I Know It in My Heart by Mary E. Plouffe PhD

Author:Mary E. Plouffe PhD
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2017-04-04T04:00:00+00:00

My days in Las Vegas were divided into layers. Early morning was Liamarie time, when my two children were asleep. She and I played, watched her favorite videos, and talked about her mom. Mostly we snuggled. Touching was important for both of us, and we lay on the floor amid giant pillows that let us roll into one another as we read. “Read this story and this one again,” she asked. There were very few “why questions,” very little talk of what just happened and what it meant for her. She simply drank in the presence of family and the comfort of my physical presence and its familiar mothering.

In the middle of the day, Bill and I took the children, headed out to some attraction and became Las Vegas tourists. We did not last long on the casino strip. Its gaudy displays seemed hideous, and we were horrified at the people we saw. Not the glamorous well-dressed elite like the TV images in my head. Instead, casino after casino was filled with middle aged, overweight women in polyester pantsuits, some with walkers parked beside their slot machines, sitting for hours and hoping to hit the jackpot. Matt was incensed and refused to buy even a cold drink in the casinos. “This is horrible, Mom. I will not give them a penny,” he insisted, and I admired his fervor. I could hear Martha’s word—faux, faux, faux—echoing in my head.

One afternoon when Herb was free to join us, we took a ride out to Red Rock Canyon. The last time Martha was there, she sent a picture of the three of them on a bench, the deep umber hills of the canyon in the background. I wondered if Liamarie remembered being here. Just then her behavior answered. She got itchy and agitated, and, from a few feet away, I heard her suddenly screaming to leave, angry with her father at some imagined slight. “I want to leave. I want to go home right now!” she yelled. Oh yes, I thought, she remembers.

Late in the evenings, as Bill watched our kids in the pool, Herb and I sat at the dining room table and talked. One night he brought out a shoe box labeled “Martha.” It contained unopened condolence cards, her wallet, and her leather-bound appointment calendar. Tucked inside was a small white envelope marked “Hair Pictures.” Herb opened it cautiously. Four pictures: front, back, and two side views of her close-cropped hair for the stylist who made her a wig. He handed them to me. Her expression was flat, hollow, disembodied. So stark, with no attempt at emotion. I had never seen that look on her face before. Was she imagining us seeing them as we are today? Was that the hollow empty look of someone looking back from beyond her own death?

The rest of the box was more emotional for Herb than for me. Notes, cards, and words of sadness from people I’d never met. He opened each slowly, and it

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