits a produce bag stuffed with three plus pounds of hand-picked Santa Rosa plums. These come for a week or two each summer and they are her favorite. She pops it open and enjoys one in the car after scoring the coveted stash at the A&P.  She settles into the trashy novel from the check out, after slathering on some Ban de Soleil. I can smell it when I close my eyes and see her glowy bronze limbs. Her smooth skin remained tan year-round. Summer just browned what genetics already gave her.

The day heats up and she heads down to the water. Bare bones set up. No umbrella or poolside cabanas to hide beneath here.  She dives under the incoming wave, smooth warm skin piercing the sea foam. Elbows high as she strokes freestyle, riding the current.

Flipping easily to her back, she admires the cloudless sky, a smile appears as she takes in the childlike joy of floating. Holding court here, from the middle of nowhere, as only she could. She thinks about us. Peter at the US Open, thanks to tickets she scalped for him.  Danna tucked into her new apartment in Denver, all decked and decorated courtesy of her recent trip. Me, newly settled at my own PR firm, talking to a new fashion client. She puffs her chest with pride. We are all in our places. The last words to each, before she headed off, I love you and love you too.

She raises her neck gently guides the top of her bun, then eyes and nose upside down, and swirls through the water in an effortless backward summersault. I am tickled at this playful, I still got it, gesture. Now 50, but no one would guess.

She returns to her chair. One loan couple nearby. She smiles and waves in their direction. They take her in, as it is hard not to. Mom has been likened to a modern-day Sophia Loren. Today, in a classic black tank suit, curves covered up, but on view. She is known to turn heads.

She relaxes back into her beach read for hours. The last of the sun. Her last hours. Rays warming her from the outside in. Drying the remaining drops of sea water on her skin, leaving behind its salty white finish. She feels good knowing we are all cared for and we are better for knowing this was how she may have written it.

three:

She probably bought it at Thrift Drug.

The jewelry roll, in all of its cheap and cheerful yellow patent and white polka dotted splendor. It looks more like a matter of convenience than a considered Ellen purchase. We had a charge account a Suburban Drugs, and it is probably the fanciest, not really fancy, thing about us. That and being a member of a country club.  But that is only for skate lessons.

I look everywhere for the damn thing, but I cannot find it. The top drawer by her bedside is so tidy. More than usual. Her slim gold ball point pen rests next to the tan Ultrasuede address book. It has a sort of fake embroidered floral cover and it is gold foil embossed -- EJF. Mom loves a monogram too. I take in her upcoming dates. A house showing. New client, their number. Floor time. All of our birthdays—even Dad’s. Her jaunty remembrances are signature half script and half printed caps in blue ink, that I could ID as hers anywhere.

A brown eyeglass case with lion heads holds a pair of oversized Anne Klein II frames from the outlet. People liken her to Jackie Kennedy sometimes, and I think beyond her sharp cheekbones and angular jaw and love of a good A-line shift, it is definitely the glasses. She would turn her every old pair into her daytime prescription so they were heavy enough to sit up on her head. Always propped there like a headband, to hold the center-parted bob out of her eyes. I spy a small pile of receipts from Craft Cleaners and Anne, the seamstress. She designed the night stand in bamboo trim, custom, to match the headboard.

I sit on her bed and lean all the way over so I can see way into the back of the drawer. It feels as if she knew, and cleaned it out for us. On top sits a new table top fan. She told me recently; it helps with hot flashes. She must need it badly, because it is pretty unsightly. Still. No jewelry. An empty glass remains. The kind you get shrimp cocktail inside, and save for orange juice. Or at least that is how we used them all my life. I think, was her last juice? A swig of water for two Excedrin. Always prone to headaches, she would tease the E on each oval white pill was really for Ellen.  

I cannot help but wonder if there is an unconscious knowing when we are to die. It is so clean. Too clean. Way in back, a small pile of envelopes torn open carefully. Unpaid bills waiting for their due dates. An updated brown Bloomingdale’s charge card, sits unused, still stuck to the paper. She rarely uses a store card since she got the Visa. Easier to keep expenses organized she tells us. I think the store cards are probably maxed out. She lives closing to closing. A tiny framed photo of Danna and I in matching Danskin swimsuits, names embroidered in white script, sit beside the fan.

She rarely agrees to have her picture taken, but the photo albums on the bedroom shelf are filled to overflowing with 3x4s of their travels. I file through. Mom, in front of various far flung locations and in front of mantels -  snapped in her “ready-for-dinner” best. All likely from Loehman’s but each like a million bucks. I take in the smiles, poses, hotel rooms, and the make-up. She is so good at doing her make up. For the first time I think, way too short—searching in the photos and drawers for proof of a full life. I return the album to its shelf, and there hiding behind the books is the yellow roll. Waiting. Sidled up behind the memories. Safe from neighborhood break-ins of late.

It is here, but I am still searching for her.