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Chapter 2

Chapter 2

My father married Anne Harrington when he was nineteen. She was a soft-looking brunette who always smiled, a woman of twenty-three who worked at the Milton Glove Factory, stuffing work gloves into boxes and shipping them out to a variety of states. She was a Catholic, watercolorist, easy on the eyes, and found joy in reading mystery novels, watching dramas on TV, and baking. Happily?…they lived at 349 Murray Street in Pittsburgh. After three miscarriages I was born, their only child, Nicholas Lock West, a blessing in their marriage, perhaps something to tie them together—always.

He never kissed her or held my mother. He never whispered, “I love you, Anne. We are one. You’ll always be safe with me. I will never hurt you—forever. I promise.” I didn’t see anniversary gifts, birthday presents for mother, a vacation to Cancun, Mexico, or the mountains of Wyoming. My father seemed cold to her, withdrawn, perhaps trapped like a rabbit; behavior I didn’t understand; a way of life I grew to accept but always questioned. Did my father love my mother fully? And why did he not glow inside the realm of love, happiness, and tenderness she shared with him?

The bedrooms upstairs. Three in all. One for my mother. One for me. A third one for my father. I never saw them sleep together. I never heard doors opening and closing at night. I never woke to lovers’ footsteps in the dim hallway. Such a mystery during my years growing up. An unexplained anonymity. Confusion. s*x was unheard through the walls of my childhood home. The topic was never discussed or shared. Not once did my father mention the term the birds and the bees to me. And conventionally, I learned the act of s*x through magazines: Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler.

The cancer came when I was nineteen while attending Ausbreck College. It happened in her right lung, spreading throughout her body and contaminating her entire torso. My father said it was the cigarettes she smoked throughout the years. The Marlboro Lights. The Virginia Slims. The Salem Lights. She didn’t know it was inside her; none of us did. The silent killer. A mockery to human life. Insanity. How quickly it had eaten away at my mother’s organs. How absurd it was to learn that diseases are not always cured by love, happiness, and tenderness. A quiet victor, taking my mother away from me.

I remember her coughing, that raspy voice and the way she constantly patted her chest because she couldn’t breathe. I remember the visits to see Dr. Yullbrick, driving her there myself, being informed of her incurable condition. It happened so suddenly, in a matter of months, invading her system, ruining her world, munching away at her organs like a hungry trucker at a smorgasbord. Cancer had her in its firm grip and wasn’t about to let her go. Mother, I learned, became a prisoner of her disintegration. It was almost a blessing that she had passed on Labor Day while holding my hand, attempting to smile, knowing that her suffering had ended.

My father…he never went to chemo with her. He didn’t attend her funeral. He didn’t share a last good-bye. Such a stone. Unbreakable. A kind man who didn’t know how to handle my mother’s death. Disparage in his world. Crushed—even to this day. He loved her more after her demise, missing her. I never understood why. I was never to find out why. And no matter what actions he took or didn’t take during his wife’s falling-down days, I knew that he loved her, even during the worst crimes of their marriage and the sunniest days. My father was not a demon. He was not heartless and cruel—even to this day.

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Reflection: I miss her. The homemade apple dumplings in late September. Feeding the neighborhood kids, my lot of mischievous friends. Her list of chores for me to accomplish before a softball game in the backyard. The moment she introduced Carla to me at Aunt Sonya’s annual Christmas Party. How she called me Nicky when I was well behaved and Nicholas when I was a monster. The way she turned her cheek for me to kiss her good-bye. Our visits to chemotherapy. The many lunches we did together. The many flamboyant hats with their bright colors and peacock feathers she would wear once she lost her hair. Handholding in Tidings Park on long walks. Her sluggish breathing near the end. The way she slept on her right side with her eyes half-closed—always.