Not long after Santiago Holmes died, I asked my mother why she had taken such care of him. She had moved away from Berwick by the time he passed and was living 45 minutes north in South Hampton. She’d left Berwick after I graduated college, saying there were too many old memories lurking in the streets. I didn’t know what she meant, but I was 22 and not coming home for anything, so the move didn’t matter much to me.
I had settled myself in New York City, far enough away where I could get home if there was an emergency, but not so close I could go home every weekend or feel guilted into doing so. I called ma once a week, most often on my walk home from work. I did so until I ended up moving back to Berwick, but that wasn’t until after Santiago Holmes died.
While Santiago was sick, I would talk to Ma when she was in the car. She drove to and from Berwick every night once Santiago was diagnosed. I could hear the weariness in her voice each time we talked, but didn’t know what type of support to offer.
She was named branch manager of a Berwick Trust in South Hampton. A move that could have happened in Berwick had she not held the opportunity at arm’s length for years. Being herself she was unable to work “banker’s hours,” so she put in full 10-11 hour days at the bank, then she would get in her car and drive to Berwick. She would cook dinner for Santiago, clean his apartment, do the laundry or a million other things to make sure he was as comfortable as possible.
He still worked in the cemetery. When Pap passed, he’d been given the job of caretaker. Pap had demanded that from the board of directors. Even in death, Pap had a final poke at the town. He knew people didn’t like Santiago Holmes being involved in dimming the last light their loved ones would experience on Earth or caring for their memorials. It was Pap’s final middle finger to the town.
With Santiago’s illness the calls between Ma and I had become short. I couldn’t stand the guilt of hearing her sounding so bone-weary, while I was hundreds of miles away from all of it. I think she it was fine with her because most of the time when I called I complained about some aspect of my life and as time went on I don’t think she had the energy to push me back from the ledge of that week’s imagined crisis.
Ma never once called me in all the year’s I was in New York, except when she found out about Santiago’s diagnosis. I’d never seen or heard her in tears before, but I could tell she was fighting them off when I picked up the phone. My heart skipped three or four beats, as my imagination ran off to all the potential scenarios that would cause her to call me in tears.
“The worst thing has happened.”
“What is it Ma? Are you okay?”
Through a stifled sob she said, “Santiago has been diagnosed with terminal liver cancer.”
I didn’t realize how tense I was until the wave of relief washed over me at those words, “Oh, okay. You’re okay though?”
“Me? What? No. I’m not okay. Santiago is going to die.”
I’d spent summers working for him in the cemetery in college after Pap had died. We felt out over a burial the summer before my senior year of college, more than 20 years ago now. I hadn’t said a word to him in all that time.
I’d like to say it was the anger from our fall-out that made me so indifferent to his passing, but I know it wasn’t. Time had moved me past the anger. No, my indifference was due to my being a bitter, self-centered, middle-aged man, so my reply was to be expected.
“That’s too bad, but it’s not surprising given the amount he drank. I’m surprised it took this long.”
“That’s so uncharitable of you. I raised you better than that,” Ma said, hanging up the phone.
I skipped our regular call for the next few weeks out of my fear. She wielded guilt with the deft hand of a surgeon. I felt guilty for waking up most days, so the silence between us caused me to ache. I would have crumbled had she made the slightest cut with her tongue.
After a time, the guilt of not talking became too much and I called. It was as though nothing had happened. Ma’s normal, pleasant disposition was back. She asked after all things me, and as per usual, I neglected to ask anything about her.
When I did remember to ask, she’d say she was busy with work and driving between Berwick and South Hampton. The exhaustion was in her voice whether I asked how she was doing or not. It made her sound fragile, a word I had never associated with her. I left many of our calls unsure of what I should do, so I did nothing.
Even though he was a major cause of her exhaustion, I would often neglect to ask after Santiago Holmes. He was a toxic balloon held between us and I didn’t want it to burst.
