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This is another in a series about Eleanor and Pete, the columnist’s parents. It is written not only to honor them, but all lovers of a generation now gone.
Mom only dated one guy and she married him. It was often the way it was back then. It seemed to work more often than not. The marriage, like many marriages, had more than its share of bumps in the road. The one sure thing was they loved one another and made it work. He died four years shy of what would have been their 50th wedding anniversary. For her, that was when the terrible loneliness set in.
Widows back then did not remarry. They were expected to keep faithful evermore. If you were lonely, well, that was now your life. Get over it. You visited family. She did what was expected of her. She endured.
She was still a pretty woman. In her 70s, she wore her hair cut short with blonde highlights. Her skin was fair, her eyes green like the old Helen O’Connell song. Sadly, she also was bipolar. When depressed, she would lie on the couch in total darkness. The only time she spoke was when I brought her food. She wanted to be reassured I had paid her bills on time. She lived half of her life in darkness. Perhaps you could call hers a half-life.
Eventually, the depression would lift like a dark cloud passes to let the sunshine through. It was then that she would discard her bathrobe and dress in the brightest colors she could find. She was reborn, springing from the cocoon of her apartment like some beautiful butterfly. Sometimes she even would convince herself the depression was gone for good, but inevitably it always returned.
It was in April one year during one of her manic phases when she met a man. It happened quite by accident. She was washing her clothes at a nearby laundromat when he walked into her life. He was not what you would call handsome. He wore the kind of anonymous clothing that is the unofficial uniform of some seniors. The beige Members Only jacket reminded her of Pete, her late husband.
In retrospect, I think what attracted mom to Ben — that was his name — was his soft-spoken manner. He seemed like a gentleman. He had a nice car with a sparkling clean interior. He loved the Atlantic City casinos. Most of all, he let her do the talking and make the decisions.
Mom was in love. It was not the same kind of love that I had witnessed between her and my father. This was more like teen-age love. I felt as if I were getting a glimpse of my mother as a vivacious teen. Ben worshipped her. I was happy for her.
When I realized the relationship had gotten serious, I attempted to explain Mom’s illness to Ben. I wanted to prepare him for the time, not far off, when his spring blossom would fade away and retire to a couch in a dark room for weeks at a time. I couldn’t tell whether Ben fully understood the implications of sharing this half light, half shadow world in which mom lived.
Mom became determined to do something about treating her illness. She wanted to prevent the onset of another depression. She admitted herself to Friends Hospital for treatment. Ben visited her. He was a bit puzzled, but still loyal and docile. He raised no questions. During one of our visits to the hospital, Mom confided to me that Ben was even better than my father. I couldn’t help grimace at the remark. “He even irons clothes and polishes the furniture,” she explained. She was ecstatic.
Mom was not cured of her depression. Despite the treatments, it swept over her like locusts darkening the sky. Ben was undaunted in his attention to her. Maybe this could work.
It was a late, spring evening. Mom and Ben were walking arm-in-arm along South Broad Street. Suddenly, a woman sprang at them from the shadows. She grabbed Ben by the arm. “He’s my husband!,” she shouted, “and you can’t have him.” Ben said softly, “Eleanor, I’m sorry.” He was led away by his wife and they disappeared down the street, leaving my mother in stunned silence.
Mom had given me solace many times when one of my affairs of the heart had ended badly. I felt strange now that it was I consoling her. This was not the end of any youthful affair from which the heart quickly recovers. This was not a stage of life where your broken heart mends and you find another. Mom knew that what was gone was her last chance at happiness.
I never saw Ben again. Mom hardly mentioned him, until one day she mentioned that he had passed away. A small tear trickled down her face. Mom carried on. She endured.
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