Karen lives in Northern California with her husband and three children. Her short fiction has appeared in UC
Irvine's Faultline Journal of Art and Literature. In addition to teaching, she reviews books for the monthly ezine
Open Letters Monthly Arts and Literature Review and writes a monthly column for a Bay Area parenting journal.
She was awarded an MFA in Creative Writing from St. Mary's College of CA and is currently working on a
collection of creative non-fiction essays and a novel. http://karenvanuska.livejournal.com/
Irvine's Faultline Journal of Art and Literature. In addition to teaching, she reviews books for the monthly ezine
Open Letters Monthly Arts and Literature Review and writes a monthly column for a Bay Area parenting journal.
She was awarded an MFA in Creative Writing from St. Mary's College of CA and is currently working on a
collection of creative non-fiction essays and a novel. http://karenvanuska.livejournal.com/
Lost and Found
I spent the final years of my thirties bearing three babies over four years. Lost in a fog of pregnancy-induced hormones, barely
able to see my way clear to the end of a day, I had little time to glance in my mind's mirror to see whether my new skin of my
motherhood fit, whether it was sallow, sagged, lined. Now, halfway through my fifth decade, with my babies now toting cell
phones, writing their third grade memoirs, and wearing their first athletic protectors, I've finally lifted my head and taken a good
long look in that mirror. And there, standing at each of my shoulders, is the mother I lost and the mother I found.
***
Maria didn't fly into my life on the handle of an umbrella. She didn't come with a typed resume. She didn't come with an armful
of books and a wide-eyed expression asking if her boyfriend could come over when the kids were asleep. Maria came to our
door at sunset on a balmy June evening, at the time of day when I usually carried my daughter Elina around our garden and
relished her soft warmth and the waning day before rocking with her and reading "Out of Africa". My husband Eric had come
home early and greeted Maria at the door. I came in from the kitchen with Elina who had just finished her mashed butternut
squash and applesauce dinner. We were seeing Maria at her most anxious – she'd start sentences, stop, start up again,
backward and forward. Until a few months ago, she'd taken care of a little boy in Ocean Colony. She couldn't promise us all the
hours we might need. She took her nephews to school as a favor to her sister. She had a commitment to her clients to clean
their houses. She had helped in her sister's daycare. Cleaning was important to her. She looked around. I hoped she
approved.
House-cleaning was my mother's greatest accomplishment. Throughout my childhood, her cleaning fooled my father into
thinking my mother was "functioning just fine" in spite of her diagnosis as a paranoid schizophrenic. He'd come home and
dinner dishes were clean, counters wiped, all his clothes (including his underwear) neatly pressed and put away. What he didn't
realize is that she ranted around the house or into the phone for most of the day. During summer vacations, I hid in our
basement and came upstairs to scrounge for food. For the three hours before my father came home from work, my mother
sprinted around cleaning at such a pace that sweat would gather in beads on her nose. The roar of a vacuum cleaner still makes
me nervous.
***
I was 35 when I found my new mother. It was a balmy June evening when I finally sat across from Maria, with my one-year-old
daughter at my feet and my husband beside me on our couch. Maria, a short dark-haired woman who tried to stifle her smiles,
spoke with a Portuguese accent and had difficulty with the past tense, as in "I work for my last family for 2 years." The accent
welcomed me, as did the priority she placed on keeping my daughter safe and my house neat and tidy. From the day she
started in our home, she found the sock that needed mending and mended it. She looked at the clock and started the bottle
that needed warming. She knew when to bring out Elina's favorite blocks and when she need to just cry in a lap from
exhaustion. She wiped away the most commonplace of worries with her very presence. She was the woman I needed most in
my life.
Every afternoon midway through my pregnancy with my second daughter, Maria would slip in our back door and get a snack
ready for Elina while Elina and I napped. When Elina whimpered, Maria would scoop her from her crib and take her to the
kitchen. "Let's let your mother sleep." Their murmurs would float down the hallway and into my dreams. Elina was safe and so
was I. This had to be a dream.
Maria grew up on an island of the Azores. She was one of four daughters, all named Maria, and two sons, both named Jose.
While her family and close friends called her Etelvera, everyone who she worked for called her Maria. When Elina first started
talking, like all children, R's were difficult, so she called Maria, Mia. Then Eric called her Mia. Then Krista called her Mia. Finally,
Karl called her Mia. I called her Maria. Krista scolded me, "Why do you call Mia, Maria? Her name is Mia." Maria is what she asked
me to call her. I always try hard to obey.
Late during my pregnancy with Krista, I would come home from my doctor's appointments just after Elina's nap. Elina would be
sitting at a table coloring every face on each page of her coloring book black. At first I had worried about her fixation with black,
but then I learned it's actually quite common for children to pick one color and concentrate on coloring the same shape the same
color. Maria sat across from Elina in one of her tiny chairs coloring in a different book.
"Let's use this pink," she suggested. Elina's mouth was set in a determined line, frowns creased her forehead, and her knuckles
were white from holding the crayon too hard. She kept coloring with her black crayon, perfectly within the lines. Maria shook
her head. We laughed. "Elina's Elina." On the counter, in place of the box of brownie mix I'd left out and forgot to make, was
a plate full of warm brownies. Maria smiled. Like having a genie – all your wishes comes true.
***
Lost and found. Think of all the items that end up in lost and founds. Once a month, as I hurry my kids into swim lessons, we
pass three tables of lost items: one piled high with towels, one piled high with swim suits, and one piled high with sandals. How
could children walk away without someone noticing there was nothing on their feet? Losing the smallest item sends me into a
panic. The sense of failure that I've allowed even a set of headphones to slip away from me is out of proportion to what it
should be. My "Yip and Yap" storybook, my collection of polished stones, the oversized stuffed pink bunny from my first Easter
basket – I can't let go of these things. They are the flotsam I cling to from the wreckage of my childhood. Over the years,
they've made me feel safe.
***
I lost my mother on a blustery spring day when I was supposed to be at the Bronx Zoo with all the other third graders. My
mother had kept me home from school because, "Dis is de day de world will end. A lake of fire will surround dis house. I am
God's prophet." When my father finally came home from work, he took her to Islip Mental Hospital. I watched from the car as
Dad walked my mother into the hospital and I waited for what seemed like hours till he returned without her. That night, I lay in
my bed and prayed. I prayed like I'd never prayed before. Please bring my mother home. Please make her well. Please help
me. Please make me feel safe again. I fell asleep praying.
My mother stayed in the hospital for the next four months and shared a room with a woman who ate carnations. I finally found
out that I had lost my mother to schizophrenia. It took a longer while for me to lose my faith. But after she returned home
and life went on as before, I knew there was no such thing as God.
For a while after my mother came home from the mental hospital, she didn't scream and cry and threaten God's vengeance on
me for scraping my knees and getting dirty. Then she stopped taking her pills and things returned to normal. Laying low
became my specialty but every once in a while, she'd catch me and I would have to bare my back so she could beat the devil out
of me with a leather strap. In fourth grade, one of the kids noticed my back while we were dressing for gym. After that, I got
dressed in a locked bathroom stall.
My mother might have loved me when I was four. She would sit me on her lap and sing a German song called "Hoppe Hoppe
Reiter." When she reached the end of the song, she'd let me drop towards her feet while she held my hands tightly so I
wouldn't fall, then she'd pull me back up to her and hug me. My trust in her was complete but shouldn't have been.
Years later, my father confessed to me that when I was just starting to toddle, he discovered a bruise on my head. When he
asked my mother what had happened she cried and admitted I'd tumbled down a flight of ten wooden stairs.
"Did you take her to the doctor?" "No." Next time.
By the time I was six, my mother would show up to breakfast with dark circles beneath her eyes and tell me she never wanted
to have me, that my father refused to have sex with her, that her brother-in-law raped her one night after she'd finished
working her shift at his Gasthaus and a midwife gave her herbs to get rid of that baby. I was too young to understand most of
what she was saying, but the pitch at which she screamed these stories made me fear the very opening of her mouth.
***
Rules to be a good daughter of your German mother - keep quiet, pretend everything is okay, don't draw attention to yourself,
never ask for help, hide your fear, hide your sadness, hide your joy.
Rules to be a good daughter of your Portuguese mother – I'm so lost here. I try every day to be that daughter. Ask her how
she's feeling. Expect kindness. Return kindness. Share your hopes. Share your fears. Share your joys. Above all, trust your
mother.
Until Maria, Eric was the only person I would trust.
***
Last year, while Eric was out of town and the kids were at school, a gallstone decided to block my bile duct and cause pain worse
than Elina's breech birth. Scared out of my mind, I called Maria. She drove me to the ER, held my hand while they pumped me
full of drugs, knitted while they gave me an ultrasound, and drove me home when they couldn't find the blockage. A week later
when I was back in the hospital awaiting surgery to finally remove the blockage and aid my failing liver, Maria and her boyfriend,
Candito, drove the kids over to visit me. While they were there, my father called and put my mother on the phone before I
could say no. She screamed that God was giving her visions about my pain. Eric hung up the phone for me: "I could hear her
screaming." Maria stood at the foot of my bed and smoothed my girls' hair. Candito teased Karl, calling him little Eric. Karl's
laughter filled the air. Everyone was safe. Everyone was safe.
***
Everytime my children tell me they will never leave me, I want to cry. They will. But will they tell me they've stolen a comb? Will
they tell me they're scared they'll fail their math final? Will they tell me they got trashed? Will they tell me they hate their job?
Will they tell me they fell in love? Will they tell me they're having a baby? Will they feel safe enough to tell me any of their
secrets? Above all, they have to feel safe.
***
When I was thirteen and came home from the store with five flavored lip-glosses, my mother called me the devil, then phoned
the pastor of our church to say she couldn't handle me anymore. Just before the pastor arrived, my father took me
downstairs, and there, right next to the fish tank, he told me to keep quiet, this was my fault, all of it. Confusion must have
been all over my face. He leaned in and said, "She wasn't like this before she had you." And there it was, the reason he left me
alone with her to be punished over and over and over again. I had taken away his wife.
When the pastor finally arrived to talk about my lip-gloss problem, we drove in his black Cadillac to McDonald's. Whatever hope
I harbored of having someone help me diminished at the sight of people huddled over Big Macs. He put on his troubled teen
voice and asked me how my grades were? "A's" "Do you have a boyfriend?" "Bryan. He plays lacrosse and guitar." "Do you
have friends?" "My best friend is Laura. We hang out at the mall." (I didn't mention the combs shoplifted from Woolworth's).
"What happened the other day?" "I used my allowance to buy five bottles of different flavored lip-gloss." "Why did your mother
call me?" "Because she's a schizophrenic and believes that whenever I behave badly, I'm the devil." He stopped drinking his
coffee. "Maybe I better speak with your father." I nodded. When we returned, the pastor spoke with my father in the
basement for a half hour, then left.
After that, the pastor would never look at me when I saw him at church. And four years later, when we were alone in his office
the day before my confirmation, he asked me if I had accepted Jesus as my savior. I told him yes, a long, long time ago, but I
no longer believed that he was my savior. He confirmed me anyway. My faith was sealed in a coffin and buried six feet under.
***
When Karl was two, I found myself sitting on a church pew next to Maria. It was the time of the Portuguese Chamarita Festival
and our girls were the side-maids and Karl was an escort for Maria's niece, the Little Queen. We all marched in the parade to the
Catholic Church for mass. Afterwards, we'd march back to the Portuguese Hall to enjoy thick crusty bread dipped in a beef stew
and glass after glass of red wine. To feel part of Maria's large welcoming family that day was overwhelming. By the time we
reached the church, my feet ached and my eyes hurt with the effort of holding back tears. My only church visits since I had
been confirmed had been limited to perfunctory wedding, funeral or baptism ceremonies that were more about tradition than
God. The air was filled with prayers, hymns, scripture readings -- all spoken in Portuguese shushes and xoches. Maria sat
beside me. I could feel she was as nervous as I was. She apologized to me. She knew I wasn't Catholic; she seemed
embarrassed, like I was witnessing something that was shameful. I tried to convince her it was perfectly okay, but it was hard
for me to hide anything from her. How could I tell her that sitting there made me mourn the loss of my faith, that I felt guilt and
anger all over again at how God had turned his back on me when I was a child?
Then Maria opened her purse, took out a special snack for Karl, and a wipe for the cracker crumbs that followed. He smiled up
at her and said, "Thanks, Mia." A peace settled over me. When we bowed our heads for the next set of prayers, I gave thanks
to Maria.
***
Maria didn't fly into my life on the handle of an umbrella. She didn't come with a typed resume. She didn't come with an armful
of books and a wide-eyed expression asking if her boyfriend could come over when the kids were asleep. Maria came to our
door at sunset on a balmy June evening and she restored my faith. Now she has photos of my children on her keychain. She
shows them to her friends. On days when she picks Karl up from Kindergarten Maria brings him by her house to visit their little
garota and her eighteen-year old nephew Tony; Tony has become Karl's hero -- they play foosball and Star Wars games. Maria
taught both my daughters to crochet belts and bookmarks. She sponsors all the children in every school jog-a-thon and read-
a-thon, and sells box after box of Girl Scout cookies. She puts extra elastic in Elina's waistbands and hems Karl's pants. She
knows that Karl prefers milk in the afternoon, Krista loves popcorn and Elina loves her fresh white bread right before swim
practice. She's knitted the blankets on all their beds and fixed the unhinged door of my bread machine. She's attended all their
preschool graduations, and cried. She remembers the night that Karl started walking. She gave that gentle tug that brought
Elina's first tooth out of her mouth. She put Krista's hair into her first ballet bun. The mother I found holds all our family
memories.
The mother I lost to schizophrenia met my children only once. During the visit, while I was in her kitchen peeling carrots for my
children's dinner, she started to yell and call me the devil. Like the scared eight-year old I will always be, I ran outside and
started to run down the street, intent on finding the ocean, my safe place. Then I felt the hot, sticky asphalt on my bare feet
and remembered I was stranded in the middle of Pennsylvania; I hopped back onto the lawn and took refuge under a tree. My
children abandoned their dinners, came out to me and gathered me into their arms. From the door of his house, my father,
angrily urged us to come inside, it was dinnertime. My mother's screams floated out the open door. My father glanced inside,
waved his hand at us in disgust and slammed the door. Eric, laden with our belongings, came from around the back of the
house. We left. For good.
***
In the last ten years, I've balanced between these two mothers, one lost, one found. With each step I take towards fifty, they
fall further behind; they are becoming ghosts -- there in spirit. And when I look in the mirror, some days I can barely see
them. Soon, there will be just me in my not-so-new skin. Motherhood. It fits me better than I thought it would.
I spent the final years of my thirties bearing three babies over four years. Lost in a fog of pregnancy-induced hormones, barely
able to see my way clear to the end of a day, I had little time to glance in my mind's mirror to see whether my new skin of my
motherhood fit, whether it was sallow, sagged, lined. Now, halfway through my fifth decade, with my babies now toting cell
phones, writing their third grade memoirs, and wearing their first athletic protectors, I've finally lifted my head and taken a good
long look in that mirror. And there, standing at each of my shoulders, is the mother I lost and the mother I found.
***
Maria didn't fly into my life on the handle of an umbrella. She didn't come with a typed resume. She didn't come with an armful
of books and a wide-eyed expression asking if her boyfriend could come over when the kids were asleep. Maria came to our
door at sunset on a balmy June evening, at the time of day when I usually carried my daughter Elina around our garden and
relished her soft warmth and the waning day before rocking with her and reading "Out of Africa". My husband Eric had come
home early and greeted Maria at the door. I came in from the kitchen with Elina who had just finished her mashed butternut
squash and applesauce dinner. We were seeing Maria at her most anxious – she'd start sentences, stop, start up again,
backward and forward. Until a few months ago, she'd taken care of a little boy in Ocean Colony. She couldn't promise us all the
hours we might need. She took her nephews to school as a favor to her sister. She had a commitment to her clients to clean
their houses. She had helped in her sister's daycare. Cleaning was important to her. She looked around. I hoped she
approved.
House-cleaning was my mother's greatest accomplishment. Throughout my childhood, her cleaning fooled my father into
thinking my mother was "functioning just fine" in spite of her diagnosis as a paranoid schizophrenic. He'd come home and
dinner dishes were clean, counters wiped, all his clothes (including his underwear) neatly pressed and put away. What he didn't
realize is that she ranted around the house or into the phone for most of the day. During summer vacations, I hid in our
basement and came upstairs to scrounge for food. For the three hours before my father came home from work, my mother
sprinted around cleaning at such a pace that sweat would gather in beads on her nose. The roar of a vacuum cleaner still makes
me nervous.
***
I was 35 when I found my new mother. It was a balmy June evening when I finally sat across from Maria, with my one-year-old
daughter at my feet and my husband beside me on our couch. Maria, a short dark-haired woman who tried to stifle her smiles,
spoke with a Portuguese accent and had difficulty with the past tense, as in "I work for my last family for 2 years." The accent
welcomed me, as did the priority she placed on keeping my daughter safe and my house neat and tidy. From the day she
started in our home, she found the sock that needed mending and mended it. She looked at the clock and started the bottle
that needed warming. She knew when to bring out Elina's favorite blocks and when she need to just cry in a lap from
exhaustion. She wiped away the most commonplace of worries with her very presence. She was the woman I needed most in
my life.
Every afternoon midway through my pregnancy with my second daughter, Maria would slip in our back door and get a snack
ready for Elina while Elina and I napped. When Elina whimpered, Maria would scoop her from her crib and take her to the
kitchen. "Let's let your mother sleep." Their murmurs would float down the hallway and into my dreams. Elina was safe and so
was I. This had to be a dream.
Maria grew up on an island of the Azores. She was one of four daughters, all named Maria, and two sons, both named Jose.
While her family and close friends called her Etelvera, everyone who she worked for called her Maria. When Elina first started
talking, like all children, R's were difficult, so she called Maria, Mia. Then Eric called her Mia. Then Krista called her Mia. Finally,
Karl called her Mia. I called her Maria. Krista scolded me, "Why do you call Mia, Maria? Her name is Mia." Maria is what she asked
me to call her. I always try hard to obey.
Late during my pregnancy with Krista, I would come home from my doctor's appointments just after Elina's nap. Elina would be
sitting at a table coloring every face on each page of her coloring book black. At first I had worried about her fixation with black,
but then I learned it's actually quite common for children to pick one color and concentrate on coloring the same shape the same
color. Maria sat across from Elina in one of her tiny chairs coloring in a different book.
"Let's use this pink," she suggested. Elina's mouth was set in a determined line, frowns creased her forehead, and her knuckles
were white from holding the crayon too hard. She kept coloring with her black crayon, perfectly within the lines. Maria shook
her head. We laughed. "Elina's Elina." On the counter, in place of the box of brownie mix I'd left out and forgot to make, was
a plate full of warm brownies. Maria smiled. Like having a genie – all your wishes comes true.
***
Lost and found. Think of all the items that end up in lost and founds. Once a month, as I hurry my kids into swim lessons, we
pass three tables of lost items: one piled high with towels, one piled high with swim suits, and one piled high with sandals. How
could children walk away without someone noticing there was nothing on their feet? Losing the smallest item sends me into a
panic. The sense of failure that I've allowed even a set of headphones to slip away from me is out of proportion to what it
should be. My "Yip and Yap" storybook, my collection of polished stones, the oversized stuffed pink bunny from my first Easter
basket – I can't let go of these things. They are the flotsam I cling to from the wreckage of my childhood. Over the years,
they've made me feel safe.
***
I lost my mother on a blustery spring day when I was supposed to be at the Bronx Zoo with all the other third graders. My
mother had kept me home from school because, "Dis is de day de world will end. A lake of fire will surround dis house. I am
God's prophet." When my father finally came home from work, he took her to Islip Mental Hospital. I watched from the car as
Dad walked my mother into the hospital and I waited for what seemed like hours till he returned without her. That night, I lay in
my bed and prayed. I prayed like I'd never prayed before. Please bring my mother home. Please make her well. Please help
me. Please make me feel safe again. I fell asleep praying.
My mother stayed in the hospital for the next four months and shared a room with a woman who ate carnations. I finally found
out that I had lost my mother to schizophrenia. It took a longer while for me to lose my faith. But after she returned home
and life went on as before, I knew there was no such thing as God.
For a while after my mother came home from the mental hospital, she didn't scream and cry and threaten God's vengeance on
me for scraping my knees and getting dirty. Then she stopped taking her pills and things returned to normal. Laying low
became my specialty but every once in a while, she'd catch me and I would have to bare my back so she could beat the devil out
of me with a leather strap. In fourth grade, one of the kids noticed my back while we were dressing for gym. After that, I got
dressed in a locked bathroom stall.
My mother might have loved me when I was four. She would sit me on her lap and sing a German song called "Hoppe Hoppe
Reiter." When she reached the end of the song, she'd let me drop towards her feet while she held my hands tightly so I
wouldn't fall, then she'd pull me back up to her and hug me. My trust in her was complete but shouldn't have been.
Years later, my father confessed to me that when I was just starting to toddle, he discovered a bruise on my head. When he
asked my mother what had happened she cried and admitted I'd tumbled down a flight of ten wooden stairs.
"Did you take her to the doctor?" "No." Next time.
By the time I was six, my mother would show up to breakfast with dark circles beneath her eyes and tell me she never wanted
to have me, that my father refused to have sex with her, that her brother-in-law raped her one night after she'd finished
working her shift at his Gasthaus and a midwife gave her herbs to get rid of that baby. I was too young to understand most of
what she was saying, but the pitch at which she screamed these stories made me fear the very opening of her mouth.
***
Rules to be a good daughter of your German mother - keep quiet, pretend everything is okay, don't draw attention to yourself,
never ask for help, hide your fear, hide your sadness, hide your joy.
Rules to be a good daughter of your Portuguese mother – I'm so lost here. I try every day to be that daughter. Ask her how
she's feeling. Expect kindness. Return kindness. Share your hopes. Share your fears. Share your joys. Above all, trust your
mother.
Until Maria, Eric was the only person I would trust.
***
Last year, while Eric was out of town and the kids were at school, a gallstone decided to block my bile duct and cause pain worse
than Elina's breech birth. Scared out of my mind, I called Maria. She drove me to the ER, held my hand while they pumped me
full of drugs, knitted while they gave me an ultrasound, and drove me home when they couldn't find the blockage. A week later
when I was back in the hospital awaiting surgery to finally remove the blockage and aid my failing liver, Maria and her boyfriend,
Candito, drove the kids over to visit me. While they were there, my father called and put my mother on the phone before I
could say no. She screamed that God was giving her visions about my pain. Eric hung up the phone for me: "I could hear her
screaming." Maria stood at the foot of my bed and smoothed my girls' hair. Candito teased Karl, calling him little Eric. Karl's
laughter filled the air. Everyone was safe. Everyone was safe.
***
Everytime my children tell me they will never leave me, I want to cry. They will. But will they tell me they've stolen a comb? Will
they tell me they're scared they'll fail their math final? Will they tell me they got trashed? Will they tell me they hate their job?
Will they tell me they fell in love? Will they tell me they're having a baby? Will they feel safe enough to tell me any of their
secrets? Above all, they have to feel safe.
***
When I was thirteen and came home from the store with five flavored lip-glosses, my mother called me the devil, then phoned
the pastor of our church to say she couldn't handle me anymore. Just before the pastor arrived, my father took me
downstairs, and there, right next to the fish tank, he told me to keep quiet, this was my fault, all of it. Confusion must have
been all over my face. He leaned in and said, "She wasn't like this before she had you." And there it was, the reason he left me
alone with her to be punished over and over and over again. I had taken away his wife.
When the pastor finally arrived to talk about my lip-gloss problem, we drove in his black Cadillac to McDonald's. Whatever hope
I harbored of having someone help me diminished at the sight of people huddled over Big Macs. He put on his troubled teen
voice and asked me how my grades were? "A's" "Do you have a boyfriend?" "Bryan. He plays lacrosse and guitar." "Do you
have friends?" "My best friend is Laura. We hang out at the mall." (I didn't mention the combs shoplifted from Woolworth's).
"What happened the other day?" "I used my allowance to buy five bottles of different flavored lip-gloss." "Why did your mother
call me?" "Because she's a schizophrenic and believes that whenever I behave badly, I'm the devil." He stopped drinking his
coffee. "Maybe I better speak with your father." I nodded. When we returned, the pastor spoke with my father in the
basement for a half hour, then left.
After that, the pastor would never look at me when I saw him at church. And four years later, when we were alone in his office
the day before my confirmation, he asked me if I had accepted Jesus as my savior. I told him yes, a long, long time ago, but I
no longer believed that he was my savior. He confirmed me anyway. My faith was sealed in a coffin and buried six feet under.
***
When Karl was two, I found myself sitting on a church pew next to Maria. It was the time of the Portuguese Chamarita Festival
and our girls were the side-maids and Karl was an escort for Maria's niece, the Little Queen. We all marched in the parade to the
Catholic Church for mass. Afterwards, we'd march back to the Portuguese Hall to enjoy thick crusty bread dipped in a beef stew
and glass after glass of red wine. To feel part of Maria's large welcoming family that day was overwhelming. By the time we
reached the church, my feet ached and my eyes hurt with the effort of holding back tears. My only church visits since I had
been confirmed had been limited to perfunctory wedding, funeral or baptism ceremonies that were more about tradition than
God. The air was filled with prayers, hymns, scripture readings -- all spoken in Portuguese shushes and xoches. Maria sat
beside me. I could feel she was as nervous as I was. She apologized to me. She knew I wasn't Catholic; she seemed
embarrassed, like I was witnessing something that was shameful. I tried to convince her it was perfectly okay, but it was hard
for me to hide anything from her. How could I tell her that sitting there made me mourn the loss of my faith, that I felt guilt and
anger all over again at how God had turned his back on me when I was a child?
Then Maria opened her purse, took out a special snack for Karl, and a wipe for the cracker crumbs that followed. He smiled up
at her and said, "Thanks, Mia." A peace settled over me. When we bowed our heads for the next set of prayers, I gave thanks
to Maria.
***
Maria didn't fly into my life on the handle of an umbrella. She didn't come with a typed resume. She didn't come with an armful
of books and a wide-eyed expression asking if her boyfriend could come over when the kids were asleep. Maria came to our
door at sunset on a balmy June evening and she restored my faith. Now she has photos of my children on her keychain. She
shows them to her friends. On days when she picks Karl up from Kindergarten Maria brings him by her house to visit their little
garota and her eighteen-year old nephew Tony; Tony has become Karl's hero -- they play foosball and Star Wars games. Maria
taught both my daughters to crochet belts and bookmarks. She sponsors all the children in every school jog-a-thon and read-
a-thon, and sells box after box of Girl Scout cookies. She puts extra elastic in Elina's waistbands and hems Karl's pants. She
knows that Karl prefers milk in the afternoon, Krista loves popcorn and Elina loves her fresh white bread right before swim
practice. She's knitted the blankets on all their beds and fixed the unhinged door of my bread machine. She's attended all their
preschool graduations, and cried. She remembers the night that Karl started walking. She gave that gentle tug that brought
Elina's first tooth out of her mouth. She put Krista's hair into her first ballet bun. The mother I found holds all our family
memories.
The mother I lost to schizophrenia met my children only once. During the visit, while I was in her kitchen peeling carrots for my
children's dinner, she started to yell and call me the devil. Like the scared eight-year old I will always be, I ran outside and
started to run down the street, intent on finding the ocean, my safe place. Then I felt the hot, sticky asphalt on my bare feet
and remembered I was stranded in the middle of Pennsylvania; I hopped back onto the lawn and took refuge under a tree. My
children abandoned their dinners, came out to me and gathered me into their arms. From the door of his house, my father,
angrily urged us to come inside, it was dinnertime. My mother's screams floated out the open door. My father glanced inside,
waved his hand at us in disgust and slammed the door. Eric, laden with our belongings, came from around the back of the
house. We left. For good.
***
In the last ten years, I've balanced between these two mothers, one lost, one found. With each step I take towards fifty, they
fall further behind; they are becoming ghosts -- there in spirit. And when I look in the mirror, some days I can barely see
them. Soon, there will be just me in my not-so-new skin. Motherhood. It fits me better than I thought it would.
Karen Vanuska
